The Judgment of Caesar (4 page)

Centurion Macro escorted me aboard. A crowd of officers had gathered at the prow of the galley, clustered around Pompey himself, to judge from the magnificent purple plume that bristled atop the helmet of the man at the middle of the group, who was hidden by the surrounding throng. I swallowed hard and braced myself to face Pompey, but the centurion gripped my elbow and steered me in the opposite direction, toward the cabin where I had been received the previous day. He rapped on the cabin door. Cornelia herself opened it.

“Come inside, Finder,” she said, keeping her voice low. She closed the door behind me.

The room was stuffy from the smoke of burning lamp oil. Against one wall, the coverlet on the bed that Pompey and his wife presumably shared was pulled down and rumpled on one side but untouched on the other.

“You slept well last night?” I said.

She raised an eyebrow. “Well enough, considering.”

“But the Great One never went to bed at all.”

She followed my gaze to the half-made bed. “My husband told me you’re good at noticing such details.”

“A bad habit I can’t seem to break. I used to make my living by it. These days it only seems to get me into trouble.”

“All virtues turn at last to vices, if one lives long enough. My husband is a prime example of that.”

“Is he?”

“When I first married him, he was no longer young, but he was nonetheless still brash, fearless, supremely confident that the gods were on his side. Those virtues had earned him a lifetime of victories, and his victories earned him the right to call himself Great and to demand that others address him thusly. But brashness can turn to arrogance, fearlessness to foolhardiness, and confidence can become that vice the Greeks call hubris—an overweening pride that tempts the gods to strike a man down.”

“All this is by way of explaining what happened at Pharsalus, I presume?”

She blanched, as Pompey had done the previous day when I said too much. “You’re quite capable of hubris yourself, Finder.”

“Is it hubris to speak the truth to a fellow mortal? Pompey’s not a god. Neither are you. To stand up to either of you gives no insult to heaven.”

She breathed in through dilated nostrils, fixing me with a catlike stare. At last she blinked and lowered her eyes. “Do you know what day this is?”

“The date? Three days before the kalends of October, unless I’ve lost track.”

“It’s my husband’s birthday—and the anniversary of his great triumphal parade in Rome thirteen years ago. He had destroyed the pirates who infested the seas; he had crushed Sertorius in Spain and the Marian rebels in Africa; he had subjugated King Mithridates and a host of lesser potentates in Asia. With all those victories behind him, he returned to Rome as Pompey the Great, invincible on land and sea. He rode through the city in a gem-encrusted chariot, followed by an entourage of Asian princes and princesses and a gigantic portrait of himself made entirely of pearls. Caesar was nothing in those days. Pompey had no rivals. He might have made himself king of Rome. He chose instead to respect the institutions of his ancestors. It was the greatest day of his life. We always celebrate with a special dinner on this date, to commemorate the anniversary of that triumph. Perhaps tonight, if all goes well . . .”

She shook her head. “Somehow we strayed from your original observation, that my husband passed yet another night without sleep. He’s hardly slept at all since Pharsalus. He sits there at his worktable, yelling for slaves to come refill the oil in the lamp, poring over that stack of documents, sorting bits of parchment, scratching out names, scribbling notes—and all for nothing! Do you know what’s in that pile? Provision lists for troops that no longer exist, advancement recommendations for officers who were left to rot in the Greek sun, logistical notes for battles that will never be fought. To go without sleep unhinges a man; it throws the four humors inside him out of balance.”

“Earth, air, fire, and water,” I said.

Cornelia shook her head. “There’s nothing but fire inside him now. He scorches everyone he touches. He shall burn himself out. There’ll be no more Pompey the Great, only a charred husk of flesh that was once a man.”

“But he lives in hope. This meeting with King Ptolemy—”

“As if Egypt could save us!”

“Could it not? All the wealth of the Nile; the armed might of the Egyptian army, along with the old Roman garrison that’s posted here; a safe haven for the forces scattered at Pharsalus to regroup, along with Pompey’s remaining allies in Africa.”

“Yes, perhaps . . . perhaps the situation is not entirely hopeless—provided that King Ptolemy takes our side.”

