Sands of Egypt

by S. J. A. Turney

  But Caesar stood silent, and Sarapas reached the door and turned, waiting. With a last, silent plea at the consul, Ptolemy the Thirteenth turned and joined his countrymen. Fronto waited until the Aegyptians had left under the escort of men of the Thirty Seventh, and then joined the Roman command on the wide balustraded balcony, where they watched. The Aegyptian embassy emerged a short while later. At some unheard command, the king’s full entourage had joined him in the vestibule, and someone had fitted him with his accoutrements of state. The man who had been a frightened teenager in the triclinium left the building a king of Aegyptus, if a worried one.

  Fronto drummed his fingers on the balustrade.

  ‘Have we just made a mistake? I didn’t like his parting message.’

  Caesar sighed. ‘I was under the impression that it was largely your idea, Fronto. But it was our best hope at securing peace now. Better to seize an opportunity proffered than to wait for the coin to flip and see what the Fates have woven for us. My trouble now will be soothing the queen, whose fury will be truly mighty.’

  * * *

  Arsinoë the Fourth, queen of Aegyptus, narrowed her eyes.

  ‘What have you done?’

  General Ganymedes, who had become less and less ingratiating and respectful over the preceding days, barely cast her a sidelong glance. She seethed at such insolence. One more example of this disobedience and she would have the man dealt with. There would be another who could take his place, she was sure.

  ‘Ganymedes, you serve at my pleasure, and the well of that particular resource is fast running dry. What is this commotion. What have you done?’

  The general, finally paying her attention, turned, arms folded resolutely.

  ‘Your army falters, Highness. In the early days, Achillas pressed upon them that the reason they labour is to remove your sister from power, on the basis that she is a conniving and dangerous woman. The Black Land might have a history of such queens, but they never end well, after all. The hatred he encouraged against the queen has had the unfortunate side effect of making the army look at you in much the same way. Officers and men alike wonder why we fight a conniving queen, on behalf of a conniving queen, when a legitimate king languishes in captivity.’

  Arsinoë felt the rage rising within her. How dare he?

  ‘General…’

  ‘No, Princess of Aegyptus, the time for your imperious commands has passed, now. You are no longer a figure to rally behind, but rather an impediment to victory.’

  The princess, eyes wide with ire, gestured to her left, motioning one of her guards beside the door.

  ‘Kill this dog.’

  Nothing happened. Indeed, Ganymedes breathed deeply, arms still folded, and a small smile crept across his face. ‘Oh poor naïve young princess. Do you really think loyalty is so easily maintained? Not a man in this army would stand against me for you.’

  A ripple of fear ran through her then. Her gaze spun to take in her guards, not one of whom had moved in obedience to her command. Her heart chilled.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But yes, Highness. Caesar, clearly a man as naïve as you, has sent us back our king. Even now he passes through the camp to this place to regain his throne. And when he arrives, I will mount him on the prow of my ship as a figurehead for the people and then remove the Romans for good. Our forces are almost here now, a few days’ journey upriver at most. And you? I had even contemplated sending you back to the Romans.’

  Arsinoë shivered and stepped towards the doors, which seemed to open, offering her freedom. It was hardly fitting for a queen to run for her life, but the alternative was unthinkable. She spun, only to realise that no safety was to be found through those doors.

  Her brother, Ptolemy the Thirteenth, strode towards the room, surrounded by eager-looking officers. Soldiers lined the walls outside.

  Her brother had aged in his captivity, and his eyes had a haunted look.

  ‘Majesty, I am overjoyed to welcome you back to the arms of your people.’ Ganymedes bowed from the waist. Arsinoë, close to panic now, backed off against a wall.

  ‘Ganymedes.’ The king looked… tense. Uncertain. With good reason, of course. He caught sight of his sister pressed against a wall, half in shadow.

  ‘Kill her,’ he said to the guards.

  Arsinoë tried to melt back into the stonework. There was an odd silence and complete lack of movement. In a clearly-orchestrated move, the doors of the room were then closed behind them, neatly shutting out most of the eager soldiery and leaving in the room only Achillas’ men, Arsinoë’s former guards, and a couple of officers.

