‘Can you not simply be grateful?’ Fronto said. ‘You wanted Pompey dead. He’s dead.’
Salvius pulled away and marched off after the men who were even now being led into a small barrack block. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ Fronto grunted, and hurried after him.
Salvius was moving at speed now, and he had reached the door of the barracks by the time Fronto caught up again. The tribune stopped in the doorway, took the keys from the man who was messing with the lock, and turned. ‘Dismissed, the lot of you. I’ll put them inside.’
Fronto was tempted to countermand those orders, but desisted. As the guardsmen dispersed, he followed Salvius inside. The two centurions were standing by separate doors. Fronto felt the need to say something, and cleared his throat.
‘I will make sure your trials are soon, and I think you need not worry about the outcome. You will almost certainly both go free.’
‘In,’ snapped Salvius, opening a door and gesturing. Septimius shuffled inside. In moments the tribune had the door locked behind him and shook his head at his brother, motioning to a door at the far end, some distance away. Moving the padlock, he attached it to this other door, but motioned for the other centurion to enter and, when he did, followed him in. Fronto hurried after them and slammed his foot in the door just as it closed. He was fairly sure a toe broke in the pressure and he winced, but withdrew his foot as the door opened once more.
‘This is private,’ Salvius said quietly.
‘Bollocks, frankly,’ Fronto relied. ‘You had murder in your eyes a few moments ago and you almost drew a blade on me. If you think I’m leaving you in here alone with him, you’ve another thing coming.’
Salvius glared at him but said nothing, and so Fronto closed the door and sat on the edge of a bunk opposite them. Now that he looked at them he could see the definite family resemblance, though the centurion was more sun bronzed and sun-bleached.
‘It was you,’ Salvius Cursor said quietly.
‘Yes.’
‘Not that other man.’
‘No. He wanted the glory, that’s all.’
‘How in Hades did you do it?’
Salvius Aper shrugged. ‘It was easy. The queen knew that if Pompey lost he would come to Aegyptus, because of his old ties with her father. Part of the Gabiniani had already served with him against Caesar, and he would probably now want the rest.’
‘Wait,’ Fronto held up a hand. ‘The queen?’
‘Is he trustworthy?’ the man asked his brother. Salvius Cursor eyed Fronto as he replied. ‘On so many levels, no. But you can talk in front of him.’
‘The queen, Cleopatra, set me the task of planting a blade in Pompey. But there was so much to it. We had no idea where he would put to shore, once we’d heard he had been moving down the Asian coast. And I had to make it Ptolemy’s fault, you see? I spent a month in the pharaoh’s camp planting the idea in the mind of his idiot eunuch and enlisting a fellow centurion with more ambition than sense. Pompey knew Septimius, you see? They’d served together. He would not remember me, and if he did, he’d hardly put himself in my hands. But I’ve changed over the years. I look different. And Septimius was his friend.’
‘But how?’ Salvius urged.
‘Pompey landed at Pelusium, perilously close to the queen’s camp. He sent overtures to Ptolemy, and we carried the reply. We persuaded him that it had to be a clandestine meeting. We would sneak him past the queen’s camp and to Ptolemy. Once we had him alone in a boat it was easy.’
Fronto shook his head in disbelief. ‘It’s a bloody master stroke. She rids Caesar of a difficult enemy that he doesn’t know what to do with and manages to plant the blame with her brother, making him look like a murderous fool. This woman is sly.’
Salvius Aper gave him an odd look. ‘The queen is the sole rightful ruler of Aegyptus and a thousand times brighter than Ptolemy.’
‘Did Pompey not take his guards?’ Fronto asked.
‘He took a couple. But we had Achillas and half a dozen men too. They were swiftly overcome and dumped in the river.’
Again, Fronto shook his head. ‘Brilliant. And now Caesar gets to look forgiving and noble and mourn Pompey’s loss, and the queen will have set Caesar and Ptolemy at odds. The pharaoh will have to work to maintain any hope of peace now.’
But he was more or less talking to himself now. The brothers were in discussion once more.
