Ptolemy spoke up. “I think it’s sad, this estrangement between yourself and your son. I should give much to have my father back among the living. To look into his eyes again; to hear him laugh; to listen to him play the flute.”
Considering that the king’s father had killed his oldest sister, and that he himself was at war with his sister-wife, I was not in a mood to have young Ptolemy pass judgment on my familial relationships. But I kept my mouth shut and found myself studying Ptolemy’s face, framed by the golden mantle and the atef crown. Having just met his sister, I was struck by the strong resemblance between them. Neither of them was strikingly beautiful in a way that would turn heads, yet both possessed a certain undeniable presence. I felt it more strongly from Cleopatra, but was that only because of my erotic inclinations? The image of her standing erect and shaking loose her hair to let it fall past her shoulders flashed in my mind. . . .
Pothinus loudly cleared his throat. Apparently he had said something that I missed. “If Gordianus-called-Finder can return to the present moment . . .” he said, giving me a condescending look that put me squarely in my place: a befuddled Roman mortal agog in the king’s golden room. I bristled.
“Pardon me. I was lost in thought, considering how the king does and does not resemble his sister Cleopatra.”
For a moment this comment went over their heads, then simultaneously Pothinus gave a start, and the king lurched forward in his throne.
“What are you saying?” cried Ptolemy.
“The family resemblance is obvious—the nose, the eyes—yet there’s a difference, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“You’ve seen her? Cleopatra?” Pothinus’s voice broke, as the voice of even a mature eunuch sometimes does. “Where? When?”
“Tonight, in Caesar’s chambers.”
Ptolemy slumped back in his throne and bit the end of one finger. One knee jerked up and down in agitation. “I told you she’d find a way in, Pothinus.”
“Impossible, Your Majesty! Every entrance is guarded; every package is examined; every—”
“Obviously not! We left a way open, and she found it. She’s like a snake, nosing its way along a wall until it finds the merest breach to slip through.”
“Actually, she came by sea,” I said. Was I acting rashly, putting the queen and perhaps even Caesar in danger by this revelation? Was I not doing exactly as Pothinus had intended, conveying intelligence back to the king? Perhaps, but the aggravation I was causing them gave me a great deal of pleasure, and I couldn’t stop. “A fellow named Apollodorus rowed her across the harbor. The two of them found an unguarded landing somewhere along the waterfront and made their way to the Roman sector of the palace.”
“As brazenly as that?” Ptolemy slapped the crown on his head, a gesture most unworthy of a god. “She and that stud-horse Sicilian went traipsing through the palace, right up to Caesar’s door?”
Pothinus lowered his voice. “There are ways, as Your Majesty knows, of traversing the palace and its grounds without being seen. Some of those secret passages are very old; there may be some unknown even to me. Once your father, remodeling his private chambers, tore out a wall and came upon a network of tunnels that even he had never suspected—”
“Even so, Pothinus, you assured me that this would not happen!”
“Actually,” I said, unable to resist, “the two of them didn’t traipse anywhere. Apollodorus carried her.”
“What?” Pothinus looked at me, confounded. “Carried her? In his arms?”
“Over his shoulder, mostly.”
The king and his lord chamberlain looked at me as if I must be mad. One of the bodyguards snickered. The man next to him covered the noise by coughing.
“She was rolled up in a rug,” I explained. “Apollodorus carried the rug over his shoulder. He told the Romans he had a gift for Caesar from the queen. I was there when Apollodorus was shown into Caesar’s quarters. The rug was unrolled for Caesar’s inspection. The queen appeared. Shortly thereafter, I took my leave.”
“Who else was in the room?” Pothinus demanded.
I shrugged. “Meto. He left when I did. I’m not sure where Apollodorus went; maybe into one of those secret passages you were talking about.”
The king curled his upper lip. “She’s alone with him?”
“Even as we speak,” I said.
Pothinus sighed. “She’s like a wine stain on white linen. We’ll never get rid of her.”
