The Gods of war

CHAPTER 29

The great library of Alexandria burned as the sun rose, thousands of scrolls making a furnace so hot that the soldiers of Rome could not come close to it. Marble columns raised by Alexander split and shattered in the furnace of a million thoughts and words. The men of the Fourth legion formed bucket chains to the docks, struggling against the sun and exhaustion until they were numb and their blistered skin was red and black with cinders. The closest buildings had been stripped and their walls and roofs saturated, but the library could not be saved.

Julius stood with Brutus, watching as the vast skeleton of roof timbers sagged and then collapsed over the work of generations. Both men were exhausted, their faces smeared with soot. They could hear the shouted orders as fire teams ran to stamp out new flames again and again, accompanied by chanting lines of bucket carriers.

"This is an evil thing to see," Julius murmured.

He seemed stunned by the destruction and Brutus glanced at him, wondering if blame would fall on his shoulders. The ships carrying catapults from Canopus had been denied entry to the port, but it was galling to know the battle had been won before they could have added their strength to the siege. The blockade had not been needed.

"Some of the scrolls were brought here by Alexander himself," Julius said, wiping a hand across his forehead. "Plato, Aristotle, Socrates, hundreds of others. Scholars came thousands of miles to read the works. It was said to be the greatest collection in the world."

And we burned it, Brutus thought wryly to himself, not quite daring to say the words aloud. "Their work must survive in other places," he managed.

Julius shook his head. "Nothing like this. Nothing complete."

Brutus looked at him, unable to understand his mood. For his own part, he was quietly in awe of the sheer scale of the destruction. He was fascinated by it and had spent part of the morning simply watching as the fire raged. He cared nothing for the stunned faces of the crowds.

"There's nothing more you can do here," he said.

With a grimace, Julius nodded and walked away through the silent throng that had come to see the devastation. They were eerily silent and it was strange for the men responsible to pass through them, unrecognized.

The tomb of Alexander was a temple of white stone pillars in the center of the city, dedicated to the founding god. The sight of stern Roman legionaries kept the curious public away as Julius stood on the threshold. He found his heart racing as he looked up at the coffin of glass and gold. It was raised above head height, with white steps on all sides for worshippers to ascend. Even from the edges, Julius could see the figure resting within it. Julius swallowed spit, uncomfortably. As a boy he had drawn the tomb from a Greek tutor's description. He had kissed Servilia at the foot of Alexander's statue in Spain. He had read accounts of every battle and idolized the man.

He climbed the steps to the stone plinth, breathing shallowly of the incense that hung in the air. It seemed appropriate there, in surroundings of cool death without decay. Julius placed his hands on the glass, marveling at the artisan's skill that had produced the panes and the bronze web to hold them. When he was ready, he looked down and held his breath.

Alexander's skin and armor had been layered in gold leaf. As Julius watched, clouds moved above and sunlight poured in from an opening. Only Julius's shadow remained dark and he wondered in awe at the glory of it.

"My image is on you, Alexander," he whispered, committing every aspect of the moment to memory. The eyes were sunken and the nose little more than a hole, but Julius could see the bones and gold flesh like stone, and guess at how the Greek must have looked in life. It was not an old face.

At first he had thought it wrong to have Alexander treated as one of the gods of Egypt. There, however, in that temple, it seemed an appropriate honor. Julius glanced around him, but the entrances were blocked by the solid backs of his soldiers. He was alone.

"I wonder what you would say to me," he murmured in Greek. "I wonder whether you would approve of a brash Roman standing in your city."

He thought of Alexander's children and the fact that none of them had survived to adulthood. The Greek king's firstborn son had been strangled at fourteen. Julius shook his head, looking into the distances of mortality. It was impossible not to contemplate his own death in such a place. Would another man stand over him three hundred years after he was dead? Better to be ashes. Without sons, everything he had achieved would slip away. His daughter could not command the respect of the Senate and, like Alexander's, her son might never be allowed to survive. Julius frowned in irritation. He had named Octavian as his heir, but he could not be certain the younger man had the skill to navigate the treacheries of Rome. In truth, he could not believe anyone else had the gift to build on his achievement. He had come so far, but unless he lived to begin a male line, it would not be enough.

In the distance, he could hear the din of the city. In the silence of the temple, his age bore down heavily on him.

Ptolemy's body lay in state in a room lined with gold. Images of Horus and Osiris were everywhere as he began the death path. His cold flesh had been washed and purified and then his left side had been split open and his organs removed. There was no judgment waiting for royalty. When the rituals ended, Ptolemy would take his place with the gods, as an equal.

When Julius was brought to see the boy king, he found the air heavy and hot. Curls of sweet smoke lifted lazily from the red hearts of enormous braziers. Ptolemy's body had been packed with salt natron to dry the flesh, and the bitter tang mingled with the fumes made Julius dizzy. Alexander's tomb had been cold in comparison, but better suited to the realities of death.