‘You said you would have nothing to do with it,’ Salvius Cursor muttered. ‘You said I was on my own.’
‘Times have changed, brother. I have changed. You went back west for revenge, but I stayed out here.’
He turned a meaningful look on Fronto, who suddenly felt very out of place. He was still fascinated as to what lay at the root of this family’s attitudes, but this was clearly not the time to pry. Besides, he had his own problem to look to now. Should he tell Caesar about the queen’s part in it or not?
Whatever the case, he was now sure that Cleopatra was the clear choice in this war.
Chapter 28
Caesar leaned on the table and shook his head. ‘Not the army, the king himself.’
‘Why would the king come without his army?’ Cassius mused.
‘Perhaps he wants to avoid the danger of conflict? Perhaps he feels he has the right. This is, after all, his city and his palace, and we are but foreign visitors. Whatever the case, the king will be here within a matter of hours. What we must do now is make some decisions before he gets here. The first being a matter of military strength.’
‘Estimates put Ptolemy’s forces at somewhere between twenty and thirty thousand,’ Fronto put in as he poured himself a drink. ‘Though the estimates come from civilian traders and observers, so we have to allow a strong margin for error.’
‘We still do not know whether they present a threat to us or not,’ Cassius pointed out. ‘At the moment we are neutral visitors in a civil war. It may be that Ptolemy is our friend. After all, his father was. Perhaps it is Cleopatra that we should be wary of.’
Fronto shook his head. ‘Cleopatra is clever.’
‘All the more reason to be wary,’ Cassius said. ‘And how do you know?’
‘I have heard things. From trustworthy sources. From what I understand, Ptolemy is enthusiastic and arrogant but with a somewhat childish mentality. His court is administered by Potheinus and his army by Achillas. All he does is preen. Cleopatra, on the other hand? Well put it this way, from what I’ve heard, I’d far rather have her as an ally than as an enemy.’
‘The fact remains,’ Caesar pointed out, ‘that we are outnumbered once more. We can boast three and a half thousand infantry and eight hundred horse. We have to assume that Cleopatra’s force is similar to her brother’s, else there would not be the stand-off there is. And with our four thousand, we cannot face an army of twenty thousand, no matter which side we come down on. We cannot, after all, rely on any support from the other.’
Cassius made an irritable huffing sound. ‘I still do not understand why we care. Pompey is dead. Aegyptus is now unimportant to us. In my opinion we should be leaving them to their sibling squabbles and marching off to Africa to put down Attius before he becomes any stronger. You can guarantee that half the surviving officers from Pharsalus are flocking to him. The last stronghold against you grows in power and instead of dealing with it we dally in Egypt watching an effete brother arguing with his inbred sister-wife.’
Fronto turned to Cassius. ‘You are awfully intent on pushing against the other senators, considering you served them a couple of months ago against Caesar.’
‘Don’t try and test my loyalty, Fronto. I gave an oath to the general, and I just want to see this war ended so we can all go home and things can be put to rights.’
Fronto nodded his acknowledgement of the point. It was very much what he wanted, in fact. Lucilia…
‘Aegyptus must be settled,’ Caesar said firmly. ‘This place is such a pivotal player in the east, we need her alliance. We always have. That is what led
the senate to send Gabinius here. We garrisoned half a legion here to protect their king, remember? No. We must have Aegyptus settled. I want a message sent to the queen at Pelusium, demanding that she stands down her army on the condition that her brother agrees to do the same. Send it with your fastest rider. I shall make the same demand of the king when he arrives. Then Cleopatra can come to Alexandria without fear, for we will impose the rule of law. With a little intuition and skill, and a healthy dose of good fortune, this conflict can then be brought to a close with talk and law rather than swords and shields.’
‘Yet you worry about our numbers?’ Fronto prompted.
‘Law does not always win the day, Marcus,’ Caesar replied. ‘That is why swords exist. I shall send the fastest riders in all Alexandria to the queen, but also beyond her, all the way to Syria. I want Calvinus to force march the Twenty Eighth and Twenty Ninth Legions from Damascus to Alexandria to more than double our strength. They are, after all, in Syria to guard against a Pompeian rising, which is now somewhat redundant. At the fastest legionary pace they should take no more than sixteen days arriving. Allowing for a courier with horse relays delivering the orders, the entire thing should be possible within twenty days, to get the message to Calvinus and for him to bring the forces here.’
