FALERNIAN
OPEN ONLY IN THE PRESENCE OF
GNAEUS POMPEY MAGNUS
“The wine comes from Pompey’s private store,” said Caesar. “When we overran his camp at Pharsalus, I found his pavilion abandoned but laid out as if for a great banquet—silver plates, great portions of roasted game, and this very amphora of Falernian wine sitting upright on a stand beside Pompey’s dining couch, ready to be unsealed and opened and decanted into pitchers. He escaped at the very last moment, leaving his victory banquet untouched. Pompey must have brought this amphora from his own cellars in Rome, lugging it all over Greece and waiting for the proper occasion to drink from it. You can see his personal seal, the letters ‘M-A-G-N-V-S,’ impressed in the wax. His ring fits the impression exactly.”
Caesar produced the ring King Ptolemy had presented to him, which he kept on a silver chain around his neck. While Meto held the amphora steady, Caesar, holding the ring between his fingers—superstitious about slipping Pompey’s signet ring onto his own finger?—demonstrated how the seal had been impressed in the red wax, fitting the ring into the impression.
“Let’s open it at once,” suggested Cleopatra.
Meto sat on a couch and set the amphora upright into a clay stand on the floor between his knees. He produced a short knife, with which he carefully sliced away the sealing wax. He gently pulled out the cork stopper. Merianis brought a silver pitcher, but before Meto could fill the pitcher with wine, the queen lifted her hand.
“Stop! Before the first pitcher is filled, let Caesar receive the first taste from the amphora itself.”
Caesar smiled. “A kind gesture, Your Majesty. But I think the first taste must go to my hostess, the queen of Egypt.”
Cleopatra shook her head and smiled. Every exchange between them became a flirtation. “The queen declines. The queen insists that Pompey’s conqueror should enjoy the first taste of Pompey’s wine. And I know just the cup from which you should drink it! Merianis, fetch the cups of beaten gold I received on my nuptial day.”
Merianis disappeared into the palace for a moment, then returned bearing two cups fashioned in the old Greek style—wide, shallow bowls with stout bases and handles, made not of painted clay but of gold.
Rising from her couch, Cleopatra took one of the cups from Merianis and displayed it to Caesar. “These cups were presented to me and my brother on the day of our royal marriage—a gift from the king of Parthia. Are they not beautiful?”
“Quite,” said Caesar. “But is it proper that I should drink from one?” “It is proper if I say it is proper,” said the queen. “My brother’s lips shall never touch this cup, any more than his lips shall touch my own. There’s only one man’s lips I want upon this cup; only one man’s lips I want to kiss my own.” She put her face close to his, and for a moment I thought they would kiss; but at the last moment she drew back and flashed a teasing smile. Merianis laughed, and I recalled that she had done much the same thing to Apollodorus earlier. Which of the women was emulating the other? They both seemed impossibly young to me at that moment—not a goddess-queen and her priestess but two flirtatious girls. Whatever Caesar saw, he liked it; the vaguely stupid look on his face was that of a man so smitten he doesn’t care who knows it. Meto, still sitting with the amphora between his knees, saw what I saw, and glowered.
Cleopatra turned to Meto, bearing the golden cup aloft. “Glum Meto! The very picture of the earnest Roman—never a smile for the queen of Egypt!” Meto sought to change his expression and managed an unconvincing, lopsided smile. “Stand up, glum Roman, and pour a splash of wine for your consul!”
Meto stood and lifted the amphora. Pouring a small amount from the long, heavy vessel into the wide cup presented a challenge, but he managed to do so without spilling a drop. When he was done, he replaced the amphora in its stand and put the cork back into the opening.
Cleopatra, walking slowly and carefully, carried the cup to Caesar. He took it in both hands and raised the rim to his lips, smiling at Cleopatra across the dark expanse of wine that reflected both their faces.
Cleopatra smiled back at him; then a shadow crossed her face. “Wait! The wine hasn’t been tasted!” She pulled it from Caesar’s lips. A tiny portion spilled from the rim and splashed onto the paving stone at her feet.
