“Please, Merianis—”
“I understand that you wish to speak to Apollodorus as well. Follow me.”
She led me across the terrace and down a series of steps to a shaded spot near the water. Apollodorus was sitting on a stone bench, leaning against the trunk of a palm tree and whittling a small piece of drift-wood. He looked up at me sullenly and flicked his wrist. The knife looked very sharp.
I turned to say farewell to Merianis, but she had already vanished.
I looked at the piece of driftwood. It was small enough to fit comfortably in the palm of his hand. The sea had worn it into a curious shape suggestive of a lion’s head. With his knife, Apollodorus was enhancing the semblance.
“You’re a very clever fellow,” I said.
He grunted.
“Should we speak Greek?”
“I speak Latin perfectly well,” he said, looking up at me darkly.
His accent was atrocious, but I made no comment. “You come from Sicily, I understand.”
“Born there. Egypt suits me better.”
“How did you come to join the queen’s household?”
He shrugged. “Long story. We’ve been through a lot, the queen and I.”
“She certainly puts great trust in you. I have to say, your relationship strikes me as . . . rather ambiguous.”
He bridled. “What does that mean?”
“You’re not like Zoë, a slave. Nor are you like Merianis; you don’t have—how to put it?—the demeanor of a priest. You’re not a military man, like Cratipus; and you’re not a court eunuch.”
“I certainly am not!” To prove it, he produced a discreet movement that drew my attention to his loincloth, which was draped over his person in such a way as to demonstrate convincingly the difference between himself and a eunuch.
“I’ll be candid, Apollodorus. Once, when I was in his presence, the king suggested that your relationship to his sister is not entirely proper.”
“Did he? I understand people say the same thing about your son and Caesar.” He flashed a nasty grin and whittled another slice from the driftwood.
“She certainly indulges you.”
“How so?”
“Here you sit, idling away the afternoon, with no apparent duties—”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about! When the queen needs me, I’m always there; have been since she was a girl. Good times or bad—and let me tell you, the last year or so has been about as bad as it gets. There were days out there in the desert, with Ptolemy’s army on our heels, when even the most stouthearted were ready to give up hope. But never me! I set an example for the others, and if any man needed a kick in the behind, I gave it to him. No, I’m not a priest; but I know what I believe in.”
“You believe in the queen?”
“Why not? A man’s got to believe in something. The queen’s twice as brave as any man I’ve ever met and three times as smart. She’s got the spark, if you know what I mean. So far, I’ve come across nothing better in this world, and that includes your precious Caesar.”
“And King Ptolemy?”
Apollodorus spat on the ground. “He’s as useless as that eunuch who leads him around by the balls. What about you? Isn’t there something you believe in?”
“I believe my son never put poison in Caesar’s cup.”
Apollodorus stiffened. He looked at the driftwood in his hand, then tossed it to me. I made an awkward catch to the cackle of his laughter.
“What do you think?” he said.
I turned it about in my hand. He had given the lion a fierce demeanor, with a roaring mouth and exaggerated fangs.
“Been making such things since I was a boy in Syracuse. Used to scrape a living by selling them as souvenirs to wealthy Romans who came to check on their Sicilian estates. And now I look after the queen of Egypt. Imagine that!”
“You’re a clever fellow; nimble with your fingers. Did you also learn to do conjuring tricks when you were a boy in Syracuse?”
“What do you mean?”
“Those boys on the waterfront in Syracuse who accost visitors to sell them trinkets—sometimes their nimble fingers go where they shouldn’t. A Sicilian urchin stole my coin purse once, and right after I’d been paid handsomely for a bit of work. That purse was heavy, bulky—yet he lifted it so skillfully, I never felt a thing.”
Apollodorus shrugged. “There’s a trick to it.”
I nodded. “And a trick to doing the opposite, as well?”
“What do you mean?”
“Nimble fingers can snatch a purse without the owner feeling a thing. Nimble fingers can plant such a thing upon a man as well—and the victim is never the wiser.”