“Why should he not?”

She shrugged. “The king is hardly more than a boy; he’s only fifteen. Who knows what those half-Egyptian, half-Greek eunuchs who advise him are thinking? Egypt has managed to maintain its independence this long only by playing Roman against Roman. Take sides with Pompey now, and the die is cast; once the fighting is over, Egypt will belong to Pompey . . . or else to Pompey’s rival . . . and Egypt will no longer be Egypt but just another Roman province—so their thinking must go.”

“But have they any choice? It’s either Pompey now, or else . . .” Since she had not uttered the name Caesar, I did not either. “Surely it’s a good sign that the king has arrived in all his splendor to greet the Great One.”

Cornelia sighed. “I suppose. But I never imagined it would be like this—here in the middle of nowhere, attended by a fleet of leaky buckets, arriving with our heads bowed like beggars after a storm. And Gnaeus—” Dropping all formality, she spoke of her husband by his first name. “Gnaeus is in such a strait. You should have seen him yesterday after you left. He ranted for an hour, going on and on about the tortures he intends to inflict on you, hoisting you onto the ropes, publicly flaying you, commanding the troops on the other ships to stand at attention and watch. He’s lost all sense of proportion. There’s a kind of madness in him.”

I grew light-headed and strove not to lose my balance. “Why in Hades are you telling me all this? What do want from me, Cornelia?”

She took something from a cabinet and pressed it into my hand. It was a small vial made of carved alabaster with a cork stopper, the sort of vessel that might ordinarily contain a scented oil.

“What’s this?” I said.

“Something I’ve been saving for myself . . . should the occasion arise. One never knows when a quick, graceful exit might be required.”

I held the vial to the light and saw that it contained a pale liquid. “This is your personal trapdoor to oblivion?”

“Yes. But I give it to you, Finder. The man from whom I acquired it calls it Nemesis-in-a-bottle. It acts very quickly, with a minimum of pain.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I tried a sample of the stuff on a slave, of course. She expired with hardly a whimper.”

“And now you think—”

“I think that you will be able to maintain your dignity as a Roman much more easily this way, rather than my husband’s way. Men think their wills are strong, that they won’t cry out or weep, but they forget how weak their bodies are, and how very long those frail bodies can be made to suffer before they give up the lemur. Believe me, Finder, this way will be much better for all concerned.”

“Including Pompey.”

Her face hardened. “I don’t want to see him make a spectacle of your death, especially not with King Ptolemy watching. He’ll take out all his rage against Caesar on you. Can you imagine how pathetic that will look? He should know better, but he’s lost all judgment.”

I stared at the vial in my hand. “He’ll be furious if he’s deprived of the chance to punish me himself.”

“Not if the gods decide to take you first. That’s what it will look like. You’ll swallow the contents—even the taste is not unpleasant, or so I’m told—and afterwards I’ll throw the vial overboard. You’ll die suddenly and quietly. You’re not a young man, Finder. No one will be surprised that your heart gave out; they’ll assume that you were frightened to death by the prospect of facing Pompey’s wrath. My husband will be disappointed, but he’ll get over it—especially if we do somehow manage to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Then there will be countless multitudes upon whom he can vent his rage.”

“You intend for me to swallow this now?”

“No, wait. Pompey’s about to board a small boat that will take him ashore to parlay with King Ptolemy. Swallow it after he’s gone.”

“So that I’ll be cold by the time he returns?”

She nodded.

“And if I refuse?”

“I’ll make you a promise, Finder. Accept this gift from me, and I’ll see that no harm befalls your family. I swear by the shades of my ancestors.”

I pulled out the cork stopper and stared at the colorless liquid inside: Nemesis-in-a-bottle. I passed the vial beneath my nose and detected only a vaguely sweet, not unpleasant odor. Death by poison was not among the many ways I had imagined dying or had come close to dying over the years. Was this how I was to exit the world of the living—as a favor to a woman who wished me to spare her husband the embarrassment of killing me?

