The Judgment of Caesar

by Steven Saylor

  “But why? What was their purpose?”

  “Of that I’m not sure, Consul. But consider: Meto distrusted the queen; Meto despaired of the queen’s . . . influence . . . upon you. The queen—those near the queen, I mean—might wish to see Meto discredited. How better to do that than to make him appear guilty of a crime against the consul?”

  Caesar looked at me gravely. “What you suggest is monstrous, Gordianus. Without naming her, you implicate a certain person in a plot to deceive me. If that should be true, then the purpose of this banquet is negated. I should have to reconsider who should inherit the late king’s throne, and whether that throne should be shared.” He looked toward Ptolemy and sighed. “Considering whose army has occupied Alexandria, it would certainly be easier to simply . . .”

  His voice trailed off. I thought he was lost in thought, until I followed his gaze and saw that someone else was approaching the dais. So I must have appeared, I thought, as I looked upon the face of Samuel, Caesar’s barber. The little man threaded his way between the dining couches, resolute but trembling slightly, anxiously shifting his gaze from face to face, looking as if he had swallowed something very bitter.

  “What now?” muttered Caesar.

  Samuel hurried to the dais. The guards looked to Caesar for instruction and stepped back at his signal.

  “What do you want, Samuel?”

  “Master, I must speak to you at once.” He glanced at Pothinus, who frowned. “In private . . .”

  Caesar looked at me askance. “You appear to have a twin tonight, Gordianus, like the Gemini.” He looked at the barber. “Come, Samuel. Gordianus has one of my ears. You may have the other.”

  The little fellow scrambled onto the dais and rushed to his master’s side. He knelt and pressed a scrap of papyrus into Caesar’s hand. While Caesar read, Samuel whispered in his ear. The barber spoke in a frantic rush, too low for me to hear, and Caesar held the papyrus so that I could not read it, though I caught a glimpse of Greek letters. The news caused the color to drain from Caesar’s cheeks.

  Caesar lowered the parchment. He raised his hand to Samuel, signaling that he had heard enough. “Pothinus,” he said, looking straight ahead. His voice was low and even, but something in his tone chilled my blood.

  “Consul?” Pothinus furrowed his brow.

  “Come here, Pothinus.”

  The eunuch cleared his throat. There was a tremor in his voice. “The lord chamberlain of the king of Egypt is not a servant to be summoned by anyone other than the king, not even the consul of—

  “Pothinus, come here!” Caesar’s voice was like thunder.

  The eunuch stood. Ptolemy looked from Pothinus to Caesar and back. For a brief moment I saw confusion on the king’s face, before he assumed the masklike countenance at which he was so adept.

  Pothinus stepped toward Caesar, slowly and carefully, as one might approach a lion. “What does the consul require?”

  Caesar thrust the papyrus toward him. “Were these words written by your hand, Lord Chamberlain?”

  Pothinus flashed a supercilious grin. “The lord chamberlain is accustomed to dictating documents; the actual writing is done by a scribe—”

  “Unless the words in a letter are too sensitive to be heard by even the most trusted scribe—or overheard by all the spies who lurk in the walls of this palace.”

  Pothinus glared at Samuel, and then at Caesar. “I think the consul is no stranger at playing spymaster himself.”

  Caesar cast a fond glance at Samuel. “Some of my men occasionally make a jest at Samuel’s expense. They call him timorous; they say he jumps at the sight of his own shadow. But that fearful quality makes Samuel very observant. Some make fun of his small stature; but that quality, too, has its virtues, for it helps a man to come and go unobserved, and sometimes even to walk through walls.”

  “Then you admit that this wretch has been spying on me!”

  “Samuel merely looks out for his master’s safety. He needs no instruction from me. But, yes, Samuel has been observing you, Pothinus. He knows your movements. He watched you write this letter, which, at Samuel’s request, some of my men seized from your messenger. The messenger can be tortured to divulge the source of the letter—or you can simply admit that you wrote it, Pothinus.”

  “Lies! The creature has fabricated this elaborate deceit. He’s betrayed you, Consul. He makes you look a fool.”

  “I think not, Pothinus. If a man can’t trust his barber, whom can he trust?” Caesar again thrust the letter before Pothinus. “Take it! Read it aloud.”

