“Not necessarily,” I said. “A gift can be a kind of warning. Fortune is fickle, and Caesar is no more immortal than Pompey was. I think Caesar knows, deep down, that it could just as easily have been his head in a wicker basket down on the landing that day, being lugged about and offered as a trophy. I think the king and his advisers wanted to remind Caesar of that fact, even as they pretended to flatter him by handing over the sad remains of his rival.”
“Caesar is liable to lose his head if he so much as dares to step foot outside the palace,” noted Androcles.
“Yes, the streets are unsafe, even for armed men.” I noted. “Unsafe, perhaps, even for a god.”
“Which supposedly is why you forbid us to go wandering about the city on our own,” said Androcles, sulking. “You always allowed us to go out in Rome, even in the worst of times.”
“That’s not entirely true,” I said. “Besides, you both know Rome like the back of your hands; if there’s a riot in the Forum, you know all the places to duck and hide. But this is your first visit to Alexandria. You know nothing about the city or the people. You don’t even know the language. You’re likely to get lost, or kidnapped by some Bedouin slaver, or get into gods know what kind of trouble, and if that were to happen—”
I very nearly said, If that were to happen, Bethesda would never forgive me. Mopsus saw the shadow that crossed my face and gave his brother a glare as if to say, “Stop your childish sulking; see how you’ve upset the Master!” Rupa, meanwhile, watched the whole exchange in silence and without expression; but I was learning that he missed very little of an emotional nature that occurred around him, and to bring us all out of the moment, he gestured to the scroll in my lap and indicated that I should recommence reading aloud.
I cleared my throat, fiddled with the scroll, and searched for the place where I had left off. “Ah, here it is: ‘Straightaway the horse extended its forefeet to Alexander and licked his hand, recognizing the master that the gods had decreed for him. Whereupon Alexander—’ ”
There was a rap at the door. Merianis had visited us already that morning, and I had no reason to expect her again; and the knock sounded different from hers, louder and more insistent. Alexander the cat sprang from Mopsus’s lap onto the floor.
“Rupa, see who it is.”
Cautiously, he opened the door, then stepped back to admit an armed Egyptian.
The guard was no common soldier, but dressed in the regalia of the royal retinue. The cat ran between the man’s legs and out the door.
The guard gazed about the room, casting suspicious glances at Rupa and the boys, then stepped through the curtain into their room. A moment later he returned and uttered something in Egyptian to another guard in the hallway outside. That guard nodded, then stepped aside to allow Pothinus to enter the room.
The lord chamberlain studied each of us in turn, then walked to the window. Mopsus instinctively ceded his place at the sill. Pothinus gazed at the view for a moment, then turned to me.
“I told them to give you a decent room, but I had no idea you’d been installed in chambers with such a spectacular view of the harbor. I hope you appreciate that, Gordianus-called-Finder. There are visiting diplomats here in the palace who have quarters with views not nearly as impressive.”
“I’m grateful for the king’s largesse.”
Pothinus nodded. “And your meals have been adequate?”
“More than adequate, Lord Chamberlain. Rupa and the boys shall grow fat if they continue to eat all the food made available to them, especially if they do nothing but sit in this room all day.”
“But you must have taken some excursions. There’s so much for a visitor to see in Alexandria: the Pharos lighthouse, the Library, the Museum, with its world-famous faculty of astronomers and mathematicians, the temple of Serapis, the Tomb of Alexander—”
“On the day we went to see the lighthouse, a disturbance closed the Heptastadion. When we went to see the temple of Serapis, a riot broke out on the Canopic Way. When we went to see the Tomb of Alexander, we were told it was closed to ordinary visitors on that day, for security purposes—”
“Yes, yes, I see your point. These are unsettled days in the city.” He shrugged. “All part of the rich fabric of Alexandrian life. I’m sure you recall from the days when you yourself lived here that the Alexandrians are a passionate and highly demonstrative people.”
“They appear to have very strong feelings indeed about Caesar’s presence in the city.”
“There is a certain element of the population who act out of fear and misunderstanding. They believe the rumors that Caesar has come to declare Egypt a Roman province, and that the king intends to allow such a thing. They don’t understand that Caesar is a guest of the king.”
