Domitius glanced up to where Adàn had climbed the mast. Even so far above their heads, the Spaniard’s voice could be heard as he sang some ballad from his youth.
The quaestor of the tiny coastal port spoke excellent Latin, though he had grown up in sight of the local barracks. He was a short, dark man who bowed as Julius entered the dock buildings and did not rise until permission came.
‘Consul,’ he said. ‘You are welcome here.’
‘How long since Pompey’s riders left this place?’ Julius asked impatiently.
The little man did not hesitate and Julius realised Pompey had left no orders to stop the pursuit. He had not expected them to cross against his galleys. It gave Julius hope that Pompey might have slowed his pace.
‘The Dictator left last night, Consul. Is your business urgent? I can have messengers sent south if you wish.’
Julius blinked in surprise. ‘No. I am hunting the man. I do not want him warned.’
The quaestor looked confused. In two days, he had seen more foreign soldiers than at any other point in his life. It would be a story for his children that he had spoken with not one but two of the masters of Rome.
‘Then I wish you luck in the hunt, Consul,’ he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
They sighted Pompey’s riders after four days of hard marching. They had made good time heading south and when at last the scouts rode in with the news, Julius’ men let out a great cheer. It had been a long chase, but when the horns sounded and they formed ranks for an attack, they were ready to crush the enemy for the last time.
Pompey’s men heard the horns and Julius could only imagine the fear and consternation in their ranks. These were the same extraordinarii who had run at Pharsalus. To find themselves hunted in another country would be a terrible blow. They had been beaten once and Julius did not doubt his men could do it again. It gave him pleasure to outnumber Pompey’s small force, as he had been at Pharsalus. Let them know what it felt like to face so many warriors bent on their destruction.
In the distance, Julius saw the ranks of Roman horsemen wheel, turning to face the threat. It was a hopeless gesture, but he admired their courage. Perhaps they wished to wipe the slate clean for the rout they had suffered before. He saw them kick their mounts into a steady trot back towards the Tenth and he showed his teeth in anticipation, looking for Pompey’s red cloak amongst them.
Along the ranks of the Tenth and Fourth, the legionaries readied spears. As the thunder of hooves came to them, they lifted their heads, swept up in savagery that was a little like joy.
‘Go, sir, please! Let us hold them here,’ the decurion, Casitas, shouted to Pompey.
The Dictator sat as if stunned. He had not spoken since the first appalling moment when Roman war horns had sounded behind. It was not a sound he had ever expected to hear again.
As he watched the legions from Pharsalus, Pompey mopped at a dark stain on his lips and considered riding with the last of his armies. It would be a grand gesture perhaps. The poets of Rome would write it into their ballads when they spoke of his life.
His vision blurred as his pain writhed inside him. He wore armour no longer, having none that could contain the swelling. It grew daily, pressing up into his lungs until it was hard to breathe. There were times when he would have given anything just to slip into the peaceful dark. He dreamed of an end to the agony and as he patted his horse’s neck he yearned to kick his mount into a last gallop.
‘Sir! You can get clear. The coast is only a few miles further south,’ Casitas bellowed, trying to break through the stupor that held his commanding general.
Pompey blinked slowly, then Caesar’s legions seemed to sharpen in his vision and his wits returned. He looked across at the decurion. The man was desperate for Pompey to ride and his eyes pleaded.
‘Do what you can,’ Pompey said at last and somehow, over the noise of the horses, Casitas heard and nodded in relief. He called quick orders to those around him.
‘Fall out, Quintus! Take Lucius and go with the consul. We will hold them as long as we can.’
The named riders pulled out of the formation to Pompey’s side. Pompey looked around him at the men who had come so far from home. The vagueness that had smothered his mind as the sickness worsened seemed to have lifted for a few precious moments.
‘I have been well served by you all,’ he called to them.
He turned his back and as he rode away he heard the order given to begin the advance that would end in a desperate blow against Caesar’s soldiers.
The sea was not too far away and there would be ships there to take him clear of Roman lands at last. He would lose himself where Rome had no authority and Julius could search for years without finding him.
Pompey patted the leather bag that was strapped to his saddle, taking comfort from the gold within. He would not be poor when he reached the ports of Egypt. They had healers there who would take away the pain at last.
The Tenth and Fourth launched their spears less than thirty feet from the charging line. The heavy shafts destroyed the first horses and hampered those behind as they found the way blocked. The veteran legions moved quickly forward, darting in to gut the milling horses and pull men down from saddles. They had fought cavalry in Gaul and had no fear of the stamping, rearing beasts.
Pompey’s riders did not give their lives easily and Julius was staggered at their recklessness. Even when it was hopeless, they fought on with grim despair. He could hardly believe they were the same soldiers he had seen fleeing the plain of Pharsalus.
The field was filled with guttural shouts and the hacking sound of metal cutting flesh. Julius’ own riders had moved to flank the single charge and began to batter them on all sides. They trampled purple flowers under the feet of their mounts, spattering the ground with strips of blood until they were numb with killing.