  Pothinus took the papyrus. He stared at it and rocked slightly forward and back, as if he were light-headed. He looked desperately at Ptolemy. “Your Majesty!”

  The king glowered at him. “Do as the consul says, Lord Chamberlain.”

  “Read it!” commanded Caesar.

  Pothinus gave a start and obeyed. “ ‘To Achillas, commander of the forces of our rightful king, from Pothinus, Lord Chamberlain, as you may ascertain from the seal on this letter: Greetings.’ There, you see! The seal was broken; the wax is missing. There’s nothing to prove—”

  “Read on, Pothinus,” growled Caesar. “Read on, and do not stop until the letter is finished, or I’ll have my men skewer you from all sides.”

  At a nod from Caesar, one of the guards gave Pothinus a poke in the back with his spear. The eunuch yelped. “Please, Consul! Very well, I’ll read. ‘Though previously I have counseled the king to make a compromise satisfactory to the Roman intruder, if only as a matter of show, I now see that any compromise can lead only to disaster. We must take action, and quickly. I shall do what I can within the palace, but our enemies are well guarded, especially so following an unsuccessful attempt at poison by persons unknown.’ Do you see, Consul! The letter proves I had nothing to do with the recent attempt on your life; I have no idea—”

  “Read on!”

  Pothinus gave another yelp and contorted his back; I could see by a red stain on his robe that the spear had drawn blood. He gasped and continued reading. “ ‘I will do what I can . . . to solve the problem myself. But meanwhile you must be prepared to wage battle against the enemies who now hold the king hostage. On no account must the king’s life be endangered—’ There, Your Majesty, do you see the proof of my loyalty to you? Will you not command this Roman to call off his mastiffs?”

  Ptolemy regarded Pothinus with an inscrutable gaze. “Read on, Lord Chamberlain.”

  Pothinus trembled violently. His voice quavered. “ ‘On no account must the king’s life be endangered. But no matter how regrettable, casualties within the palace may be . . . unavoidable. In the event that the worst should come to pass, I have taken steps to smuggle the king’s sister Arsinoë out of the palace; she should arrive in your keeping just ahead of this letter. Keep her safe, for to maintain our legitimacy with the populace, at least one member of the royal bloodline must survive the coming battle. Do what you must to eliminate the false queen and to expel the foreign intruder.’ Your Majesty, I meant that Caesar himself may kill you, if pressed to desperation by Achillas! I have never been anything less than your most loyal—”

  “Silence!” Caesar stood and snatched the letter from Pothinus’s trembling hands. “This document clearly spells out your intention to murder me and to assassinate the queen. It also exhorts Achillas to attack the palace, with reckless disregard for the safety of King Ptolemy and in contravention of the peaceful accord reached between the king and his sister. That makes you a would-be assassin, a conspirator, and a traitor, Pothinus.”

  The eunuch threw himself at Ptolemy’s feet. “Your Majesty, do you not see what’s happened? Caesar has made you his hostage, and he’s forced this accord upon you, to further his own ambitions. It’s Cleopatra he’s sided with, from the moment he met her. The reason is simple: She can give him a child. When that happens, Caesar will declare himself king of Egypt, with Cleopatra as his queen and the child as their heir, and it will be the end of you, Your Majesty, a
nd the end of your dynasty! Egypt shall be ruled by Romans, and the images of your ancestors will be replaced by images of Caesar.”

  Ptolemy looked down his long nose at the eunuch. “Caesar is my friend.”

  “If you believe that, Your Majesty, then put his friendship to the test. Leave the palace. Join Achillas and your army. Let me accompany you—”

  “The eunuch wishes only to save his own neck,” growled Caesar. Ptolemy abruptly stood, with such force that he knocked Pothinus aside. The eunuch groveled at his feet. “You’ve forgotten your place, Lord Chamberlain—though from this moment you no longer occupy that position, so I shall address you simply as Pothinus. You think I’m still a child, easily bent to your will. You fancy yourself the secret ruler of Egypt, and myself a mere puppet upon the throne.”

