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 into 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.
“The king’s gift is pleasing to Caesar?” said Pothinus.
Caesar made no answer for a long moment, then said, “Caesar accepts the king’s gift.”
“Ah, good! But there is another, which I daresay will please Caesar even more; a possession that was even more precious to Pompey than his ring.” Pothinus gestured to the black dwarf to step forward. The man did so, carrying his burden awkwardly; the basket was nearly as big as its bearer. He set the basket down at Caesar’s feet and then, with
a flourish, removed the lid and reached inside.
Suddenly suspicious, Caesar stepped back. Meto stepped forward, gripping the pommel of the sword in his scabbard. Pothinus laughed. The dwarf removed the object in the basket and held it aloft, one hand clutching it by the hair and the other cupping the stump of the severed neck. In a state of excellent preservation—for the Egyptians know all there is to know about embalming dead flesh—the head of Pompey was exhibited for the perusal of Caesar and his company.
Caesar made no attempt to conceal his disgust. His lip curled back to show his teeth. He averted his eyes for a moment, then gazed openly at the head, clearly fascinated by it.
Pothinus inclined his head. “Caesar is pleased?”
Caesar’s brow furrowed. A tremor of emotion crossed his face. His eyes glittered, as if suddenly filled with tears.
Pothinus looked from Caesar to the head of Pompey and back. “Caesar accepts the gift?” he said, uncertainly.
“Caesar . . .” Caesar’s voice was thick with emotion. “Caesar certainly has no intention of returning this . . . gift . . . into the keeping of those who offer it. Meto! See that the head is returned to the basket, and take the basket to my ship. So far as can be done, have it purified; the coin in the mouth, and the rest, honorably.”
As he averted his eyes once again from the head, and also from Pothinus, Caesar’s gaze chanced to fall upon me. Perhaps it was the toga I was wearing that caught his attention; the curiosity of a Roman in formal dress amid the throng of Egyptian courtiers piqued his interest. He studied my face, and for a moment gave no sign of acknowledgment; then he exhibited that curious mixture of recognition and doubt that occurs when one sees a familiar face wildly out of context—for surely Gordianus the Finder was the last person he expected to see standing among King Ptolemy’s retinue.
Meto was busy collecting the head of Pompey, but when he passed by, Caesar, still looking at me, touched his arm and spoke into his ear. I caught the merest glimpse of motion as Meto began to turn his head toward me. On a sudden impulse I stepped back into the crowd, obscuring the line of sight between Caesar’s party and myself.
But I could still see Merianis. Her posture was erect, her expression rapt as she gazed steadily in the direction of Caesar’s party, her eyes locked with those of another. I knew at once what had happened: In my absence, Meto’s gaze had fallen on Merianis instead. For her, at least—to judge by her expression—the moment was significant.
CHAPTER XII
“ ‘When Alexander was fifteen, by chance he passed the place where the wild horse Bucephalus was caged. He heard a terrifying neigh and asked the attendants, “What is that bloodcurdling noise?” The young general Ptolemy replied, “Master, this is the horse Bucephalus that your father the king caged because the beast is a vicious man-eater. No one can tame him, let alone ride him. No man can even approach him safely.” Alexander walked to the cage and spoke the name of the horse. Bucephalus, hearing Alexander’s voice, neighed again, not in a terrifying way as on every previous occasion, but sweetly and clearly. When Alexander stepped closer, straightaway the horse extended its forefeet to Alexander and licked his hand, recognizing the master that the gods had decreed for him. Whereupon Alexander—’ ”
“What happens next?” asked Mopsus, sitting on the windowsill and gazing out at the harbor. Both of the boys seemed endlessly fascinated by the doings on Caesar’s ships, the comings and goings of the merchant vessels, and the ever-changing play of shadows across the face of the lighthouse. From the abstracted tone of his voice, it was clear that Mopsus’s question was not about the narrative I had been reading aloud.
In his lap, purring loudly, sat a gray cat with green eyes. Around his neck the beast sported a collar of solid silver hung with tiny beads of lapis, marking him as a sacred ward of the palace. The cat came and went as he pleased; Mopsus and Androcles had become quite attached to him, and kept scraps of food at hand to lure him to their laps when he deigned to visit us.
Several days had passed since Caesar’s arrival. During that time, we had been allowed to move freely about the part of the palace that included our rooms. Our meals were served in a common area where a number of lesser courtiers ate; they kept to themselves and said little to me. Merianis looked in on us every so often, assuring me that the king had not forgotten me and letting me know, subtly but surely, that while I was officially a guest, not a prisoner, I was not to abandon my rooms at the palace. Nonetheless, I was allowed to leave the palace and go about the city as long as I returned by nightfall. But those excursions had grown increasingly problematic.
