The Judgment of Caesar (9 page)

“So, Lord Chamberlain, this man knows Caesar?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. And if he
is
a spy, rather than having been employed by Pompey, it seems more likely, in my judgment, that he was sent here by Caesar to spy upon Pompey and witness his arrival on our shores.”

“Then we certainly gave him an eyeful!” said Achillas, abruptly entering the conversation.

“Rise to your knees, Roman,” said Ptolemy.

I groaned and felt a stab of pain in my back from the effort of rising without using my hands. The king took a few steps back and looked down his nose at me. I dared to look back at him for a brief moment before lowering my eyes. His face was indeed that of a boy of fifteen. His Greek ancestry was evident in his blue eyes and fair skin. He was not particularly handsome, with a mouth too broad and a nose too large to satisfy Greek ideals of beauty, but his eyes flashed with intelligence, and the twist at the corner of his mouth hinted at an impish sense of humor.

“Gordianus-called-Finder is your name?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“The spy who captured you charges that you were in the employ of Pompey. True or false?”

“Not true, Your Majesty.”

“My lord chamberlain suggests that you may be in Caesar’s employ.”

“Nor is that true, Your Majesty.”

“But it
is
true that you know Caesar?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” I could see that he was intrigued by Caesar, and that it was my uncertain relationship with Caesar that made him curious about me. I cleared my throat. “If it would please Your Majesty, I might be able to tell him a thing or two about Caesar; provided I am allowed to keep my head, of course.”

While not looking directly at him, I could see nonetheless that the corner of his mouth twisted into a crooked smile. The young king of Egypt was amused. “You there, spy. What are you called?”

The man gave a name of numerous syllables that was Egyptian, not Greek. Ptolemy evidently could not be bothered to pronounce it, for he continued to address the man by his profession.

“What caused you to think, spy, that this Roman was Pompey’s man?”

The spy, in his reedy voice, proceeded to tell the tale of where and how he had first seen me, and of how he had come upon me again near the temple beside the Nile.

Ptolemy returned his gaze to me. “Well, Gordianus-called-Finder, what do you have to say for yourself?”

I repeated the tale of why I had come to Egypt and how I had fallen in with Pompey’s fleet, ending with the disappearance of Bethesda the previous day and my capture that morning.

We had all been speaking Greek. Abruptly, Ptolemy spoke to me in Latin. His accent was odd but his grammar impeccable. “The spy strikes me as a bit of an idiot. What do you say to that, Gordianus-called-Finder?”

From the corner of my eye, I could see that the spy frowned, unable to follow the change of tongues. I answered in Latin. “Who am I to contradict the judgment of Your Majesty?”

“It would seem you are a man of considerable experience, Gordianus-called-Finder. Truly, what do you have to say about this spy? Speak candidly; I command it!”

I cleared my throat. “The man may or may not be an idiot, Your Majesty, but I do know for a fact that he’s a thief.”

“How so?”

“After I was bound, he rummaged through my traveling trunk, ostensibly to look for evidence to incriminate me. Finding nothing of the sort, he stole the few things of value for himself.”

The corner of Ptolemy’s mouth twisted in the opposite direction, producing a crooked frown. He fixed his gaze on the spy and resumed speaking in Greek. “What did you steal from this Roman?”

The spy’s jaw dropped open and quivered. He was silent for a heartbeat too long. “Nothing, Your Majesty.”

“Any spoils taken from an enemy are the property of the king, whose officers may dispense them only in accordance with the king’s wishes. Are you not aware of that, spy?”

“Of course I am, Your Majesty. I would never think to . . . that is, I would never dream of taking anything from a prisoner, without first . . . without handing it over directly to—”

In Latin, Ptolemy said to me: “What did he steal from you, Gordianus-called-Finder?”

“Coins, Your Majesty.”

“Roman sesterces?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“If the man has a few Roman coins on his person, or even a bag full of them, that would hardly constitute proof that he stole them from you.”

“I suppose not, Your Majesty.” “To make an unsubstantiated charge of such severity against an agent of the king is an offense worthy of death.”

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was as dry as chalk. “There was something else he stole from my trunk.”

“What?”

“A comb, Your Majesty. A beautiful thing made of silver and ebony. My wife insisted on bringing it with her . . . for sentimental reasons.” My voice caught in my throat.

Ptolemy turned his gaze back to the spy. The man had followed none of our exchange in Latin, but even so he began to tremble and gnash his teeth.

“Captain!”

Achillas stepped forward. “Your Majesty?”

“Have your men strip the spy of his tunic and whatever else he’s wearing. Turn out all the pockets and pouches and see what you find.”

