The judgement of Caesar

CHAPTER IV

Amidships, Pompey was descending the ramp toward a royal Egyptian skiff that had just arrived. Despite its small size, the craft was ornately decorated; images of crocodiles, cranes, and Nile river-horses were carved around the rim, plated with hammered silver and inlaid with pieces of lapis and turquoise for the eyes. The prow of the ship was carved in the shape of a standing ibis with wings outstretched. Besides the rowers, three soldiers stood in the boat. One of them was clearly an Egyptian of very high rank, to judge by the gold filigree that decorated his silver breastplate. The other two were outfitted not like Egyptians but like Roman centurions; presumably they were officers from the Roman force stationed to keep the peace in Egypt. While the Egyptian officer hung back, the two Romans stepped forward and saluted Pompey as he descended the ramp, addressing him in unison: "Great One!"

Pompey smiled, clearly pleased to be properly addressed. To one of the men he gave a nod of recognition. "Septimius, isn't it?"

The man bowed his head. "Great One, I'm surprised you remember me."

"A good commander never forgets a man who once served under him, even though years may pass. How goes your service in Egypt?"

"These are eventful times, Great One. I can't complain of being bored."

"And you, Centurion? What's your name?"

"Salvius, Great One." The other Roman lowered his eyes, not meeting Pompey's gaze. Pompey frowned, then looked beyond the centurions to the Egyptian whom they escorted. He was a powerfully built man with broad shoulders and massive limbs. He had the blue eyes of a Greek and the dark complexion of an Egyptian. Nearby, I overheard Centurion Macro speaking into Cornelia's ear: "That's the boy-king's mongrel mastiff; fellow's part Greek, like his master, and part native Egyptian. His name-"

"Achillas," the man said in a booming voice, introducing himself to Pompey. "Captain of the King's Guards. I shall have the honor of escorting you into the presence of King Ptolemy… Great One," he added, his voice falling flat on the final syllables.

Pompey merely nodded, then gestured for his party to begin boarding the boat. Only four men accompanied him: Macro and another centurion to act as bodyguards, a slave with a box of writing materials to act as a scribe, and Pompey's loyal freedman Philip, a small, wiry fellow with a neatly trimmed beard who was said to attend all important meetings with the Great One on account of his faculty for never forgetting a name, face, or date.

After the others had boarded, Pompey, assisted by Philip, stepped into the boat. While the others sat, Pompey remained standing for a moment. He turned and scanned the faces of those assembled on the galley to see him off. The crowd parted for Cornelia, who descended the ramp and extended her hand to him. Their fingers briefly touched, then drew apart as the rowers dipped their oars and the skiff set off.

"Remember your manners, my dear," called Cornelia, her voice trembling. "He may be only a boy of fifteen, but he's still a king."

Pompey smiled and made a theatrical gesture of submission, opening his arms wide and making a shallow bow. " 'He that once enters a tyrant's door becomes a slave, though he were free before,' " he quoted.

"A bit of Euripides," muttered one of the officers beside me.

"Sophocles, if I'm not mistaken," I said. The man glowered at me. Pompey gave Cornelia a final nod of farewell, then moved to sit down, with Philip assisting him. Looking up abruptly, his eyes came to rest on me. It was only for an instant, for the business of settling himself on the moving boat required his attention, but an instant was all that was required for him to convey, in quick order, recognition, mild surprise, a flash of utter hatred, and an implicit promise that he would deal with me later, at his leisure. My throat constricted, and I squeezed the vial in my pocket.

I was worth no more than that single glance; in the next instant, Pompey finished settling himself and turned his attention toward the shore and the company that awaited him at the royal pavilion.

Without a word, those of us on the galley watched the skiff's progress. Everyone on all the other ships watched as well, as did the ranks of soldiers assembled on the shore. The moment became slightly unreal; time seemed to stretch. The water, so close to shore, was quite murky, discolored by mud from the nearby Nile brought down by the rush of the annual floods. The sky was without a cloud but uniformly hazy, its color pearly gray rather than blue. No breeze stirred; the atmosphere was sullen and heavy with humidity. Sounds carried with peculiar clarity; I could clearly hear the noise of Pompey clearing his throat on the receding boat, and the low mutter as he attempted to engage the centurions Septimius and Servius in conversation. They did not answer but only averted their eyes, just as the men who had come for me that morning had averted their eyes. The barren, colorless shore assumed a peculiarly uninviting aspect. The throne set before the royal pavilion remained empty; King Ptolemy still declined to show himself.