When Pompey’s men were reduced to less than a thousand, Julius signalled the cornicens to sound the disengage. His legions stepped back from piles of broken flesh, and in the lull he offered an end to it.
‘What does it profit you to fight to the last?’ he shouted to them.
One man in the armour of a decurion rode up and saluted, his face grim.
‘It is not such a great thing, to die here,’ Casitas said. ‘Our honour is restored.’
‘I grant you all honour, Decurion. Accept my pardon and tell your men to stand down.’
Casitas smiled and shook his head. ‘It is not yours to offer,’ he said, turning his horse away.
Julius gave him time to reach his companions before he sent the legions in once more. It took a long time to kill them all. When there were no more than a few weary men standing on the red field, he tried for peace a final time and was refused. The last man alive had lost his horse and still raised his sword as he was smashed from his feet.
The legionaries did not cheer the victory. They stood, bloody and panting, like dogs in the sun. The silence stretched across the field and there were many in the ranks who whispered prayers for the men they had faced.
Julius shook his head in awe at what he had witnessed. He barely noticed as the search began for the body of Pompey. When it was not found, Julius looked south, his face thoughtful.
‘He did not deserve such loyalty,’ he said. ‘Find me a clear spot to make a camp and rest. We will move on tomorrow when we have honoured our Roman dead. Make no distinction between them. They were men of the same city.’
In three merchant ships, only the two thousand survivors of Julius’ beloved Tenth made the final crossing to Alexandria. His extraordinarii had been left behind with the Fourth to wait for transport. He did not know if he could find Pompey there. The land had never been conquered by Rome and all he knew of the customs were memories taught to him as a child. It was Alexander’s city, named for him. Though Egypt was another world to Julius, Alexandria was the resting place of the Greek king he had idolised all his life.
The mark he had left on the world had endure
d for centuries and even the Egyptian kings were descended from one of Alexander’s generals, Ptolemy. If Pompey had not fled across the sea to escape him, Julius knew he might well have travelled there just to see the glories he had heard described as a boy. He remembered standing once at a broken statue of the Greek king and wondering if his own life could be used so well. Now he would step onto the soil of Egypt as ruler of the greatest empire in the world. He need not bow his head to any man, or any man’s memory.
The thought brought a wave of homesickness as he realised spring would have come in the forum in Rome. The orators would be addressing the crowds, teaching points of philosophy and law for small coins. Julius had spent only a few months in his birthplace in almost twenty years and grown old in her service. He had left his youth on foreign lands and lost more than Rome had ever given him.
What had he gained in comparison to the lives of men he called friends? It was strange to think that he had spent the years so freely. He had earned the right to be first in his city, but he could take no joy in it. Perhaps the path had changed him, but he had expected more.
The main entrance to the port of Alexandria was through a deep-water passage between enclosing arms of rock that made the experienced men frown. The gap through which they sailed was narrow enough to be easily blocked and Julius could not escape the feeling that the harbour was a natural trap.
As the ships glided under sail towards the docks, the heat seemed to increase and Julius wiped sweat from his brow. The soldiers on deck gestured in amazement at a vast square column of white marble built at the edge of the port. It stood higher than any building in Rome and Julius was touched by nostalgia for the days when he had nothing more to fear than a whipping from his tutors. The Pharos lighthouse had seemed impossibly distant then. He had never expected to pass so close and he craned his neck with the others, lost in wonder. Somewhere in the city lay the greatest library in the world, containing all the works of philosophy and mathematics that had ever been written. It was somehow obscene to bring his killers into such a place of wealth and learning, but soon his vengeance would be over and he would be free to see the lands of gold.
The water was busy with hundreds of other craft carrying the trade of nations. Julius’ merchant captains had to work to avoid collision as they approached the spit of land reaching out into the perfect anchorage that had once attracted Alexander.
Julius turned his gaze at last to the city, frowning as distant figures resolved into armed warriors, waiting on the docks. He saw bows and spears held upright. The front ranks carried oval shields, though they wore no armour and only a breechcloth and sandals, leaving their chests bare. It was clear enough that they were not Roman. They could not have been.
At their head stood a tall man in bulky robes that glittered in the sun. The man’s gaze could be felt even at a distance and Julius swallowed dryly. Were they there to welcome him or prevent a landing? Julius felt the first prickle of alarm as he saw that the closest soldiers carried drawn swords of bronze, gleaming like gold.
‘Let me go first, sir,’ Octavian murmured at his shoulder. The legionaries of the Tenth had fallen silent as they caught sight of the army on the docks and they were listening.
‘No,’ Julius replied without turning round. He would not show fear in the face of these strange people. The consul of Rome walked where he chose.
The corvus bridge was lowered with ropes and Julius walked over it. He heard the clatter of iron studs as his men followed and he sensed Octavian close at his side. With deliberate dignity, Julius strode to the man who waited for him.
‘My name is Porphiris, courtier to King Ptolemy, thirteenth of that name,’ the man began, his voice oddly sibilant. ‘He who is King of lower and upper Egypt, who displays the regalia and propitiates the gods. He who is beloved …’
‘I am looking for a man of Rome,’ Julius interrupted, pitching his voice to carry. He ignored the shock and anger in Porphiris’ eyes. ‘I know he came here and I want him brought to me.’
