"Thirty-five? You missed one. I counted thirty-six!" insisted Androcles.
"Then you miscounted," said Mopsus.
"I did not!"
"You never could count higher than the sum of your fingers and toes," said Mopsus.
"Nonsense! You obviously missed one. Did you count that one with the gorgon head at the prow? I never saw such a fearsome ramming beak on a ship!"
"Where?"
"You can barely see it, because it's mostly blocked by the buildings on that island. What's the name of that island in the harbor, Master?"
"It's called Antirrhodus, and it belongs to the king. Those buildings are his private estate, with their own little harbor within the harbor."
"It must be a fabulous place to visit."
"Can we go there, Master?" said Mopsus.
"I suspect one has to be rather more important than ourselves to receive an invitation to Antirrhodus."
"Yet here we are, with our own room in the palace," noted Androcles. "Imagine that!"
"Maybe Caesar will take over Antirrhodus, and make it his headquarters, and then-"
"Mopsus, hush! You're not to say a word about Caesar while we're here in the palace. Don't even mention his name. Do you understand?"
He frowned, then saw the seriousness of my expression and nodded. Over the last few years, back in Rome, the boys had learned a thing or two about secrecy and espionage. He turned his attention back to the harbor.
"Some of them are cavalry transports," he noted. "Those ships nearest the lighthouse have horses on the decks."
"Imagine bringing horses all the way from Greece," said Androcles. "Do you think they might be the very horses that… you-know-who… used in the battle at Pharsalus to trample… what's-his-name?"
"What's-his-head, you mean!" Mopsus laughed.
"But look! More Roman soldiers are disembarking from that larger ship onto the smaller one, the one that keeps sailing out from the palace to bring them to that landing area over there."
"More soldiers? Landing area?" I said. "How long has this been going on?"
"Oh, for a while," said Androcles. "The landing area-a sort of big square, on the waterfront-is getting rather full, what with all those Roman soldiers and Egyptian soldiers, and that crowd of people in fancy clothes, and all those banners and pennants. Do you think there's going to be some sort of official meeting between the king and… well… you-know-who? That could be him now, standing amid the soldiers on that Roman galley." He squinted. "He's wearing very fancy-looking armor and a big red cape-like you-know-who."
"And he's bald, like you-know-who. The sunlight off his head is blinding me!" Mopsus laughed.
"What are you two going on about?" I got up from the bed to have a look, but before I reached the window, there was a loud rap at the door.
I nodded to Rupa, who sprang up and pulled the door open. Merianis stood in the hall.
Rupa widened his eyes, then pulled himself erect and squared his impressive shoulders. The boys simply gaped.
Merianis wore an extraordinary gown of some sheer green material embroidered with silver threads and cinched beneath her breasts with a silver cord. The green matched her eyes. As before, she wore lapisencrusted sandals and a lapis necklace, but the stones took on a very different hue when seen next to the green of her gown. The effect, together with her ebony skin, was quite remarkable.
"Can you be ready in half an hour?" she said.
"Ready for what?"
"The lord chamberlain suggests that you wear your best. I assume there's something suitable in that trunk of yours?"
"Nothing remotely as fine as what you're wearing."
"But, Master," said Mopsus, "don't you remember? Before we left the house in Rome, at the very last moment, you decided to bring along your best toga."
"So I did," I said.
"A toga would be splendid!" said Merianis. "The sight of you will make our visitor feel right at home."
"Visitor?"
"Surely you've been watching the assembly gather out on the royal landing? The king desires that you should be in attendance when Caesar arrives."
"I see. I don't suppose I have any choice in the matter?"
"None whatsoever. I'll be back in half an hour to escort you." Merianis smiled, then was gone.
Rupa gave me a look that echoed the question the boys spoke in unison: "Who was that?"
