Steven Saylor - The judgement of Caesar

The soldiers allowed me time to collect myself, but did not withdraw; Caesar had ordered them not to leave my side. Rupa stood before the window, his arms crossed, fretting and frowning. The boys fidgeted, biting their lips and exchanging glances, until at last Mopsus spoke.

"Master, what's going on? What's happened? It's something to do with Meto, isn't it?"

I shook my head. "Boys, boys, it's of no concern to you-"

"No, Master, this isn't right!" Little Androcles stepped forward. "Mopsus and I may be only slaves, and Rupa is-well, he's just Rupa-but we're not children any longer. Something terrible has happened. We want to know what it is. We're clever, Master-"

"And fearless!" piped up Mopsus.

And strong! Rupa tacitly added, massing his bull-like shoulders.

The only occupant of the room who failed to step forward was Alexander the cat, who resettled himself on the windowsill with his back to the room and gazed out at the harbor.

"Perhaps we can help, Master."

I looked at Androcles, manifestly still a child notwithstanding his protestation to the contrary, and I remembered Meto when he was the same age. Between that time and this, Meto had become a man. He had traveled across the world and back, killed other men and very nearly been killed himself, stood beside Caesar and dipped his hands into the tides of history; yet a part of me clung to the absurd notion that Meto was as tender and vulnerable as Androcles, that he was still a boy who needed my protection-and my chiding. In that moment I at last became reconciled to Meto and the man he had chosen to become. I relinquished the false assumption that I had some responsibility for his actions; I acquiesced to his inevitable autonomy; I admitted to myself that I loved him nonetheless. If now he found himself in a dire strait, I would not judge him, and I would do all I could to help him.

"Meto stands accused of trying to kill his imperator, with a poison he obtained from this trunk," I said.

"Oh, no!" said Mopsus.

"It isn't true, is it, Master?"

"The truth, Androcles? I don't know."

"But if Meto did such a thing, Master-"

"Then I shall throw myself upon Caesar's mercy. I shall tear my tunic, pull out my hair, beg him shamelessly; surely all my years around advocates like Cicero have taught me some tools of persuasion. I shall use them now on Meto's behalf."

"But surely Meto is innocent, Master!"

"If he is, Mopsus, then I intend to do everything in my power to absolve him. This is a strange land. Here, justice exists at the whim of those who possess a certain bloodline, and laws are decrees handed down by squabbling rulers. Laws have nothing to do with truth, or justice with proof. Soon it will be the same in Rome, I think; Caesar is taking lessons from these Nile crocodiles and intends to reproduce their habitat along the Tiber. Still, even in Egypt, truth is truth, and proof is proof, and it may be that I can yet do something to save my son."

"And we will help you," insisted Androcles.

"If the gods allow it," I said.

"Did you find it?"

Caesar stood at the eastern window in his high room, gazing over the rooftops of the Jewish Quarter in the direction of the distant Nile.

"No, Consul."

He nodded. Even with his back turned, I could tell that he took no pleasure in the gesture. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, nervously turning the alabaster vial between two fingers. He turned to face me.

"I've just received disturbing news. How are your eyes, Gordianus?"

"I beg your pardon, Consul?" "Stand here and look toward the east, beyond the city, at that blur of desert between here and the Nile. What do you see, Gordianus?"

"Not much, Consul. A blur, as you say, further obscured by a great cloud of dust."

"Exactly. That's the dust raised by a marching army. According to my intelligence, the whole of Ptolemy's army has decamped from their fortress in the desert and is now marching this way under the command of a certain Achillas. You've met this fellow, I understand?"

"Not exactly, Consul."

"But you've observed him at close quarters?"

"From a considerable distance, I saw him murder Pompey. Later, practically under my nose, I watched him strangle an Egyptian spy with his bare hands."

"A murderous brute!"

"I believe that both acts were committed at the behest of the king, which would make the killing of Pompey an assassination and the killing of the spy an execution-if one believes that some killings are murder and other killings are not."

Caesar looked at me askance. "I've killed men in battle. Men under my command have caused the death of many others. Would you call me a murderer, Gordianus?"

"I would never presume to offer such a judgment, Consul."

He snorted. "Wriggled out of answering that one, didn't you? You remind me more and more of Cicero. The word-twisting, the hand-wringing, the endless equivocations-his ways have rubbed off on you over the years, whether you like it or not."

I kept my voice steady. "The times we live in have led us all down paths not of our choosing."

"Speak for yourself, Gordianus. You spend too much time looking backward. The future lies ahead."

"A future that will soon bring Ptolemy's army to the gates of Alexandria?"

"So it seems. I never intended for Alexandria to become a battleground. I meant to come here, settle affairs between the king and queen, and be on my way. Instead, I now face the prospect of a full-scale war, and I don't like the odds. I've sent for reinforcements, but who knows when those will arrive? As it stands, their numbers are great, and ours are small. Granted, the forces under Achillas's command are highly irregular by Roman standards. The core is made up of the legionnaires who arrived here under Gabinius to restore the late king to his throne and to keep the peace. It seems they've since forgotten their origins and become Egyptianized, marrying local women and adopting native customs. That one of their number would consent to murder Pompey in cold blood tells us just how far they've descended from their honorable beginnings. Added to their ranks are mercenaries, runaway slaves, and foreign criminals. They've no discipline to speak of, and little loyalty; once, when they wanted higher pay, they blockaded the palace to demand it. But they haven't forgotten how to fight. Under a commander as murderous as they are, they may constitute a formidable foe."

He began to pace, turning the alabaster vial in his fingers. It seemed that Meto was far from his thoughts. He spoke again.

"A moment ago, you said that the killing of Pompey was done at the behest of the king. Do you believe that, Gordianus? Did King Ptolemy himself order the assassination? Is he capable of issuing such a command without Pothinus guiding him?"

"Surely you've come to know the king better than I do, Consul. You must be a better judge of his character and capabilities."

"Am I? Do you want the truth, Gordianus? These Ptolemies have me utterly confounded! The two of them have put my head in a spin. It's absurd. The master strategist, the consummate politician, the conqueror of Gaul, the author of Pompey's downfall-stumped by two children!"

I could not restrain a smile. "Cleopatra is hardly a child, Consul, as young as she may seem to men of our years. And-since you asked for my opinion-Ptolemy is no longer a boy. He's very nearly at that age when a Roman youth puts on the toga of manhood and becomes a citizen. Were you not precocious at fifteen, Consul?"

"Precocious, perhaps, but I was hardly ready to run a country like Egypt! When I was the king's age…" Caesar's face softened. "That was about the time I lost my father. It happened one morning while he was putting on his shoes. He was a strong, vigorous man in the prime of life; my mentor, my hero. One moment he was alive, tying the straps of his shoes. The next moment, he gave a lurch and tumbled to the floor, as dead as King Numa. His own father had died the same way-suddenly, in middle age, for no apparent reason. Some flaw passed from father to son, perhaps; in which case, I'm already past the span of my allotted years and living on borrowed time. I could die at any moment; perhaps I'll drop dead while we stand here talking!" He gazed at the distant cloud of dust and sighed. "I remember my father every day-every time I put on my shoes. It's a sad thing for a boy on the verge of manhood to lose his father. The same thing happened to Ptolemy, though he was even younger when the Piper died. I think that may be why he craves so strongly the affection and guidance of an older man."