A rap at the door gave me a start. The vial nearly jumped from my fingers. Cornelia gripped my hand and pressed my fingers around it. “Be careful!” she whispered, glaring at me. “Put it away.”

I stoppered the vial and slipped it into the pouch sewn inside my tunic.

It was Centurion Macro at the door. “The Great One is almost ready to depart. If you wish to bid him farewell—”

“Of course.” Cornelia collected herself, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the cabin. The centurion ushered me out. Keeping my hand inside my tunic, I tightly clutched the alabaster vial.

CHAPTER IV

Amidships, Pompey was descending the ramp toward a royal Egyptian skiff that had just arrived. Despite its small size, the craft was ornately decorated; images of crocodiles, cranes, and Nile river-horses were carved around the rim, plated with hammered silver and inlaid with pieces of lapis and turquoise for the eyes. The prow of the ship was carved in the shape of a standing ibis with wings outstretched. Besides the rowers, three soldiers stood in the boat. One of them was clearly an Egyptian of very high rank, to judge by the gold filigree that decorated his silver breastplate. The other two were outfitted not like Egyptians but like Roman centurions; presumably they were officers from the Roman force stationed to keep the peace in Egypt. While the Egyptian officer hung back, the two Romans stepped forward and saluted Pompey as he descended the ramp, addressing him in unison: “Great One!”

Pompey smiled, clearly pleased to be properly addressed. To one of the men he gave a nod of recognition. “Septimius, isn’t it?”

The man bowed his head. “Great One, I’m surprised you remember me.”

“A good commander never forgets a man who once served under him, even though years may pass. How goes your service in Egypt?”

“These are eventful times, Great One. I can’t complain of being bored.”

“And you, Centurion? What’s your name?”

“Salvius, Great One.” The other Roman lowered his eyes, not meeting Pompey’s gaze. Pompey frowned, then looked beyond the centurions to the Egyptian whom they escorted. He was a powerfully built man with broad shoulders and massive limbs. He had the blue eyes of a Greek and the dark complexion of an Egyptian. Nearby, I overheard Centurion Macro speaking into Cornelia’s ear: “That’s the boy-king’s

mongrel mastiff; fellow’s part Greek, like his master, and part native Egyptian. His name—”

“Achillas,” the man said in a booming voice, introducing himself to Pompey. “Captain of the King’s Guards. I shall have the honor of escorting you into the presence of King Ptolemy . . . Great One,” he added, his voice falling flat on the final syllables.

Pompey merely nodded, then gestured for his party to begin boarding the boat. Only four men accompanied him: Macro and another centurion to act as bodyguards, a slave with a box of writing materials to act as a scribe, and Pompey’s loyal freedman Philip, a small, wiry fellow with a neatly trimmed beard who was said to attend all important meetings with the Great One on account of his faculty for never forgetting a name, face, or date.

After the others had boarded, Pompey, assisted by Philip, stepped into the boat. While the others sat, Pompey remained standing for a moment. He turned and scanned the faces of those assembled on the galley to see him off. The crowd parted for Cornelia, who descended the ramp and extended her hand to him. Their fingers briefly touched, then drew apart as the rowers dipped their oars and the skiff set off.

“Remember your manners, my dear,” called Cornelia, her voice trembling. “He may be only a boy of fifteen, but he’s still a king.”

Pompey smiled and made a theatrical gesture of submission, opening his arms wide and making a shallow bow. “ ‘He that once enters a tyrant’s door becomes a slave, though he were free before,’ ” he quoted.

“A bit of Euripides,” muttered one of the officers beside me.

“Sophocles, if I’m not mistaken,” I said. The man glowered at me. Pompey gave Cornelia a final nod of farewell, then moved to sit down, with Philip assisting him. Looking up abruptly, his eyes came to rest on me. It was only for an instant, for the business of settling himself on the moving boat required his attention, but an instant was all that was required for him to convey, in quick order, recognition, mild surprise, a flash of utter hatred, and an implicit promise that he would deal with me later, at his leisure. My throat constricted, and I squeezed the vial in my pocket.

I was worth no more than that single glance; in the next instant, Pompey finished settling himself and turned his attention toward the shore and the company that awaited him at the royal pavilion.

