involvement with that remarkable young woman called Cassandra. I gathered from Pothinus that another of your purposes in coming to Egypt was to allow Cassandra's brother to scatter her ashes in the Nile.'
'Yes. That was done on the same day that Bethesda was lost.'
'What a dreadful day that must have been for you! I can only imagine the grief you must have felt, given the special bond that developed between you and Cassandra. But I'm glad that my wife was able to facilitate the disposal of Cassandra's belongings after her death. I understand that Calpurnia took special care to see that you accepted Rupa into your household, and that you received the full amount of the bequest Cassandra intended for you.'
This was the Caesar I knew: the consummate politician with an un-erring ability to find an adversary's weakness, with the aim to either disarm or destroy him. Caesar had no need to destroy me, but if he could disarm my animosity by appealing to my emotions and win me over to his side, he would. His behavior toward me that evening had been above reproach, yet he had managed to prick at the guilt I felt for avoiding Meto, and now, in a single stroke, he was reminding me of the link that Cassandra formed between us and also of the special favor his wife, Calpurnia, had shown me following Cassandra's death. Performing these subtle verbal manipulations came as second nature to him; perhaps he was hardly aware of what he was doing. Yet I felt his words acutely.
'Cassandra was many things,' he said, his voice wistful. 'Beautiful, gifted, amazingly intelligent. I can well understand how you came to desire her, admire her, perhaps even love her-'
'I had rather not talk about her. Not here. Not with you.'
He studied me for a long moment. 'Why not? With whom else could you ever talk about Cassandra, except with me? You and I have seen much of the world, Gordianus. We two are survivors. There are so many things we could talk about. We should be friends, not enemies! I still don't know what I ever did to offend you. I took your son into my confidence. I elevated him to a status far above that to which most freedmen could ever dream to aspire. Your son's course in life has thus far been one glorious ascent, thanks to my largesse and his own strong spirit. You should be thankful to me, and proud of him! I don't know what to make of you. Meto is equally baffled. Every Roman desires to please his father, and Meto is no different. Your estrangement causes him great pain-'
'Enough of this, Caesar! Must you win every argument? Must every man in the world give you his love and devotion? I won't do it. I can't. I see the mess the likes of you and Pompey have made of the world, and I feel not love but a deep loathing. My son loves you, Caesar, with all his heart and soul, and with his body as well, or so the gossips insist. Is that not enough for you?'
I stared at Caesar, who stared back me, speechless. Then both of us, in the same instant, felt the presence of another. We turned our heads in unison.
Meto stood in the doorway.
CHAPTER XIV
'Father?' whispered Meto. He was dressed for duty, in gleaming armor with a short cape and a sword in a scabbard at his waist. The rigors of war agreed with him; he looked very lean and fit. He was a man of thirty-one now, but he still looked boyish to me and perhaps always would. His broad, handsome face was dark from the sun. His deep tan highlighted the battle scars scattered here and there on his bare arms and legs. Whenever I met him after a long separation, I counted those scars, fearful of finding new ones. I saw none. He had emerged from the Greek campaign and the battle of Pharsalus without a scratch.
I made no reply.
Caesar frowned. 'Meto, What are you doing here? I told you I was not to be disturbed.'
Meto's eyes traveled back and forth between us. I looked away, unable to bear the confusion on his face. At last Caesar's question seemed to penetrate his consciousness. 'You said you were not to be disturbed, Imperator… except under one condition.'
Caesar's face lit up. His eyes glittered as if reflecting the beacon of the Pharos. 'A message from the queen, at last?'
'Not just a message, but a messenger, bearing a gift.'
'Where is he?'
'Just outside this room. A big, strapping fellow named Apollodorus. He claims that the gift he bears comes from the queen herself.'
'A gift?'
'A rug, rolled up and carried in his arms.'
Caesar sat back and pressed his palms together. 'Who is this Apollodorus? What do we know about him?'
'According to our intelligence, he's Sicilian by birth. How he came to Alexandria and entered the service of Queen Cleopatra we don't know, but he seems to have become her constant companion.'
'A bodyguard?'
'The chatter among the palace coterie loyal to Ptolemy is that Apollodorus is more than a bodyguard to the queen. He is an impressive specimen.'
'Even so, I think we must discount such innuendos as vicious gossip,' suggested Caesar, who himself had been the target of whispering campaigns throughout his political career.
Meto nodded. 'Nevertheless, Apollodorus seems never to leave the queen's side.'
'He goes with her everywhere?'
Meto nodded.
'I see. How did this fellow get into the palace?'
'He claims he rowed a small boat up to a secluded landing on the waterfront, disembarked with his rug, and made his way through the palace. How he got past Ptolemy's guard, I don't know-he obviously knows his way around the palace, and the place is said to be full of secret passages. He appeared at the Roman checkpoint, handed over a nasty-looking dagger and allowed himself to be searched, then told the guards that the rug he carried was a gift from the queen, who had instructed him to present it to no one but yourself, in person.'
'I see. It must be very fine rug, indeed. I wish to see it. Show him in.' When Meto moved to obey, Caesar turned to me. 'You'd don't mind the interruption, do you, Gordianus? Our dinner conversation wasn't going all that smoothly, anyway.'
'Perhaps I should leave.'
'It's up to you. But do you really want to miss the next few moments?'
'The presentation of a rug?'
'Not just any rug, Gordianus, but a gift from Queen Cleopatra herself! King Ptolemy-or more accurately, that eunuch, Pothinus-has done everything possible in recent days to seal the palace and to prevent anyone who might represent the queen from approaching me. Courtiers loyal to Cleopatra have been apprehended, the messages they carried confiscated and destroyed, and the courtiers themselves summarily executed. I've protested to the king-how dare he intercept messages addressed to the consul of the Roman people? — but to no avail. The king wants me to hear only one side of this argument between himself and his sister, but I should very much like to meet her. One hears such fascinating things about Cleopatra. Marc Antony met her some years ago, when he helped to restore her father to the throne, and he said the most curious thing…'
I nodded. 'I think he must have said the same thing to me. Despite the fact that she was then only fourteen years old-about the age her brother is now-there was some quality about her that reminded Antony… of you.'
Caesar smiled. 'Can you imagine?'
I looked at Caesar, a man of fifty-two with wisps of hair combed over his bald spot, a strong, determined jaw, and a hard, calculating glint in his eyes, slightly softened by that veil of world-weariness that falls over men who have seen too much of life. 'Not really,' I confessed.
'Nor can I! But what man could resist meeting a younger incarnation of himself, especially an incarnation of the opposite gender?'
'It's my understanding that Cleopatra is an incarnation of Isis.' Caesar looked at me archly. 'Some philosophers postulate that Isis is actually the Egyptian manifestation of the Greek Aphrodite, who is also the Roman Venus-my ancestor. The world is a small place. If Cleopatra is Isis, and Isis is Venus, then there appears to