“At once, Your Majesty.”

Soldiers converged. In the bat of an eyelash, the spy was stripped naked. He sputtered at the indignity and blushed crimson from head to foot. I averted my eyes, which chanced to fall on Pothinus. Did I imagine it, or was the eunuch discreetly taking a good look at the naked man’s scrotum?

In the background, the piper continued to play. For a while I had ceased to notice his music, though he had never stopped playing the same song in endless variations.

“What did your men find, Captain?”

“Coins, Your Majesty. Bits of parchment. A perfumer’s vial, made of alabaster. A few—”

“A comb?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Achillas held it before the king, who looked down his nose at it but did not touch it.

“A comb made of silver and ebony,” observed Ptolemy.

The spy, standing alone and naked, wrung his hands and trembled violently. There was a sound of splashing, and I saw that his bladder was emptying itself. He stood in a pool of his own urine, blushing furiously, biting his lips, and whimpering.

The piper continued to play. The tune changed to a brighter key and a quicker tempo.

“Have mercy on me, Your Majesty, I beg you!” blubbered the spy.

“Captain.”

“Your Majesty?”

“Have this man executed at once.”

Pothinus stepped forward. “Your Majesty, the man is a valuable agent. He possesses a great store of specialized knowledge. Please consider—”

“This man stole from the king. He lied to the king. You yourself witnessed the lie. Are you saying, Lord Chamberlain, that there is an argument to be made that he should
not
be executed?”

Pothinus lowered his eyes. “No, Your Majesty. The king’s words humble me.”

“Captain Achillas.”

“Your Majesty?”

“Execute the man immediately, where he stands, so that all present may witness the swiftness of the king’s justice.”

Achillas strode forward. Soldiers seized the spy’s arms, not merely to immobilize him but also to keep him upright; his legs had gone soft, and otherwise he would have collapsed to the floor. Achillas put his massive hands around the man’s throat and proceeded to strangle him. Where the man’s face had been red before, it now turned purple. His body convulsed. Weird sounds rose came from his mouth until a sickening crunch put a stop to his gurgling. With a snort of disgust, Achillas released him. The man’s head flopped to one side, and his limp body crumpled to the floor.

The room fell silent except for the merry tune of the piper.

“Lord Chamberlain.”

“Your Majesty?”

“See to it that the Roman and his companions are released from their bonds; that the items stolen from him are returned to his keeping; that he is given suitable quarters and made comfortable. Keep him close at hand, in case the king should wish to speak to him.”

Pothinus bowed low. “It shall be as Your Majesty commands.”

The same soldiers who had stripped and immobilized the spy now surrounded me and began to untie the cords around my wrists. Meanwhile, to a new and livelier tune from his piper, King Ptolemy made his exit from the room.

Thus I made the acquaintance of the Egyptian king and his advisers, and received my first taste of life in the royal court.

CHAPTER IX

Our quarters were simple but adequate: a room made of stone with sleeping cots for all (Mopsus and Androcles sharing), a brass chamber pot in one corner, a rug on the floor, and a small lamp that hung from a hook in the ceiling. There was even a narrow window that looked down on a sandy courtyard where soldiers were camped. Above the curve of the fortress wall beyond, the sky was dark and full of stars.

To eat, we were each given a bowl of lentil soup, a millet biscuit, and a few dried dates and figs. The food disappeared almost at once.

Eventually two soldiers arrived at the door bearing my trunk. They set it in the middle of the room and departed. I opened the lid. Lying on top was Bethesda’s silver-and-ebony comb. I picked it up and ran my fingertips over the prongs. Underneath was a bag full of coins, and beside the bag, almost hidden by a fold of cloth, was the alabaster vial that Cornelia had given me.

I extinguished the lamp and lay on my cot, clutching the silver-and-ebony comb. I thought of Diana and Eco back in Rome; they would be devastated when they learned what had happened to Bethesda. How could I bear to tell them? And would I ever have the chance? Rome seemed very far away. A coldness settled over me, and I thought of the alabaster vial. Perhaps it was the will of the gods that I should consume its contents, after all. . . .

Nearby, Mopsus and Androcles chattered to one another in low voices. I was about to tell them to be quiet when Mopsus spoke up.

“Master, is this what Rome will be like?” “What do you mean, Mopsus?” From outside I heard a sentry give the all-clear. Wind sighed in the tops of the tall palm trees outside the fortress wall. The world had become very quiet and still.

“When Caesar gets back to Rome and makes himself king, is this what Rome will be like?” said Mopsus.