Without a word, those of us on the galley watched the skiff’s progress. Everyone on all the other ships watched as well, as did the ranks of soldiers assembled on the shore. The moment became slightly unreal; time seemed to stretch. The water, so close to shore, was quite murky, discolored by mud from the nearby Nile brought down by the rush of the annual floods. The sky was without a cloud but uniformly hazy, its color pearly gray rather than blue. No breeze stirred; the atmosphere was sullen and heavy with humidity. Sounds carried with peculiar clarity; I could clearly hear the noise of Pompey clearing his throat on the receding boat, and the low mutter as he attempted to engage the centurions Septimius and Servius in conversation. They did not answer but only averted their eyes, just as the men who had come for me that morning had averted their eyes. The barren, colorless shore assumed a peculiarly uninviting aspect. The throne set before the royal pavilion remained empty; King Ptolemy still declined to show himself.

Cornelia stepped back from the crowd along the rail and began to pace the deck, keeping her eyes on the royal skiff. She touched her mouth with an anxious gesture.

The tension that hung in the air became so oppressive that I began to think it emanated from me alone. Perhaps the sky, seen though other eyes, was a normal blue, and the moment no stranger than any other—except to me, facing my death. “Quickest done is best done,” the Etruscan proverb says. I fingered the vial inside my tunic. A not-unpleasant taste, a little discomfort, and then oblivion . . .

The royal skiff reached the shore, where an honor guard awaited. The oarsmen jumped out and dragged the boat forward until the hull grounded in the sandy surf. Salvius and Achillas stepped out of the boat, followed by Philip, who turned about and offered his hand to Pompey.

Cornelia screamed.

Perhaps she had an instant of precognition. Perhaps she was simply watching more closely than the rest of us. I stared at the boat and at first saw only a confusion of sudden movements. Only afterwards, reviewing those fleeting images in memory, would it become clear to me exactly what happened.

The oarsmen in the surf, joined by soldiers awaiting them on shore, reached for Centurion Macro and Pompey’s other bodyguard and pulled them out of the boat. Septimius, standing in the boat behind Pompey, drew his sword from its scabbard. As he raised it to strike, the delayed sound of Macro’s cry reached us in the galley, followed, in a weird moment of disconnection, by the scraping noise of Septimius drawing his sword. The blade descended at a sharp angle, plunging between Pompey’s shoulder blades. Pompey stiffened and convulsed. In what seemed a bizarre mimicry of his parting gesture to Cornelia, he flung his arms wide.

Philip was seized by soldiers on the beach and pulled back, his mouth open in a cry of anguish. Salvius and Achillas drew swords and clambered back into the boat. On either side, Pompey’s two bodyguards were held under the water until their flailing subsided. Inside the boat, while Pompey’s scribe cowered and ducked, the Great One collapsed as Achillas, Salvius, and Septimius swarmed over him, their swords flashing in the sun.

Abruptly, the stabbing stopped. While the other two pulled back, their chests heaving and their breastplates spattered with blood, Achillas squatted down in the boat and performed some operation. A few moments later he stood upright, his bloody sword in one hand and the severed head of Pompey held aloft in the other.

Those of us on the deck of Pompey’s galley stood frozen and speechless. From the various ships around us, scattered shrieks and cries echoed across the still water, punctuating the unnatural silence. Achillas deliberately made a point of displaying the head of Pompey to the fleet offshore. The Great One’s eyes were wide open. His mouth gaped. Gore dripped from his severed neck. Then Achillas turned about to show the head to the troops on shore. In their midst, in front of the royal pavilion, King Ptolemy had at last appeared. At some point during the attack, he had taken his place upon the throne, surrounded by a coterie of attendants. He was small in the distance, his features hard to make out, but he was instantly recognizable by the glittering uraeus crown of the Egyptian pharaohs upon his head, a jewel-encrusted band of gold with a rearing cobra at the center. In his crossed arms the king clutched a flail and a staff with a crook at the end, both made of bands of gold interspersed with bands of lapis lazuli. An adviser spoke in his ear, and the king responded by raising his staff in a salute to Achillas. The assembled Egyptian troops broke into a stunning cheer that swept across the water like a thunderclap.