Cornelia stepped back from the crowd along the rail and began to pace the deck, keeping her eyes on the royal skiff. She touched her mouth with an anxious gesture.

The tension that hung in the air became so oppressive that I began to think it emanated from me alone. Perhaps the sky, seen though other eyes, was a normal blue, and the moment no stranger than any other-except to me, facing my death. "Quickest done is best done," the Etruscan proverb says. I fingered the vial inside my tunic. A not-unpleasant taste, a little discomfort, and then oblivion…

The royal skiff reached the shore, where an honor guard awaited. The oarsmen jumped out and dragged the boat forward until the hull grounded in the sandy surf. Salvius and Achillas stepped out of the boat, followed by Philip, who turned about and offered his hand to Pompey.

Cornelia screamed.

Perhaps she had an instant of precognition. Perhaps she was simply watching more closely than the rest of us. I stared at the boat and at first saw only a confusion of sudden movements. Only afterwards, reviewing those fleeting images in memory, would it become clear to me exactly what happened.

The oarsmen in the surf, joined by soldiers awaiting them on shore, reached for Centurion Macro and Pompey's other bodyguard and pulled them out of the boat. Septimius, standing in the boat behind Pompey, drew his sword from its scabbard. As he raised it to strike, the delayed sound of Macro's cry reached us in the galley, followed, in a weird moment of disconnection, by the scraping noise of Septimius drawing his sword. The blade descended at a sharp angle, plunging between Pompey's shoulder blades. Pompey stiffened and convulsed. In what seemed a bizarre mimicry of his parting gesture to Cornelia, he flung his arms wide.

Philip was seized by soldiers on the beach and pulled back, his mouth open in a cry of anguish. Salvius and Achillas drew swords and clambered back into the boat. On either side, Pompey's two bodyguards were held under the water until their flailing subsided. Inside the boat, while Pompey's scribe cowered and ducked, the Great One collapsed as Achillas, Salvius, and Septimius swarmed over him, their swords flashing in the sun.

Abruptly, the stabbing stopped. While the other two pulled back, their chests heaving and their breastplates spattered with blood, Achillas squatted down in the boat and performed some operation. A few moments later he stood upright, his bloody sword in one hand and the severed head of Pompey held aloft in the other.

Those of us on the deck of Pompey's galley stood frozen and speechless. From the various ships around us, scattered shrieks and cries echoed across the still water, punctuating the unnatural silence. Achillas deliberately made a point of displaying the head of Pompey to the fleet offshore. The Great One's eyes were wide open. His mouth gaped. Gore dripped from his severed neck. Then Achillas turned about to show the head to the troops on shore. In their midst, in front of the royal pavilion, King Ptolemy had at last appeared. At some point during the attack, he had taken his place upon the throne, surrounded by a coterie of attendants. He was small in the distance, his features hard to make out, but he was instantly recognizable by the glittering uraeus crown of the Egyptian pharaohs upon his head, a jewel-encrusted band of gold with a rearing cobra at the center. In his crossed arms the king clutched a flail and a staff with a crook at the end, both made of bands of gold interspersed with bands of lapis lazuli. An adviser spoke in his ear, and the king responded by raising his staff in a salute to Achillas. The assembled Egyptian troops broke into a stunning cheer that swept across the water like a thunderclap.

I turned and looked up at Cornelia. She was as white as ivory, her face contorted like a tragedy mask. The galley's captain ran to her, whispered in her ear, and pointed toward the west. Looking dazed, she turned her head. From the direction of the Nile, a fleet of ships had appeared on the horizon. "Egyptian warships!" I heard the captain say, raising his voice and gripping Cornelia's arm to rouse her from her trance.

She stared at the ships, then at the shore, then again at the approaching fleet. The muscles of her face twitched as if she was trying to speak but could not. She shivered, blinked, and finally cried out, "Weigh anchor! Set sail! Set sail!"

Her cry broke the spell that held us frozen. The deck erupted in frenzied movement. Soldiers and sailors rushed this way and that. I was shoved and spun about and almost knocked down.