Apollodorus stood and shook the mane of hair from his face. He stepped closer, looming over me, until I felt his breath on my forehead. The smell was sweet, as if he had been chewing cloves.
“I think I’ve had enough of your questions.”
“Come, now. Did the queen not tell you to be candid with me, at Caesar’s behest?”
“I’ll walk you up the steps. Find Caesar’s men and tell them to row you back.”
“I thought you might do that.”
“I’ll see you drown, first.” He bumped against me, hard enough to make me trip on the first step. As I ascended, I felt his warm breath on the back of my neck.
He escorted me as far as the terrace, then headed back.
“Apollodorus!” I said.
“Yes?” Some paces from me, he turned back, scowling.
“I’m not offended that you should display the fullness of your loincloth to me in such a brazen fashion, but I’m not especially impressed, either. It’s a pity you feel compelled to augment that which nature gave you.”
“What are you babbling about?” He beetled his brow and looked down between his legs, where his scanty loincloth sagged and bulged in an impossibly exaggerated fashion. “What in Hades? I never—”
He reached into the pouch and drew out the carved lion’s head, then glared at me darkly, baring his teeth.
I flourished my fingers. “Over the years, I’ve picked up a few conjurer’s tricks myself. If I could place that object in such an intimate location, without your awareness, then I think it entirely possible that the alabaster vial was planted upon Meto’s person by someone who was here on this terrace, in plain sight of everyone present and without Meto’s knowledge. The only question is: Was that conjurer you, Apollodorus? Or was it someone else? And what was that person playing at?”
Apollodorus raised his arm. I ducked and heard the lion’s head whistle past one ear. The trajectory carried it well beyond the terrace. It landed in the water with a splash.
“ ‘From driftwood it came, to driftwood it returns,’ ” I said. The line was from Euripides, as I recalled. I watched the little lion’s head bob on the water, and felt a sudden thrill of intuition, as if I had arrived, unexpectedly and without preparation, on the cusp of a great revelation. What association did that bobbing piece of driftwood recall to my mind, and why was it significant? Like a will-o-the-wisp, some insight hovered, tantalizingly near but out of reach. If only I could grasp it, I felt certain I would understand everything to do with the poisoning of the cup that morning. I almost had it—and then the insight receded, just as the bobbing driftwood was suddenly lost to sight amid the waves.
I looked over my shoulder, and saw that Apollodorus had disappeared.
CHAPTER XXIV
The army headed by Achillas arrived at the city that night. The people of Alexandria opened their gates to the soldiers with mixed emotions. Many thought that the Roman intruders, now greatly outnumbered, would surely be expelled. But at what cost, and with what result? A city is the very worst arena in which to wage a battle. Close quarters thwart strategy; every engagement is reduced to the level of a street fight. Fire and destruction would threaten the people and their city; no one wanted to see Alexandria in flames. And if, after much bloodshed and devastation, Caesar and his men co
uld be annihilated or driven out, what would the Egyptians have gained? They might simply find themselves back where they began, with their country still split between the royal siblings, and the siblings at one another’s throats.
Having withdrawn into a defensible portion of the royal precinct, with King Ptolemy and his retinue essentially being held captive, Caesar’s forces now ceded the task of maintaining order in the city to Achillas and his motley army. From all indications, rioting and looting continued in many parts of Alexandria. Achillas’s attention was split between preparing to lay siege to Caesar’s forces and establishing control of the populace. As for the unruly Alexandrian mob, some eagerly welcomed Achillas’s troops and even took up arms with them, while others, loyal to Cleopatra, viewed them as an occupying army hardly preferable to that of Caesar and openly defied their authority at every opportunity.
Violently wrenched between all these conflicting powers, volatile even at the best of times, Alexandria seemed poised to fall into utter chaos.
What did the crisis mean for Meto? It seemed, for the time being, at least, that Caesar was distracted from exercising judgment on my son—a good thing, for as yet I had no idea of how to prove Meto’s innocence.
