by Karen Essex
“Of course, sir.”
“I am going to take four legions with me, Pollio. But before we depart, I believe we officers shall indulge in a special treat.”
“What is that, sir?”
“We have starved the summer long. Why should we waste all this food? Let us dine on the meal that Pompey’s excellent cooks had prepared for his victory celebration. And let us not gorge ourselves like the fat men we have defeated, but let us savor every bite.”
“An inspired idea, sir.”
The meal was a capital success. Antony, who loved food, drink, and talk equally, made a long speech praising the high quality of the roasts, the fowl, the pork that was served by Pompey’s very submissive cooks, who acted as though it was quite normal to be waiting on one army rather than the other. Treating the kitchen staff with extraordinary politeness, Caesar, usually unimpressed by fine cuisine, allowed that he had never had such a sumptuous, tasty plate of food in all his life.
Caesar washed his hands in a finger bowl and stood. Pollio jumped to his feet. Caesar motioned for the rest of the men to remain seated. “Finish your plates. You worked hard for this meal. But I must go.”
Caesar’s men groaned at his early departure. Some urged him to sit and enjoy himself. He smiled at them, at their loyalty and affection. But he indicated that he would not linger.
“I simply must catch up with Pompey and thank him for this delightful repast.”
Caesar left his men laughing and applauding as he walked away from the table. He took Pollio aside. “How long will it take to spread the word that Caesar has prevailed?”
“As long as it takes men to travel, sir. If I go through the usual channels.”
“They have been effective for us in the past, haven’t they?”
“Yes they have. In two weeks, sir, the civilized world will know what happened here today.”
TWENTY-THREE
Pothinus the eunuch stood on the shore looking out to sea. He had rushed to Pelusium the day before with the boy king to meet the threat of the troublemaker, Kleopatra, who had gathered a paid gypsy army and was encamped just a few miles to the east. They were certain she was going to strike that morning. His information he thought, was infallible. He was so sure that his informers were correct that he had neglected his morning ablutions and left his breakfast sitting in its bowl in the city so that he could rush to Pelusium to meet the menace. And to witness her demise.
But she did not come. Probably because the very morning she planned to strike, the Harbormaster at Pelusium awoke to the fact that Pompey the Great, fleeing Julius Caesar, was lingering two miles offshore with a small flotilla of warships and merchant vessels, waiting for an invitation to quarter in Egypt. Pothinus received the news just before dawn. He estimated that it reached Kleopatra’s ears at about the same time.
He hated the unexpected. But that was what he got. So instead of spending the day in the war tent, the eunuch and his council of advisers called an emergency meeting to decide how they would receive the defeated Roman general.
What an ordeal that was. And what patience it required. Pothinus knew what the outcome would be even before the meeting convened, because he and Theodotus had already discussed it. But others were not as quick to see the inevitable. Some argued to make good relations with Pompey before Kleopatra got to him. She was just crafty enough to seduce him into backing her cause. After all, she had met him in Rome and had been a guest in his home. Pompey needed an Egyptian ally, and she could make good use of the troops he had managed to save from Caesar’s wrath. That would never do, Pothinus agreed. Others said they should fight Pompey then and there. Confront him while he’s down, they said. Yes, yes, quite right, Pothinus said again and again while he listened to their anxieties about the Roman general. He let them all have their say, sitting patiently through one erroneously constructed argument after another.
Then, he enlightened them.
Now he and Theodotus stood on the dock, where he would have a fine view of the events that he had been promised would happen, and happen according to his own plan. The stage was perfectly set. Achillas’s officers were lined up at the harbor, not in fighting formation, but waiting to greet a dignitary, flanking the boy king, this latest Ptolemy, who was bedecked in his official purple robes. The child—fidgety, nervous despite his enthusiasm for the plan—stood out in the sunlight like some quivering, aberrant breed of orchid. Pothinus wished he would have stayed home, but it was not to be. The boy had insisted, and the eunuch had learned through the years to pick his battles with the headstrong, foolish thing. Pothinus was not certain exactly whom he could trust. But his co-regents had little reason to betray him. Not now, not when Pompey had been defeated and was floating in the bay, waiting for an invitation to bring him to shore where he could take over the Egyptian army and bilk the Egyptian treasury as he had done so marvelously in the past.
