A man wearing only a brief loincloth sat in the boat, leaning back against the prow with his arms behind his head and his eyes closed, basking in the sun. As we stepped closer, I saw that it was Apollodorus, the Sicilian who had delivered Cleopatra to Caesar.
Merianis called his name. He lazily opened one eye.
“Dozing, in the middle of the day?” said Merianis. “What would the queen think of that?”
Apollodorus smiled and placed a hand over his loincloth, splaying his fingers. “Perhaps it’s the queen who made me so tired.”
“Blasphemer!” said Merianis, but her tone was playful. Apollodorus roused himself, stood in the boat, and shook his great mane of hair as if to untangle it. He cast a heavy-lidded gaze at Merianis and leaned forward with puckered lips. She pretended to reciprocate the gesture, then pulled back at the last moment, so that Apollodorus kissed empty space and almost lost his balance, circling his arms wildly to steady himself.
Merianis gave a deep, throaty laugh. “Summon the boatmen at once, you big lout!”
“Boatmen? Do you think I can’t row you there myself?” He made a show of massing his biceps.
“As you wish.” Merianis stepped into the boat and reached back to take my hand.
I sat beside her at the prow. “Where are you taking me, Merianis?”
“You’ll see.”
Apollodorus rowed us away from the pier. Seen from the harbor, the long expanse of the palace complex presented a vista of balconies, shaded alcoves, hanging gardens, and roof terraces. I was able to discern the high room of the building in which I had dined with Caesar and where Cleopatra had been presented to him, and adjacent to that building the great theater with its seats facing the harbor; Roman soldiers armed with spears patrolled the highest tier, and I recalled that Caesar had spoken of the theater’s virtues as a possible stronghold in case of attack. Since the riots set off by Ptolemy’s harangue, Caesar and his soldiers had begun to fortify the sector of the palace complex that they occupied, closing off streets and barricading the open spaces between buildings with whatever materials were at hand.
The large buildings connected by porticos along the waterfront dominated the skyline, for Alexandria is mostly flat; but there are a few hills, and upon the tallest of these, looming over the western half of the city, stands the great temple of Serapis, the Zeus-like god whom the first Ptolemy elevated to a place in the Egyptian pantheon to rival even Osiris. Above the waterfront rooftops, I could see the temple at a great distance, a majestic building not unlike the Parthenon in Athens and considerably larger, though the hill upon which it sits is not nearly as commanding as the Acropolis.
I felt a catch in my throat. This was the view of Alexandria I would have seen upon our arrival by ship had the storm not blown us off course. This had been my last view of the city, when Bethesda and I departed by ship many years ago, and the view I had expected to share with her upon our return.
“Gordianus-called-Finder, are you unhappy?”
“Why do you ask, Merianis?”
“There’s a tear upon your cheek.”
“It’s nothing. Just a drop of sea-spray,” I said, wiping it away and willing the flurry in my chest to subside. “We seem to be approaching Antirrhodus,” I said, referring to the largest of the small islands in the harbor, which was reserved for the exclusive use of the royal family; its name declared it, rather fancifully, to be a rival to the great island of Rhodes. The locals sometimes called it the Floating Palace, for the island was so built up with towers, promenades, and balconies that it looked as if a part of the palace complex had detached itself from the mainland and floated into the harbor. To set foot upon Antirrhodus without royal permission carried a sentence of death, and sailors coming and going in the harbor took pains to avoid it. Among ordinary Alexandrians, the island held a special mystique; some said that the late king had held parties of unimaginable debauchery there, while others thought it was the repository of mystical objects and magical talismans handed down from the days of the ancient pharaohs.
“Have you ever been there?” asked Merianis.
I laughed. “No, Merianis. During my last sojourn in Alexandria, many years ago, I was hardly a part of the royal inner circle.”
“And yet here you are, about to land on Antirrhodus. You’ve come up in the world since the days of your youth.”
“Or else the world has come down,” I said.
Apollodorus rowed us into a small, walled harbor and up to the landing place. The Egyptian guards on patrol raised their spears, then grinned when they saw Merianis.
