The Judgment of Caesar (29 page)

I shed no tears for young Ptolemy. I had seen him murder men in cold blood; he was anything but innocent. But a victim he was, of those even more ruthless than himself, and the horror of his end filled me with a kind of awe, as had the death of Pompey. History and legend conspire to convince us that there are men who rise above the common lot of hu-mankind, who are set apart from the rest of us by birth or achievement or the favor of the gods; but no man, regardless of his pretensions to greatness, is immune from death, and the death of the so-called great is often more squalid and terrifying than the deaths of their most humble subjects. I thought of the young king and the strange, short life he had led, so full of violence and betrayal and thwarted dreams, and I felt a twinge of pity.

When Caesar returned to Alexandria, news of the king’s demise preceded him. Abandoning all resistance, the Alexandrians threw down their weapons and opened the Canopic Gate to Caesar and his retinue. The people put on the tattered clothing of suppliants. Their priests made sacrifices in the temples to appease the wrath of the gods. But Caesar was not wrathful. He forbade his men to make any show of hostility and turned his march through the city into a joyous procession. When he arrived at the royal precinct, the men he had left to garrison the palace received him with ecstatic cheering. Cleopatra strode out to greet him. She had not been seen in public for quite some time, and it appeared to me, despite the loose gown she wore, that she had grown considerably larger around the middle. In lieu of her brother’s head, Caesar presented her wibroke the seal, unrolled theth the captured crown. Leaving her own diadem in place, she also fitted the crown of her brother on her brow, so that the vulture’s head and the rearing cobra were side-by-side. The Alexandrians, even those who previously had cursed and spat at the mention of her name, erupted in a thunderous cheer and hailed her as their goddess-queen.

The battle at the Nile took place late in the month of Martius, five days before the kalends of Aprilis (by the old calendar); it was on that very day that I finally received a letter from my daughter Diana in Rome.

Throughout the war, I had been trapped along with the Roman forces inside the palace precinct. I had Rupa and the boys for company, and Meto, when he could take time from attending Caesar. But I had grown increasingly homesick for Rome.

To assuage that homesickness, I had regularly written long letters to Diana, apprising her of all that had happened since her mother and I left Rome, except for the one detail that I could not bear to commit to a letter: the loss of Bethesda. I told her of my reconciliation with Meto, of my meetings with the king and queen of Egypt, and of Rupa and the boys and our curious visit to the Tomb of Alexander. Trade in the harbor had come to a standstill, but Caesar did occasionally dispatch a ship to carry messages, and Meto inserted my letters in the consul’s official packets. Whether they ever reached Diana, I had no way of knowing, since no letters had yet arrived from her—until the day of the battle on the Nile, when a ship from Rome sailed into the harbor and a little later a messenger knocked upon my door and pressed a sealed roll of parchment into my hand.

I broke the seal, unrolled the scrap of parchment, and read:

Dearest Father and Mother,

I’ve written many letters to you, but your own letters give no sign that you’ve received them, so I never know quite what to say. At the risk of repeating myself, know that all is well here in Rome. Eco and his family seem to be thriving; I think Eco is working in some capacity for Marc Antony, who is in charge of the city in Caesar’s absence, but Eco is so secretive about his work (taking after his father!) that I cannot really tell what he does, though it must be lucrative. Davus and I are looking after the house in your absence. Little Aulus is happy but misses having his grandpapa to tell him stories and his grandmama to tuck him in at night.

But now the real news: The new baby has come! She was delivered on the nones of March—an easy birth—and we have decided to call her Little Bethesda, perhaps simply Beth for short, which I hope will please her grandmother. She is happy, healthy, and very loud! She looks like you, Papa. (I can hear you muttering, “Poor child!,” but don’t, for she is very pretty.)

We long for you to return home. Your letters say nothing of Mother’s search for a cure in the Nile, so we are very anxious to learn about that.