“Are you certain we are doing the right thing?” asked Theodotus.
“Your nervousness gives me cramps, Theodotus. You argued brilliantly on our behalf this morning. Why are you now acting so sheepishly?” Pothinus was losing patience with this paid rhetorician. “Please keep quiet. If you do not have the stomach for the decision we made, then go hide in your carrel in the Mouseion and comfort yourself with poetry.”
“I suppose we have no choice,” said the jittery scholar.
“Caesar will be here in three days’ time. His boats have been spotted by the scouts at sea. Do we wish for the continuation of the Roman Civil War on our soil? Do you wish to face Caesar’s army? Or his vengeance for helping his enemy?”
“No, no. You are right. Quite right.”
“I am relieved that you think so.”
“But Pompey has arrived with five ships. There may be a great army on those ships.”
“We have made provisions for all that. Anyway, I do not believe they are filled with military men. The armies, for the most part, were left in Greece. I believe those boats are the vessels of the sixty fat Roman senators who escaped with Pompey.”
“Oh dear,” the scholar said.
“Do you remember the Romans who lived in Alexandria at Auletes’ invitation? Do you think these will be any different? No, they will rob our temples of their holy artifacts, bleed our treasury, and rape our women. They will march into Alexandria, break into the Library, and steal the precious ancient texts that you so love to read. Now do please be quiet. You are making me anxious with your fidgeting.”
“But what about his wife?”
“What about his wife?”
“Do you see her on the deck? I hear she is lovely.”
“Yes, she is undoubtedly lovely. That means she will go back to Rome and quickly find another husband.”
“Well, it’s sad.”
“She is also quite rich, Theodotus, and young, too. Please do not waste your tears on the lady Cornelia. Romans only marry for political reasons anyway.”
“Still. She is so young.”
“And he is so old. He is fifty-nine. He has lived long enough.”
Pothinus clasped his hands together. He, too, was nervous, though he was not about to admit it to the scholar. It would not do to feed Theodotus’s queasiness for the deed that was now unstoppable.
“Look at Achillas. How fine he looks in his uniform.” Pothinus shaded his eyes from the sun to get a better look at Achillas, who was sailing in a small fishing boat to greet Pompey’s larger vessel. Achillas had come up with the idea to fetch Pompey in the small boat—too small for any of his men to accompany him. He would tell Pompey that the harbor was much too shallow to accommodate his galley; consequently, the Roman should sail ashore alone in the small dinghy, where the boy king awaited him.
Achillas had dressed for the occasion, wearing his officer’s uniform of royal blue that looked dazzling in the sunlight. He was accompanied by two men, one a former officer of Pompey’s, Lucius Septimus, whom they had hoped Pompey would recognize, and Salvius, a former centurion. Both were presently mercenaries
in the Gabinian army.
The dinghy met Pompey’s vessel and Pompey waved to the men. But Pothinus saw two of Pompey’s own men pull him back as if to prevent him from boarding the small boat. Then Lucius called out to him—hopefully, in the Latin as they had planned. He caught Pompey’s attention, for the general pulled himself from his own advisers to answer him. Pothinus could not be sure, but he thought he saw Cornelia try to pull Pompey back by his cloak. But Pompey’s sailors lowered a rope ladder, and Pompey descended into the smaller boat despite his wife’s protests. The men pushed off from the ship.
“What is happening?” asked Theodotus.
“They are coming, that is what.”
“Is that all? I do not have your eyesight.”
“I don’t know. It appears that Pompey is reading from a scroll. I suppose he’s written out his speech to the king and is practicing it.”
“Are they speaking to him?”
“No, it does not appear so.”
“And he is not suspicious?”