“Best to burn the linen, then, if the stain won’t come out.” Ptolemy glowered darkly, then drew a shuddering breath and let out a bleating sound. He sniffled, holding back tears. He seemed very much like a boy at that moment, and like a boy who was not simply furious, but also heartbroken. Learning that his sister was alone with Caesar, Ptolemy wept bitter tears. I gazed at him, confounded.
“Cleopatra!” muttered Pothinus. “Relentless. Ruthless. She’s trouble.”
Meto had said the same thing.
CHAPTER XVI
The bodyguards who had shown me to the royal chamber escorted me back to my room. The hour was growing late. The passageways were empty; the palace was quiet. Long before the open doorway of my room came into view, I heard the high-pitched voices of Androcles and Mopsus, breathlessly assailing a visitor with questions.
“Did you kill anyone at Pharsalus?” said Androcles.
“Of course he did! But how many?” said Mopsus. “And did you kill anyone famous?”
“What I want to know,” said Androcles, “is this: Were you there with Caesar when he went crashing into Pompey’s tent and caught a glimpse of the Great One’s backside disappearing out the rear flap? Is it true they were all set up for a banquet, with Greek slave boys strumming lyres and Pompey’s best silver laid out?”
I drew closer, and at last heard their visitor’s voice, even above the sudden pounding of my heart in my chest. “Boys, boys, how I’ve missed you! Though I don’t know how Papa puts up with all your pestering.”
I stopped in the hallway, several steps from the door. “Go!” I whispered to the officer escorting me. “You’ve delivered me to my room, as you were ordered to do. Don’t say a word. Take your men and leave!”
The officer raised an eyebrow, but did as I asked.
I stepped through the open doorway.
Meto leaned against one wall. The boys were gamboling about and gazing up at him until I entered the room, whereupon they collided and almost knocked each other down. Rupa, who had not met Meto before, stood off to himself, near the window; his shy, but good-natured, smile vanished when I looked at him. Merianis stood nearby, holding Alexander the cat in her arms. She saw my expression, put down the cat, and stepped toward the boys, grabbing each by a shoulder to stop their constant motion. The cat disappeared beneath my bed.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
Meto gazed at me for a long moment, his expression at first beseeching and then, when I showed no response, exasperated. “Papa, this is madness! I’d beg for your forgiveness—if I even knew what I’d done to offend you.”
Had he forgotten the things I said to him at Massilia? I hadn’t. Far from it! How many nights had I lain awake while Bethesda tossed and turned beside me, remembering the words that had come tumbling out of me on that occasion? “Words once spoken can never be recalled,” as the poet warns, but in the heat of the moment, I had lost all inhibition and the words had rushed forth, delivering me to a decision I had not foreseen.
Meto! First you became a soldier, and you thrived on it, killing Gauls for the glory of Caesar. Burning villages, enslaving children, leaving widows to starve—it always sickened me, though I never spoke against it. Now you’ve found a new calling, spying for Caesar, destroying others by deceit. It sickens me even more. . . .
What matters most to me? Uncovering the truth! I do it even when there’s no point to it, even when it brings only pain. I do it because I must. But you, Meto? What does truth mean to you? You can’t abide it, any more than
I can abide deceit! We’re complete opposites. No wonder you’ve found your place at the side of a man like Caesar . . .
This is our last conversation, Meto. From this moment, you are not my son. I disown you. I renounce all concern for you. I take back from you my name. If you need a father, let Caesar adopt you!
Until that day, in Alexandria, those had been the very last words I had spoken to him.
“There’s nothing to discuss and no question of forgiveness. It’s quite simple: This is my room, at least for the moment, and you don’t belong here. You shouldn’t have come. I suppose you followed me, or had me followed, since that’s your way of doing things—”
“No!” Merianis spoke up. “I brought him here.”
“You? But how—?”
“Earlier, when I delivered you for your dinner with Caesar, I waited at the checkpoint. A little later, Apollodorus appeared, bearing the gift for Caesar. Meto came. He recognized me from the other day, when the king officially received Caesar on the landing. We spoke, very briefly—”
“But not so briefly that Meto didn’t learn all he needed to know about you. He’s become quite expert at extracting valuable information. It’s one of his duties.” And one of yours as well? I thought, but did not say aloud; for it was clear to me now that Merianis was not merely a priest-ess of Isis, but a spy for the incarnation of Isis, Queen Cleopatra.