“I bring a visitor to see the queen,” she said, stepping off the boat and reaching for my hand.
“Another Roman?” One of the guards, a grizzled veteran with an ugly scar on his cheek, eyed me suspiciously.
“Forgive his tone, Gordianus. Captain Cratipus commands the Queen’s Protectors. They’re an elite company of warriors who’ve guarded her person since the day she was born. They shielded her when her sister Berenice usurped the throne, and also when King Ptolemy returned and put Berenice to death. They protected her throughout the turmoil that followed her father’s death, and stayed beside her during her exile in the desert. Over the years, no small number of their company have died for her. They’re fanatically loyal. For their devotion, the goddess Isis will reward them in the afterlife by allowing them to attend the queen in the Kingdom of the Dead.”
“Will the queen still need protection from assassins, even after she’s dead?”
Cratipus, taking my comment for sarcasm, growled at me. Merianis lowered her voice. “Cratipus dislikes you because you’re Roman. He thinks all Romans must be very impious. He can’t understand why you allow yourselves to be ruled by mere mortals. I must admit, that also puzzles me.”
I shrugged. “So far as I know, no god has ever campaigned to get himself elected to a Roman magistracy, probably because election campaigns are so hideously expensive.”
Merianis looked at me quizzically, then laughed. “I see; you’ve made a joke. Anyway, Cratipus resents the queen’s reliance on Roman arms, and he distrusts Caesar’s judgment. It was Caesar’s idea that the queen should retire here to Antirrhodus for the time being, for her own safety. I think it was a splendid idea, but Cratipus thinks it was Ptolemy who should have been removed from the palace, if one or the other of them had to withdraw.”
“The location is certainly splendid enough,” I said as the guards escorted us away from the landing and we ascended a marble stairway lined by palm trees. Before us loomed the facade of the palace, a curious mixture of Greek columns and Egyptian stonework. “Or does the queen grow lonely, staying here?”
“Caesar visits her daily.”
“Daily—or nightly?” I said.
A low, throaty voice, speaking Greek with an elegant accent, came from the shaded portico that led into the palace. “Caesar may visit whenever he wishes. And so may Merianis; for the queen is always pleased to look upon her face.”
Cleopatra stepped forth into the sunlight. The guards fell forward onto their faces. Merianis dropped to her knees and bowed her head. I followed her example.
The queen accepted these prostrations as her due. I heard the swishing of her linen gown and watched the movement of her gilded, jewel-encrusted sandals as she strode back and forth before us. Only after a long moment did she utter the words, “You may rise.”
Cleopatra proffered her hand to Merianis, who kissed it. “I’ve brought a visitor, Your Majesty. This is Gordianus of Rome, whom men call the Finder.”
Cleopatra turned her gaze to me. “We’ve met before, have we not?”
“I was present on the occasion when Your Majesty made herself known to the consul of the Roman people.”
She nodded. “Ah, yes. My attention was given entirely to Caesar on that occasion, but I do remember seeing you there, very briefly. Meto was also there, but the two of you quickly excused yourselves and disappeared. Since then, I’ve seen Meto on numerous occasio
ns; Caesar hardly goes anywhere without him. It was only in recent days, and from Merianis, not Caesar, that I learned of your relationship to Meto.”
“When he was very young, I adopted him. But he is no longer my son.”
“How confusing! I understand that adoption is quite common among the Romans, who put their faith in man-made laws and man-made relationships. In Rome, it seems, two men can be father and son one day, and unrelated to one another the next; such a concept is foreign to us. In Egypt, the bloodline is everything. The bloodline can never be broken.”
“Except by death?” I said.
“Not even by death. Sister and brother in this world will be sister and brother in the next. The blood of the Ptolemies runs equally in my veins and in those of my brother. We are joined to one another and to our ancestors for all eternity. But in this realm we inhabit mortal flesh, and at some point death may separate us, if only for the brief span of this mortal lifetime.”
“I devoutly hope not, Your Majesty.”
She smiled. “If it becomes necessary for one of us to proceed to the next world prematurely, I assure you that it won’t be me. Cratipus would never allow that to happen.”