  The king spun, looking at the men around him, none of whom had leapt to obey his command.

  Ganymedes simply maintained his smile, arms folded.

  ‘I fear you are labouring under a misapprehension, Majesty. You are not in command here. You might rule, but I command, for now at least. In time I am confident you will grow into a fine king, but you are still young and given to foolish notions. Achillas made the mistake of obeying you, and together you almost lost control of our land to Rome. I will not make that mistake. I will prosecute this war and end Rome’s interference, and to do so with an eager army, I need their king looking regal and strong. That is your role. Look powerful for me, and in return I shall win control of your kingdom. I shall then maintain governance of it until you are of an age to do so confidently. When that time comes, I pray you will understand why I do what I do, and forgive me my methods. But there is too much at stake now to allow faltering leadership.’

  Ptolemy sagged. ‘I am to be a symbol.’

  ‘And an important one. But your sister here will not die. I am half inclined to send her back to the Romans, I admit, but one thing we learn from games of senet is not to needlessly sacrifice any piece that may become useful later.’

  Arsinoë shivered. She was to live. For how long, she did not know, and as a captive of Ganymedes and her brother, no less. But at least she would live.

  * * *

  Royal palace, Alexandria, Kalends of February 47 BC

  Fronto paced through the palace to the latest meeting with the Roman command, and turned to glance over his shoulder at the sound of approaching boot steps, spotting Cassius emerging from a side door. The officer fell into step with him.

  ‘You’ve heard the news?’

  ‘What news?’ Fronto snorted bitterly. ‘The news that the Aegyptian hydra has another head? That Ptolemy reneges on his deal and leads the army with Ganymedes against us? The news that Cleopatra has denounced you and I as traitors to her cause? The news that the Aegyptians gather troops once again? Or perhaps the news that the queen has missed her monthly bleed?’

  Cassius shot him a look. ‘For the love of Venus, Fronto, stop spreading that rumour. That kind of talk needs to be trodden down.’

  ‘Oh come on, Cassius. Her maids leaked the word and it’s all over the palace. The only reason anyone pretends they know nothing is political expediency. And soon enough it’s going to become too obvious to hide. What are we all supposed to do when the queen is waddling around, lugging a belly the size of a grain sack? Do we keep pretending nothing is amiss? Do we claim she became pregnant by miracle? That it was a slave or her brother-husband? The world will soon know she carries a child, and when that happens the world will know it’s Caesar’s. Hold your nose and take a deep breath, Cassius, ‘cause we’re going for a dive in the shit pit.’

  Cassius fell silent. Fronto was right, of course, but until the queen announced something, or Caesar made an admission, no one wanted to be the man to broach the subject.

  ‘Anyway,’ the man said, waspishly, ‘I meant the news from the Cypriot merchants.’

  Fronto shook his head. ‘No. Good or bad?’

  ‘Good, at last.’

  ‘Thank Saturn’s shiny golden knob for that. We could do with a bit of good news. What is it?’

  ‘Reports of a huge body of allied troops marching south along the coast of Judea, closing on Aegypti
an lands. Reports of strength vary, but they’re all high. Looks like legions and client armies from Syria and Cilicia, perhaps Mithridates’ army comes at last, and Aegyptus’ neighbours rally to our cause. Seems the Aegyptians are none too popular with their eastern neighbours.’

  Fronto snorted. ‘The Pharaohs spent thousands of years conquering them all and enslaving them. That sort of thing makes people bitter.’

  He tried not to think what that said about Rome, and shook off the thought.

  ‘It’ll take them time to get here, though. Ganymedes controls the delta and any reserves he has will get there easily from upriver. Reinforcements will have to fight their way through to us. We might be smouldering corpses by the time relief comes. Some days I wonder if being a smouldering corpse might not be a relief,’ he added bitterly.’

  ‘Gods, but you’re a breath of light air, Fronto. Galronus is right about you.’

  The two men strode side by side towards the meeting.

