Colleen McCullough - 6. The October Horse - A Novel of Caesar and Cleopatra

After the shock of being parted from Theodotus had lessened, young Ptolemy had been thrown into the company of little brother Philadelphus, and had found outlets for his youthful energies which he had come to enjoy far more than the attentions of Theodotus. The death of Pompey the Great had pushed Theodotus into a premature seduction that had intrigued the lad in one way, yet repelled him in another. Though he had been with Theodotus a crony of his father's all his life, he saw the tutor through the eyes of childhood as unpalatably old, singularly undesirable. Some of the things Theodotus had done to him were pleasurable, but not all, and he could find no pleasure whatsoever in their author, whose flesh sagged, whose teeth were black and rotten, whose breath stank. Puberty was arriving, but Ptolemy wasn't highly sexed, and his fantasies still revolved around chariots, armies, war, himself as the general. So when Caesar had banished Theodotus, he turned to little Philadelphus as to a playmate in his war games, and had found a kind of life he was thoroughly enjoying. Lots of running around the palace and the grounds whooping, talks with the legionaries Caesar used to police those grounds, stories of mighty battles in Gaul of the Long-hairs, and a side to Caesar he had not suspected. Thus, though he saw Caesar rarely, he had transferred his hero worship to the ruler of the world, actually relished the spectacle of a master strategist making fools of his Alexandrian subjects. So now he stared at the Chief Judge suspiciously. "Need me?" he asked. "What for, Hermocrates?" "You are our king, majesty. We need you with us." "With you? Where?" "In our part of Alexandria." "You mean I should leave my palace?" "We have another palace ready for you, your majesty. After all, I see Caesar sitting in your place here. It's you we need, not the Princess Arsino." The lad snorted with laughter. "Well, that doesn't surprise me!" he said, grinning. "Arsinos an arrogant bitch." "Quite so," agreed Hermocrates. He turned not to Cleopatra, but to Caesar. "Caesar, may we have our King?" Caesar wiped the sweat from his face. "Yes, Chief Judge." Whereupon Ptolemy burst into noisy tears. "No, I don't want to go! I want to stay with you, Caesar! Please, please!" "You're a king, Ptolemy, and you can be of service to your people. You must go with Hermocrates," said Caesar, voice faint. "No, no! I want to stay with you, Caesar!" "Apollodorus, remove them both," said Cleopatra, fed up. Still howling and protesting, the King was hustled out. "What was all that about?" Caesar asked, frowning.

When King Ptolemy reached his new quarters in an untouched, beautiful house in the grounds of the Serapeum, he still wept desolately; a grief exacerbated when Theodotus appeared, for Cleopatra had sent the boy's tutor back to him. To Theodotus's dismay, his overtures were rebuffed violently and viciously, but it was not Theodotus whom Ptolemy wanted to assault. He hungered to wreak vengeance on Caesar, his betrayer. After sobbing himself to sleep, the boy woke in the morning hurt and hardened of heart. "Send Arsino and Ganymedes to me," he snapped at the Interpreter. When Arsino saw him, she squealed in joy. "Oh, Ptolemy, you've come to marry me!" she cried. The King turned his shoulder. "Send this deceitful bitch back to Caesar and my sister," he said curtly, then glared at Ganymedes, who looked careworn, exhausted. "Kill this thing at once! I shall take command of my army personally." "No peace talks?" asked the Interpreter, stomach sinking. "No peace talks. I want Caesar's head on a golden plate."

So the war went on more bitterly than ever, an increasing burden for Caesar, who suffered such terrible rigors and vomiting that he was incapable of command. Early in February another fleet arrived; more warships, more food, and the Twenty-seventh Legion, a force composed of ex-Republican troops discharged in Greece, but bored with civilian life. "Send out our fleet," Caesar said to Rufrius and Tiberius Claudius Nero; he was wrapped in blankets, his whole body shaken with rigors. "Nero, as the senior Roman, you'll have the titular command, but I want it understood that the real commander is our Rhodian friend, Euphranor. Whatever he orders, you'll do." "It is not fitting that a foreigner makes the decisions," Nero said stiffly, chin up. "I don't care what's fitting!" Caesar managed to articulate, teeth chattering, face drawn and white. "All I care about are results, and you, Nero, couldn't general the fight for the October Horse's head! So hear me well. Let Euphranor do as he wants, and support him absolutely. Otherwise I'll banish you in disgrace." "Let me go," Rufrius begged, foreseeing trouble. "I can't spare you from Royal Avenue. Euphranor will win." Euphranor did win, but the price of his victory was higher than Caesar was willing to pay. Leading the action as always, the Rhodian admiral destroyed his first Alexandrian ship and went after another. When several Alexandrian ships clustered around him, he flagged Nero for help. Nero ignored him; Euphranor and his ship went down with the loss of all hands. Both Roman fleets made it into the Royal Harbor safely, Nero sure that Caesar would never find out about his treachery. But some little bird on Nero's ship whistled a tune in Caesar's ear. "Pack your things and go!" Caesar said. "I never want to see you again, you arrogant, conceited, irresponsible fool!" Nero stood aghast. "But I won!" he cried. "You lost. Euphranor won. Now get out of my sight."

Caesar had written one letter to Vatia Isauricus in Rome at the end of November, explaining that for the time being he was stuck in Alexandria, and outlining his plans for the coming year. For the moment he would have to continue as Dictator; the curule elections would just have to wait until he reached Rome, whenever that might be. In the meantime, Mark Antony would have to perform as Master of the Horse and Rome would have to limp along without higher magistrates in office than the tribunes of the plebs. After that he wrote no more to Rome, trusting that his proverbial luck would keep the city from harm until he could get there in person and see to things. Antony had turned out well after a dubious period, he would hold the place together. Though why was it that only Caesar seemed able to gift places with political stability, functioning economies? Couldn't people stand off far enough away to see beyond their own careers, their own agendas? Egypt was a case in point. It cried out for firm tenure of the throne, a more caring and enlightened form of government, a mob stripped of power. So Caesar would have to remain there long enough to educate its sovereign to her responsibilities, ensure that it never became a refuge for renegade Romans, and teach the Alexandrians that spilling Ptolemies was no solution for problems rooted in the mighty cycles of good times and bad times.

The illness sapped him, for it refused to go away; a very serious malady that saw him lose weight by the pounds and pounds, he who carried not an ounce of superfluous flesh. Midway through February, and over his protests, Cleopatra imported the priest-physician Hapd'efan'e from Memphis to treat him. "The lining of your stomach has become grossly inflamed," said this individual in awkward Greek, "and the only remedy is a gruel of barley starch mixed with a special concoction of herbs. You must live on it for a month at least, then we shall see." "As long as it doesn't involve liver and eggs-in-milk, I'll eat anything," said Caesar fervently, remembering Lucius Tuccius's diet as he had recovered from the ague that had nearly put paid to his life while he had been hiding from Sulla. Once he began this monotonous regimen, he improved dramatically, put on weight, regained his energy. When he received a letter from Mithridates of Pergamum on the first day of March, he went limp with relief. His health now something that didn't cast a grey shadow at the back of his mind, he could bend it to what the letter said with his old vigor.