Cleopatra's Heir

by Gillian Bradshaw

  “You know of him?”

  “We heard enough of his victories,” Caesarion replied, relieved. “And I’m familiar with his poetry.”

  The old centurion looked around sharply, seeming alarmed—but at that moment one of the general’s attendants summoned them in.

  There was no air of virtuous simplicity about the pavilion of General Cornelius Gallus. The tent was divided into rooms by curtains worked with crimson and gold, and lamps on gilded stands burning scented oil revealed rich carpets and elegant tables and couches. The attendant showed them through an entranceway into an inner room where the general, resplendent in a long crimson cloak and the purple-striped tunic of his rank, sat examining papers at a table of ivory and polished citronwood.

  Gallus looked up. He was a handsome man of middle age, fair-haired and clean-shaven. The centurion saluted him crisply and stood to attention.

  “So,” said Gallus pleasantly. “Centurion Hortalus. You said it was about a malicious charge by a Greek merchant.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Hortalus. “Yesterday a Greek from Coptos, Aristodemos son of Patroklos delivered a sworn accusation to your staff in which he stated that an Alexandrian named Arion, a former Friend of the king, had set out from Coptos with the intention of stirring up anti-Roman sentiment during your expedition up the river. This Arion, he claimed, had fled Berenike after the king’s death, and had brought with him a cargo of valuable incense, which he intended to sell to fund his activities. He was assisted, claimed Aristodemos, by an Egyptian, Ani son of Petesuchos, a known troublemaker from the Coptos region. Aristodemos said that he wished to prove his loyalty to the new government by informing us of this, and provided a description of the men and of the barge on which they were traveling. Inquiries about him confirmed that he is a wealthy merchant and landowner, an important man in Coptos, where he has at one time or another held most of the civic offices.

  “The matter was placed in my hands, and I had men keeping a watch for the barge, which duly docked in Ptolemais this afternoon. I arrested Ani son of Petesuchos and the men with him, but Arion had, they told us, gone into town with Ani’s wife and daughter before our troops were able to arrive. I sent some men into the town to look for them, and I set a watch on the boat.”

  “That’s Ani, is it?” Gallus asked, surveying the prisoner doubtfully.

  “No, sir: Arion.—May I finish? When I questioned Ani son of Petesuchos, he at once swore that Aristodemos had brought the charge out of malice, because he himself had supplanted Aristodemos in a partnership with a Red Sea trader named Kleon. He claimed the valuable cargo—which does indeed exist, and is on the barge—belongs to the trader in question, and that he is transporting it to Alexandria to sell on commission. Arion, he said, was merely a young Greek officer whom he had found half dead in the road near Berenike after our forces took the king’s camp, who had agreed to write letters for him in exchange for his passage back to Alexandria. Ani persisted in this story under strict questioning, and the men with him confirmed it, very noisily, I will add, with many curses of Aristodemos and quite a few of Arion. I was determined to find Arion before I believed a word of it.”

  “It seems you found him.”

  “Indeed, sir. And I am now confident that the charge was indeed malicious. Arion has provided documents which demonstrate convincingly that the cargo belongs to Kleon, that Ani is acting on Kleon’s behalf, and that the cargo has been legally imported and taxed. As for Arion, I cannot believe that he is an anti-Roman agitator. He’s half Roman himself, and speaks fluent Latin.”

  “Does he, by Jupiter! I thought he looked as though he understood us.”

  “Too well, sir. He at once suggested that Aristodemos’ accusation amounted to an attempt ‘to pervert the majesty of Roman law.’”

  “Did you?” Gallus asked Caesarion directly, frowning.

  Caesarion bowed, though his head was still swimming. “General, he was attempting to abuse you to satisfy his personal grudge against Ani. The town of Coptos would have no doubt whatever that the charge was false—Ani and Aristodemos are both well known there, and after he lost the partnership Aristodemos swore openly that he would do something to revenge himself. For you to believe the charge and punish Ani would damage the respect the people of Coptos ought to have for Rome. But I am far more concerned about Ani and myself than I am about Aristodemos.”