‘That’s pushing it,’ Fronto noted. ‘Possible, but hard. They’ll be worn down, and that’s assuming there are no delays. Remember that Cleopatra and Ptolemy both have armies in the way. Can they not come by ship? I can’t be more than three day’s sail.’
‘We do what we must,’ Caesar replied. ‘The Etesian Winds made our journey south from Cyprus easy, but they make leaving Alexandria and heading north more or less impossible during the autumn. Thus our messenger must travel by land. And we took our entire naval capability when we came south from Cyprus. There are not enough ships available for Calvinus to use. No. Forced march it has to be.’
* * *
Ptolemy the Thirteenth, he of the many and very tedious names, was little more than a boy. The way people had talked about him, Fronto had formed the impression of a young man, but one whose mentality was still in the juvenile stage. In fact, the king was probably around the age when a Roman son would lose the bulla of childhood and take a man’s toga. He had not yet spoken, but Fronto was already imagining him to have one of those teenage voices that was on the verge of breaking, hovering somewhere between scratchy falsetto and warbling baritone. His nose was too large for his face, which gave the instant impression that he was coming at you, leaning forwards all the time, and his eyes heavy lidded, which made him look half asleep. It was not overall an awe-inspiring look for a man who was ruler of one of the world’s most ancient nations and supposedly the incarnation of a god.
Perhaps Fronto’s impression was rather ruined by his entourage, too. The legate had never been a fan of glittering ostentation, preferring the good ascetic nobility that was the very heart of Romanitas. So he did not find a solid basis for respect when the king arrived, preceded by lithe, naked Nubian dancers, a full orchestra of musicians playing a tune that sounded like a cat being slowly tortured by a man with a rattle and a lyre, jugglers, acrobats, four cameleopards, sixteen white bulls wearing ornate headdresses, a gang of weird looking priests with fake beards and shaved heads carrying a wooden god, and finally the fifty or so burly slaves that were required to pull the throne.
The throne itself was clearly solid gold, intricately worked and inset with every coloured stone imaginable, including much lapis lazuli – the Aegyptians seemed to love bright blue and gold together. But it was not the seat that was the eyesore and the sickening sight. The seat was settled amid a small bright garden of colourful flowers that itself sat on a wooden sledge some sixteen feet long, inlaid with yet more gold, which was being dutifully dragged along the cobbles.
Behind the king came a small collection of functionaries in white robes and a weird looking guard unit wearing various exotic animal skins and carrying swords that were so oddly-shaped that Fronto couldn’t work out how you would swing one, and which must have weighed the same as a small cart. At least they weren’t gold, like everything else.
Caesar, by comparison, sat astride his white horse in just his leather subarmalis with the handing pteruges over a red and white tunic, belted military fashion and with a general’s red cloak. His lictors were in evidence again, and the various officers were gathered. It felt like a curious reverse to be standing on the steps of the royal palace to greet the arrival of the man who owned it.
The giant sledge slid to a halt, the slaves breathing deeply, leading Fronto to wonder whether the Aegyptians were aware of something called ‘the wheel’ and if so why they dragged a sledge around the streets. King Ptolemy rose with some difficulty, which Fronto suspected was something to do with the weight of the enormous, ostentatious and weird looking crown-hat thing he wore. At least the fake beard made sense with the king, for he undoubtedly could not yet grow his own. Still wobbling his head to balance his ridiculous headgear, the king stepped forwards into the open air, and a slave was suddenly there, bent double, forming a step for him. The same happened again, and again, repeatedly until the last slave was lying prone next to the sledge and the king reached the ground. That was apparently not the end of it. The king’s sandals were, needless to say, gold. Two more slaves ran out with armfuls of white linen rugs, which they placed in a line in front of the king so that he could walk without dirtying his sandals.