“I still don’t know what you mean.”

“What he means,” said Androcles, seeing that his brother’s question needed clarification, “is this: Will everyone have to cringe and fawn and bow to Caesar and call him ‘Your Majesty,’ even free citizens like you, Master?”

“Yes, Master,” said Mopsus, “and will Caesar be able to say, ‘I don’t like that fellow, so kill him right now!’ And the next thing you know, just because King Caesar said so, the man’s being strangled to death, like this?” He demonstrated by clamping his hands around his brother’s throat. Androcles joined in the demonstration by flailing his arms and legs against the cot and making a gagging noise.

From the cot next to them, I heard Rupa emit a chuckle of amusement, but I saw nothing to laugh at.

“I don’t know, boys. When we get back—” I almost said,
If
we get back, but there was no point in planting doubt—”Rome will certainly be different. The Egyptians have always been ruled by a king; before the dynasty of the Ptolemies, there were the pharaohs, whose reigns go back thousands of years, back to the days of the Pyramids and the Sphinx. But we’ve never had a king—well, not in 450 years or so. And no Roman has ever
been
a king, including Caesar. We have no experience of monarchy and no rules to go by. I imagine, like this mess of a war, it will be rather like a play that the players make up as they go along. Now, stop this roughhousing and get to sleep!”

“And if we don’t, will you order Rupa to strangle us, Master?”

“Don’t test me, Mopsus!”

Eventually they quieted down, until again I heard the sighing breeze in the palm trees. I banished all thoughts of the alabaster vial from my mind; who would see the boys and Rupa through the perilous days ahead, if not me? I clutched the comb until, finally, sleep—blessed sleep, with its blanket of forgetfulness—began to draw near. In my head, the sighing breeze was joined by another sound, and I fell asleep hearing the tune played by Ptolemy’s piper, repeated over and over again.

The next morning, we set out for Alexandria.

It appeared that the main body of the army would remain at the fortress, under the command of Achillas, while the king and a smaller, though substantial, armed company would proceed to the capital.

Soldiers loaded my trunk into the wagon. Another soldier was assigned to drive the mules while I rode in the back with Rupa and the boys, not bound as on the day before but free to move about.

The road ran westward, away from the Nile, alongside a wide canal that brought fresh water from the river to the capital and allowed small craft to navigate back and forth. I wondered how Ptolemy would be transported to the city, and assumed he would arrive by chariot, but then, beyond the ranks of marching soldiers, I caught sight of an ornately gilded barge on the canal. It was manned by boatmen who propelled it ahead of the slow current by means of long poles. Stripped to the waist, their muscular shoulders and arms gleaming with sweat, the boatmen worked with graceful efficiency, pushing their poles against the bottom of the canal one after another and then repeating the sequence.

The middle portion of the barge was shaded by a large saffron-colored canopy, beneath which I occasionally caught glimpses of the king and his retinue, including the eunuch Pothinus. Every so often, when a breeze wafted from the direction of the canal, I heard a few notes of music from the king’s piper and felt a chill despite the rising heat of the day.

The hour was nearing midday when a soldier on foot approached our wagon.

“Are you Gordianus-called-Finder?” He spoke Egyptian, but so slowly and distinctly that even I could follow.

“I am.”

“Come with me.”

“Is there trouble?”

“His Majesty ordered me to fetch you.”

“And the others in my party?”

“They stay behind. You come with me.”

Rupa helped me descend from the wagon. I spoke in his ear. “While I’m gone, take care of the boys. Don’t let them get into trouble. They think they’re smarter than you, but you’re the strong one. Don’t be afraid to show them who’s boss. Do you understand?”

He looked at me uncertainly, but nodded.

I called to the boys. When they came to the back of the wagon and bent toward me, I grabbed each one by the nearest ear and pulled them close. “You will not, repeat
not,
get into trouble while I’m gone. You’ll do as Rupa tells you.”

“
Tells
us?” said Mopsus. “But Rupa can’t speak—” His words ended in a squeal as I gave his ear a twist.

“You know what I mean. When I return, if I find that you’ve disobeyed me, I shall twist this ear until it comes off. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master!” cried Mopsus.

“And you, Androcles?”

His brother, thinking it judicious to keep his mouth shut, simply nodded. I released them both. With a firm grip on my arm, the soldier hurried me off.

“When will you be back?” called Mopsus, rubbing his ear.

“Soon, I’m sure,” I called back, though I was not sure of anything.