I turned and looked up at Cornelia. She was as white as ivory, her face contorted like a tragedy mask. The galley’s captain ran to her, whispered in her ear, and pointed toward the west. Looking dazed, she turned her head. From the direction of the Nile, a fleet of ships had appeared on the horizon. “Egyptian warships!” I heard the captain say, raising his voice and gripping Cornelia’s arm to rouse her from her trance.

She stared at the ships, then at the shore, then again at the approaching fleet. The muscles of her face twitched as if she was trying to speak but could not. She shivered, blinked, and finally cried out, “Weigh anchor! Set sail!
Set sail!
”

Her cry broke the spell that held us frozen. The deck erupted in frenzied movement. Soldiers and sailors rushed this way and that. I was shoved and spun about and almost knocked down.

Amid the chaos I climbed to a higher spot and scanned the nearby ships. All the boats were weighing anchor at once, with oarsmen struggling to turn them about and sailors frantically setting sail. Finally I spotted the
Andromeda.
Bethesda stood at the rail, staring toward Pompey’s galley but clearly not seeing me amid the confusion on the deck; she was standing on tiptoes and waving her hands. Even as I watched, Rupa grabbed her from behind and pulled her away from the rail and back toward the cabin, trying to get her out of the way of the sailors running back and forth. I waved my arm and shouted her name, but to no effect; in the next instant she disappeared into the cabin with Rupa and the slave boys.

I jumped onto the deck and ran to the ramp from which Pompey had departed. Sailors were heaving on ropes to raise the ramp clear of the water. I ran to its edge and dove into the waves.

Salt stung my nostrils. My heart pounded in my chest. I broke the surface and drew a desperate breath. All the ships were in motion, confusing me and making me lose my sense of direction. It seemed that every captain was acting on his own, with no coordination among them; hardly more than a stone’s throw from Pompey’s galley, two smaller boats collided, knocking some of the sailors overboard. I treaded water, turning around and trying to orient myself, searching for the
Andromeda
. I thought I knew the direction where I had last seen her, but my view was blocked by a passing ship. Nonetheless, I set off swimming in that direction, away from the shore.

The motion of so many oars from so many ships created waves that rippled and merged and smacked against one another. Water surged into my nostrils. I swallowed air and breathed in water. Swimming became impossible; just to keep my head above water was a struggle. From nowhere, a galley appeared and went racing by me, the long bank of oars, one after another, crashing into the water beside my head, setting up a turbulence that tossed me this way and that and dragged me under, spinning me upside-down beneath the waves.

By the time I recovered, I was more disoriented than ever, not even sure in which direction the shore lay. It took all my energy just to stay afloat. At some point, I thought I caught a glimpse of the
Andromeda
and tried desperately to swim after it, expending the last measure of my strength to call out Bethesda’s name. But it might very well have been some other boat, and in any case my pursuit was hopeless; the ship quickly receded, and with it my hopes of ever seeing Bethesda again.

At last I gave up; or more precisely, gave in. Neptune had his own plans for me, and I relinquished all control to the god. My limbs turned to lead, and I thought that I must surely sink, but the god’s hand kept me afloat and upright, with the hot sun on my face. The oar-churned sea grew calmer. The multitude of sails receded into the distance. From somewhere I heard a great commotion of movement, as of an army de-camping, but even that noise gradually faded until I heard only the shallow sound of my own breath and the gentle lapping of waves upon a shore. A sandy bank materialized beneath my back; the waves no longer carried me aloft but merely nudged me this way and that. The shallow surf sighed and whispered around me. I let out a groan and closed my eyes.

I may have slept, but probably not for long. Above the sighing of the surf, I heard another sound: the buzzing of flies, a great many of them, somewhere nearby. I opened my eyes and saw a bearded face above me. His eyes were wet with tears. His lips trembled. “Help me,” he said. “For the love of Jupiter, please help me!”

I recognized him: Philip, the trusted freedman who had accompanied Pompey ashore.