“Tasted?” said Caesar. “But surely there’s no need for that. The wine came from Pompey’s private store with the seal intact.”
“Seals can be penetrated, and so can cork,” said Cleopatra. “What was I thinking? The wine must be tasted first.”
“But surely—” said Meto, looking exasperated.
“No! It must be tasted. That was one of the first lessons my father ever taught me. All food and drink must be tasted, without exception. Enjoyment of the moment blinded me. Merianis, fetch Zoë!”
Merianis, anticipating the queen’s desire, had already stepped inside. She returned a moment later with a demure young slave girl who carried with her an ordinary clay drinking vessel. Cleopatra handed the wine-filled cup to Merianis. Merianis poured a tiny portion of the wine from the gold cup into the clay vessel held by Zoë, since protocol would not permit the lips of the taster to touch the golden cup intended for the queen’s consort.
Meto stiffened his jaw; I assumed he was impatient with the queen’s intensely suspicious Egyptian ways. Caesar appeared mildly amused, but at the same time slightly disturbed, for the queen seemed to be acting as much upon a premonition as upon the training she had received as a child. Like Caesar, I, too, had seen the agitation on Cleopatra’s face when she withdrew the cup from his lips, and the sudden look of fear in her eyes.
Without self-consciousness—for she was used to being watched when she ate—the girl Zoë put the clay vessel to her lips and drank. She lowered the vessel and wiped a bit of red wine from her lips. Her features assumed a curious expression. “Your Majesty . . .”
A wrinkle appeared across Caesar’s forehead. Cleopatra peered at the slave girl apprehensively. “Yes, Zoë? What is it?”
“Your Majesty . . .”
I held my breath.
“Your Majesty, I have tasted many wines for you—but never a wine as fine as this one!”
The tension evaporated. Caesar laughed softly. Cleopatra sighed. Meto gave a snort as if to say, “What were you all so worried about?”
Zoë grinned. “Your Majesty, I don’t exaggerate! I’ve never tasted anything like it. Falernian I’ve tasted before—though not in a long time—but it was never this fine. It’s hard to explain. . . .”
“Then I suppose we must find out for ourselves,” said the queen. “Go now, Zoë. Come back when the first course is presented.”
But the girl did not move. “As I said, Falernian I’ve tasted before, but never . . . never like this one. . . .” Her eyes, staring straight ahead, took
on a glassy look.
“I said that you may go,” said Cleopatra sharply.
Zoë ignored her. Her words began to slur together. “The flavor . . . the flavor is like fire . . . like something burning in my throat, and all the way down into my belly. A sweet fire . . . not at all unpleasant . . . but burning nonetheless. Oh, Your Majesty! Oh! I think there was something wrong with that wine!”
Zoë dropped the clay vessel. Everyone drew back, startled by the hollow explosion of the clay shattering on the flagstones.
Zoë fell to her knees, trembling violently. “Your Majesty! Your Majesty, help me, please!”
Cleopatra hurried to the girl’s side. She knelt and took Zoë’s convulsing body in her arms. Zoë gazed up at her, glassy eyed but with a look of mingled reverence and trust. She lifted her face as if in expectation of a kiss. The queen closed her eyes and put her lips to those of Zoë as the girl released her final exhalation. The convulsions abruptly ceased. The body of Zoë went limp.
Cleopatra held the dead slave girl in her arms, closed her eyes, and chanted softly. The chant was Egyptian, perhaps a song for the dead. For as long as the queen
chanted and kept her eyes shut, a spell seemed to be cast over everyone present. No one moved.
I stared, dumbfounded at what I was seeing. Cleopatra was not only the girl’s mistress and queen; she was her goddess as well, whose divine agency at the very moment of death might serve to convey a lowly slave to immortality in the lands beyond life.
When Cleopatra opened her eyes, I saw that she had been doing more than chanting. Some furious calculation appeared to have taken place, reflected in the fiery blaze of her eyes. She called to Merianis, who put aside the gold cup, ran to the queen, and knelt beside her. They exchanged hushed, urgent words. Merianis looked over her shoulder at Meto, her expression so wild that I felt a stab of dread. Meto, too, sensed something terrible in her gaze, for I saw him blanch. Caesar caught the looks that shot between them, and on his face I saw a mask of puzzlement.