Threading our way through ranks of marching infantry, the soldier led me across the road and down a ramp set into the embankment of the canal, where the royal barge had pulled alongside a landing spot. The boatmen were taking advantage of the stop to lean against their poles and rest for a moment. As soon as I stepped aboard, the crew leader called out for them to resume their work. The boatmen at the front of the barge on either side raised their poles and brought them down. The barge slowly began to move.

Pothinus peered out from beneath the canopy and gestured for me to follow. Steps led down to the royal accommodations, which were actually below the level of the water; the sunken, shaded area was deliciously cool. The saffron-colored canopy softened the glaring sunlight; sumptuous carpets underfoot softened my steps. Here and there, courtiers stood in little groups. Many wore the
nemes,
a pleated linen head-cloth such as that worn by the Sphinx, with various colors and patterns to denote their rank, while others wore ceremonial wigs upon their presumably shaved heads. They stood aside to let me pass, until at the center of the barge, I saw King Ptolemy seated on his throne. Two other chairs, hardly less opulent, faced his; both were chased with silver inlaid with bits of ebony and ivory, and their broad seats were strewn with plump cushions. In one chair sat Pothinus. The other was empty.

“Sit,” said Pothinus.

I sat, and realized that Ptolemy’s throne was raised on a dais. The platform was low, but sufficient to force me to tilt my chin up if I dared to look at him. If I lowered my eyes, they naturally came to rest upon a large, covered clay jar next to one of the king’s feet. It occurred to me that the jar was just the right size to contain a man’s head.

“Did you sleep well, Gordianus-called-Finder?”

“Quite well, Your Majesty.”

“The accommodations were adequate?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Good. Are you hungry?”

“Perhaps, Your Majesty.”

“Then you and Pothinus must partake of some food. I myself am never hungry at midday. Lord Chamberlain, call for food.”

Small tables were brought, and atop them were set silver trays heaped with delicacies—green and black olives stuffed with peppers and nut-paste, fish cakes sprinkled with poppy seeds, millet cakes sweetened with honey and soaked in pomegranate wine.

Despite the lavish spread, I had some trouble mustering my appetite, for I kept imagining what must be inside the clay jar at the king’s feet. While Pothinus and I ate, the king’s piper played a tune. The man sat at a little distance behind Ptolemy, cross-legged on the floor. The tune was different from the one he had played the night before.

Ptolemy seemed to read my thoughts. “Do you like the music?”

“Very much,” I said, which seemed the safe answer. “May I ask who composed the tune?”

“My father.”

I nodded. It was as I had thought; Ptolemy went about accompanied by his father’s music to reinforce his link to the Piper and thus his legitimacy as the late king’s successor. But then he said something that prompted me to reconsider my cynical interpretation of his motives.

“My father possessed a remarkable talent for music. With his playing he could make a man laugh one moment and weep the next. There was a sort of magic in his fingers and lips. This fellow who plays my father’s tunes captures the notes, but not always the spirit, of my father’s compositions. Still, to hear his music reminds me of my father in a way that nothing else can. Consider: The monuments that men leave behind, even the greatest men, reach out to only one of the five senses, our sight. We look at the image on a coin, or gaze upon a statue, or read the words that were written; we
see
, and we remember. But what about the way a man laughed, or sang, and the sound of his voice? No art can capture those aspects of a man for posterity; once a man is dead, his voice, his song, and his laughter die with him, gone forever, and our memory of them grows less and less exact as time passes. I was lucky, then, that my father made music, and that others, even if not with his precise skill, can reproduce that music. I cannot ever again hear the sound of my father speaking my name, but I can hear the tunes he composed, and so feel his presence persist among the living.”

I dared to lift my eyes to gaze into those of Ptolemy, but the king was staring into the middle distance. It seemed strange to hear such a young man utter sentiments so bittersweet; but Ptolemy was not, after all, an ordinary young man. He was the descendant of a long line of kings and queens stretching back to the right-hand man of Alexander the Great; he had been raised to think of himself as semidivine and the possessor of a unique destiny. Had he ever played with the boyish, careless abandon of Mopsus and Androcles? It seemed unlikely. I had interpreted the presence of his attendant piper as a purely political device, a calculated ploy; in Rome, such would have been the case, but gazing upon Ptolemy through jaded Roman eyes, I had missed something. Could it be that Ptolemy was both more mortal and more kingly than I had thought?

“The bond between father and son is a very special thing,” I said quietly, and my thoughts took a dark turn.

Again, Ptolemy seemed to read my mind. “You have two sons, I understand. The one called Eco, who lives in Rome, and the other, called Meto, who travels with Caesar; but the one called Meto you no longer call your son.”