  “Jupiter!” exclaimed Gallus, startled. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard such fluent Latin from a Greek. You’re half Roman, and were a Friend of the king?”

  “Yes, lord. Sir, I beg you—may I sit down? I am not well.”

  “Give him a chair,” ordered Gallus. Caesarion sank into it gratefully, nursing his wrist.

  “What’s the matter with your hand?” asked the general.

  “He cleared up that other matter,” supplied the centurion Hortalus, with an air of grim amusement, “the story about vengeful prayers and blood sacrifices in the temple of the Lagids. This young fool tried to cut his hair in mourning for Cleopatra, and accidentally caught his hand with the knife.”

  “True?” asked Gallus sharply.

  Hortalus gave a snort of laughter. “I can’t think of any other reason why a proud young man of good family would have a haircut that looks like it was done with a kitchen knife.” He reached out and removed Caesarion’s hat.

  “I take your point,” said Gallus, smiling. “See that the story’s spread around, will you? The men don’t like blood curses.” He leaned back in his chair, regarding Caesarion tolerantly. “So—Arion. You don’t care what happens to Aristodemos?”

  “I can understand, lord,” Caesarion said slowly, “that you are extremely reluctant to do anything against a wealthy Greek landowner on your first visit to the region, when the local gentlemen are all extremely anxious about what a Roman administration will be like.” That fact had been very clear to him from the beginning.

  There was a moment of silence. “There speaks a courtier,” remarked Gallus thoughtfully. “So what, in your opinion, should be done about Aristodemos—if I accept that he is guilty and you are innocent?”

  “Persuade him to withdraw the charge,” Caesarion replied at once. “Have him brought in, present him with the evidence—he was not aware that I am half Roman, and he undoubtedly expected you to accept what he said without an investigation. When he sees that he was wrong, present him with some way to say that it was an honest mistake. If he withdraws, you need take no further action.”

  “A neat solution,” said Gallus. “And for yourself and this Ani?”

  “Release us, the boat, and the cargo, and let us continue on our way. I ask nothing more.”

  Gallus smiled. He gestured to one of his attendants, who fetched him a cup. He sipped it. “Very forgiving,” he remarked. “Yet Hortalus has been rough with you, hasn’t he? Aren’t you angry?”

  Caesarion felt his face heat. He could see clearly now that the centurion had tried, quite deliberately, to break him—and had succeeded. “You were told a lie of a sort no general could ignore,” he said wearily. “It had to be investigated. We would have done exactly the same to a suspect accused of a similar offense. I think”—he glanced warily at his white-haired interrogator—“I think he was skilled, and used no more force than was necessary. I would be a fool to object to it.”

  “A practical attitude. You appear to be making a practical accommodation, too, to the fact of Roman rule. Yet you were willing to go into exile with the king, and you cut your hair in mourning for the queen. Are you really that practical, young man? Or have you been lying to us?”

  “I was willing to live and die for the house of Lagos,” he replied evenly, “but the house is fallen, and nothing I do now can ever bring it back. ‘Stop playing the fool: when you’ve seen something die, call it dead.’”

  “Gods and goddesses!” exclaimed Gallus in amazement. “You’ve read Catullus?”

  “I love Catullus. What’s wrong with that?”

  “An Alexandri
an who loves Latin poetry? Gods and goddesses, most of you people think we’re all barbarians who don’t even have an alphabet!”

  “I like Latin poetry, and our own as well—as I know you do. Your love elegies are very Alexandrian, very witty and elegant.”

  “You think so?” cried Gallus in delight, and Caesarion suddenly saw the reason behind the centurion’s look of alarm. Here was a man susceptible to flattery.

  “Yes, I do,” he said at once. “The one about Lycoris’ treachery and the raven—it was worthy of Kallimachos himself.”

  In fact, he didn’t dislike the poems, but the main reason he was familiar with them was that Gallus’ love elegies were directed to a “Lycoris” who was actually an actress named Cytheris—a former mistress of Marcus Antonius. Antonius had occasionally read the verses at dinner parties, with comments on the lady’s charms and jeers at Gallus’ virility. His friends had found it very funny. Caesarion had no intention of saying so.