"I'll explain while I dress," I said. "Rupa, would you fetch my toga from the trunk? It must be in there somewhere; let's hope it's not too wrinkled. Androcles, Mopsus, attend me. You know the drill." The boys had been helping me put on my toga ever since I acquired them. Except for their inevitable bickering over who should tuck and hold and who should drape and fold, they had perfected the art. Valuable is the slave who has learned to dress a Roman citizen in his toga so that he emerges looking like something other than a pile of rumpled wool.
I had forbidden the boys to speak the name of the man who was about to set foot in Alexandria. But there was another who was likely to make an appearance that morning, and his name the boys already knew better than to utter in my presence. At the prospect of greeting the presumptive master of the Roman world, I felt a curious absence of emotion. But my heart sped up and my brow became clammy when I considered that I might, within the hour, come face-to-face with the man I had once called my son. How clever the architects of the Ptolemies had been, generation after generation. From without, the palace complex appeared grand, intimidating, and impenetrable. Yet, inside that grandiose edifice, one experienced not a sense of chilly containment, but the simple pleasures of walking through sunlit passageways and quaint courtyards to the music of birdsong and splashing fountains. We might have been strolling through the neatly landscaped gardens and splendidly appointed hallways of some idealized Greek villa, except that the villa went on and on and on. Thus ran my thoughts, all the better to distract me from what was truly on my mind, as I followed Merianis.
"The two slave boys and your mute friend seemed crestfallen when I told them they must stay behind," she remarked.
"I suspect they simply wanted more time to look at you. Especially Rupa."
She smiled. "You look quite splendid yourself."
I laughed. "I'm a gray, wrinkled face peering from a gray, wrinkled toga."
"I think you're rather distinguished."
"And I think you're rather disingenuous, Merianis. But as long as I stand next to you, I don't suppose anyone will notice me anyway. Is it much farther?"
"No. In fact-"
We turned a corner and stepped into a patch of sunlight. I blinked at the bright blue sky above and felt a fresh sea breeze on my face. Before us lay a vast stone-paved square thronged with courtiers in ceremonial wigs or colorful headdresses and elaborate robes. Where the square terminated in steps leading down to the water, a long row of Roman soldiers stood at attention. Companies of Egyptian soldiers were stationed at each corner of the square, and at the very center I saw a canopy with pink-and-yellow tassels, and knew that Ptolemy must be beneath it, seated on his throne.
I assumed we would stay at the edge of the crowd, but Merianis boldly strode forward. When she saw that I hung back, she smiled and took my hand and led me like a child toward the gaudy canopy. Courtiers yielded to her, gatherings of eunuchs stepped back to let her pass, and even the ring of spearmen who circled the king and his retinue broke ranks to let us through. Pothinus stood near the king. He spotted us and strode over.
He spoke in a nervous rush. "At last! What took you so long, Gordianus-called-Finder? The king will be relieved; he was quite insistent that you be here. Watch everything; say nothing. Do you understand?"
I nodded.
"And why on earth are the two of you holding hands?"
Merianis's fingers disengaged from mine.
Pothinus returned to the king's side. There was a blare of trumpets. A small boat had pulled up to the steps. Its occupants disembarked, and through the crowd I caught a glimpse of a familia
r balding head. My heart sped up.
The Roman soldiers formed a cordon leading up to the canopy. In the pathway formed by their ranks, a small group came striding toward the king. Foremost among them was Caesar himself. He was dressed not as imperator, in military regalia with a scarlet cape, but as a consul of the Roman people, in a toga with a broad purple border.
I had last seen him in Massilia, on the southern coast of Gaul, on the day his forces entered the city following a lengthy siege. Caesar himself had been off in Spain, defeating his enemies there, and was on his way back to Rome, and thence to Greece for a direct confrontation with Pompey; his stop in Massilia had been little more than a courtesy call, a chance to exhibit his famous penchant for mercy and at the same time to exert beyond question his subjugation of a proud city that had maintained its independence for hundreds of years. Pressed by circumstance, the Massilians had sided with Pompey against Caesar, and had lost everything. I myself had been trapped in the city during the final days of the siege, looking for my son Meto, who I feared was dead. But Meto's disappearance had merely been part of Caesar's scheme for taking the city, and when Caesar made his triumphant appearance, Meto was at his side, beaming with joy. In that moment, the absurdity of the war and the cruelty of my son's deceit had overwhelmed me; instead of embracing Meto, I had rejected him, publicly disowning him before Caesar and the world. Since that moment I had seen neither Meto nor Caesar, though the shadows of both had continually fallen over my life.