I smiled. “A guest whose room has an even better view than mine?” “Perhaps you’d like to see for yourself,” said Pothinus. “As a matter of fact, that’s why I’ve called on you this morning. Caesar is aware of your presence in the palace. He’s requested me to invite you to dine with him in his chambers this evening.”
I stared at the scroll in my hands. I rolled it into a tight cylinder, and made no response.
“The invitation displeases you?” said Pothinus.
“Who else will be present at this dinner?”
“It’s not a diplomatic function. No Egyptians will be present, only Romans. Beyond that, I know nothing, except that Caesar stressed the informality of the affair. I suppose it may be limited to his inner circle.”
“His inner circle . . .” I repeated, dully.
Pothinus studied me closely. “It was your son who presented the golden belt to the king, wasn’t it? And later, the same young officer collected the head of Pompey on Caesar’s behalf.”
“That young officer is named Meto. At one time he was my son. But no longer.”
“Of course. Shall I relay to Caesar your desire that Meto should not be present if you’re to dine with him?”
“I’m hardly in a position to dictate his choice of dinner companions to Gaius Julius Caesar! Besides, I have no desire to dine with Caesar under any circumstances.”
“That seems rather . . . ungracious of you, Gordianus-called-Finder.”
“Ungracious? How so? Caesar is not my host.”
“Ah, yes, your host is King Ptolemy—and I can assure you that it would be most pleasing to your host if you did accept this invitation.”
I felt a prickling across the back of my neck. From too many similar experiences in recent years, I sensed the drift of Pothinus’s insinuation. When he might have had me killed, King Ptolemy had spared my life. He had done me the tremendous honor of allowing me to enter Alexandria on his royal barge. He had given me accommodations far above my station. In return, he had asked almost nothing of me—until now. Caesar wished to dine with me. The king would be pleased if I would accept that invitation. And what would the king expect afterwards? A report on Caesar’s state of mind, a précis of the conversation, the names and ranks of those present at the dinner and any opinions they might have expressed?
“And if I decline the invitation?”
“Surely, Gordianus-called-Finder, you won’t do that. Here you are, far from home, arriving in Egypt at a time of great uncertainly, even peril, with three young charges depending for their very survival upon your judgment, and by the most amazing happenstance, you find yourself under the protection of the king of Egypt himself! Now Caesar, as another of the king’s guests, has asked a favor of His Majesty—that you should dine with Caesar—and the king, eager to demonstrate his beneficent hospitality, desires that you should do so. Short of some . . . terrible accident . . . or a sudden, grave illness threatening you, or one of your young charges . . . I cannot imagine any reason why you should refuse. Can you, Gordianus-called-Finder?” The eunuch’s bland expression defied me to detect any threat whatsoever in his words.
I shook my head. “No, of course not. I have no reason to deny Caesar the pleasure of my company. What ti
me shall I be ready?”
CHAPTER XIII
It was Merianis who came for me that evening. She stood in the doorway and looked me up and down.
“A very handsome tunic,” she said. “Dark blue suits you, and the yellow border in that sea-horse pattern is very fashionable. But wouldn’t your toga be more suitable?”
I had to laugh. “For a private dinner, in this climate? I think not. Does this mean that you’ll be accompanying me?”
“Only as far as the Roman frontier,” she said, jokingly referring to the Roman-occupied quarters of the palace. “Once I hand you over to the border guards, my job is done.”
“Too bad. A man always feels more confident arriving with a beautiful woman on his arm. But I don’t suppose there’ll be any women present on this occasion.”
“No women have been . . . invited,” she said. She seemed to speak with some double meaning, but I could not imagine what.
“Very well, Merianis, if you approve my appearance, then I suppose I’m ready. Rupa, look after the boys. Stay out of trouble, you two!”
We traversed torch-lit corridors, jasmine-scented gardens, and courtyards adorned with Greek statues and Egyptian obelisks. Merianis put her hand on my arm. “It’s sweet, the way you fuss over them.”
“The boys?”
“And Rupa as well. As if he were your child.”