With the new impetus of a threatening army, events moved swiftly. To the surprise and relief of many in the palace, Caesar announced that a fresh accord had been reached between the king and queen. A banquet to celebrate the event would be held in the great reception hall. I was called upon to attend.
The room resounded with the music of pipes, horns, drums, and rattles. No doubt it was one of the Piper’s tunes that the little orchestra was playing when the guards showed me to my place in a corner quite distant from the dining couches gathered upon the dais, where Caesar sat flanked by the queen on one side and the king on the other. Near to Ptolemy sat Pothinus. Next to Cleopatra was Merianis, with Apollodorus standing watchfully not far off.
There were guards posted all around the perimeter of the room; all the guards were Roman. By mutual consent, both the king’s guards and the queen’s had been banished. Caesar alone would provide for their protection; Caesar, in a sense, held them both captive. The queen and king had both placed their trust in him, at least for the time being, and the fate of all three hung together.
Girls strolled from couch to couch, pouring wine for the guests. Boys traversed the room with silver platters, offering delicacies. A singer joined the musicians and recited a long ballad in Greek about a band of explorers who sailed up the Nile in search of the river’s origin, encountering many wonders along the way.
All around me, people engaged in conversations, leaning forward on couches pulled into circles or reclining with their couches pulled close together, head-to-head, but no one spoke to me. The Egyptians saw my Roman toga and regarded me with suspicion; the Roman officers, knowing who I was, shunned me for fear of picking up Meto’s bad fortune. Sitting alone, I pricked up my ears and listened to what others were saying to one another.
“He’s obviously scared half out of his wits,” said one Egyptian courtier to another. Both appeared quite young, though age is sometimes hard to judge with eunuchs. “Do you recall how cocky he was when he first arrived, all bloated with pride over his victory at Pharsalus, thinking he could remake Egypt with a wave of his hand? Then he saw Pompey’s head in a basket, and he’s been struggling to keep his own head above water ever since. Now Achillas has arrived, and Caesar knows the game is over. He just hopes to get out of Alexandria alive!”
A Roman officer, overhearing them, interrupted. “You know, you couldn’t be more mistaken.”
“How’s that?” asked the courtier, curling his lip.
“About Caesar. This banquet is just another demonstration of his total mastery of the situation. Think of it as a wedding celebration. Egypt is Rome’s new bride, to be put in her place with a sound thrashing if she’s naughty, or, if she’s sweet and obedient, with a sound—”
“You vile Roman!” snapped the eunuch. The unpleasantness of the encounter seemed about to escalate.
The officer scowled. “You’re pretty when you’re angry. Maybe you’re the one in need of a good, sound—”
Both of the eunuchs shrieked with laughter. The Roman threw back his head and joined them. I realized they knew one another already, and were on friendly terms, at the very least. Thus had the confined, uncertain life in the palace bred unexpected relationships among the Romans and Egyptians.
On the dais, a serving girl had arrived with a fresh pitcher of wine. A protocol had been established whereby the queen would be served first, then the king, then Caesar; but ahead of them all, of course, a cup was poured for a taster, selected and approved, I assumed, by all three of them. The taster was a pretty young girl not unlike the late Zoë, perhaps another consecrated temple slave of Isis. She was situated on a couch in front of the dais and to one side, discreetly out of the way but close at hand and with nothing to impede the line of vision between the royal couple and herself, so that any plate or pitcher from which she safely partook could be taken at once to the king and queen without leaving their sight.
The serving slave poured a splash of wine from the pitcher into the taster’s clay vessel; the taster raised the cup to her lips and swallowed.
A vision passed before my eyes. My own cup trembled in my hands. “So that’s how it was done!” I whispered.