Cleopatra knelt before the body of her brother and prayed. Julius stood watching, knowing he could not bring himself to honor an enemy who had caused the death of some of his most loyal men. The boy's eyes were sewn shut and his skin gleamed with sticky oils. Julius wanted to gag at the sight of the four jars around him, knowing what they contained. He could not understand the process, or the reverence that Cleopatra displayed. She too had been threatened by her brother's army, but she honored him in death with rituals that would last almost two months before he was finally interred in his tomb.

In a rhythmic chant, Cleopatra prayed aloud in the language of her people, and Julius saw her eyes were clear and calm. He had not seen her weep since the day Ptolemy died and he knew he still could not understand her. Her army had returned from Syria to take their places around the royal palace, and there had already been incidents between the Romans and the desert-hardened warriors. Julius had been forced to have three of his men whipped for starting a drunken fracas in the city, leaving two men dead in their wake. Two more awaited punishment for using loaded dice with Cleopatra's soldiers, relieving them of their weapons as well as all the silver in their pouches.

The waiting chafed on him, as the death rites wound through to their conclusion. Julius had thought the boy would be quickly in the ground, knowing what the summer's heat could do, even to royal flesh. Instead, the days crept by with narcotic slowness and he was growing as restless as his men.

Octavian had made his feelings clear. He wanted to return to Rome and to the rewards they had all earned. Julius too could feel the city beckoning him over sea and land. He wanted to ride under the gates and into the forum once more. He had achieved every dream he had ever had as a boy. His enemies were dust and ashes, but still he waited.

He watched as Cleopatra began a new ritual, lighting clay pots of incense from a taper. Death was too close to life, in Alexandria. The people seemed to prepare for it all their lives and lived with the certainty of another existence. It made them fatalistic, but with a confidence that was as alien in its way as anything he had seen. Julius could not share it.

Cleopatra rose and bowed her head to the shrunken figure of Ptolemy. She took two steps backwards and knelt once more before rising.

"You are a patient man, Julius. I understand your people move faster than we over such things."

"There is a dignity to death here," he replied, searching for the right words.

She raised an eyebrow, suddenly amused. "And a tactful man," she said. "Will you walk through the gardens with me? The smoke is like a drug after so long and I want to breathe."

Relieved, Julius took her arm and they made their way out into the sun. She did not seem to notice as slaves prostrated themselves as she passed, not daring to look on the queen who mourned her brother.

The warm air outside helped to clear Julius's thoughts and he took deep breaths of it, feeling his spirits rise. Seeing the body of the boy king had been disquieting. He felt as if a weight had lifted as he breathed the scent of living gardens. Even that pleasure was tainted as he remembered running through the same paths and arbors to capture Ptolemy in his bed. It had seemed an adventure then, without consequence. The results of it lay in the king's tomb, and in ashes on the docks.

"Your men have told me a great deal about you," Cleopatra said.

Julius shot a sharp glance at her.

"You have been blessed to survive the battles they described," she continued.

Julius did not reply, instead pausing on a path of glassy stone to touch a red bloom leaning out from green leaves.

"They say you are a god of war, did you know that?" she said.

"I've heard it said," Julius replied uncomfortably. "They boast on my behalf."

"Then you did not defeat a million men in Gaul?"

Julius looked at her as she reached out to the same flower and caressed its petals. "I did, though it took ten years of my life," he replied.

She used her nails to nip through the stalk, grazing the flower over her lips as she breathed its scent. Again, he wondered how Rome would react if he brought her there. The citizens would probably adore Cleopatra, but the Senate would reject her claims to divinity. Rome had enough gods. They would not dare to object to a foreign mistress, but taking her as a wife would raise hackles right across the great houses. In addition, he was not sure if she would even want to come back with him.

"You pardoned your general, Brutus, when he had betrayed you," she said, walking on. "That is a strange act for a ruler of men. Yet they still respect you. More, they revere you, did you know it? They would follow you anywhere and not because of your birth, but because of who you are."

Julius tapped the fingers of one hand on the wrist of the other behind his back, unsure how to respond. "Whoever you have been speaking to has let his mouth run away with him," he said after a pause.

She laughed, tossing the flower onto the path behind them. "You are a strange man, Julius. I have seen you with them, remember? You can be as arrogant as a king, as arrogant as I am myself. We are well suited to one another, though I think you would not like the slow pace of existence here. My country has seen five thousand years of life and death. We have grown old and tired under this sun and your men are young in comparison. They have the energy of youth and think nothing of running through lands like a summer storm. It is a frightening thing to see, in comparison to my sleepy Alexandria, yet I love it."