Merianis persisted. “Later—after I’d brought you back to this room and the king’s men whisked you away—Meto sent a courier requesting me to return to the checkpoint. I met him there. He asked me to show him here, to your room. Was it wrong to do so? Meto is your son, is he not?”
Ptolemy and Pothinus had known of my estrangement from Meto. Had Merianis not also known of it? Perhaps she was more innocent than I thought—or perhaps not. I suddenly found myself full of suspicion, and I loathed the feeling. It was into just such a morass of doubt and double-dealing that I had found myself immersed in Massilia, and the result had been my breach with both Meto and Caesar. The two of them had followed me to Alexandria, bringing their poisonous treachery to a city already riven by deceit. I felt like a man struggling in quicksand, unable to find a foothold. I wanted only to be left alone.
“Go, Merianis.”
“Gordianus-called-Finder, if by bringing your son here I have offended you—”
“Go!”
She frowned and wrinkled her brow, then turned and exited through the open doorway.
“As for you, Meto—”
“Papa, don’t speak rashly! Please, I beg you—”
“Silence!”
He bit his lip and lowered his eyes, but seemed compelled to speak. “Papa, if it means something to you, I’ve begun to share your doubts about Caesar.” He gazed at me for a moment before looking away, as if taken aback at the enormity and the recklessness of the words he had just uttered.
I stared at him until he returned my gaze. “Elaborate.”
He looked sidelong at Rupa.
I nodded. “I see. Your training as a spy has taught you to hold your tongue in front of a stranger. But I won’t ask Rupa to leave the room. Or the boys, either. Anything you have to say to me can be said to them as well.”
“This is difficult enough for me!” Meto glared at Rupa with an emotion that went beyond mere distrust. I had disowned Meto; I had adopted Rupa. Did Meto feel he had been replaced?
I shook my head. “Say what you have to say.”
He drew a deep breath. “Ever since Pharsalus . . . no, even before that. Since the military operations at Dyrrachium . . . or was it when Caesar was last in Rome, using his powers as dictator to settle the problems that had cropped up in his absence? No, even earlier; I think it must have begun when I was reunited with him at Massilia—when you disowned me there in the town square, even as Caesar was basking in the triumph of the city’s surrender. The things you said to me, the things you said about Caesar—I thought you’d gone mad, Papa. Quite literally, I thought the strains of the siege had driven you to distraction. Afterwards, Caesar said as much. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told me, ‘your father will come to his senses. Give him time.’ But perhaps that was the moment I began to come to my senses.”
He paused, gathering strength to go on. “Was I the one who changed? Or was it Caesar? Don’t misunderstand me; he’s still the greatest man I’ve ever encountered in this world. His intellect, his courage, his insight—he towers above the rest of us like a colossus. And yet . . .”
He fell silent for a long moment, then finally shrugged. “It’s me. I’ve simply lost my stomach for it. I’ve seen too much blood, too much suffering. There’s a dream I have over and over, about a little village in Gaul, a tiny place, utterly insignificant compared to Rome or Alexandria, but not so insignificant that it could be ignored when it raised a challenge to Caesar. We circled the village and took them by surprise. There was a battle, quite short and simple as battles go. We slaughtered every man who dared to take up arms against us. Those who surrendered we put in chains. Then we rousted the women and children and the old people from their homes, and we burned the whole village to the ground. To set an example, you see. The survivors were sold as slaves, probably to other Gauls. That was how it worked in Gaul. Surrender and become a Roman subject; oppose us and become a slave. ‘One must always give them a clear, simple choice,’ Caesar told me. ‘You are with Rome or against Rome; there is no middle ground.’