Porphiris bowed his head, concealing his dislike. ‘We have received word from the merchants of your search, Consul. Know that Egypt is a friend of Rome. My king was distressed to think of your armies clashing in our fragile cities and prepared a gift to you.’
Julius narrowed his eyes as the ranks of armed men parted and a muscular slave walked forward with a measured tread. He carried a clay vessel in his outstretched arms. Julius saw figures of great beauty worked into the surface.
As it was placed at his feet, the slave stood back and knelt on the docks. Julius met the gaze of the king’s representative and did not move. His question had not been answered and he felt his temper fray. He did not know what they expected of him.
‘Where is Pompey?’ he demanded. ‘I …’
‘Please. Open the jar,’ the man replied.
With an impatient jerk, Julius removed the lid. He cried out in horror then and the lid slipped from his fingers to shatter on the stones.
Pompey’s sightless eyes looked up from under fragrant oil. Julius could see the gleam of his Senate ring resting against his pale cheek. He reached slowly down and broke the surface, touching the cold flesh as he drew out the gold band.
He had met Pompey first in the old senate house, when Julius had been little more than a boy. He recalled the sense of awe he had felt in the presence of legends like Marius, Cicero, Sulla and a young general named Gnaeus Pompey. It had been Pompey who cleared the Mare Internum of pirates in forty days. It had been he who broke the rebellion under Spartacus. For all he had become an enemy, Julius had bound his family and his fate with Pompey in a triumvirate to rule.
There were too many names on the scrolls of the dead, too many who had fallen. Pompey had been a proud man. He deserved better than to be murdered by the hands of strangers, far from home.
In front of them all, Julius wept.
PART TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
As the chamber doors swung silently open, Julius caught his breath at what he saw within. He had expected his audience to take the form of a private meeting, but the vast hall was filled with hundreds of royal subjects, leaving only the central aisle free right up to the throne. They turned to see him and he was astonished at the range of colours that swirled and mingled. This was the court of the king, painted and bejewelled in opulence.
Lamps on heavy chains swung in unseen currents above his head as he crossed the threshold, trying not to show his awe. It was not an easy task. Everywhere he looked, there were black basalt statues of Egyptian gods looming over the courtiers. Among them, he recognised the figures of Greek deities and he could only shake his head in amazement when he saw the features of Alexander himself. The Greek legacy was everywhere, from the architecture to the customs of dress, subtly blended with the Egyptian until there was nowhere else like Alexandria.
The scent of pungent incense was strong enough to make Julius feel drowsy and he had to concentrate to keep his wits about him. He wore his best armour and cloak, but against the finery of the courtiers he felt shabby and unprepared. He raised his head in irritation as he felt the pressure of hundreds of eyes on him. He had seen the edges of the world. He would not be cowed by gold and granite.
The throne of kings lay at the far end of the hall and Julius strode towards its occupant. His footsteps clicked loudly and, like gaudy insects, the courtiers ceased all movement as he approached. Julius glanced to his side and saw that Porphiris was keeping pace without a sound. Julius had heard rumours of eunuchs serving the kingdoms of the east and wondered if Porphiris was one of that strange breed.
The long walk towards the throne seemed to take forever, and Julius found to his annoyance that it was raised on a stone dais so that he must look up as a petitioner to the king. He halted as two of Ptolemy’s personal guard stepped across his path, blocking it with ornate staffs of gold. Julius frowned, refusing to be impressed. He thought Ptolemy regarded him with interest, though it was hard to be certain. The king wore
a gold headdress and mask that obscured all but his eyes. His robes too had threads of that metal woven into them, so that he gleamed. Even with slaves to fan him, Julius could only guess at the heat of wearing such a thing in the stifling chamber. Porphiris stepped forward.
‘I present Gaius Julius Caesar,’ Porphiris said, his voice echoing, ‘consul of Roman lands, of Italy, Greece, of Cyprus and Crete, Sardinia and Sicily, of Gaul, of Spain and of the African provinces.’
‘You are welcome here,’ Ptolemy replied and Julius hid his surprise at the soft, high-pitched tone. The voice of a young boy was hard to reconcile with the wealth and power he had seen, or with a queen renowned for her beauty and intelligence. Julius found himself hesitating. Fumes of myrrh hung in his throat, making him want to cough.
‘I am grateful for the quarters provided to me, great king,’ Julius said after a moment.
Another man stood to one side of the golden figure and leaned down to whisper into his ear before drawing himself up. Julius glanced at him, noting the vulpine features of a true Egyptian. His eyelids were stained with some dark sheen that gave him an eerie, almost feminine beauty. There was no Greek blood in this one, Julius thought.
‘I speak with Ptolemy’s voice,’ the man said, staring into Julius’ eyes. ‘We honour great Rome that has brought trade here for generations. We have watched her rise from simple herdsmen into the glorious strength she has today.’
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