  “Your Majesty, where do these notions come from? The Roman has poisoned your mind—”

  “Silence! Do you think my mind so feeble that Caesar can shape it at will? Is your estimation of me that low? Yes, I think it is. ‘Regret-table’—isn’t that the word you used in that letter to describe my death, should Achillas storm the palace and kill me in the process? You shall regret your own death far more, Pothinus.”

  “No, Your Majesty! Please listen—”

  “There is no more to be said, Pothinus! I strip you of your title and your post. I expel you from the privileges of the royal household, now and for all eternity. For your crimes against me, you shall be executed and your body defiled; your flesh shall be fodder for carrion birds. You shall be cursed by the gods; not only your body but your ka shall perish forever, and it shall be as if Pothinus never existed. Thus do traitors meet their end.”

  Pothinus wailed and hid his face.

  Caesar stood and stepped to Ptolemy’s side. “Your Majesty, since you’ve cast off the eunuch, and since he has offended against me as well, conspiring to kill me, I ask a favor of you: Let me pass judgment on him, and see to his punishment.”

  “No!” Pothinus gazed up at the two of them with a woeful expression. “The Roman seeks to take even this prerogative from you, Your Majesty. It’s Caesar who treats you as a child—”

  “Silence, Pothinus!” The king glared down at him, then turned to Caesar. “Because Caesar requests it, and because Caesar is my dearest friend, I make a gift of this criminal to Caesar, who may do as he wishes with the wretch. The Romans boast of their great love of justice, do they not, Caesar? Perhaps you can teach me a lesson on this subject. How will you dispose of Pothinus?”

  Caesar looked down at the cringing eunuch, then turned, briefly, to regard the queen, who had watched the entire episode in silence, wearing an expression as bland as her brother’s at his most inscrutable. As he turned back, for a long moment Caesar’s eyes met mine, and I saw that he had not forgotten what I had told him.

  “Samuel! Go to my quarters. You’ll find an amphora there, clearly marked: ‘Falernian—Open Only in the Presence of Gnaeus Pompey Magnus.’ Bring it to me at once.”

  The barber nodded, jumped to his feet, and rushed off.

  Caesar regarded me, and seeing the expression on my face, he stepped toward me and spoke in a low voice. “You look puzzled, Gordianus.”

  “What game are you playing at, Consul?”

  “Not a game; a test. According to you, the amphora of Falernian was never poisoned, nor was the golden cup; Merianis put poison in the taster’s clay vessel, and Apollodorus planted the empty alabaster vial on your son. If that’s true, the Falernian was untainted, and remains so, for I had it resealed with wax before I let it out of my sight again. Are you certain of this allegation, Gordianus?”

  “It’s the only explanation, Consul.”

  “Unless, of course, Meto poisoned the amphora—in which case the Falernian will kill anyone who drinks it.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not possible, Consul.”

  “We shall see. I had thought that tonight might be a joyous occasion, a chance to celebrate reconciliation and peace. Instead, it seems I’m fated to learn who are my friends, and who are my foes.” He cast a glance at Ptolemy, then at Cleopatra.

  Samuel, breathing hard, arrived with the amphora.

  Caesar inspected the new seal, which bore the impression of his own ring. Satisfied, he nodded to Samuel, who cut the seal away.

  “Pour a cup, Samuel. Here, use mine, since I’m certain no one’s tampered with it.”

  The barber poured a measure of wine into the cup.

  “Stand up, Pothinus!”

  The eunuch rose to his feet, a mingled look of dread and defiance on his face.

  “Consul!” I whispered. “What are you thinking? This isn’t Roman justice. This is pure capriciousness.”

  “The gods are capricious. So must we sometimes be, if we would emulate the gods. It is also a way to determine the truth, Gordianus; and are you not always in favor of that?”

  The queen sat forward, frowning. “What do you intend to do, Caesar?”

  Merianis looked at her lap and nervously pulled at her fingers. Apollodorus stood with his arms crossed and his jaw thrust forward.

  “Yes, Caesar,” said Ptolemy. “Why do you not have the traitor strangled, here and now?”

  “Because I intend to offer Pothinus a choice, which may yet allow him to live. This is a cup of Falernian wine, Pothinus. It comes from the private stores of Pompey. Falernian wine is legendary; it’s the best of all the vintages of Italy. But this amphora may—or may not—contain a deadly poison. Which is it? I should like to know. Rather than test it on a hapless slave, I offer it to you, Pothinus.”