Alexandria was a city in tumult. Every day since Caesar’s arrival, in some part of the city, there had been rioting. Some of the riots were small and easily dispersed by the King’s Guards. Others were like whirlwinds that swept through entire quarters, bringing arson, looting, and death. In the bloodiest incident, a company of Roman soldiers on a friendly reconnaissance from the palace to the temple of Serapis had been ambushed and stoned to death, eradicated to the last man despite the fact that they wore armor and carried swords. The fury of an Alexandrian mob is a terrifying thing.
I myself, while out and about in the city, had not been caught in any dangerous situations, but I had seen plumes of smoke and come close enough to some of the disturbances to hear the din of soldiers clashing with rioters. My accent was distinctly Roman, and even the simplest request for directions from a stranger might elicit a hateful glare and a gob of spit at my feet. Rupa, who had lived in Alexandria for many years and still had friends in the city, fared better, but I found it awkward to depend on a mute in every encounter. The boys knew hardly any Greek and no Egyptian, and seemed likely to get themselves—and me—into trouble at any moment.
And so, in recent days, we had taken to staying mostly in our rooms, exchanging words with hardly anyone except Merianis and receiving no other visitors—except, of course, the gray cat that was now curled so contently on Mopsus’s lap.
What happens next? Mopsus’s query echoed in my head. I sat back against the cushions on my bed and put down the scroll from which I had been reading. Merianis, who had access to the famous Library adjacent to the palace complex, with its 400,000 volumes, had kept me well supplied with reading material. That morning she had brought me a copy of a book I had read as a boy but had never since been able to locate in Rome, The Wondrous Deeds of Alexander, by Kleitarchos. Reading aloud helped to pass the time, and I had hoped that the dashing tales of Alexander would prove especially diverting to Rupa and the boys, who badly needed diversion, for we were all growing restless. But even the grand achievements of the conqueror seemed to pale in comparison with the events taking place around us.
I put down the scroll and took a deep breath. We had discussed the uncertain situation in Alexandria many times during the last several days, but the boys seemed to find reassurance in repetition. “What happens next? Hard to say. Caesar’s ships effectively control the harbor, and he probably has more ships on the way, so—”
“Is he going to sack Alexandria?” asked Androcles, whose eyes lit up at the prospect of mass destruction. He took a seat opposite his brother on the windowsill, removed the cat from Mopsus’s lap, and placed it on his own. The beast emitted a halfhearted mew of complaint, then resumed purring more loudly than before.
“Some of the Alexandrians seem to think so,” I said, “but I don’t believe that’s his intention. Caesar is here to play peacemaker, not warmonger. This conflict between King Ptolemy and Queen Cleopatra needs to be settled once and for all, for Rome’s sake as well as Egypt’s. The Piper had other children, as well—another daughter, called Arsinoë, who’s younger than Cleopatra but older than Ptolemy, and another son, the youngest, who likewise bears his father’s name; but those two were left out of the late king’s will and seem not to figure much in the conflict. If the royal siblings are incapable of settling their familial dispute, Caesar will act as arbiter. His reward will be stability in Egypt, which will eventu
ally allow for repayment of the debts owed to Rome by the previous king and the resumption of a reliable grain supply from Egypt to feed the hungry citizens back in Rome.”
“So King Ptolemy wants him here?” said Mopsus.
“Whether he wants Caesar here or not, Ptolemy may not feel strong enough to expel him; and if he can win Caesar over to his side, that could help to secure the victory over Cleopatra that has so far eluded him. So he’s given Caesar a royal welcome and handed over a whole precinct of the palace—”
“Where Caesar’s taken up residence and placed his own guards at key points all around the perimeter,” said Androcles. “Merianis says that the Egyptians are calling that part of the palace ‘Little Rome,’ and that the women are afraid to go there because they think the Roman soldiers will molest them. Why aren’t we staying in Little Rome, Master, along with the other Romans?”
“Because almost certainly we would not be given a room with nearly as good a view of the harbor,” I said, giving him a sardonic smile. In fact, since their arrival and installation in the palace, neither Caesar nor Meto had contacted me; nor had I attempted to contact them.
“My turn to hold Alexander!” Mopsus announced.
“Alexander?” I said.
“The cat. That’s his new name. We couldn’t pronounce his Egyptian name, so Merianis said we could give him a new one, and we decided to call him Alexander. And it’s my turn to hold him!” Mopsus took the beast from his brother’s lap and placed it in his own. “Do you think Caesar keeps Pompey’s head on a nightstand next to his bed?”
I laughed out loud. “Really, Mopsus, I think that might give even Caesar bad dreams. But it does raise a question: Why did King Ptolemy give him the head in the first place?”
“Because he thought it would make Caesar happy,” said Mopsus. “Isn’t that why anyone gives anyone else a present?”
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