Amid the chaos I climbed to a higher spot and scanned the nearby ships. All the boats were weighing anchor at once, with oarsmen struggling to turn them about and sailors frantically setting sail. Finally I spotted the Andromeda. Bethesda stood at the rail, staring toward Pompey's galley but clearly not seeing me amid the confusion on the deck; she was standing on tiptoes and waving her hands. Even as I watched, Rupa grabbed her from behind and pulled her away from the rail and back toward the cabin, trying to get her out of the way of the sailors running back and forth. I waved my arm and shouted her name, but to no effect; in the next instant she disappeared into the cabin with Rupa and the slave boys.

I jumped onto the deck and ran to the ramp from which Pompey had departed. Sailors were heaving on ropes to raise the ramp clear of the water. I ran to its edge and dove into the waves.

Salt stung my nostrils. My heart pounded in my chest. I broke the surface and drew a desperate breath. All the ships were in motion, confusing me and making me lose my sense of direction. It seemed that every captain was acting on his own, with no coordination among them; hardly more than a stone's throw from Pompey's galley, two smaller boats collided, knocking some of the sailors overboard. I treaded water, turning around and trying to orient myself, searching for the Andromeda. I thought I knew the direction where I had last seen her, but my view was blocked by a passing ship. Nonetheless, I set off swimming in that direction, away from the shore.

The motion of so many oars from so many ships created waves that rippled and merged and smacked against one another. Water surged into my nostrils. I swallowed air and breathed in water. Swimming became impossible; just to keep my head above water was a struggle. From nowhere, a galley appeared and went racing by me, the long bank of oars, one after another, crashing into the water beside my head, setting up a turbulence that tossed me this way and that and dragged me under, spinning me upside-down beneath the waves.

By the time I recovered, I was more disoriented than ever, not even sure in which direction the shore lay. It took all my energy just to stay afloat. At some point, I thought I caught a glimpse of the Andromeda and tried desperately to swim after it, expending the last measure of my strength to call out Bethesda's name. But it might very well have been some other boat, and in any case my pursuit was hopeless; the ship quickly receded, and with it my hopes of ever seeing Bethesda again.

At last I gave up; or more precisely, gave in. Neptune had his own plans for me, and I relinquished all control to the god. My limbs turned to lead, and I thought that I must surely sink, but the god's hand kept me afloat and upright, with the hot sun on my face. The oar-churned sea grew calmer. The multitude of sails receded into the distance. From somewhere I heard a great commotion of movement, as of an army de-camping, but even that noise gradually faded until I heard only the shallow sound of my own breath and the gentle lapping of waves upon a shore. A sandy bank materialized beneath my back; the waves no longer carried me aloft but merely nudged me this way and that. The shallow surf sighed and whispered around me. I let out a groan and closed my eyes.

I may have slept, but probably not for long. Above the sighing of the surf, I heard another sound: the buzzing of flies, a great many of them, somewhere nearby. I opened my eyes and saw a bearded face above me. His eyes were wet with tears. His lips trembled. "Help me," he said. "For the love of Jupiter, please help me!"

I recognized him: Philip, the trusted freedman who had accompanied Pompey ashore.

"Please," he said. "I can't do it myself. He's too heavy. I'm too weary. I saw you on the galley before we left. You were standing with Cornelia. Did you know him well? Did you fight beside him? I thought I knew all his friends, but…"

I tried to rise, but my limbs were still made of lead. Philip helped me roll to my side, onto all fours. I rose to my knees, feeling them sink into the wet sand. Philip's hand on my shoulder steadied me.

The beach was deserted. The pavilions were gone; the soldiers had all vanished. The quietness of the place was eerie; I heard only the gentle murmur of waves and the low droning of flies.

I turned my head and gazed at the sea. The same thin haze that blanched the sky obscured the distant horizon. In that uncertain expanse of flat water, there was not a sail to be seen. Earth and sea were both empty, but not so the sky; I looked up and saw carrion birds circling.

Philip slipped his hands under my armpits and lifted, eager to bring me to my feet. He was a small fellow, but obviously quite strong, certainly stronger than I was. He claimed to need my help, but from the look in his eyes, I knew it was my company he wanted, the presence of another living mortal in that place of desolation. Philip didn't want to be alone, and when he led me down the beach to the place where the royal skiff had landed, I saw why.