Merianis appeared to resist whatever Cleopatra was suggesting, until at last the queen raised her voice. “Go, then, and do as I say! Bring Apollodorus!”
Merianis rose to her feet and ran from the terrace.
Caesar looked at the amphora of wine, which had been replaced in the stand on the paving stones. He looked at Meto, who stood over the amphora, then at Cleopatra and the dead slave. “What in Hades just happened here?”
Meto looked down at the amphora. “Poisoned!” he muttered. “It must be. Somehow . . .” He reached down as if to pull out the cork stopper again.
“No!” Caesar shouted. “Don’t touch it!” It was understandable that he should speak with alarm, but the look he cast at Meto was tinged with suspicion. He strode toward Cleopatra, but she held up her hand to signal that he should stay back.
“Zoë’s ka—what you call the lemur—is still not free from her body. I sense it, still clinging to her flesh. Her death was so unexpected that the ka remains confused, trapped between this world and the next. Be silent. Don’t move.”
“But I intend to call for my lictors—”
“Silence!” said Cleopatra, gazing up at him with fire in her eyes. I looked on, amazed, as a twenty-one-year-old girl commanded the world’s most powerful man to be still, and he obeyed.
And so we stood, motionless like actors on a stage at the final tableau. Surrounded by stillness, I became conscious of the many sounds of the harbor, muted by distance and the gardens enclosing us—shouts of men working on the waterfront, the shriek of gulls, the susurrant voice of the restless water itself. Dappled sunlight danced upon the flagstones. The moment took on a hard-edged clarity that seemed at once dreamlike and more real than real. I felt light-headed, and despite the queen’s command that no one should move, I sat on one of the couches and briefly shut my eyes.
At last Merianis came running up the steps. I could see she had been weeping, no doubt shaken by the turn of events. Apollodorus followed behind her, looking grim.
Cleopatra stood. The body of Zoë slipped from her embrace and crumpled, like a cast-off garment, on the paving stones. Presumably the restless ka had been dispatched, for the queen paid no more attention to the corpse.
She raised her arm and pointed at Meto. “I want his person searched.”
Meto’s face grew long. Caesar stiffened his jaw and nodded. “Of course, Your Majesty. It shall be done. I shall call my lictors and see to it at once.”
“No! I summoned Apollodorus for the purpose. Apollodorus shall search him.”
Caesar worked his jaw back and forth. “I think, Your Majesty, that in these circumstances, it would be best—”
“This is my home,” said Cleopatra. “It’s my slave who lies dead. It was my cup that was poisoned—”
“A cup intended for my lips,” said Caesar.
“Filled with wine poured by your man—the same glum-looking Roman who carried the wine here. No, Caesar, I must insist that one of my men perform the task of searching Meto’s person.”
Caesar considered this for a long moment. He turned toward Meto but did not quite look him in the eye, then turned back to Cleopatra. “Very well, Your Majesty. Let Apollodorus search him. Step forward, Meto. Raise your arms and let the fellow do what he must.”
Meto looked indignant, but obeyed. His jaw twitched; I knew he wanted badly to cast a scathing look at the queen, but his discipline held firm, and instead he kept his gaze straight ahead.
Apollodorus ran his hands over Meto’s shoulders, limbs, and torso, poking his fingers among the leather straps and buckles. Meto grunted and ground his jaw. Cleopatra stepped closer and watched intently. Caesar’s gaze shifted apprehensively from Meto to Cleopatra and back again. Merianis, who had withdrawn to another part of the terrace, hid her face and began to weep.
Apollodorus stiffened. “Your Majesty . . .”
“What is it, Apollodorus? What have you found?”
From between two straps of leather attached to Meto’s breastplate, Apollodorus produced a small white object, cylindrical in shape. Caesar leaned forward, as did Cleopatra. I rose from the couch, still light-headed, and moved toward Meto, feeling a sudden premonition of catastrophe.