“But when I dream about that village, it’s the face of one particular child I see, a little boy too young to fight, almost too young to understand what was happening. His father had been killed in the battle; his mother was mad with grief. The little boy didn’t cry at all; he simply watched the house he’d grown up in as it was eaten by flames. To judge from the workshop attached to the house, the boy’s father had been a smith. The boy would probably have grown up to be a smith, too, with a wife and children and a life in the village. But instead, he saw his father die and he was taken from his mother, to become a slave for the rest of his life. Whatever money his new master paid for him went to fund more campaigns against more villages in Gaul, so that more boys like him could be enslaved. In my dream, I see his face, blank and staring, with the light of the flames in his eyes.
“His village wasn’t destroyed out of simple spite, of course. All that was done in Gaul was done for a greater purpose; so Caesar always told me. He has a grand vision. The whole world shall be unified under Rome, and Rome shall be unified under Caesar; but for that to happen, certain things must happen first. Gaul had to be pacified and brought under Rome’s sway; and so it was done. When the Senate of Rome turned against Caesar, the senators had to be run out of Rome, and so it was done. When Pompey roused the opposition against Caesar, the opposition had to be destroyed; and so it was done. Now Caesar must decide what is to be done with Egypt, and who should rule it, and how best to bring it under his sway. And the glory of Caesar burns brighter than ever. I should be pleased, having done my part to bring all this about; but I have that dream, almost every night now. The fire burns, and the boy stares at the flames, numb with shock. In the great scheme of things it doesn’t matter that he was enslaved; Rome shall rule the world, and Caesar shall rule Rome, and to make that happen, that boy’s enslavement was one tiny necessity in a great chain of necessities.
“But sometimes . . . sometimes I wake with a mad thought in my head: What if that boy’s life mattered as much as anyone else’s, even Caesar’s? What if I were offered a choice: to doom that boy to the misery of his fate, or to spare him, and by doing so, to wreck all Caesar’s ambitions? I’m haunted by that thought—which is ridiculous! It’s self-evident that Caesar matters infinitely more than that Gaulish boy; one stands poised to rule the world, and the other is a miserable slave, if he even still lives. Some men are great, others are insignificant, and it behooves those of us who are in-between to ally ourselves with the greatest and to despise the smallest. To even begin to imagine that the Gaulish boy matters as much as Caesar i
s to presume that some mystical quality resides in every man and makes his life equal to that of any other, and surely the lesson life teaches us is quite the opposite! In strength and intellect, men are anything but equal, and the gods lavish their attention on some more than on others. And yet . . .”
Meto bowed his head, and the rush of words came to a stop. I could see that his distress was genuine, and I was astounded at the course of his thoughts.
“Does Caesar ever harbor such doubts?”
Meto laughed bitterly. “Caesar never questions his good fortune. He loves the gods, and the gods love him. Triumph is its own vindication. So long as a man is triumphant, he need never question his methods or his aims. Once upon a time, that philosophy was enough for me, but now . . .” He shook his head. “Caesar forgets that old Greek word hubris.”
It was my turn to laugh. “If Caesar hasn’t provoked the gods’ wrath before now, then surely—”
“But Caesar never presumed to imagine himself a god, before now.”
I looked at him keenly. “What are you saying?”
“Ever since we set sail for Egypt, he’s kept bringing it up, jokingly at first. ‘These Ptolemies don’t merely live like gods,’ he’d say, ‘they are gods; I must see how they put their divinity into practice.’ But it’s not a joke, is it? With Pompey gone, the Senate made irrelevant, and all the legions united under him, Caesar will need to think long and hard about what it means to rule like a king, whether he calls himself one or not. The example of Alexander doesn’t give much guidance; he died too young. It’s the Ptolemies who provide the model for a long and successful dynasty, even if their glory has lately dwindled to the two decadent specimens currently vying to run the country.”
“You don’t think much of King Ptolemy and his sister?”
“You saw that display by the queen tonight! She and her brother both seem to have the same idea: seduce the man to make an ally of the general.”
I frowned. “Are you suggesting that young Ptolemy—” “Is completely smitten by Caesar. It’s rather pathetic, actually. You should see the fawning way he behaves when the two of them are together—the way he looks at Caesar, the hero worship in his eyes!”
The Judgment of Caesar: A Novel of Ancient Rome Page 17
