'Surely you've come to know the king better than I do, Consul. You must be a better judge of his character and capabilities.'
'Am I? Do you want the truth, Gordianus? These Ptolemies have me utterly confounded! The two of them have put my head in a spin. It's absurd. The master strategist, the consummate politician, the conqueror of Gaul, the author of Pompey's downfall-stumped by two children!'
I could not restrain a smile. 'Cleopatra is hardly a child, Consul, as young as she may seem to men of our years. And-since you asked for my opinion-Ptolemy is no longer a boy. He's very nearly at that age when a Roman youth puts on the toga of manhood and becomes a citizen. Were you not precocious at fifteen, Consul?'
'Precocious, perhaps, but I was hardly ready to run a country like Egypt! When I was the king's age…' Caesar's face softened. 'That was about the time I lost my father. It happened one morning while he was putting on his shoes. He was a strong, vigorous man in the prime of life; my mentor, my hero. One moment he was alive, tying the straps of his shoes. The next moment, he gave a lurch and tumbled to the floor, as dead as King Numa. His own father had died the same way-suddenly, in middle age, for no apparent reason. Some flaw passed from father to son, perhaps; in which case, I'm already past the span of my allotted years and living on borrowed time. I could die at any moment; perhaps I'll drop dead while we stand here talking!' He gazed at the distant cloud of dust and sighed. 'I remember my father every day-every time I put on my shoes. It's a sad thing for a boy on the verge of manhood to lose his father. The same thing happened to Ptolemy, though he was even younger when the Piper died. I think that may be why he craves so strongly the affection and guidance of an older man.'
I frowned. 'You speak of Pothinus?'
Caesar laughed. 'I'll spare you the predictable joke regarding Pothinus's manhood. No, Gordianus, I refer to myself. The other day, in the reception hall, when I spoke of the special friendship between the king and myself, I wasn't just spinning pretty words in the manner of Cicero.'
'I think I may understand the king's fascination with Caesar, but I'm not sure I understand…'
'Caesar's fascination with the king? Ptolemy is intelligent, passionate, willful, convinced of his divine destiny-'
'Like his sister?'
'Very much like her, though I'm afraid he lacks Cleopatra's sense of humor. Such a serious young man-and what a temper! That tantrum he threw the other day, haranguing the crowd and casting off his diadem!' Caesar shook his head. 'I acted too quickly, pressing him to make peace with his sister. I should have anticipated his reaction.'
'It seemed to me that the king was behaving like a jealous lover.' I gazed steadily at Caesar, wondering if I had spoken too candidly.
He narrowed his eyes. 'The intimate relationship between an older man and a youth has always been more warmly regarded in the Greek-speaking world than in our own. Alexander himself had Hephaestion, and then the Persian boy, Bagoas. If the king of Alexander's city has approached me in the same spirit of manly love, should I not be honored? Young men are naturally susceptible to hero worship. The more ambitious or highborn the young man, the more exalted the older man upon whom the youth desires to model himself.'
'The king's attention flatters you?'
'Yes; and in a way that his sister's attentions do not.'
'They say that Caesar set his sights on a king, when he was young.' The steadiness of my voice was inversely proportionate to the recklessness of my words. Everyone knew the rumors about Caesar and King Nicomedes of Bithynia. His political enemies had used the tale to ridicule him-but most of those men were dead now. Caesar's soldiers cracked jokes about it-but I was not one of Caesar's comrades in arms. Still, it was Caesar himself who had opened this avenue of conversation.