  Gallus beamed at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a Greek who was familiar with my poetry before I introduced him to it.”

  “It deserves to be better known,” Caesarion said shamelessly. This was a royal road out of the clutches of the fearful Hortalus.

  Gallus beamed again. “Have you dined this evening? Perhaps, if you’re feeling well enough, we could have a late collation together, and a little wine. I’ve had little opportunity to discuss poetry for months, and the sweet Muses know that I adore them above all the immortals.”

  “I would be delighted,” said Caesarion. “I, too, have been missing civilized conversation for a long time. And if you had any small work in progress, I would be enchanted if you would honor me with a reading.”

  “Sir!” said Hortalus, looking dismayed.

  Gallus glanced at him impatiently. “What is it now?”

  “The other prisoners—Ani son of Petesuchos and his men. What shall we do with them?”

  “Release them.—No, wait, we have to make the Coptos landowner withdraw the charge. Well, bring in Aristodemos first thing tomorrow morning, show him the evidence, and tell him that he can be charged with maiestas unless he drops the charge. When he drops it, release the others, and release the boat and cargo. See that they’re treated gently, as innocent men.—As it happens, Arion, I do have a little work in progress: a poem on Apollo’s shrine at Gryneum, a little thing in dactylics, which I’m quite proud of …”

  “I would love to hear it,” lied Caesarion.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Ani did not sleep that night.

  The Roman encampment lacked a proper prison, so he and the others had been tied up in the workshop area near the center of the camp. Their arms were secured behind their backs, and ropes around their necks fastened them to stakes driven into the ground; their legs were hobbled. They lay, all nine of them, on the hard ground, which seemed to find out every bruise they had—and they were all of them covered in bruises from their arrest and from their brutal interrogation, though Ani, as leader of the party, had suffered most. They were all desperately thirsty.

  Worse than the physical discomfort, though, was the horror of the situation. Ani could not get out of his mind the screams of his children when the Romans came. Over and over through the night he saw Serapion sobbing frantically and beating with his small fists against a man’s armored flank—saw him tossed aside to fall weeping on the quay—saw little Isisdoros held aloft, kicking madly, as an iron-clad barbarian, faceless under a beetlelike helmet, carried him off Soteria and dumped him shrieking on the muddy ground.

  The Romans had ordered the men on the next boat to take the children and their nurse. The men had obeyed. He’d spoken to those neighbors before the troops arrived, and they had seemed decent-enough sorts—but a bit rough. Charcoal vendors, he thought they’d said, three brothers and a cousin. What would they do with children? What would happen when Tiathres and Melanthe got back? Would the men give Tiathres the little boys—or would they keep them to sell as slaves?

  O gods, O dear Lady Isis, no. Not Serapion and little’Dorion, no, please, Lady Isis: I’ll give you anything, but please, keep my little boys safe!

  And what about Tiathres and Melanthe? Would the Roman soldiers waiting at the boat respect them? It did not seem likely that they would. They were pretty women, both of them, and the Romans would believe them to be the wife and daughter of an enemy. Ani squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut out the tormenting images of rape. The soldiers would not be allowed to do that, he told himself, not in a town which was scheduled to swear its loyalty next day. It would generate ill-feeling which the general must be eager to avoid. The soldiers would leave Tiathres and Melanthe alone. As for the charcoal vendors, they’d seemed decent men. Surely they would give the children back to their mother? Probably they’d be relieved to get rid of them! The nurse had been completely hysterical, and would have been no help at all.

  But what would the women and children do then, lost in a strange city with no way to get home?

  He told himself that perhaps the Romans would investigate his account of himself, and decide that he was innocent—but he could not convince himself. The Romans had a sworn accusation from Aristodemos, that respectable and important Greek, and they’d barely even understood his own story. That brutal old centurion spoke fairly good Greek, but it was not his native language, and he had plainly found the local accent difficult to follow. Ani had tried to force himself to speak slowly and clearly, but it hadn’t been easy, and when everyone else began shouting and talking at the same time—which had happened a lot—the centurion had ordered them all to be silent, and given Ani no more opportunity to explain. He had wanted to speak to Arion, and Arion …

  … was a hotheaded, passionate youth. He might try to fight arrest, or run away and get himself killed with his version of events untold. Or he might denounce Rome with the wild defiance he had used in Berenike, and convince the foul old interrogator that he was, indeed, a ferociously anti-Roman agitator, and that they were all guilty and ought to die.

