The Judgment of Caesar: A Novel of Ancient Rome

by Steven Saylor

  “I shall take that possibility into account, Consul.”

  CHAPTER XXII

  I had to stoop to enter through the low doorway. The jailer, one of Caesar’s men, shut the door behind me. Meto, sitting on a low cot, sprang to his feet.

  He was being held in a small room underground. The walls were dank, and the only light came from a tiny, grated window high above our heads, from which I heard faint, echoing sounds of the harbor—bells, gulls, men calling out, the low murmur of the water.

  “Papa! What are you doing here? Caesar can’t think that you had anything to do with—”

  “I’m not here as a prisoner, Meto. Caesar agreed to let me visit you.”

  “You looked in your trunk?”

  “Yes. The vial wasn’t there. I don’t know when it was taken. Caesar has it now. He wants to know how it came to be on your person.”

  “But I never possessed it! The only time I ever saw it was that day in your room, when I told you to get rid of it.”

  “If only I had!”

  Meto shook his head. “This is madness. Why is Caesar holding me here? He can’t possibly believe I tried to poison him.”

  I remembered the darkness in Caesar’s eyes. “I’m afraid he does believe it, though it causes him great pain. But if we can prove otherwise—”

  Meto was staring at the dank stone wall, not listening. “How the gods must despise me! First, you disowned me, Papa. I thought that nothing could be worse than that. But now Caesar turns against me. All that I’ve loved and trusted and given my life for has abandoned me. Why did I ever allow myself to expect anything more? I began this life as an orphan and a slave. I shall leave this world in an even lowlier state, branded as a traitor and a criminal, without a father, without a friend, without a name.”

  “No, Meto! Whatever else may happen, you’re still my son.”

  He looked at me with tears in his eyes. “In Massilia—”

  “I repent of the error I made in Massilia! You’re my son, Meto. I’m your father. Forgive me.”

  “Papa!”

  I embraced my son. For the first time since Massilia, a place in my heart that had grown numb and cold quickened and sprang to life. I felt an almost palpable relief, as if a jagged stone that had been lodged in my breast was now removed. I had learned to ignore the pain in order to bear it, but now that it was relieved, I realized the grinding, wearing burden of the suffering I had inflicted on myself. I embraced the warm solidity of Meto’s body and rejoiced that he was still in the world, alive and whole. But for how much longer? In Egypt, I had lost Bethesda, only to find Meto again; had I now reclaimed Meto only to face losing him forever?

  He stepped back. We both took deep breaths and for a moment lowered our eyes, made shy by the emotion of the moment. I cleared my throat.

  “I can’t stay long. We need to talk, and quickly. And remember, say nothing that can’t be safely overheard. These walls appear to be solid stone, but there may be someone watching and listening even now.”

  “There’s nothing I can’t say aloud, Papa. I have nothing to hide.”

  “Even so . . .” I thought of the sentiments he had expressed to me in my room the day he saw the alabaster vial, his doubts about Caesar and the suffering that followed in Caesar’s wake; if another of Caesar’s men had overheard that conversation, might Meto’s words have been construed as sedition? Now that he stood accused of outright treason, anything he said against Caesar would be scrutinized in the worst possible light, so I dared not question him further in such a vein.

  For the first time I allowed myself to consider the possibility that Meto might actually be guilty of making an attempt on Caesar’s life. It made no sense, unless his resentment against Caesar went far deeper than anything he had expressed to me. But might it be that the poison had been intended for Cleopatra, so as to remove her influence upon Caesar, and that the attempt had somehow gone terribly wrong? I gazed at Meto’s face, trying to read the truth in his eyes. Was my son a poisoner, and a bungler as well? In the corner of my heart that had once renounced him, a seed of doubt was stirring.

  “Apollodorus found the vial on your person, Meto. How could such a thing have happened?”

  “I have no idea, Papa.”

  “It will take a better answer than that to satisfy Caesar.”