Write soon and let me know that you received this letter. All love to you both, and to Meto, and to Rupa and Androcles and Mopsus. All good fortune to Caesar, that the fighting may soon be over and you can all return to Rome! Neptune bless the ship that brings you this letter, and the ship that brings you back to us!

When I finished reading the letter, Mopsus asked me if I wept for joy or sadness. I could not tell him which.

Diana’s new motherhood was very much on my mind when, a few days after Caesar’s triumphant return, an official announcement went forth that Queen Cleopatra was expecting a baby. According to Meto, Caesar had no doubt that the child was his. In mid-Aprilis, having settled affairs in Alexandria, the prospective parents set out on a leisurely tour up the Nile, aglow with the triumph of their union and attended by every luxury. I recalled that Ptolemy had proposed just such a journey to Caesar. Instead, Ptolemy had died in the Nile, and it was Ptolemy’s sister who showed Caesar the splendid temples and shrines along the river and the source of Egypt’s greatness.

CHAPTER XXX

With the end of the war came peace. Alexandria opened its gates and its harbors. Rupa and the boys and I were free to move about as we wished.

For a few days I wandered about the city, thinking I should see the sights and revisit familiar places before I left, for at my time of life it seemed very unlikely that I would ever return. But the sights and sounds of Alexandria gave me no joy. I asked Meto to arrange a place for me and my charges at the first opportunity on one of Caesar’s transport ships sailing to Rome.

Meto did as I asked. On the day before we were set to leave Alexandria, I took Rupa with me and strolled down the Canopic Way, determined at least to have a look inside the temple of Serapis before I left. As we passed by market stalls and public squares and splashing fountains, I fell to musing on the compromises forced upon us by the struggle for survival. In the end, Caesar had chosen Cleopatra, but more because of her brother’s default than because of her own virtues. Cleopatra had deceived Caesar, and would have seen Meto executed without experiencing the least qualm of guilt. Caesar had been less than honest with the queen; and what of his relationship with Meto, whom he had imprisoned and threatened with death? I pictured the three of them locked in a circle of deceit, each confronted by the others’ betrayals, yet determined, for the sake of expediency, to look the other way. Something about their hardheaded pragmatism left me thoroughly dissatisfied, but who was I to judge them? My rejection of Meto, when I felt betrayed and deceived by him, had brought me only misery, and in the end I recanted, as if I had been the one at fault. As long as things went relatively smoothly, was it wiser to overlook petty treacheries and deceits and disappointments and simply get on with the business of living? What good ever came of issuing ultimatums and passing judgment on others? Thus do we learn to compromise with each other and with our own expectations in an imperfect world.

Such were the thoughts spinning in my head when I saw, across a marketplace, the old priestess who had counseled Bethesda at the temple of Osiris on the Nile.

The market was vast and crowded with people; goods were beginning to flow back into Alexandria, and the populace, in the giddy mood that follows a war, were eager to spend their money. Amid the teeming throng, at a considerable distance, I caught only a fleeting glimpse of the woman; it was only after she moved out of sight that I realized who she was.

I gripped Rupa’s arm. “Did you see her?”

He signed with his hands.
Who?

The old priestess,
I began to say—then remembered that Rupa had had been off scattering Cassandra’s ashes in the river when Bethesda sought the counsel of the wisewoman. Rupa had never seen her.

I frowned and squinted, trying to catch another glimpse of her face amid all the others. “Only someone . . . I thought I recognized. But perhaps I was only—no, wait! There she is! Do you see her?” I stood on tiptoes and pointed. “It must be her; she looks exactly the same! The white hair pulled into a knot; the skin like weathered wood; that ragged woolen mantle . . .”

Rupa shook his head, then drew a sharp breath.

“You see her, then?”

He signed:
Look at the younger woman with her. Look!

“Younger woman? Where? I don’t see anyone—unless you mean the woman wearing the cloth headdress and—”

Like Rupa, I drew a sharp breath. The two of us stood stock-still, staring in disbelief.

“It can’t be,” I whispered, “and yet . . .”