“Apparently not. His face is buried in his book.”
“Is he armed?”
“No. Now stop asking questions. It is time for us to do our part. See how close they are. We must step forward as if we are going to greet him.”
Pothinus put one bejeweled arm in the air, waving each ringed finger separately like the legs of an insect propelling itself. Pompey lifted his head. He put his book away and stood, preparing to leave the boat. He steadied himself on the arm of Lucius, but instead of helping him, Lucius produced a dagger, and with a single thrust, stabbed him in the back. Pompey fell forward. Achillas and Salvius drew their swords. The cries of Cornelia could be heard on the shore. Pompey groaned and pulled his cape over his head, resigned to take the blows that would end his life and career. He did not fight back.
“I do not think he had time to contemplate his fate,” said Pothinus, indifferent, as if the play he had been watching was over. Theodotus turned away.
The Egyptian vessels in the harbor that seemed to have no real purpose suddenly turned on the Roman ships, chasing them out to the sea. It was difficult to see, but it looked to Pothinus that a few would be caught. He had already given the orders, which he did not share with Theodotus: Kill whomever is aboard.
Pothinus kept his eyes on the dinghy. Lucius and the centurion frantically rowed it into the harbor, where Pothinus offered his hand to Achillas. “Well done,” he said.
“Now what?” asked Achillas.
Pothinus regarded the dead Pompey. He could see where the son had gotten his looks. A fine-looking man in his day, to be sure. But now his eyes were open and staring blankly at the eunuch, who turned away.
He was taking a risk and he knew it. He wondered if he was being foolish, relying on reputation and not on real numbers of men, but when had that strategy failed him? It seemed that Mother Fortune encouraged him to take chances and rewarded his faith in the gods. He had set off from Greece with only three thousand two hundred men—hardly an impressive army if Pompey was successful in gathering reinforcements from the east. Caesar had sailed through enemy waters with this meager crew, where he might have encountered any number of Pompey’s ships ready for battle. After all, he had defeated the old fox by cutting him off from his navy. If Pompey had been able to regroup his sea forces, Caesar would not have been alive at this very moment, breathing fresh Mediterranean sea air and sailing toward the legendary Greek colony on the coast of Egypt. But Fortune, his true love, had smiled upon him once again.
How was it that he had never been here before? What with his love for literature, art, theater, philosophy, and all things Greek? How had he neglected to spend time in the city of Alexandria, the home of the great Library that housed the world’s accumulated knowledge, the Mouseion that hosted the world’s most famous minds? Ah well, he had been busy. And the east had traditionally been Pompey’s. Pompey had been a friend and benefactor to the old king. It would not have done for Caesar to saunter into Alexandria and threaten Pompey’s hold on the place. Of course, that was before, when the two men were allies. Now that Pompey had been vanquished and was hiding out in the whitewashed Mediterranean paradise, everything was different. Perhaps he would be able to talk sense into his former comrade. Pompey could be such a practical, malleable man when push came to shove. Perhaps they would strike a deal. A man of Pompey’s abilities and contacts could be useful in times to come. Pompey, when he had wanted to, could always make the senate go along with Caesar’s plans.
Caesar braced himself at the bow of the ship. No one—not even a man who had conquered vast lands and laid waste to over one million lives—could see the Pharos Lighthouse for the first time and not have to catch his breath. The flame at the top of the three-story structure burned wildly, a second sun in the hot afternoon sky. Caesar found its blaze hypnotic, and he almost had to force himself to stop looking at it.
At the approach to the island stood two colossal statues of one incestuous Ptolemy couple or another—which two were these?—dressed in the Egyptian pharaonic style and sitting like sphinxes on either side of the tower, greeting every man, every ship that came into the harbor. The king and queen must surely be the son and daughter of the first Ptolemy, the two who scandalized the Greek world by marrying each other, and then, with their father’s fortune, turned the little outpost into the center of the civilized world—well, at least until the rise of Rome. Still, Caesar expected to find remnants of the grandeur of the Greek world lingering about. He liked the shabby elegance of Greek cities; it gave them such a quaint ambiance.