  “Caesar should be satisfied that I speak the truth! After all we’ve been through together, it’s absurd that he shouldn’t trust me.”

  “Perhaps. But think, Meto. Did Apollodorus simply hold up the vial and claim he’d found it on you? Or was it actually on your person?”

  He wrinkled his brow. “I remember that he tugged at it, and when I looked down, I saw it with my own eyes, held between two straps attached to my breastplate. I couldn’t believe it! It can’t have been there when I put on my armor this morning.”

  “Could someone besides Apollodorus have planted it on you, earlier in the day?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t see how. But if such a thing could be done without my knowledge, then who knows when it was done or by whom?”

  I nodded. “That amphora of Falernian—where did it come from?”

  “It was kept in storage on one of Caesar’s ships in the harbor, along with his other personal belongings. This morning, quite early, he sent me to fetch it.”

  “Did anyone know in advance that he planned to drink from it today?”

  “I don’t think Caesar himself knew. He decided on a whim. He wanted to impress the queen.”

  “When you fetched this amphora, did you have any reason to believe it had been tampered with?”

  “I don’t think it had been touched since it was loaded into the ship. In fact, I had a hard time finding it; it was buried in a corner of the hold, behind a number of other items that were seized from Pompey’s tent at Pharsalus—folding chairs, lamps, rugs, coverlets, and such. There was no sign that any of the cargo had been disturbed. And when I did find it, I dusted it off, made sure it was the Falernian Caesar had requested, and inspected the seal to see if it was intact; I checked that quite carefully. After that, the amphora was in my possession and never out of my sight. So, if you’re wondering if someone knew in advance that Caesar would want to open that amphora today, and if that person somehow put poison in it before it was opened, you can dismiss such a notion. No one could conceivably have done such a thing . . . except perhaps myself.”

  “Meto! These walls may have ears. Don’t say such a thing, even in jest.”

  “Why not? If a case is to be made against me, we might as well work out what my accusers will say. And it’s true: The person who had the best, perhaps the only, opportunity to poison the amphora beforehand was me. But I didn’t. No one did. The seal was intact.”

  “Seals can be tampered with.”

  He shook his head. “I understand that you want to consider all possibilities, Papa. But the chain of logic leads directly to the alabaster vial. The vial was there, it was empty, and we know it contained poison.” He frowned. “What we don’t know is when and how it was poured into the wine, and whether it was poured into the opened amphora, poisoning all the Falernian, or only into the cup that Cleopatra offered to Caesar and then compelled Zoë to taste. Either way, I don’t see how it was done without any of us noticing. I broke the seal and opened the amphora myself; I poured the wine into the cup. I can’t imagine how the poison could have been added to the amphora; unless, of course, I did it myself.”

  “Meto!”

  “Sorry, Papa. But I did have the opportunity, and I don’t see how anyone else could have done it without my knowledge.”

  “Then perhaps only the cup was poisoned. But when? Think back; let’s see if we both remember the sequence of events in the same order. The queen told Merianis to fetch the golden cups. Merianis brought them. The queen showed one of them to Caesar, then held it while you filled it from the amphora. She then presented the cup to Caesar, but before he could drink, she called for the taster. Zoë came. The quee
n handed the golden cup to Merianis; Merianis poured a bit of the wine from the golden cup into the clay vessel that Zoë had brought with her; Zoë drank from the clay vessel, and quickly succumbed to the poison. Is that how you remember it, Meto?”

  He nodded.

  I frowned. “But what happened to the wine that remained in the golden cup?”

  Meto thought. “Merianis was still holding the cup when Cleopatra went to Zoë. But then Cleopatra called for Merianis, and Merianis put the cup down and ran to her mistress. They talked for a while, too low for the rest of us to hear; then Merianis went to fetch Apollodorus.”

  “So Merianis put down the cup; but then what became of it?”

