Merianis's fingers disengaged from mine.
Pothinus returned to the king's side. There was a blare of trumpets. A small boat had pulled up to the steps. Its occupants disembarked, and through the crowd I caught a glimpse of a familiar balding head. My heart sped up.
The Roman soldiers formed a cordon leading up to the canopy. In the pathway formed by their ranks, a small group came striding toward the king. Foremost among them was Caesar himself. He was dressed not as imperator, in military regalia with a scarlet cape, but as a consul of the Roman people, in a toga with a broad purple border.
I had last seen him in Massilia, on the southern coast of Gaul, on the day his forces entered the city following a lengthy siege. Caesar himself had been off in Spain, defeating his enemies there, and was on his way back to Rome, and thence to Greece for a direct confrontation with Pompey; his stop in Massilia had been little more than a courtesy call, a chance to exhibit his famous penchant for mercy and at the same time to exert beyond question his subjugation of a proud city that had maintained its independence for hundreds of years. Pressed by circumstance, the Massilians had sided with Pompey against Caesar, and had lost everything. I myself had been trapped in the city during the final days of the siege, looking for my son Meto, who I feared was dead. But Meto's disappearance had merely been part of Caesar's scheme for taking the city, and when Caesar made his triumphant appearance, Meto was at his side, beaming with joy. In that moment, the absurdity of the war and the cruelty of my son's deceit had overwhelmed me; instead of embracing Meto, I had rejected him, publicly disowning him before Caesar and the world. Since that moment I had seen neither Meto nor Caesar, though the shadows of both had continually fallen over my life.
Now, half a world away from Massilia, our paths had intersected again.
When I had seen him last, Caesar had been flush with victory, a warrior-god doling out grim justice to the Massilians before heading off to face the greatest challenge of his life. He arrived in Alexandria fresh from his triumph at Pharsalus, the undisputed master of the Roman world. His thin lips were set in a straight line, and his jaw was rigid, but his eyes sparkled and betrayed an intense enjoyment of the moment.
His long chin, high cheekbones, and balding pate gave him an austere appearance, but the spring in his step showed the energy of a man half his age. To arrive at such a moment must have been one of the supreme accomplishments of Caesar's long career, the sort of grand occasion that painters and sculptors might celebrate for generations to come. The master of the world's new order was about to meet the ruler of the world's oldest kingdom; the new Alexander was about to confront the heir of Alexander the Great, in the city Alexander himself had founded. In Caesar's countenance I saw a man fully conscious of the moment's import and radiant with confidence.
What of Ptolemy? The king's expression was more obscure. From childhood, he must have been taught to make his face a mask suitable to various formal occasions-dedicating temples, meting out punishments, granting favors, conveying the blessings of the gods-but surely there had never been an occasion quite like this one. His countenance seemed utterly, almost unnaturally devoid of emotion, except for an occasional glint in his eye that betrayed the excited boy beneath the crown. Seated upon his throne, clutching the flail and crook crossed over his chest, he remained absolutely motionless, his stillness befitting a ruler who occupied the unmoving center of the world-except for the toes of his left foot. While I watched, they repeatedly clenched and relaxed against the sole of his jewel-encrusted sandal.
Pothinus stepped forward. Like most Romans, Caesar probably had a distaste for eunuchs, but his face betrayed no reaction. The eunuch spoke in a voice too low for me to hear, no doubt asking Caesar how he wished to be introduced and explaining the protocol for approaching the king; Caesar answered in equally low tones, but from the lilt of his voice, I discerned that the exchange was in Greek.
It appeared there would be an exchange of gifts. Caesar raised his hand and gestured for a member of his retinue to step forward. I drew a sharp breath as I recognized Meto, wearing a gleaming breastplate and garbed in full military regalia.
How young he looks! That was the only coherent thought that crossed my mind, among many others that could not be put into words. I felt a pain in my heart and must have uttered a low cry, for Merianis gave me a puzzled look and touched my hand.
Meto appeared whole, healthy, and alert; it seemed he had emerged unscathed from the battlegrounds of Greece. He carried a box made of hammered silver, with a bronze clasp in the shape of a lion's head. He approached the throne with his arms outstretched. When he reached the dais, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head, presenting the box to Ptolemy. Pothinus accepted the box from him, opened it briefly to peer inside, then smiled.
Meto withdrew. I watched him step backward until he disappeared into the retinue behind Caesar, then turned my gaze again to Pothinus, who had turned toward the throne and was displaying the opened box so that the king could see. The king nodded to show his acceptance of the gift, whereupon Pothinus removed the item from the box and held it aloft. It was a spectacular belt made of thinly hammered pieces of gold in the form of intertwined ivy leaves. The golden leaves shimmered and tinkled in the sea breeze. There were appreciative murmurs from members of the king's retinue.
Pothinus returned the golden belt to the box, handed the box to an underling, then approached Caesar. Their voices carried to my ears.
'A beautiful gift, Consul,' said Pothinus, 'worthy even of His Majesty. Did it come, I wonder, from the captured possessions of the so-called Great One?'
Caesar's expression barely registered his displeasure at the eunuch's perspicacity. 'Actually, yes. It was among the treasures he abandoned in Pharsalus. I'm told that the belt is of royal Parthian origin, a rare item indeed, and that it came into Pompey's possession when he conquered Mithridates. It was one of his longest-held and most prized possessions.'
'How fitting!' Pothinus smiled. 'The king's gifts to you also came from Pompey. One of these items he owned all his life, and I daresay he treasured it above all his other possessions.'
Caesar wrinkled his brow; then the appearance of a small entourage claimed his attention. One of those arriving was Philip, Pompey's freedman. I had not seen him since we parted company after burning the Great One's funeral pyre. He did not look like a man mistreated, but his demeanor was wan and haggard.
'The first gift, Consul,' said Pothinus, gesturing for Philip to step forward.
Caesar frowned. 'While Philip was once a slave, I believe that Pompey made him a free man. One Roman citizen cannot be given to another as a gift.'
Pothinus managed a stiff smile. 'Then the gift shall be the pleasure of Philip's company. He is a man of many virtues. May he be as loyal to Caesar as he was to the Roman whom he previously served.'
Philip kept his eyes downcast. Caesar regarded him gravely. 'You were there with him, at the end?'
'Yes, Consul.'
'They say you gave him funeral rites.'
'I did what I could, Consul.'
Caesar touched the man's shoulder. With a nod, he indicated that Philip should join the others in his retinue.
Following Philip, two courtiers bearing gifts stepped forward. The courtiers themselves were remarkable. One was as black as Merianis and shorter than a child, with child-sized limbs but an old man's face. The other was a bony-browed, hollow-cheeked albino towering at least a head above the next-tallest man present. The tiny one carried a large wicker basket; the giant carried an identical basket in miniature. The grotesqueness of the presentation was unsettling, at least to me; others, including Merianis, found the sight of the mismatched courtiers bearing mismatched burdens amusing. She laughed aloud. Pothinus grinned. Even the king showed the faint indication of a smile.
The albino giant presented his gift first. He held out a long, bare, bony arm, extending the little wicker basket toward Caesar. It was Meto who stepped forward to accept the gift. He looked up at the albino as if searching the giant's colorless face for signs of deviousness, then gave a deferential look to Caesar, who nodded to indicate that Meto should open the basket.
Meto removed the lid, gazed inside for a moment, frowned, then reached into the basket and pulled out a glittering object. I remembered the finger missing from Pompey's corpse-the bloody stump, the swarm of flies-and knew what the object must be, even before my eyes discerned the shape of the ring held between Meto's forefinger