Rupa nodded vigorously, even as he furrowed his brow, as if to say:
It
is
her. And yet it
can’t
be her. . . .

“It’s a trick of the light,” I said, squinting at the apparition—for surely the woman in the yellow linen gown, her hair concealed in the folds of a
nemes
head-cloth, was only a phantom. And yet, the old crone could see her, for the two of them exchanged a few words, apparently about the relative merits of two combs offered by a vendor. They were too far away, I told myself; the Egyptian sun was too bright, making a dazzlement of their distant faces. I was seeing what I wanted to see, not something that was actually there. Yet Rupa seemed to see the same thing. Or did he?

Dissatisfied with both combs, the woman and the crone were moving away. Other, nearer faces intervened. I rose on tiptoes and pitched from side to side, trying to keep her in sight.

“It
is
her, isn’t it?” I said. “It’s . . .” I pressed my lips together, summoning the strength to speak her name aloud.

Rupa interrupted. He hooked his forefingers together to make the sign that signified his sister, and made the word an exclamation by the look on his face:
Cassandra!

My jaw froze. The sound died in my throat. I had been about to say a different name.

I was suddenly uncertain. Perhaps the woman
did
look a bit like Cassandra. And yet . . .

Where was she? I had lost sight of the woman, and of the old crone as well. Both of them had vanished into the crowd.

“She was too old to be Cassandra, wasn’t she?” I said, my voice hollow. “And Cassandra was blond. We couldn’t see her hair, because of the headdress, but this woman had darker features, didn’t she?”

Rupa shook his head, looking troubled and confused. I saw tears in his eyes.

No, I thought, it wasn’t Cassandra we had seen. That was impossible. Cassandra was ashes now; not even ashes any longer, but ashes dissolved in the Nile—her ephemeral remains merged with the everlasting river, so that Osiris might give her everlasting life.

Had Cassandra believed in such things? I wasn’t sure. But Bethesda had. Most certainly, Bethesda had believed in a world beyond this world and in the supernatural power of the great river Nile.

For an hour or more we lingered in the vicinity of that market. I pretended to shop, looking for trinkets and toys to take home as souvenirs to Diana and Aulus and my new granddaughter, but in reality I was hoping for another glimpse of the crone and the woman who accompanied her. But I did not see them again that day.

That night, I asked Meto to cancel my passage on the ship bound for Rome.

“Why, Papa? I thought you couldn’t wait to leave.”

I shrugged.

“You went sightseeing with Rupa today, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

Meto smiled. “Perhaps you enjoyed yourself, after all?”

“Perhaps.”

“Good! Alexandria is an amazing city. Take a few more days to relax and see the sights. Shall I arrange passage for you on the next available ship, or the one after that?”

“I’m not sure when I’ll be ready to leave. I have a sense of . . . unfinished business . . . here in Alexandria.”

“Just let me know when the time is right. But don’t wait too long. Once Caesar returns from his cruise up the Nile, it will be time to press on with the war elsewhere, and I’ll almost certainly be leaving Alexandria myself.”

Day after day I returned to that market, sometimes with Rupa, sometimes with the boys, sometimes alone. I gave every possible reason for doing so, except the real reason.

The vendors at the market soon came to recognize me, for I questioned every one of them about the two women I had seen that day. A few seemed to have some vague notion of whom I was taking about, but none could offer any insight into the identity of the women, their whereabouts, or whether they might return.

Over and over, Meto arranged for me to board ships sailing for Rome, and over and over, at the last moment, I told him to cancel those plans.
One more day at the marketplace,
I told myself;
if I can visit the place just one more day . . .

Even with all the wonders of Alexandria open to them, Androcles and Mopsus began to grow restless. Caesar and Cleopatra returned from their journey up the Nile. Caesar’s inner circle, including Meto, made ready to depart from Alexandria. Meto began to press me about my own arrangements.