  Ani bit his lip, aching with shame. The others had all been cursing Arion. This was Arion’s fault as much as Aristodemos’, they said. Arion was bad luck, probably guilty of something unspeakable, and undoubtedly an enemy of the gods. Perhaps they were right.

  Only, he liked Arion—felt that underneath the arrogance and wariness were reserves of loyalty and affection that no one had ever tapped. Certainly the boy was brave and intelligent, articulate, and well educated. And—this was the thing that pinched his heart—he couldn’t help feeling that if Arion were killed it wouldn’t be Arion’s fault, but his own. If Apollonios and Ezana—and Pasis, Mys, Harmias, Pamonthes, Achoapis, and Petosiris; his own people—if they died, it would be because of him. If Serapion and Isisdoros were sold into slavery, and Tiathres and Melanthe were raped and left to beg in the marketplace, it would be because of him. He had indulged in an ambitious and vainglorious attempt to set himself up as a gentleman, had fatally underestimated the strength of his opposition, and had lost not just the enterprise, but himself and everyone around him.

  Why had he done it? He’d had a very good life—prosperous farm and business, loving wife, fine, healthy, intelligent children. He was about to lose it all because of—what? A boy’s dream of seeing the world, and a man’s resentment of the conceited fool who’d cheated him?

  Not worth it, not worth it—O gods, no. He rolled from his stomach to one side then the other, and finally lay still, pressing his face against the earth and praying to the gods to spare his family.

  The night passed very slowly, but eventually the world turned gray. Trumpets brayed from the gates of the camp. A horse neighed loudly nearby. Light reshaped the world, and men arrived in the workshop next to their makeshift prison and began to repair a torn banner. Presently, one of the soldiers who’d arrested them came up, with a small group of others. They untied the prisoners’ hands, gave them water to drink, and led them off to a latrine in groups of two.

  “T
hat Aristodemos come,” Ani’s guard informed him, when it was his own turn to piss.

  “What, now?” Ani asked, in dread. “Here?”

  “Here,” agreed the guard—but he pointed south, toward the camp entrance. “Talk to Hortalus.” He grinned. “You friend Arion here.”

  “In the camp?” Ani asked, relieved that at least Arion had not been killed trying to escape. “Why isn’t he with us?”

  “With general,” the guard replied.

  He did not understand that, but when he tried to inquire, the guard didn’t understand his questions. The fellow patted him on the shoulder and brought him back to the others.

  They were not tied up again, and after a little while another soldier appeared carrying a pot of barley gruel and some bowls: it seemed that the prisoners were to have breakfast.

  They were in the middle of this unappetizing meal when there was a shriek of “Ani!” and Tiathres came hurtling up out of the middle of the camp, closely followed by Melanthe. Behind them was yet another soldier.

  Tiathres flung her arms around her husband where he sat on the ground, kissed him, kissed his black eye and swollen ear, and wept. Ani hugged her hard, careless of the bruises, immensely comforted by the warmth of her body against his, but at the same time terrified to see her. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  Tiathres was sobbing too hard to answer. Melanthe was the one who replied. “They told us we could come in the morning, Papa,” she said, hugging him in one of the spaces Tiathres had left vacant. “The tess … tessa-ra-rius Gaius Simplicius said we could ask for him, and he’d show us where you were. Oh, Papa, they’ve beaten you!”

  “And the rest of us!” muttered Apollonios jealously.

  Ani impatiently waved one hand at him for silence. “You’re not hurt? I thank the gods! What happened to Serapion and Isisdoros?”

  They were fine, it seemed, with the nurse and the charcoal vendors. The men had been kind, very kind; they’d looked after the little boys, they’d let Tiathres and Melanthe sleep on their barge, and they’d provided food and a promise of shelter until Ani’s case was settled.