She turned to face him, her nearness intoxicating. Without thinking, he reached out and held her by her slim waist.

"My advisers warn me daily that you are too dangerous to remain in Egypt," she said. "They see the lust and the strength and nothing else in your men. They remind me that you burned my beautiful library and your soldiers laughed and played dice in the ashes."

"They are fighting men," Julius replied. "You cannot expect-"

Her laughter silenced him and a slow blush appeared on his cheeks and neck.

"You are so quick to defend them!" she said. She reached up and kissed the underside of his jaw and laid her head against his chest.

"My advisers do not rule here," she said, "and they have no answer when I tell them you returned Cyprus to us. That was not the act of a destroyer. It gained you great good will amongst my people. They saw it as a sign that the old glories are on the rise again. They watch us and wait to see what we will accomplish together."

Julius did not want to spoil the mood, but he had to speak. "There will come a time when I have to return to my city," he said. "I will wait until the funeral is finished for your brother, but I must go back."

She lifted her head and looked into his eyes with a troubled gaze. He could feel her distance herself from him. "This is what you want?" she said, her voice revealing nothing of her thoughts.

Julius shook his head. "No. I want to stay here and forget the years of battle. I want you at my side."

The tension vanished from her as if it had not been there. She reached up and brought his head down to her scented mouth.

When they broke apart, her face was as flushed as his and her eyes were bright.

"It is not so much longer until I am free," she said. "If you will stay with me then, I will show you the great Nile. I will have grapes and fruit lowered into your mouth by the most beautiful girls in Egypt. Musicians will play for us each evening as we slip through the waters. I will be yours for every night, for every hour. Will you stay for that?"

"I do not need the most beautiful girls in Egypt," he replied. "And your music makes my ears ache. But if you are there and mine alone, I will leave Rome to fend for herself for a while. She has survived without me this long, after all."

Even as he said it, he knew it was true, but still it astonished him. He had always dreamed of returning in triumph to the city of his birth, to all the honors and rewards he had won over the years. Yet with a word from her, none of it mattered. Perhaps, just for a little while, he could be free of the care and worry that seemed the core of his life. Perhaps he could throw it all off and feel the sun on his face with a beautiful, enrapturing girl who was queen of Egypt.

"I am too old for you," he said softly, wanting her to deny it.

Cleopatra laughed and kissed him again. "You have shown me you are not!" she said, dropping her hand to his thigh and letting it rest there. He could feel the heat of her hand on his bare skin, and as always, it aroused him unmercifully.

"If we had a child," she said, "he would inherit Egypt and Rome together. He would be another Alexander."

Julius looked off into the distance, his mind bright with dreams. "I would give anything to see that. I have no other sons," he said, smiling.

Her hand moved slightly on his thigh, making him catch his breath. "Then pray to your gods that the one I carry is a boy," she said seriously. He reached for her, but she slipped from his grasp. "When the mourning is finished, I will show you the mysteries of Egypt, in me," she called over her shoulder.

Julius watched her go in frustration, overwhelmed by her words. He could hardly take in what he had learned and he would have called after her, but she vanished back into the palace with light steps.

The noise of celebration in Alexandria was enough to leave the ears of the Romans ringing and numb. Cymbals and horns crashed and moaned on every street and the voices of the people were raised in a great shout of joy to send Ptolemy into the arms of the gods. Julius shuddered at the memory of the final rites he had witnessed.

The boy king's flesh had been dried like old leather when the chanting priests came for him for the last time. Cleopatra had not insisted Julius be there, but he had been drawn to the last ritual, knowing he would never again have the chance to see the secrets of Egyptian death.

He had watched as the priests took a chisel formed of meteoric iron and broke open Ptolemy's lips with a rocking motion across the mouth. Without the translator Cleopatra had sent to him, Julius would have been lost and appalled at the apparent desecration of the body. The man's sibilant whisper into his ear still gave him chills in memory.

"Osiris the king, awake!" the priest had said. "I split open your mouth for you with iron of the gods. Live again, rejuvenated every day, while the gods protect you as their own."

The fumes of incense had swirled around the tiny figure of the boy king, and when the last rites were complete, the priests had moved outside into the air, to give the news to the city. The tomb had been sealed behind them with bronze, gold, and brass.

The horns had begun then, sounding in their thousands. The noise had built and built and every lamp and brazier was lit, making Alexandria shine under the heavens. The gods would see the light and know one of their own was ready to come to them.

Julius watched the festival of death from the high windows of the royal palace, Brutus at his side. Octavian had gone down into the city to lose himself in drink and women with many of the other officers. On the night of a king's death, there were no taboos, and Julius hoped his men would survive the feasting and debauchery without causing riots. It was probably a vain hope, but the responsibility would be on another's shoulders for a while. Cleopatra's barge rocked in the swell of the port, waiting to take him along the coast. They would have to survive without him until he returned. The news Cleopatra had brought overshadowed anything else.