  Meto shook his head. “It must have been gotten rid of at some point, to be sure no one drank from it. Yes, I remember now! It was after you left the island, Papa, with those men to escort you back to your room. The rest of us remained on the terrace. More men arrived shortly, the ones who brought me to this cell; but before that happened, the queen told Apollodorus to pour the wine from the cup back into the amphora—”

  “Numa’s balls! Now the whole amphora has been poisoned, whether it was poisoned before or not! The amphora should have been left untouched.”

  “Does it really matter, Papa?”

  “Think, Meto! If only the wine in the golden cup was poisoned, and not the wine in the amphora, then we could prove that you didn’t poison the amphora and that the poison must have been added to the cup at some later point—a cup that was never in your possession! But now we have no way of knowing if the amphora was previously poisoned or not, since it’s surely poisoned now. This was done at the queen’s behest?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Caesar did nothing to stop it?”

  “Caesar was busy questioning me at that moment. Neither of us took much notice of what was being done with the cup. But now that you ask me, I remember hearing Cleopatra say something about the cup being polluted, and that no one could ever drink from it again, and I remember seeing Apollodorus empty the cup into the amphora, out of the corner of my eye, so to speak.”

  “Was the amphora saved?”

  He wrinkled his brow. “I suppose so. Yes, I remember seeing Apollodorus replace the cork stopper, after he emptied the cup, and at the same time I was led off, I think one of Caesar’s men must have carried off the amphora; so I assume it’s in Caesar’s keeping. But as you say, we know already that it contains poison, if only because the wine in the cup was poured into it.”

  “You’re right; I can’t see how the amphora will be of any use to us. I can’t see how any of this helps us.” Especially, I thought, since all the circumstantial evidence points directly to your guilt, my son! “Still, it’s unthinkable that a man of Caesar’s experience and judgment should have stood by and allowed a vital piece of evidence, like the amphora, to become hopelessly tainted.”

  “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, Papa, but Caesar doesn’t do his best thinking when he’s in the presence of the queen.”

  “Meto! Keep such thoughts to yourself.”

  “Does it really matter what I say, Papa, or think, or do? This will be the end of me. I didn’t try to poison Caesar, but I shall nevertheless be punished for the crime. Perhaps it’s fitting. I stood by and did nothing when that Gaulish boy who haunts my dreams was orphaned and made a slave. No, that’s not true—I joined in the slaughter with my sword, and with my stylus I celebrated that slaughter by helping Caesar write his memoirs. Now I shall die for something I never did. Can you hear the gods laughing, Papa? I think the deities who hold sway over Egypt must be just as capricious and cunning as our own gods.”

  “No, Meto! You will not be punished for a crime you didn’t commit.”

  “If it amuses the gods, if it pleases Caesar, and satisfies Queen Cleopatra—”

  “No! I shall find the truth, Meto, and the truth shall save you.”

  He laughed without mirth and wiped a tear from his eye. “Ah, Papa, I have missed you!”

  “And I have missed you, Meto.”

  CHAPTER XXIII

  “You understand that I allow this only because Caesar requests it.” The queen sat upon her throne in the reception room on the island of Antirrhodus, looking down her nose at me. When I had visited her earlier that day, accompanied by Merianis, I had been admitted informally into her presence; the atmosphere of this second visit was very different. The marble floor was hard against my knees, and I felt a distinct chill in the room, even though the afternoon sun shone brightly outside. “Apollodorus and Merianis are my subjects. You have no right to interrogate them.”

  “The word interrogation implies hostile intent, Your Majesty. I ask only to speak to them. I wish only to establish the truth—”

  “The truth is self-evident, Gordianus-called-Finder. For reasons known only to himself, your son sought to poison someone earlier today—perhaps Caesar, perhaps me, perhaps both of us. If you want the truth, interrogate him.”

  “I’ve questioned Meto already, Your Majesty. But only by questioning all who were present can I establish the exact sequence of events—”

  “Enough! I’ve told you already that I shall allow this, but only because Caesar himself has asked me to indulge you. Whom would you speak to first?”

  “Merianis, I think.”