The king stopped in front of the Romans, some twenty paces away and Fronto frowned as he realised Ptolemy was not looking at Caesar, but somewhere at his horse’s chest. Having to stifle a chuckle, he realised that the king would not look up at someone, so absolute was his power. Consequently, he couldn’t look Caesar in the face and had to content himself with the horse. It took only a moment for a steed to be brought for him so that he could meet the consul on a more level ground.
‘Greetings, Ptolemy, son of Ptolemy, son of Ptolemy ad infinitum,’ Caesar said, somehow managing to keep a straight face.
One of the white-clad functionaries ran up and stood next to the king.
‘His Majesty cannot recognise a foreign ambassador who is standing in his home, while the king is in the street, Consul.’
‘And you are?’ Caesar prompted.
‘I am Potheinus, regent and servant of the great king.’
‘Ah, you are the regent. You must be looking forwards to ending your tribulations and relaxing when the king comes of age.’
Ptolemy began to turn a funny red-purple colour, and Potheinus waved his hands urgently. ‘The King is already a man, Consul. I retain my rank only as an advisor, not a true ruler.’
‘My apologies,’ Caesar smiled. ‘However, I am not here as an ambassador, but as a consul of Rome, and a mediator in your current dispute. In your name I have had a feast prepared for your arrival.’
The colour began to fade on the king’s face and he smiled at last. ‘It has been a long, dry ride,’ he said.
Fronto ducked behind the other officers to hide his silent laughter at the king’s alternating falsetto and baritone warbling. By the time he had recovered, they were moving. Caesar and the king both dismounted, their horses taken for them, and the Romans and Aegyptians alike moved into the palace. As they walked, Caesar opened up conversation with the king politely.
‘What of your siblings, Majesty? I am aware, of course, of Cleopatra, but there were five of you, I believe.
The king’s lip twitched at the mention of his nemesis, but he recovered well, if briefly. ‘My oldest sister, Berenice, died at the hands of your general Gabinius, of course, during her ill-advised revolt against our father.’
‘Oh yes, how remiss of me,’ Caesar said politely and with an impressively straight face. ‘And the others?’
‘My younger brother, also a Ptolemy, is in Memphis, and my younger sister Arsinoe follows in my retinue.’
‘Good to see that your quarrel is not wider spread than with Cleopatra.’
<
br /> Another lip twitch.
They reached the great dining chamber with a view of the theatre below and the port beyond, and took seats by tables laden with food and drink.
‘I’m afraid I must get business out of the way before we discuss more pleasurable matters,’ Caesar said suddenly, earning a frown from the king. ‘Your father, I am afraid, ran up certain debts with Rome during that dreadful revolt, and with an army to support in the midst of all these troubles, I must, unfortunately, call in that debt.’
‘How much?’ asked Ptolemy in surprise.
‘You cannot, you foreign animal,’ snapped Potheinus, then recoiled as Caesar glared at him.
‘Seventeen and a half million drachma,’ Caesar said pleasantly.
‘That much?’ replied Ptolemy, still surprised.
‘I am sure your man there can confirm it in records, but that is definitely the figure.’
‘You may have my throne,’ the king said airily.
‘That would account for perhaps a quarter of it,’ Caesar replied. ‘But I was intending to donate a sum to each of the former king’s children in recognition of their friendship to Rome. You may keep your throne and supply only thirteen million drachma.’
The regent, his eyes narrowed, nodded at his king. ‘I will see to it Majesty, but be aware that this is a debilitating quantity of money at a time when we are in need, and this leech of a Roman will never stop sucking.’
‘And one other piece of business remains of importance,’ Caesar said, one scathing eye on the eunuch.
‘Mmm?’ the king managed around a mouthful of peach.
‘The matter of your little war.’
‘Well, I…’
Caesar rode over his words. ‘It is becoming the norm in your land for civil conflict. Firstly your sister challenged your father’s rule, and Gabinius had to step in and help. He had to leave troops that I believe have come down to you somehow. And then he dies, leaving clear instructions that you and Cleopatra are to co-rule, and now the two of you are at war.’
Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War Page 42