Now, half a world away from Massilia, our paths had intersected again.
When I had seen him last, Caesar had been flush with victory, a warrior-god doling out grim justice to the Massilians before heading off to face the greatest challenge of his life. He arrived in Alexandria fresh from his triumph at Pharsalus, the undisputed master of the Roman world. His thin lips were set in a straight line, and his jaw was rigid, but his eyes sparkled and betrayed an intense enjoyment of the moment.
His long chin, high cheekbones, and balding pate gave him an austere appearance, but the spring in his step showed the energy of a man half his age. To arrive at such a moment must have been one of the supreme accomplishments of Caesar's long career, the sort of grand occasion that painters and sculptors might celebrate for generations to come. The master of the world's new order was about to meet the ruler of the world's oldest kingdom; the new Alexander was about to confront the heir of Alexander the Great, in the city Alexander himself had founded. In Caesar's countenance I saw a man fully conscious of the moment's import and radiant with confidence.
What of Ptolemy? The king's expression was more obscure. From childhood, he must have been taught to make his face a mask suitable to various formal occasions-dedicating temples, meting out punishments, granting favors, conveying the blessings of the gods-but surely there had never been an occasion quite like this one. His countenance seemed utterly, almost unnaturally devoid of emotion, except for an occasional glint in his eye that betrayed the excited boy beneath the crown. Seated upon his throne, clutching the flail and crook crossed over his chest, he remained absolutely motionless, his stillness befitting a ruler who occupied the unmoving center of the world-except for the toes of his left foot. While I watched, they repeatedly clenched and relaxed against the sole of his jewel-encrusted sandal.
Pothinus stepped forward. Like most Romans, Caesar probably had a distaste for eunuchs, but his face betrayed no reaction. The eunuch spoke in a voice too low for me to hear, no doubt asking Caesar how he wished to be introduced and explaining the protocol for approaching the king; Caesar answered in equally low tones, but from the lilt of his voice, I discerned that the exchange was in Greek.
It appeared there would be an exchange of gifts. Caesar raised his hand and gestured for a member of his retinue to step forward. I drew a sharp breath as I recognized Meto, wearing a gleaming breastplate and garbed in full military regalia.
How young he looks! That was the only coherent thought that crossed my mind, among many others that could not be put into words. I felt a pain in my heart and must have uttered a low cry, for Merianis gave me a puzzled look and touched my hand.
Meto appeared whole, healthy, and alert; it seemed he had emerged unscathed from the battlegrounds of Greece. He carried a box made of hammered silver, with a bronze clasp in the shape of a lion's head. He approached the throne with his arms outstretched. When he reached the dais, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head, presenting the box to Ptolemy. Pothinus accepted the box from him, opened it briefly to peer inside, then smiled.
Meto withdrew. I watched him step backward until he disappeared into the retinue behind Caesar, then turned my gaze again to Pothinus, who had turned toward the throne and was displaying the opened box so that the king could see. The king nodded to show his acceptance of the gift, whereupon Pothinus removed the item from the box and held it aloft. It was a spectacular belt made of thinly hammered pieces of gold in the form of intertwined ivy leaves. The golden leaves shimmered and tinkled in the sea breeze. There were appreciative murmurs from members of the king's retinue.
Pothinus returned the golden belt to the box, handed the box to an underling, then approached Caesar. Their voices carried to my ears.
"A beautiful gift, Consul," said Pothinus, "worthy even of His Majesty. Did it come, I wonder, from the captured possessions of the so-called Great One?"
Caesar's expression barely registered his displeasure at the eunuch's perspicacity. "Actually, yes. It was among the treasures he abandoned in Pharsalus. I'm told that the belt is of royal Parthian origin, a rare item indeed, and that it came into Pompey's possession when he conquered Mithridates. It was one of his longest-held and most prized possessions."