His response was surprisingly candid. Perhaps, like me, Caesar had reached that point in life when one's own past begins to seem like ancient history-more quaint than quarrel provoking. 'Ah, Nico! When I put on my shoes, I think of my father; when I take them off, I think of Nico. I was nineteen, serving on the staff of the praetor Minucius Thermus in the Aegean. Thermus required the help of King Nicomedes's fleet; an emissary was needed to go to the king's court in Bithynia. Thermus chose me. 'I think the two of you may hit it off,' he told me, with a glint in his eye. The old goat was right. Nico and I hit it off so well that I tarried in Bithynia even after Thermus sent a messenger to retrieve me. What a remarkable man Nico was! Born to power, sure of himself, with a voracious appetite for life; a ruler not unlike the one that Ptolemy may yet become. What a lot he had to teach an eager, ambitious young Roman who was no longer a boy but not quite a man. When I think of how naive I was, how wide-eyed and innocent!'
'It's impossible to think of you as naive, Consul.'
'Is it? Alas! The youth whom Nico instructed in the ways of the world has long since vanished-but the man remembers those golden days as clearly as if they just happened. I shut my eyes, and I'm in Bithynia again, without a scar on my flesh and with all my life ahead of me.
Do you think Ptolemy will remember me that vividly when he grows old, and ruling Egypt has become a tired habit, and that fellow called Caesar has long since turned to dust?'
'I think the world will remember Caesar long after the Ptolemies have been forgotten.' I said this matter-of- factly, but Caesar mistook my tone. His gentle mood suddenly evaporated.
'Don't humor me, Gordianus-you, of all people! The last thing I need right now is another sycophant.'
The whole time we talked, he had been fiddling with the little vial, turning it over in his hand. Now he gripped it in his fist, so tightly that his knuckles blanched as white as the alabaster. Suddenly he threw it with all his might against the marble wall. Unbroken, the vial ricocheted and struck my leg. The blow was harmless, but still I jumped.
The gesture expended Caesar's fury. He drew a deep breath. 'Just when I thought I was on the verge of restoring peace between the king and queen, Achillas marches on Alexandria-and someone attempts to poison me.'
'Perhaps the queen was the intended victim.'
'Perhaps. But how and when was the wine poisoned, and by whom? We know where the poison came from- and that fact casts a ray of suspicion upon you, Gordianus.'
'Consul, I didn't even know the vial was missing-'
'So you've already explained. But the possibility remains that you were in collusion with your son-that you provided him with the poison, knowing how he intended to use it. Did you conspire against me?'
I shook my head. 'No, Consul.'
'Meto claims to know nothing. The queen advises me to torture him. She doesn't understand how strong willed he is. I myself trained Meto to endure interrogation. But if I thought that torture would loosen his tongue-'
'No, Consul! Not that.'
'The truth must be discovered.'
'Perhaps… perhaps I can do so, Consul. If you'll allow me-'
'Why? Meto means nothing to you. In Massilia, you disowned him. I witnessed that moment with my own eyes and ears.'
'Consul, please! Let me help my son.'
Caesar gazed at me for a long moment. A shadow seemed to dim the light in his eyes, as if some powerful, dark emotion gripped him, but his face remained devoid of expression. At last he spoke. 'Over the years, your son has demonstrated great loyalty to me. I've rewarded his devotion with a degree of trust I've given to very few men. And yet, when that slave girl died today, a part of me was not surprised. The worm of deceit starts small, but grows. I think back, and I perceive that a rift has been growing between myself and Meto for quite some time. The signs have been subtle. He never defies me outright, but on his face I've glimpsed a sour, fleeting look; in his voice I've heard a faint note of discord. If Meto has betrayed me, he shall be punished accordingly.'
I bit my lip. 'Caesar has a reputation for clemency.'
'Yes, Gordianus, I've shown great clemency to those who've fought against me. Even that rat Domitius Ahenobarbus I forgave, only to see him take up arms against me at Massilia and again at Pharsalus. But for a traitor who resorts to lies and poison, there can be no pardon. I tell you this outright, Gordianus, so that if you harbor any notion of pleading for your son's life, you can spare yourself the indignity. Don't bother to rip your tunic and weep, like one of Cicero's guilty clients playing for sympathy in the courts. If Meto did this thing, my judgment will be