“Surely the time has come, Papa. Once I leave, it won’t be as easy for you to arrange passage. Shall we set the date?”

“I suppose we should,” I said reluctantly.

“Unless you have some compelling reason to stay longer?” He frowned. I was keeping something from him, and he knew it.

“No. Let’s set a date and stick to it.”

“Good. There’s a ship leaving for Rome the day after tomorrow.”

I bit my lip and felt a dull pain in my chest. “Very well. I’ll be on it.”

The next day, which was to be my last full day in Alexandria, I went to the market alone. I arrived very early and stayed there all day. The vendors shook their heads; they were beginning to think I was mad. The old priestess and the other woman never appeared.

The next morning, Rupa and the boys were up early, ready to board the ship for Rome. My trunk was packed. All was ready.

Meto had promised to escort us to the pier. He arrived beaming with excitement. “Can you believe it, Papa? I’m going with you! Caesar’s sending me back to Rome. He needs someone to deliver a dossier to Marc Antony, and he says there’s no one better for the job. But the fact is, I think he’s rewarding me with a trip home in return for . . . well, for a certain amount of unpleasantness that you and I had to endure. It’s a good thing you postponed your trip so long, after all, because now I can go with you!”

“Yes, wonderful news,” I said, trying to muster some enthusiasm. I could see that Meto was disappointed by my reaction. We proceeded to the harbor.

The sky was cloudless. A favorable wind blew from the south, carrying the dry, sandy smell of the desert. The boys ran onto the deck, despite Meto’s caution that they would have to behave themselves aboard a military vessel. Rupa, assisted by one of the sailors, carried my trunk aboard. I lingered on the pier.

“It’s time, Papa,” said Meto. “The captain’s called for everyone to step aboard.”

I shook my head. “I’m not going.”

“What? Papa, there’s no reason for you to stay. I don’t understand. Think of Diana! You must be eager to see the baby—”

“Rupa!”

Rupa sat on the trunk he had just carried aboard, catching his breath. He sprang up and came to me.

“Rupa, you have the key to the trunk, don’t you?”

He nodded and reached into his tunic to show me the key, which hung from a chain around his neck.

“Good. Open the trunk. On the very top you’ll see a leather bag with coins in it. Bring it to me; I’ll need some money.”

Meto shook his head. “You’re actually going to stay, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But why, Papa? If there’s something you must do, let me stay and help you. Or at least keep one of the boys with you, or Rupa—”

“No! The thing I do, I must do alone.”

Rupa opened the lid of the trunk. Mopsus and Androcles, with a look of alarm, came running, and a moment later I saw the reason: Peering over the edge of the trunk, his green eyes open wide and his silver collar gleaming in the sunlight, was Alexander the cat.

I raised an eyebrow. “Kidnapping a sacred feline from the royal palace! If Queen Cleopatra finds out, she’s liable to throw a couple of slave boys into the harbor.”

“Then I suppose the queen must never know,” said Meto, smiling crookedly. “I’m sure the captain won’t mind; a cat will kill any rats on the ship.”

Rupa returned with the bag of coins and handed it to me. Mopsus and Androcles carefully shut the lid of the trunk and looked around the deck to make sure no one else had seen the stowaway.

I embraced Meto, then stepped back. “Look after the others on the journey home, Meto. And when you see Diana, and Eco . . .”

“Yes, Papa, what shall I tell them? They don’t yet know about Bethesda. What shall I say about her? What shall I say about
you?”

“Tell them the truth, as far as you can. Sometimes, Meto, the truth must suffice.”

“Diana will be distraught when she finds out about her mother. And am I simply to say that you refused to leave Egypt?”

“Tell them I love them; they know that already. Tell them I shall come home as soon as I can . . . if the gods wish it to be so.”

The captain of the ship gave a final call for all to board. Sailors hurried about the deck, preparing to cast off. Never taking his eyes from me, Meto stepped aboard. Rupa and the boys stood beside him. As the ship moved away from the dock, they stared at me in puzzlement.