  ‘I don’t understand you, Fronto.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘Facetiousness aside, you’re from a distinguished family. A minor offshoot of it, I’ll grant you, but your ancestors have been consuls, tribunes, praetors and governors. Fought the Carthaginian fleets and produced lawyers. Gods, but one of your ancestors was made dictator to save the republic a century and a half before Caesar was given the title. You are in every way his superior in the republic, yet you roll over like a pup and let Caesar warm his feet on you. Days like these, when we are in over our heads and proud men steer the republic’s interest, why don’t you stand on centuries of your family reputation and speak up?’

  He stopped, aware that Fronto had fallen still and was now twenty paces back along the corridor.

  ‘Where did all that come from?’ Fronto said quietly.

  Cassius sighed. ‘Someone has to defend the republic, and it clearly isn’t going to be the man made dictator for that purpose. He’s little more than bed slave to a foreign queen now.’

  Fronto made motions for his friend to keep quiet, but Cassius shook his head. ‘I stand for the republic, Fronto, but increasingly I seem to stand alone. Caesar and his woman have everyone under their spell, with people like Hirtius too impressed to argue, and men like Brutus more intent on keeping the peace than solving the problem. In our meetings, the only man I find standing consistently behind me is you, and yet you won’t open your mouth to argue when I’m shouted down. In fact, when we were finally offered a way out and all it required was the death of one foreign queen with delusions of divinity, suddenly you were arguing against it. And look what your leniency got us. Fresh war. Why won’t you stand with me?’

  Fronto deflated. ‘I’m old, Cassius. Old and tired. I’ve fought for Rome for decades. And I stood up for what was right in my time. I faced Caesar when I thought he went too far, and went looking for a better way. You know what I found? A dozen worse ways. Rome has become a tangled web of intrigue and corruption, and it’s gone way beyond the days of Marius and Sulla. I don’t think there’s any help to be had. Rome has become the playground of powerful individuals, not an honourable senate. And when you find yourself in a war where the only option is which bastard to side with, don’t choose the bastard who means well. None of them mean well. Choose the bastard who’ll win. And choose the bastard who’ll do the least damage doing it. Did you know my father?’

  Cassius shook his head. ‘Your grandfather, by reputation.’

  ‘My grandfather was noble and just, but none too bright. He meant well. He lost. My father was out with Sertorius in Hispania. He only avoided having to throw himself on his sword by being too incompetent and unimportant for anyone to care about. In the wars in Hispania, he went from a doting and clever father and an honourable son of the republic to being a pointless drunk. Do you know what his last words to me were?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Well I remember them vividly. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to see any sense in them. To think the republic was still strong. That Romans cared. But the older I get, the more I see the wisdom in my poor fallen sot of a father.’

  ‘Fronto?’

  ‘The last thing he told me was “Don’t stand out. Don’t make a name for yourself. Don’t be a success. Being a hero just earns you enemies. If you want to sire children and live to be a happy old man, move to the country. Hide in a villa. Be a nobody”.’

  ‘Hardly great advice for a patrician family.’

  ‘On the contrary, it’s sage advice, Cassius. Rome seethes with civil conflict, and we’re here trapped in a foreign land fighting a war that’s not ours. Had I been a useless drunk, I’d be on my estate now, bouncing my two boys – who I’ve not seen for years, by the way – on my knee. I’d be of too little value here. Too late I saw that, and I was already tied to the wheel of history, but I saved my family. I sent them off to the countryside. They will live in obscurity. Safety. If this all somehow ends well, I’ll join them and live to be an old drunken sot handing out salutary advice. But if not, at least they’re safe.’

  ‘So you still do want this to end well?’

  ‘I do,’ Fronto sighed. ‘But I’m past the days when I’m going to stand proud and shine and tell people what they should do for the good of the republic. I just want to end this all and go home.’

  ‘Then stand behind me and at least nod when I speak. Caesar has to have someone around who will argue against excess and foolishness.’

  The two men walked on in an awkward silence. Somehow the delay of their short debate seemed to have been longer than either man thought, and the meeting was already beginning as they pushed their way into the room.