He had no idea what he was to encounter, so he assembled the troops, making them ready for confrontation upon disembarking. Instead, Caesar and his landing party were met by a freakish-looking womanish fellow. A self-important eunuch courtier, he was sure. He could tell by the cosmetics, the jewelry, and the girth about the middle. Why the Greek monarchs had taken these creatures as advisers he did not know. The man was accompanied by a fat little boy wearing a crown; they were trailed by a large retinue, one fellow carrying a platter. Gifts, thought Caesar. What might they be? And where was Pompey hiding?
“Gaius Julius Caesar, we present you with this treasure,” said the eunuch. He stepped aside, revealing a cowering Greek man in the robes of a scholar who held out a tray, all the while stretching his arms out as far as they might go to distance himself from what it held. It took Caesar a moment to discern the proffered matter. He would never have recognized the head, for it had been separated from its person for some time and was largely discolored. But the ring, he knew. He had held the hand that had worn it, had taken it in confidence, had faced it in war.
Caesar felt the bile rise to his throat. He turned away. His men had seen him cry before. There was no shame. He collected himself, not bothering to wipe away the tears.
“Who is responsible for this?”
“You see, great Caesar, you have no cause to remain here. We have done you the favor of vanquishing your enemy. You need only turn around and return to Rome,” the eunuch said grandly. “Surely, there is now no reason for you to remain.”
How dare he, this monster? Even he, Caesar, would not have moved to kill a great Roman like Pompey.
“Who are you to tell Caesar where he shall remain?” Caesar looked straight into the eunuch’s eyes. The boy king appeared jittery, tugging at his robes as if they were not comfortable.
“You may not be aware of this, but there is famine in Egypt. The waters of the Nile are lower than ever before. We have no food for your troops. The king is at war with his sister Kleopatra, who would topple the government and replace it with her own. You would do well to leave us.”
Did this man have no brain?
“We are here to collect the debt that King Ptolemy neglected to repay to the people of Rome. It is our intention to remain until we have been satisfied,” Caesar said. “Besides, we are waylaid here by the etesian winds, which are not at this time favorable for sailing.” He looked to the boy. “You are
the son of Ptolemy?”
The boy nodded his head in the affirmative. “And you are at war with your sister, who is rightfully the queen?”
“Well she started it,” he said, stamping his foot. “She ran away and raised her own army!” Caesar wondered if the boy was going to cry.
“Your father left his will and his kingdom in the hands of Pompey, but as you see for yourself, Pompey is dead. You and your sister must put yourselves entirely in my trust and I shall settle your dispute for you. If you listen to me, you shall continue to rule your kingdom.”
The boy appeared calmed by his words, which only made the eunuch more flustered. Caesar said to Pothinus, “Send word to the queen that she is to appear before me.”
“And where would you like to meet with her? May I suggest Damascus? She may be received there, but certainly not here in Alexandria, where she is considered a usurper and a rebel. She has been officially deposed.”
“Well, we shall take care of that. Have her come to the palace.”
“The palace?” said the eunuch, as if he had not heard correctly.
“Yes, that is where I shall be staying. Come, boy,” he said to the king. “Let us go to your home. We must become acquainted. Which way to the palace?”
Caesar signaled for his escort to follow. The elite guard quickly assembled at attention, raising the conqueror’s fasces—his personal banners. Those who did not carry colors raised their axes, the symbol of the victor.
Before they could leave the dock, Caesar and his men were rushed by a small militia of soldiers. What was wrong with these people? he wondered. And then he realized that the Alexandrian soldiers had taken affront to the fasces. They must have thought that he was asserting that Alexandria was his. Well, he was. Why not? But he didn’t mean to start a ruckus.
Caesar moved to order his men not to react, but it was too late. Several of his men were already engaged with the Alexandrians. He saw one of his soldiers go down as a dark-skinned Greek slew him through the gut.
