Steven Saylor - The judgement of Caesar

"My name is Gordianus," I said. The spy showed no reaction to the name. "I'm a Roman, yes. But my wife was born here in Egypt; we met in Alexandria, many years ago. In recent months she fell ill. She came to believe that only a voyage back to Egypt, to bathe in the Nile, could save her. That's why we came here, traveling on a Greek merchant ship. The lighthouse at Pharos was in sight when a storm blew us to the east. That's how I fell in with Pompey. Yes, I knew him, from years gone by, but I certainly wasn't his spy. When he was killed and his fleet set sail, in the confusion I fell overboard. I was lucky to reach the shore alive. Philip asked me to help him build Pompey's funeral pyre. I could hardly refuse."

"And your party? How did they happen to come ashore?" "The Greek captain was determined to be rid of them, for bringing him bad luck. As soon as we parted with Philip, we headed here, to find this spot by the Nile. There's a temple in that glade, with a priestess who serves Osiris. My wife consulted her yesterday. She went to bathe in the river, alone. She didn't come back." I stared steadily at the spy, my vision blurred by tears.

The man was having none of it. "So, you admit to having been in Egypt before! No doubt that's why you were selected for this mission, because you already know the lay of the land."

"What mission? This is absurd! I haven't set foot in Egypt in over thirty years-"

"So you say. Perhaps your wife, when we find her, will tell a different tale. The temple you speak of has been abandoned for years. The old woman who haunts the place is no priestess; she's some sort of half-mad witch."

The officer interrupted. "This is getting us nowhere. The main body of the army isn't far behind us. I need to push forward with the advance guard. I'll leave behind enough men to secure these prisoners, and you can hand them over to Captain Achillas when he comes through."

"And the woman? What if we fail to find her?"

The officer looked at me for a long moment. The pressure of his spear against me eased. "If you ask me," he said, "I think the Roman is telling the truth, about the woman anyway. But what would I know? I'm just a soldier. I don't have the devious mind of a spy."

He stepped back and lowered his spear, poking the tip against the earth to remove the streaks of my blood. At his signal, soldiers came forward to bind my hands behind my back, as Rupa and the boys had already been bound.

"What about our wagon and mules?" I said. "Those will be confiscated," said the spy, "along with that trunk you've been carting with you. I'm curious to see what's inside." He ordered soldiers to remove the trunk from the wagon.

"If you insist on sorting through our soiled clothing and my wife's toiletries, may it bring you pleasure," I said.

We were shackled together by our ankles and made to sit in the cart, the boys next to each other at the front, and Rupa and I on either side, opposite one another. The spy emptied the trunk onto the roadside and rummaged through the contents. He turned out to be no better than a common thief, pocketing the coins and the few items of value, such as a silver-and-ebony comb that Bethesda had insisted on bringing with her. He reached into the pouch of my tunic as well, and pulled out the alabaster vial.

"Ah, what's this?" he said.

"A gift from a lady."

"Perfume? Are Roman men scenting themselves like catamites these days?"

"Vials can contain things other than perfume," I said.

He looked as me knowingly. "Poison, I'll wager. Something spies often carry on their persons, in case they wish to make a fast, clean exit. Or were you plotting to use it on someone? On King Ptolemy himself, perhaps? Ha! Whatever's inside, it's a pretty little container," he said, pocketing it along with the coins and the comb.

Soon, I began to hear, from the direction of Naucratis, the distant neighing of horses, shouted commands, the creaking of wagon wheels, the tattoo of military drums, and the tramp of many feet marching in unison. There are few sounds so distinctive, or so unnerving, as the approach of a great army. Birds take to the sky, a buzz throbs upon the air, and the earth itself trembles.

The spy gathered up the items of no use to him and stuffed them back into the trunk, then ordered soldiers to put the trunk back into the wagon. The boys yelped, drawing back their toes to avoid having them crushed, but it was Rupa, with his long legs, who was most inconvenienced.

From my cramped vantage point in the wagon-with my back to the road, facing Rupa opposite and the river beyond-I had to crane my neck to see the streaming pennants and plumed helmets of the approaching army. As they came nearer, the soldiers struck up a marching chant. The words were Egyptian, but hearing them repeated over and over, I was able eventually to make sense of them: He came to knock on Ptolemy's door, But never set foot on Egypt's shore. While he was yet inside the boat, Captain Achillas cut his throat. So now he's dead, The Roman's dead, As all will know When they see his head! Hurrah! Hurrah! As all will know When they see the head Of the so-called Great Who now is dead! So-called! So-called! Like Alexander, he was not; Pompey was cut, not the Gordian knot! Hurrah! Hurrah! This song is short, but the march is long, And so again we sing the song: Hurrah! Hurrah! He came to knock on Ptolemy's door, But never set foot on Egypt's shore…

Guards remained posted around the wagon, but the spy headed off to meet the advancing troops, and I lost sight of him. The stamp of marching feet grew louder and louder. Iron rings bolted along the top rim of the wagon began to rattle and dance against the wood, so great was the vibration. I would have covered my ears, had my hands been free. I looked at the boys and saw fear in their eyes. Rupa squirmed nervously, his legs bunched up against the trunk. They all looked to me for reassurance, so I struggled to keep my face impassive, despite the thrill of panic I felt. Cranes shot skyward from rushes along the Nile, flapping their wings and emitting shrill cries. I watched their flight, envious.

The army reached us and went rumbling by. The chant was deafening: Like Alexander, he was not; Pompey was cut, not the Gordian knot!

On and on it went, as thousands of men marched by. Next came the clatter of hooves from mounted cavalry. After the cavalry came the wagons carrying weapons and provisions. Amid the rumble of wheels, I thought I heard the spy's reedy voice nearby, conferring with someone. It seemed that a decision was reached, for the conversation ended, and a soldier mounted the wagon and drove the mules forward. As we joined the procession of King Ptolemy's army, the spy peeked into the wagon and gave me a sardonic look.

"We never did find any trace of your wife, Roman. She must be quite clever, to cover her tracks so completely. I don't like it when a spy gives me the slip. I'll track her down, sooner or later. And when I do…" He curled his lip in an expression that froze my blood, then disappeared.

As night fell, the army reached a fortress somewhere to the east of Alexandria.

Vaguely I sensed that the wagon had come to a halt. I dozed, not from physical weariness but from a kind of mental stupor; only by descending into half-formed dreams could my mind escape from an intolerable reality compounded of tedium and dread, physical discomfort and numbing grief.

The shackles on my ankles were loosened. Something sharp poked me into alertness.

"Up, Roman!" The spy, assisted by a few soldiers, rousted us out of the wagon. My bones ached from being jostled all day over a particularly rutted stretch of road. My legs were weak from having been cramped for hours. I staggered like a cripple, with a spear at my back to keep me moving forward.