The skiff was gone. "Where…?" I began to say. "They loaded it onto a wagon. Can you believe it? They brought it here just to bring Pompey ashore, and when it was over, they cleaned out the blood with buckets of seawater, then turned the boat upside-down and loaded it onto a wagon and carried it off, over those low hills. The whole army did an about-face and vanished in a matter of minutes. It was uncanny, as if they were phantoms. You'd almost think they'd never even been here."

But the army of King Ptolemy had indeed been here, and the proof lay at our feet, surrounded by a swarm of buzzing flies. Someone-Philip, I presumed-had dragged the corpses of Macro and his fellow centurion onto the beach and laid them on their backs, side by side. Next to them was the slave who had accompanied the party to act as scribe. He lay beside his box of writing materials, his tunic stained with blood from several wounds.

"He must have gotten in the way when Achillas and Salvius clambered back aboard the boat with their swords," said Philip. "They had no reason to kill him. They didn't kill me. The poor scribe simply got in the way."

I nodded to show that I understood, then turned my eyes at last upon the sight I had been avoiding. Beside the bodyguards and the scribe lay the naked remains of Pompey the Great, a mangled body without a head. It was around his corpse, and especially around the clotted blood where the neck had been severed, that flies swarmed in greatest profusion.

"They took his head," said Philip, his voice breaking. "They cut it off and carried it away like a trophy! And his finger…"

I saw that a finger had been cut from the corpse's right hand; a smaller swarm of flies buzzed about the bloody stump.

"To take his ring, you see. They couldn't just remove it. They cut off his finger and threw it in the sand, or in the surf-who knows where…" Philip sobbed and in a sudden frenzy stripped off his tunic, using it as a scourge to snap at the flies. They dispersed, only to come back in greater numbers.

Philip gave up the effort and spoke through sobs. "I managed to strip off his clothes. I washed his wounds with seawater. Even so, the flies won't go away. We must build a funeral pyre. There must be enough driftwood, scattered up and down the beach. I've gathered some, but we need more. You'll help me, won't you?"

I gazed at Pompey's corpse and nodded. As a young man, he had been famous for his beauty as well as his bravery. His physique had been that of a young Hercules, his chest and shoulders thick with muscle, his waist narrow, his limbs beautifully molded. Like most men, he had grown softer and thicker with passing time; the sagging lump of flesh at my feet was nothing any sculptor would have seen fit to reproduce in marble. Looking at what remained of Pompey, I felt neither pity nor revulsion. This thing was not Pompey, any more than the head with which the Egyptians had absconded was Pompey. Pompey had been an essence, a force of nature, a will that commanded fantastic wealth, fleets of warships, legions of warriors. The thing at my feet was not Pompey. Nonetheless, it would have to be disposed of. As far as I knew, Neptune himself had saved me from watery oblivion for the singular purpose of paying homage to Pompey's remains.

"He should have died at Pharsalus," said Philip. "Not like this, but at a time and in the manner of his own choosing. When he knew that all was lost, he made up his mind to do so. 'Help me, Philip,' he said. 'Help me keep up my courage. I've lost the game, and I have no stomach for the aftermath. Let this place be the end of me, let the history books say, "The Great One died at Pharsalus." ' But at the last instant, he lost his nerve. Pompey the Great quailed and fled, with me running after him to keep up. Only to come to this, with his head carried off as a trophy for the king!"

Philip dropped to his knees on the sand and wept. I turned away and scanned the beach for bits of driftwood.

The sun reached its zenith and sank toward the west, and still we gathered wood, venturing farther and farther up and down the beach. Philip insisted that we build three pyres, one for the murdered scribe, another for the two centurions, and another, conspicuously larger than the others, for Pompey. By the time the pyres were built and the bodies laid atop them, the sun was sinking into the west, and shadows were gathering. Philip started a fire with kindling and flint, and set the pyres alight.

As darkness fell and the flames leaped up, I wondered if Cornelia, aboard her galley, would be able to see her husband's funeral pyre as a speck of light in the far distance. I wondered if Bethesda, wherever she was, would be able to see the same flame, and if it would remind her of the Pharos, and make her weep, as I wept that night, at the twist of fate that had turned a journey of hope into a journey of despair.