Apollodorus held the object aloft between his thumb and forefinger. It was a tiny vial made of alabaster.
I could not stop myself; I gasped.
As one, all four turned their gazes on me—Caesar, Cleopatra, Apollodorus, and Meto, whose eyes finally made contact with mine for the first time that day. The look on his face froze my blood.
“Papa!” he whispered hoarsely.
Caesar snatched the vial from Apollodorus. He thrust it under my nose. “What is this, Gordianus?”
I stared at it. The stopper was gone. Though the vial was empty, I caught a faint whiff of the not unpleasant odor I had smelled when I sniffed its contents aboard Pompey’s ship. There could be no doubt; this was the vial Cornelia had given me.
Caesar’s nose was almost touching mine. “Speak, Finder! I command you! What do you know about this?”
From behind him, I heard the calm, but demanding, voice of Cleopatra. “Yes, Gordianus. Tell us what you know about this alabaster vial that Apollodorus found upon the person of your son.”
CHAPTER XXI
An hour later, in a kind of stupor, I was back in my room, sifting through the contents of my traveling chest. Roman soldiers dispatched by Caesar stood by, watching my every movement. Rupa stood across the room, and the boys sat on the windowsill. I had not yet told them the details of what had transpired, but they knew that something terrible must have occurred. The boys were calming themselves by stroking Alexander the cat, who sat purring between them, oblivious to the tension in the room.
“It’s not here,” I muttered. Carefully, methodically, I had removed every item from the trunk and spread them across my bed. Now, just as methodically, I replaced each object into the trunk, shaking tunics to make sure nothing was hidden in the folds, opening Bethesda’s little trinket boxes to be certain that no alabaster vial was hidden inside.
The search was fruitless. The vial Cornelia had given me was no longer in my possession; Apollodorus had discovered it upon Meto’s person. Nonetheless, I had been praying for some miracle whereby I would find the vial in my chest after all, with its stopper and contents intact. Now there could be no doubt. The poison Cornelia had given me—quick to act, relatively painless—must have been the same poison that killed Cleopatra’s taster.
My reaction when I first saw the vial in Apollodorus’s hand had been so spontaneous, so damning, that dissembling was futile. No lie fabricated on the spot would have satisfied Caesar. Nor was silence an option; refusing to speak would have pitted my will against his, and against the will of Cleopatra as well. Both of them had long experience in obtaining information from unwilling subjects. I might have withstood a degree of suffering, but there were Rupa and the boys to consider. I would not allow harm to be done to them, even for the sake of protecting Meto.
And there lay the bitter irony: After all my protestations that Meto was no longer my son, that our relationship was over, and that he meant noth
ing to me, my first instinct had been to protect him. Caesar had seen through me at once. “If Meto truly means nothing to you, Finder, then why do you not speak?” he had demanded. “A woman lies dead. But for the queen’s action, it would have been me! What do you know about this alabaster vial? Speak! If I have to force you to talk, I will. Neither of us wishes for that to happen, do we, Finder?”
So I told him where the vial had come from and how it had come to be in my possession. When had I last seen it? I couldn’t say for certain. (In fact, my last memory of seeing it was the day that Meto had noticed it, when I gave him a keepsake from Bethesda.) How had it come to be in the possession of Meto? I attempted to dissemble, saying I had no idea; but hearing the threat in Caesar’s tone, Meto himself spoke up.
“I saw it among Papa’s things, on the night I went to visit him in his room. He kept it in his trunk. I told him to get rid of it. I was thinking he might be tempted . . . to use it himself. But from that moment to this, I never saw it again—not until this Sicilian produced it out of thin air, like a magic trick!”
“Are you saying Apollodorus himself was carrying the vial?” said Caesar.
“We know already how talented he is at making things appear from nowhere.” Meto glowered at the queen.
“Enough!” said Caesar. “The one thing we know for certain is that father and son both knew of this poison, and here you both are, together with the vial that contained it and the slave who died from drinking it. Meto, Meto! I never imagined . . .”
“Consul, wait!” I shook my head. “Perhaps there’s been a mistake.”
“What sort of mistake?”
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