“Your Majesty will come to no harm, not as long as there’s a single breath left in the body of any man here!” declared Cratipus.
“Your devotion pleases the queen,” said Cleopatra. “Now return to the harbor and keep a lookout for other visitors.”
“Is Your Majesty expecting someone?” I said.
“Perhaps. But we were speaking of the afterlife.” She strolled through the lush gardens surrounding the palace, with Merianis and I following a little behind.
“Having lived in both places, I perceive that Egyptian expectations of an afterlife considerably exceed those of a Roman,” I said. “For us, when this life is over, the best has passed. We become shadows who watch the living with envy as we fade into a long, gray eternity.”
“Ah, but you have it exactly wrong. For those who attain immortality, this life is but a shadow of the next. The point of this life is to prepare for the life to come. I brought up this subject for a reason, Gordianus. Knowing of Meto’s importance to Caesar, knowing of your importance to Meto—and because Merianis has become so fond of you—I have made it my business to know a little about you.”
“I find it hard to imagine that anything about myself might interest the queen of Egypt.”
“Even so, I know of your reason for coming to Egypt, Gordianus, and I know of your bereavement. Was your wife very ill?”
I sighed. “Is this subject truly of interest to Your Majesty? It causes me pain to speak of it.”
“Even so, indulge me.”
“Very well. My wife’s illness was mysterious to me. Sometimes it seemed to me almost that she must be imagining it. At other times, I feared it would take her from me so suddenly I would have no chance to say farewell.”
“She wished to bathe in the Nile, thinking that would cure her?”
“So she said. But . . .”
“You think she might have had another reason for coming to Egypt?”
“I think perhaps she sensed that her death was near, and it was her desire to die in Egypt. She often expressed to me her disdain for Roman funerary rites; she did not care for cremation. Where else but in Egypt could she be properly mummified and given the ancient rites of passage to the afterlife? While that may have been her intention, it was not what happened in the end.”
“Your wife was lost in the Nile.”
“It happened near a little temple between the road and the river, north of Naucratis.”
Cleopatra nodded. “The ancient temple of Osiris, hidden among the vines; I know it well. The place is very ancient, very holy.”
“I was told afterward that the temple is abandoned, and that the woman who stays there, pretending to be a priestess, is mad.”
The queen raised an eyebrow. “I’ve met the woman of whom you speak. I found her very wise.”
“It was the old crone who told Bethesda to enter the water,” I said bitterly.
“But, Gordianus! Do you not understand the significance of a death in the Nile? The river is sacred to Osiris; whom the river claims, the god claims. To drown in the Nile is to be blessed in Osiris. Do you know the story of his death and resurrection? Let me tell it to you.
“It was Osiris who brought the gift of civilization to the world, at the dawn of history. Before Osiris, men were cannibals; Osiris taught them to grow crops and to harvest the fish of the sea, and he gave them much more—the first temples in which to worship the gods, the first cities and laws, even the first instruments with which to make music. The type of flute that my father loved so much to play was invented by Osiris himself.
“Osiris ruled the earth, and all men loved him. But by his very goodness Osiris incurred the jealousy of his wicked brother Set, who devised a plot to destroy him. Set made a wonderful box, and at a banquet of the gods, he promised it to the one whose body best fit the box. When Osiris lay in the box, Set covered it and sealed it with molten lead, then cast the box into the Nile.
“Isis, the sister and wife of Osiris, followed the box and retrieved it. When she opened it, Osiris was dead. But by her magic, Isis made his flesh incorruptible and restored him to life. Osiris might have retaken his throne, but instead he chose to retire beyond this world to the Kingdom of the Dead, where he welcomes the souls of the just.”
I bowed my head. “What has this to do with Bethesda?” I whispered.
“We are all composed of four elements: fire, earth, air, and water. To perish in the Nile is to be absolved of the elements of earth and water, which join with the mud of the river. Your wife is all fire and air now. It doesn’t matter that she wasn’t mummified. If she drowned in the Nile, in emulation of Osiris, she passed from this world directly into the god’s embrace. She received the gift of immortality. You should rejoice for her!”