“Technically, he is my son, by adoption.”
“I see. You took him on as a sort of replacement. . . .” She left the sentence unfinished.
“No. I took him into my care because that was the desire of his late sister, a stipulation of her will. It had nothing at all to do with . . .”
She nodded.
“Will Meto be there, tonight?” I said.
“I think not. Pothinus conveyed your sentiments to Caesar. Nonetheless, with or without Meto, Caesar still wishes to dine with you.”
I sighed heavily. “I suppose I shall get through the evening somehow. One sits, one eats, one forces a modicum of polite conversation; time passes, and eventually the evening is over, and one may leave.”
“Do you dread this meeting with Caesar as much as that? I should love to meet him! There’s no man in the world more famous, or ever likely to be. They say he casts a shadow even over Alexander’s accomplishments. To be allowed to say just a few words to him would be . . .” Unable to find adequate words, she exhibited an exaggerated shiver instead. I looked at her sidelong and wondered how many men in the world, given the choice, would desire to spend an evening with Caesar rather than with Merianis.
“My only hope is that the evening will be relatively uneventful, and that Caesar won’t spring any surprises on me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I shouldn’t worry about surprises coming from that direction.”
“What do you mean?”
She smiled. “Don’t men usually enjoy surprises?”
“That depends.”
“Upon the man?”
“Upon the surprise. Merianis, why do you keep flashing that coy smile?”
“I suppose I’m in a very good mood tonight.”
“And why is that?”
“Ah, but here we are, at the gates of Little Rome.” We had entered a courtyard in what must have been one of the older sections of the palace, for the stonework and statuary were noticeably more worn by time. The doorway through which we had just stepped was flanked by Egyptian guards with spears. Flanking the doorway on the opposite side of the courtyard stood their Roman counterparts.
At our approach, the Roman guards exchanged a glance that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with Merianis. They liked what they saw.
“This is Gordianus-called-Finder,” she said. “Your master is expecting him.”
The senior of the guards snorted. “We’re Romans. We don’t have a ‘master.’ ”
“Your imperator, then.”
The guard glanced at me, then looked Merianis up and down. “But who’s expecting you, my sweet?”
“Don’t be impertinent!” I snapped. “This woman is a priestess in the royal temple of the goddess Isis.”
The guard looked at me warily. “I meant no disrespect.”
“Then stop wasting our time. Were you not told to expect me?”
“We were.”
“Then take me to Caesar at once.”
The guard ceded his place to another stationed inside the door and indicated that I should follow him. I glanced over my shoulder at Merianis, who flashed a last, mysterious smile as I stepped around a corner and lost sight of her.
This part of the palace was only a short walk away from the rooms I occupied, and yet I seemed to have stepped into another world. No longer were there whispering courtiers passing in hallways with the sound of sandaled footsteps and the rustle of long linen gowns, leaving the scents of chrysanthemum oil and rosewater in their wake; or the bustle of royal slaves going to and fro, full of self-importance; or the mysterious sounds of music and laughter coming from inaccessible chambers across moonlit courtyards. Instead, I found myself in the brusque, entirely masculine atmosphere of a Roman military camp. I smelled fish stew, heard peals of crude laughter, and felt rough hands searching for concealed weapons in my tunic as I passed through one checkpoint after another. In one of the larger courtyards, tents had been set up to provide the soldiers with accommodations. Priceless statues of Osiris and Serapis loomed incongruously above legionnaires lounging in their undergarments, sitting cross-legged and tossing sheep-bone dice on the ancient mosaic floor.
Eventually the guard passed me into the keeping of a senior officer, who apologized profusely for any indignities I might have suffered and assured me that his imperator was eager to welcome me with all possible attention to my comfort.
We ascended a very long flight of steps, then turned about and ascended more steps. The officer saw that I was slightly winded, and paused for a bit; then we ascended yet more stairs. At the end of a long, colonnaded corridor, tall bronze doors swung open. The officer showed me inside, then discreetly vanished.