  “You demean me, Roman!”

  “No, Pothinus, I offer you a chance to live—which is far more than you deserve. If the wine is wholesome, and you drink it without ill effect, I shall release you and allow you to join Achillas outside the palace. Gordianus here shall enjoy the second cup, and the rest of us will share a fine Falernian tonight. But if the wine is poisoned . . .”

  “You lie! Whether it’s poisoned or not, you’ll have me killed before I can leave this room.”

  “I’m a man of my word, eunuch! Make up your mind. Take the cup, or not.”

  From the shiftiness of Pothinus’s eyes, I sensed the debate that raged in his mind. So long as he had his wits and a voice to beg, he might yet contrive some way to win Ptolemy’s mercy; but once he drank from the cup, there could be no turning back. I myself felt a sudden tremor of doubt; the logic of my argument to Caesar was compelling, of that I was certain, and yet . . . I recalled the inchoate flash of intuition I had felt when I questioned Apollodorus, somehow tied to the piece of driftwood he had carved into a lion’s head; that moment of insight, fleeting and inconclusive, still had seemed to be absolutely authentic—and yet it had no connection to what was happening now. Was I mistaken about the amphora? I found myself almost wishing that Pothinus would refuse to take it.

  But at last the prospect of freedom held out by Caesar won Pothinus over. He took the cup, gazed for a moment at his reflection in the wine, then drank it in a single draught.

  I looked at those on the dais and saw them all watching with bated breath. I glanced over my shoulder; the guests upon their dining couches looked like silent spectators at a play, intent upon the climax. At the far corner of the room, I glimpsed the two Egyptian courtiers and the Roman who had teased them; the three now sat close together on a single couch, interrupted in their merrymaking and struck dumb by the drama on the dais.

  Pothinus thrust the cup back into Caesar’s hands and stood erect, turning his head this way and that to glare defiantly at those around him. He licked his lips, ground his teeth, and took a deep breath. He shut his eyes tightly for a moment, then opened them again, smiled, and turned to Caesar.

  “There, Roman. Are you satisfied?”

  “You feel nothing?”

  “Only the satisfaction that comes from drinking a truly fine wine. A pity that the Great One himself was never able to taste it! Well? Are you as good as your word, Caesar
? Will you let me go now?”

  Caesar tilted his head back and studied Pothinus for a long moment, then turned his gaze to me. He did not look happy. “So, Gordianus, it seems that you were right. The amphora was not poisoned, only the taster’s cup. The unpleasant occurrence on Antirrhodus was due to the actions of someone I thought I could trust, someone who’s become very close to me.” His eyes moved in the direction of the queen, but before his gaze fell upon her, Pothinus made a noise that drew his attention.

  The sound came from deep in the eunuch’s throat, a grunt that emerged as a stifled gasp. He gave a jerk, as if someone had poked him in a delicate place, and took a step back, putting his hands on his belly. “No!” he whispered. “This isn’t happening!” He grimaced and turned toward the king. “You ungrateful little viper! You and your sister deserve one another, and you both deserve the ruin that Caesar has in store for you!”

  He dropped to his knees, clutching himself and convulsing. “A curse on you, Caesar! May you die as Pompey died, cut to shreds and covered in blood!” He fell onto his side and drew his knees to his chest. Even as he gave a final twitch, the king stepped forward and gave him a hard kick that sent him rolling off the dais. Limp and lifeless, the eunuch’s body fell heavily to the floor.

  I looked at Caesar, who stared at the dead body with eyes wide and unblinking. His face was like wax; the eunuch’s curse had unnerved him. At last he shuddered and shook off the spell. He looked at me and flashed a rueful smile. “So, Gordianus, it seems you’re mistaken. The queen’s companions are innocent. The blame for what happened on Antirrhodus falls on your son, after all.”

  I shook my head. “No, Consul, there must be another explanation—” “Silence! The king has rid himself of a traitor who managed to climb very high in his esteem. I shall follow the king’s example. I shall rid myself of the traitor in my midst. Meto will be executed tomorrow.”

  I staggered back, as stunned as if Caesar had struck me. Light-headed, I looked at Cleopatra. The queen was smiling.