  “Very well. Go to the terrace outside. You’ll find her there.”

  Merianis was leaning against the low railing, gazing at the skyline of the city across the water. She turned at my approach. Gone was the cheerful expression I had come to take for granted. Her face was troubled. “Is it true what they say?”

  “What do you mean, Merianis?”

  “The army under Achillas is on its way to the city. It could arrive in a matter of hours.”

  “So Caesar tells me.”

  “Things are coming to a head, then. There’ll be no more of this dancing about. Caesar will have to choose between them. Then we shall see a great deal of dying.”

  “Caesar’s choice would be to see the king and queen reconciled, without bloodshed. He still seems to believe that’s possible.”

  She looked at me for a long moment, then lowered her eyes. “This isn’t what you’ve come to talk about.”

  “No. I want to understand what happened this morning.”

  “You were there. You saw. You heard.”

  “You were there, as well, Merianis. What did you see? What did you hear?”

  She turned her gaze back to the city. “I’m sorry about your son, Gordianus.”

  “Why be sorry for him, if you believe he tried to poison the queen?”

  “I’m sorry for your sake, Gordianus. I’m sorry that Egypt has brought you such tribulations.”

  I tried to look her in the eye, but she kept her face turned from me. “When the queen decided that the wine should be tasted, she sent you to fetch Zoë. Where did you find her?”

  “In her room, adjacent to the queen’s private quarters.”

  “Not in the kitchens?”

  “Of course not! A taster is never allowed anywhere near the kitchens. A taster must never eat anything that can’t be accounted for. Zoë was alone in her room. Like myself, she was attached to the temple of Isis.”

  “Not a priestess?”

  “No, a temple slave. Her life was consecrated to the goddess. Her duty to taste the queen’s food was a sacred duty. The rest of her time was spent in contemplation of the goddess.”

  “The clay vessel Zoë brought with her—where did that come from?”

  “It was her private drinking cup, to be touched by no one else. Any liquid Zoë tasted for the queen would first be poured into that cup.”

  “So the keeping of the cup was one of Zoë’s duties?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you never touched it?”

  Merianis at last looked me in the eye. “Why do you ask such a question?”

  “Why do you not answer?”

  “You told the queen this was not an interrogation.�
�

  “How do you know that? Were you there, concealed behind a curtain, when I was on my knees in the queen’s reception room?”

  She stared across the water and made no answer.

  “You were! And then you hurried here, so as to be waiting for me.” I shook my head at such a petty deceit. “Is that a tear on your cheek?”

  Merianis wiped it away.

  “Is it Zoë you cry for?”

  “No. Her death was a holy death. She earned the gratitude of Isis and the gift of eternal life. I envy her.”

  “Do you, Merianis?

  I think perhaps you’ve done as much, if not more, for the queen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re very loyal to her. Is there nothing you would refuse to do for her?”

  “I would die for the queen!”

  But would you kill for her? I thought. Or help to send an innocent man—my son—to his death? “When Zoë was dying in the queen’s arms, Cleopatra called you to her side. You spoke in whispers. What was said?”

  “You go too far, Gordianus! You have no business to inquire about words spoken privately between the queen and myself.”

  “She was telling you something, or asking something of you. I saw the way you looked at Meto. Then you went to fetch Apollodorus. What did the queen say to you, Merianis?”

  “To repeat words spoken in confidence by the queen would be to commit sacrilege. Even your great Caesar can’t compel me to do that!”

  “Caesar isn’t asking you. I am.”

  Merianis shook her head. “If I could save your son, Gordianus—” “Then something was said, something you can’t reveal—something that might save Meto.”

  Merianis sighed, then drew back her shoulders and turned to face me. If some struggle had taken place within her, it was over now. Her expression was serene and opaque, as unreadable as that of the Sphinx. “The ways of the gods are sometimes obscure to us mortals, Gordianus, but the righteous submit to their will and learn not to question. Don’t ask me again what the queen said to me in that moment.”