"How fitting!" Pothinus smiled. "The king's gifts to you also came from Pompey. One of these items he owned all his life, and I daresay he treasured it above all his other possessions."
Caesar wrinkled his brow; then the appearance of a small entourage claimed his attention. One of those arriving was Philip, Pompey's freedman. I had not seen him since we parted company after burning the Great One's funeral pyre. He did not look like a man mistreated, but his demeanor was wan and haggard.
"The first gift, Consul," said Pothinus, gesturing for Philip to step forward.
Caesar frowned. "While Philip was once a slave, I believe that Pompey made him a free man. One Roman citizen cannot be given to another as a gift."
Pothinus managed a stiff smile. "Then the gift shall be the pleasure of Philip's company. He is a man of many virtues. May he be as loyal to Caesar as he was to the Roman whom he previously served."
Philip kept his eyes downcast. Caesar regarded him gravely. "You were there with him, at the end?"
"Yes, Consul."
"They say you gave him funeral rites."
"I did what I could, Consul."
Caesar touched the man's shoulder. With a nod, he indicated that Philip should join the others in his retinue.
Following Philip, two courtiers bearing gifts stepped forward. The courtiers themselves were remarkable. One was as black as Merianis and shorter than a child, with child-sized limbs but an old man's face. The other was a bony-browed, hollow-cheeked albino towering at least a head above the next-tallest man present. The tiny one carried a large wicker basket; the giant carried an identical basket in miniature. The grotesqueness of the presentation was unsettling, at least to me; others, including Merianis, found the sight of the mismatched courtiers bearing mismatched burdens amusing. She laughed aloud. Pothinus grinned. Even the king showed the faint indication of a smile.
The albino giant presented his gift first. He held out a long, bare, bony arm, extending the little wicker basket toward Caesar. It was Meto who stepped forward to accept the gift. He looked up at the albino as if searching the giant's colorless face for signs of deviousness, then gave a deferential look to Caesar, who nodded to indicate that Meto should open the basket.
Meto removed the lid, gazed inside for a moment, frowned, then reached int
o the basket and pulled out a glittering object. I remembered the finger missing from Pompey's corpse-the bloody stump, the swarm of flies-and knew what the object must be, even before my eyes discerned the shape of the ring held between Meto's forefinger and thumb.
Caesar drew a breath, then reached out to take the ring from Meto. He cast a sharp glance at Pothinus then at the king. Few objects are more sacred to a Roman than his ring. Every citizen possesses one, as a mark of his status; I myself wear a simple band of iron, like most Romans, but those of greater station affect rings of more precious metal, with devices and engravings that proclaim their achievements. Pompey's ring, which I had seen in glimpses, was of gold and bore the single word "MAGNVS," the letters raised in reverse for use as a sealing ring. The ring in Caesar's hand was too far away for me to see in detail, but there could be no doubt, from the expression that crossed his face, that it was Pompey's.
Caesar had already learned of Pompey's demise. But the ring was positive proof of Pompey's death; under no other circumstance could it have been taken from the Great One's finger to be presented as a gift to his rival. Waves of emotion washed over Caesar's countenance. What did he feel? Triumph, surely, for here was tangible proof that the defeat of Pompey was complete and irreversible; but perhaps also a sense of having been cheated, since the fate of Pompey had been taken out of his hands; and perhaps a bit of anger, that a Roman of such stature had been deviously done in by foreigners acting under the orders of a foreign king, and his most treasured possessions treated with such contempt. A ring of citizenship, a symbol of the sacred bond between the Roman state and its individual members, had been reduced to a trophy plundered from a corpse. Was it being presented to Caesar to show the king's esteem, or to send another, more sinister message?
Caesar looked up from the ring in the palm of his hand and cast a searching gaze at King Ptolemy on his throne. Caesar's face was as inscrutable as that of the king, who gazed back at him.
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