The room was stunning. The floor was of dark green marble striated with veins of deep purple and rust orange. Columns of the same extraordinary marble—I had never seen anything like it—supported a ceiling of massive beams painted gold and inlaid with crisscrossing ebony and ivory tesserae. Here and there, rugs with designs of dizzying complexity were thrown on the floor, surrounded by massive pieces of furniture—tripod tables that appeared to be made of solid silver, and chairs and couches inlaid with precious stones and strewn with plump cushions of some shimmering, iridescent fabric. Illumination came from a dozen or more silver lamps hung by chains from the ceiling; each lamp was fashioned in the shape of four ibises flying in different directions, with the tips of their spread wings touching and points of flame flickering from their open beaks. The light was diffused softly and evenly throughout the room, creating an atmosphere of ease and relaxation that muted the magnificence of the appointments. Starlight and moonlight entered through tall windows that opened to views on all four sides of the room; the windows were framed by curtains of green linen hemmed with silver threads. I walked to the nearest window, which faced south, and looked out on a panorama of tiled roofs, hanging gardens, and obelisks, with Lake Mareotis in the background, its still, black face a mirror full of stars.
“Gordianus! In spite of all my entreaties to that wretched eunuch, I still wasn’t sure you’d come.”
I turned about and saw that Caesar sat in a corner of the room with a coverlet draped over his shoulders, so that only his head was showing. Behind him stood a slave in a green tunic, fussily wielding a comb and a pair of scissors.
“I hope you don’t mind, Gordianus, but I’m not quite done having my hair cut. I’ve been so busy lately that I’ve rather neglected my grooming. Samuel here is the best barber in the known world; a Jew from Antioch. I conquered Gaul, I bested Pompey, but there’s one enemy against whom I find myself powerless: this damned bald spot! It’s in
vincible. Relentless. Merciless. Every month more hairs are lost, the line of battle falls back, and the bald spot claims a wider territory. But if one cannot defeat an enemy, sometimes one can rob him of the trappings of victory, at least. Only Samuel knows the secret of holding this enemy at bay. He cuts and combs my hair just so, and eureka! No one would ever know that my bald spot has grown so large.”
I raised an eyebrow, tempted to disagree; from where I stood, the shiny spot was glaringly visible, but if Caesar believed that combing a few strands of hair over his naked pate created the illusion of a full head of hair, who was I to disabuse him of the notion?
“There, all done!” announced Samuel. The barber was a tiny fellow, and had to stand upon a block of wood to reach Caesar’s head. He stepped off the block, put aside his instruments, pulled the coverlet from Caesar’s shoulders, and gave it a shake. I saw with some relief that Caesar was dressed as informally as I was, in a long saffron-colored tunic loosely belted at the waist. He looked quite slender. Meto had once told me that Caesar could boast that he still had the waistline he had possessed at thirty, while Pompey’s waistline had doubled with age.
“Perhaps you’d care to avail yourself of Samuel’s services?” said Caesar. “You are looking a bit ragged, if you don’t mind my saying so. In addition to cutting hair, Samuel is also quite adept at tweezing unwanted hair from the nostrils or ears, or from any other part of the body that requires depilation.”
“Thank you for the offer, Imperator, but I’ll pass.”
“As you wish. Off with you, then, Samuel. Tell the servers that I shall take dinner presently. On the terrace, I think.” He turned his gaze to me. “No need to address me as a military commander, Gordianus. My mission to Egypt is peaceful. I come as consul of the Roman people.”
I nodded. “Very well, Consul.”
He began to cross the room. I followed, then stopped in my tracks as my gaze fell upon a life-sized, nude statue of Venus that stood in one corner. The statue was breathtaking, so lifelike and full of sensuality that the marble appeared to breath. The flesh of the Venus looked warm, not cold; her lips seemed ready to speak, or to kiss; her eyes stared searchingly into my own. Her countenance seemed at once serene and brimming with passion. In Rome, latter-day copies of such masterpieces are strewn about the gardens of the rich and stuck here and there on public buildings like so many poppy seeds sprinkled on a custard. But a copy is never the same as an original, and this was clearly not a copy; it could only have been fashioned by the hand of one the great Greek masters of the Golden Age.
The Judgment of Caesar Page 14