I looked from the taster to Merianis and felt a pain in my heart, compounded of anger and remorse. I would have to share my sudden revelation with Caesar at once. To do so would mean the end of Merianis, and perhaps the end of Cleopatra. What had they intended? Which of them was more culpable? Was it possible that Merianis had acted without her queen’s knowledge? It would be up to Caesar to determine the answers to those questions; but whatever he might discover by torture and interrogation, and whatever excuses the guilty might offer, surely even Caesar’s much-celebrated clemency could not extend to forgiving the deception that had been perpetrated that day on Antirrhodus. It would not be Meto who fell to harsh Roman justice; I now knew a way to prove his innocence.
I stood unsteadily, my legs trembling. I braced myself and strode across the crowded room, directly toward the dais. Cleopatra was the first to notice my approach. She gave me a withering look that made it clear she thought I had no business being in the room at all. Merianis, sensing her queen’s displeasure, followed her gaze and drew a sharp breath when she saw me, then lowered her eyes; did she realize what was about to happen? When Ptolemy saw me he flashed a quizzical smile; had he heard about the poisoning on Antirrhodus and Meto’s imprisonment, or had Caesar managed to keep that intelligence from him? That question was answered when I looked at Pothinus, whose cool, appraising glance told me that he was entirely aware of my situation.
At last Caesar noticed my approach. He had been smiling at some quip from Ptolemy, but his smile vanished at once. In the mirror of his face, I saw how terrible my countenance must appear. I was the messenger in the play who arrives bearing news that will shatter all expectations. Guards abruptly converged from either side to check my approach. Caesar raised his hands to order them back.
I stopped at the foot of the dais and looked up at him. A hush had fallen on the room as others noticed my approach and the reactions of those on the dais.
“Do you have something to say to me, Gordianus?”
“Yes, Consul. But not here. If I could speak to you in private . . .” I cast a glance at the queen and Merianis.
“Can this not wait, Gordianus?”
“If I can tell him who poisoned the wine on Antirrhodus, would the consul have me wait?” I lowered my voice as much as I could, but it was impossible to keep those on either side from overhearing. I felt the eyes of the king and queen upon us, and Caesar must have felt them as well.
“Step closer, Gordianus.”
I stepped onto the dais. “If we could speak in private—”
He shook his head. “The purpose for this festive occasion takes
precedence over all else, Gordianus, including any news you may have for me. I’m on the verge of announcing a glorious peace in Egypt. I will not interrupt the banquet, not even for this. Step closer and whisper into my ear, if you wish.”
I dropped to one knee before him. He leaned forward and inclined his head.
“Meto is innocent, Consul. I can prove it, here and now, if you’ll allow it.”
“How?”
“Bring the amphora of Falernian that Meto brought to Antirrhodus. Have it tasted—”
“And kill another pretty temple slave?”
“The taster will not die, because the amphora was never poisoned. I’ll drink from it myself, if you wish.”
He drew back, just enough to look me in the eye. “What are you saying, Gordianus?”
“The wine in the amphora was never poisoned.”
He thought for a moment. “But at the queen’s behest, the wine from the golden cup was poured back into the amphora—”
“Nor was there ever poison in the golden cup the queen presented to Caesar.”
Caesar frowned. “And yet, the temple slave Zoë most certainly died.” “Because her cup was poisoned—the clay cup from which she and she alone ever drank, and that later was broken when she fell. That cup and only that cup was poisoned! Do you remember? When Merianis fetched her, Zoë brought her own cup with her—”
“And Merianis proceeded to fill that cup with wine from the golden cup.”
“But the wine itself was untainted. The poison was already in Zoë’s cup, put there without Zoë’s knowledge.”
“Put there by whom?”
“Perhaps by the person who fetched her,” I said, though it was hard to imagine that Merianis was capable of such cold-blooded treachery.
“But the alabaster vial was later found upon Meto.”
“The vial was planted upon Meto by Apollodorus. And who went to fetch Apollodorus?” I kept my eyes lowered, but Caesar looked past me, toward Merianis.
“You’re saying both were involved—Merianis and Apollodorus?”
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