  ‘Ah, good,’ Caesar said quietly. ‘Now we are all here. You are both aware of the news of Asian reinforcements?’

  The two men nodded, falling still as a praetorian shut the door behind them.

  ‘Good. The latest, then, is that Ganymedes and his puppet king have reequipped their navy and strengthened it with every vessel they could find. Their fleet departed the commercial harbour yesterday and we assumed they would be once more on their patrols of the coast, but intelligence has it that they are intent on cutting off our supply lines. Since they cannot take the harbour from us, they now turn to piratical activity, harrying our supplies. Those that come across the sea are in danger, but also those that come from inland along the Canopic branch of the river. As such, I feel it is time to send forth the fleet once more. With reinforcements on the way, keeping our supplies adequate is a matter of prime importance.’

  Brutus cleared his throat but Caesar shook his head. ‘Tiberius Nero, step forwards.’

  A thickset man with almost white hair stepped out of the rank of lesser officers at the rear. Fronto frowned. He knew of Nero. A man who served as a quaestor. Once one of Pompey’s pirate hunters.

  ‘Brutus,’ Caesar said quietly and kindly, ‘you consistently serve well in grand scale naval actions, but this is Nero’s ground. Nero here helped Pompey clear the Cilicians from the sea. He knows about hunting pirates. Nero, I am granting you command of the fleet. Sea and river both, I want clear. Take the ships and obliterate Ptolemy’s navy.’

  Fronto watched Brutus’ face fall into a mixture of disappointment and disapproval. Nero might be good at what he did, but he had been Pompey’s man in his time. Brutus did not like him.

  But then Salvius Cursor had once been Pompey’s man, and had Fronto himself not briefly borne that label too?

  ‘Alright,’ Cassius said. ‘Let’s destroy the Aegyptian navy and clear the way for the reserves. Time to gather and end this thing.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Canopus, on the coast of the Nile Delta, February 6th 47 BC

  Julius Meleager, trierarch of the Chimaera, eyed the situation with an appraising glance. The grand temples of the city of Canopus sat to their right on a headland, impressive and ancient, older even than Julius’ own people in Rhodos. To the left of that, at the near end of a long, wid
e bay, the branch of the Nilus River known as the Canopic surged off inland to the south, wide enough for several ships to manoeuvre.

  Somewhere just a few miles upriver, or so rumour said, a large grain shipment from sources loyal to Cleopatra sat waiting to be able to sail out into the sea safely, and make for Alexandria to supply the trapped army. They themselves, though, were confined, for just inside the entrance to the river sat a fleet of Aegyptian ships, blockading it effectively. Fewer ships than the fleet behind the Chimaera, but well positioned in a river not wide enough to press a serious Roman advantage.

  Numerous horn calls blasted out from the ships at the rear of the Caesarian fleet and Julius turned for a moment, peering over his shoulder. The ships of the Roman navy had drawn up in a formation off the coast, facing the enemy, and were moving towards the river mouth only at the slowest possible rate. The Rhodian contingent sat at the western edge, and the Chimaera formed the very flank, as was Julius’ favoured position. He could see the Ajax just a little behind him and to the left, flying the flag of their admiral Euphranor.

  The new Roman commander, Tiberius Nero, had given orders that all ships were under his direct command and that no individual officer was to display their colours, but Euphranor was hardly about to listen to such a command. Nero might be a good admiral and a Roman hero, but he was not yet known to Euphranor, and the Rhodians were, after all, their own men.

  Even as the fleet slowed, preparing to sit immobile, facing the land, the Ajax put on an extra turn of speed and came alongside. Julius grinned as the Rhodian admiral strode across his deck and leaned on the railing of the flagship, gesturing to the Chimaera’s trierarch.

  ‘Meleager!’

  Julius reached his own rail opposite the admiral and waved. ‘What will Tiberius Nero do?’

  The admiral threw an insolent gesture back towards the Roman fleet. ‘Nero does not want to commit within the narrows of the river, of course.’