I averted my gaze. “You speak of things about which I know very little. As I said, Roman religion is not as . . . conversant . . . with the afterworld as is the religion of Egypt.”
“You may be ignorant of these matters, Gordianus, but clearly, your wife was not. She chose the time and the place and the manner of her going. How many mortals can hope for as much?”
“Unless they have access to Nemesis-in-a-bottle,” I muttered under my breath, thinking of the vial Cornelia had given me.
The queen frowned. “What did you say?”
“Nothing, Your Majesty. A passing thought of no importance.”
Cratipus came running. “Your Majesty! Other visitors are arriving.”
“The guests I invited for the midday meal?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Tell Apollodorus to escort them to the little terrace that faces the city. Caesar likes to dine outside.”
“Caesar?” I said. “I should leave now. If Merianis, or someone else, can escort me—”
“Leave? Nonsense! You’ll stay, Gordianus, and take the meal with us. My cooks have prepared a poached octopus, and Caesar has promised to bring an amphora of Falernian wine—a rare treat! In recent years, good Italian wines have become as scarce as snowfalls in Egypt. I’m told that this amphora came from Pompey’s private store, which Caesar seized when he overran the Great One’s camp at Pharsalus.”
“Your Majesty, I’ve no desire to drink a dead man’s wine.”
“Then I’ll have an Egyptian beer decanted for you. Come, Merianis! Show Gordianus the way to the dining terrace.”
CHAPTER XX
We ascended a flight of marble steps to a flagstone terrace. A railing supported by squat columns overlooked a sheer drop to the water below. On either side, the terrace was flanked by tall palm trees and leafy plants. Behind us rose a windowless wall with a door that gave access to the interior. Dining couches had been set out in a semicircle facing the city, so that each had a view of the sunlit waterfront of Alexandria and its reflection in the harbor.
The queen sat back on the most opulent of the couches, which was strewn with purple cushions. She rested on one elbow and reclined so that one of her feet touched the ground. The pose showed off the lines of her figure; the linen gown clung to her heavy breasts and the sensuous curves of her hips, thighs, and calves. The jewels that adorned her sandals glinted in the dappled sunlight.
Merianis took up a position behind the couch to the queen’s left and indicated that I should stand beside her.
A few moments later, Apollodorus appeared. He wore no more clothing than before, but he had ornamented himself with a silver pectoral for the occasion. The hammered metal accentuated the muscles of his bare chest. He made obeisance to the queen. “Your guest has arrived, Your Majesty.”
Cleopatra nodded. “You may go, Apollodorus. I’ll summon you if I need you.”
As Apollodorus turned and disappeared down the steps, the bald pate of Caesar came into view, followed by Caesar’s beaming face. He was wearing his consular toga. He mounted the final step and strode onto the terrace. His smile faded, but only a little, at the sight of me.
“The queen of Egypt welcomes the consul of Rome,” said Cleopatra. “But where are the consul’s lictors?”
“I left them down at the harbor.” Caesar approached the queen, making no pretense of bowing. Clearly, in such a setting, there was no need for formality between them. They exchanged a lovers’ gaze: relaxed, intimate, confident of reciprocity. She offered her hand; Caesar took it and gave her a lingering kiss, not upon the back of her hand but upon the palm.
Caesar glanced at me. “Do we have another guest?”
“It chanced that Gordianus was here; Merianis brought him, knowing I desired to meet him. Don’t worry, there’ll be enough octopus for us all. But will there be enough Falernian?”
“Of that, have no fear,” said Caesar. A moment later, Meto arrived on the terrace. He was dressed in his finest military regalia, bearing an amphora in his arms as one might carry an infant. He grimaced when he saw me, but said nothing.
I observed the amphora. It was typical in shape, with little handles near the wide-mouthed top and a rounded bottom; it was designed not to stand upright but to be laid lengthwise alongside other amphorae for shipment and storage. The top was stopped with a cork sealed with red wax. Along the side several words had been etched in the clay in letters large enough to be read at a glance:
The Judgment of Caesar: A Novel of Ancient Rome Page 21