As if he shared the thought, Brutus spoke, looking out over a city lit as brightly as day. He could sense the strange mood of excitement in Julius, though he could not guess at the reason.

"When will you return, do you know?"

"Before the year ends," Julius replied. "The legions have their quarters here. They have earned a rest. I have sent letters to Mark Antony in Rome. In a month or so the back pay will come. Let them take houses here, Brutus, while they wait for me. Let them grow fat and sleepy."

"You know them better than that," Brutus replied. "We've had to punish two more for looting the temples already. I'll have to take them out into the desert after the first weeks, or anything that can be lifted will vanish from Alexandria. As it is, the markets in Rome will be glutted with artefacts when we return."

Julius chuckled, and Brutus smiled. The darkest moments of the past seemed to have been forgotten between them, and his strength was returning. By the time the sun rose each day, Brutus had completed an hour of heavy sword practice with Domitius. He had lost some of the speed that had won tournaments, but he was no longer weak. He had not told Julius of a centurion who had sneered at him the day before. Brutus had taken him out to the training yard and beaten the man almost to death.

Perhaps Julius knew, Brutus thought, looking at him.

"Octavian is furious with my return to rank," Brutus said. "Or because of your pleasure cruise on the Nile. It is difficult to be sure which has annoyed him more."

Julius shook his head, exasperated. "He wants me to spend my final years in sleepy Senate debates." He snorted. "I suppose we seem ancient to the younger ones, fit for nothing more than patting each other on the back for past glories."

Brutus glanced at the alert, trim figure of his general, burnt a dark brown. If anything, Julius had been invigorated by the months in Egypt, no small part of it due to the prospect of peace at last. He and Brutus had suffered decades of war and privation. Perhaps the prize was simply an end to striving. Brutus could not imagine him contemplating cruises if Pompey still lived or Sulla threatened his city.

Brutus could not love the man who had pardoned him at Pharsalus, though when Julius had given him command in Alexandria, he felt a brief, uncluttered joy.

He sighed inwardly. Rome seemed far away, but he knew he should think of the future. There were years ahead to forget the shame of his defection to Pompey. Julius had trusted him with authority and the message would not be lost on the legions. It was time to rebuild a career that should have ended at Pharsalus. After all, Rome had been built by men who had survived defeat.

Brutus looked steadily at Julius, missing the old friendship. There were precious moments when he thought they shared an understanding impossible to voice. Yet without warning, he could feel an old jealousy and a destructive pride. With time, perhaps that too would ease.

"This is an old land," Julius said suddenly, interrupting Brutus's thoughts. "It could be a second Rome, a twin capital of an empire. I'm not too old to dream of that. I know there is work ahead, but for a little while I want to forget it all and see the Nile with my queen."

Brutus dropped his head an inch, wondering at the choice of words. "Will you take her back with you?" he asked.

"I think I will," Julius replied, smiling slowly at the thought. "She brings new life to my bones. With her at my side, I could make an empire to rival Alexander's own. It would be fitting to make his city the second heart of it."

Brutus felt himself growing cold. "So you will be a king? Like Ptolemy?"

Julius turned to him, his dark eyes seeming to bore into his oldest friend.

"What else would you have me call myself? I am the first in Rome. Rome is first in the world."

"What of my mother, Servilia? Will you cast her off as you did Pompeia? Or your wife, Calpurnia? Will you divorce her as well?"

Julius hesitated, blind to Brutus's growing anger. "It is too early to plan such things. When I am home, I will do what is necessary. Calpurnia will not resist, I know."

"The Senate will resist your ambition," Brutus said softly.

Julius laughed. "They would not dare to, my friend. They will honor me and they will honor the queen I bring home. Rome was built on kings. It will be reborn from my line."

"From your daughter?" Brutus asked.

Julius's eyes were bright as he looked across the city. He gripped the stone windowsill like its owner. "I cannot hold the news, Brutus. It is too much for me. From my son, who will be born. The queen is pregnant, and her omen-takers say it will be a boy. A son to rule two empires." He laughed aloud in wonder. It had to be a boy, he thought. The gods would not be so cruel.

Brutus took a step away from him, his calm shattering. What friendship could survive such a relentless ambition? Brutus saw that Julius had not sated his appetite in Egypt. He would return to Rome with greater dreams than any one of those they had destroyed. Not Sulla, not Cato, not even Pompey had reached so far.

"The Republic…" Brutus began, shocked into stammering.

Julius shook his head. "… was a glorious experiment. I honor it, but it has served its purpose. When I return to Rome, we will begin an empire."