'Do you remember me, Philip?' I said. 'We gathered driftwood together to build a funeral pyre for your old master.'
'Of course I remember you. I remember everything about that accursed day. If only I could forget!' He lowered his eyes. 'I see you've fallen into Caesar's clutches, too.'
I recalled that he had assumed I was one of Pompey's veterans, so grief-stricken at seeing the Great One struck down that I had leaped overboard and swum ashore, and for that reason he had trusted me. I saw no need to disabuse him of the notion.
'We are all in Caesar's hands now,' I said, looking sidelong at Caesar. 'Philip, I desperately need your assistance. As I helped you that day on the beach to give the Great One proper rites, will you now help me in return?'
'What do you need from me?'
I drew a deep breath. On the previous night I had felt certain of the scenario I put forth to Caesar to discount Meto's role in the poisoning, and I had been proven utterly, woefully wrong. What if I were mistaken again? Perhaps intuition and judgment alike had deserted me. I saw the apprehensive expression on Caesar's face, and knew that I suddenly looked as wild-eyed as Philip. I fought back the sudden fear and uncertainty that swept over me.
'Philip, you were there with the Great One at Pharsalus, were you not?'
'Yes.' He looked shiftily at Caesar, and I could sense the hatred and revulsion he felt for the man who had destroyed his beloved master.
Caesar interrupted. 'I've already questioned this man about everything to do with Pharsalus, and with Pompey's murder, and with all that occurred between.'
'Yes, Caesar, but I think there may be a matter that escaped your questioning. What was it you said about your interrogation of Philip, the night we dined together? That he was forthcoming about some things, reticent about others. I think I know one of the things he was reluctant to talk about.'
Caesar looked at me sharply, then at Philip. 'Go on, Gordianus.'
'Philip, when Pompey's forces were defeated at Pharsalus, it came as a great shock to him, did it not?'
'Yes.'
'But not a complete surprise, I think. He knew that Caesar was a formidable foe; Caesar had already driven him from Italy and crushed Pompey's allies in Spain. Pompey must have had in his mind some idea that he might eventually face defeat. Yes?'
Philip looked at me warily, but finally nodded.
'At Pharsalus,' I said, 'the battle began early in the day, with Caesar's javelins attacking Pompey's front line. The struggle was bloody and close-fought, but as the day wore on and the sun reached its zenith, Pompey's men panicked and broke the line. Pompey's infantry were encircled. His cavalry gave way and fled. Caesar's cavalry hunted them down and slaughtered a great many, scattering the rest, while the main body of Caesar's infantry converged on Pompey's camp. The rumor goes that the Great One, confident of victory, had retired at midday to his pavilion to eat a meal-a very sumptuous meal, with silver plates and the very finest wine, worthy of a victory banquet. That was the scene Caesar encountered when he entered the camp and strode into Pompey's pavilion, only to find that the Great One had fled moments before. So goes the tale as I heard it in Rome.
'But this is what I think: When Pompey retired to his pavilion, he had no illusions that he had won the battle. Quite the opposite; he stayed long enough to see the tide turn against him, then rode back to his camp knowing that all was lost. He retired to his pavilion to await the inevitable end. He gathered his closest associates-including you, Philip-and demanded that a lavish banquet be served at once. He ordered a very trusted subordinate-was it not you, Philip? — to fetch a very special amphora of Falernian wine that he had been saving for just that occasion, and that occasion alone.
'Do you remember what you said to me, Philip, as you wept for Pompey on the beach? I remember, though at the time I didn't fully understand. 'He should have died at Pharsalus,' you said. '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.' What were his exact words to you, Philip?'
Philip gazed vacantly, looking beyond me into his memory of that terrible day at Pharsalus. 'The Great One said to me: 'Help me, Philip. Help me keep up my courage. I've lost the game. 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.' ' '
I nodded. 'But at the last moment, he lost his nerve; isn't that what you told me, Philip? Pompey the Great quailed and fled, so quickly that you had to run after him to keep up.' I shook my head. 'I heard, but I misunderstood. I thought you meant he was in the midst of his premature victory banquet when he realized that all was lost, and he looked in vain for the courage to pick up his sword and die fighting, only to lose his nerve and ride off on a horse instead. But even before the banquet began, he knew that he was finished. Indeed, it was when the banquet was served that he asked you to help him find the courage to die as he had previously decided to die, should everything go against him. It wasn't a victory banquet; it was a farewell feast! That carefully sealed amphora of Falernian wine he had been carrying around with him, from battlefield to battlefield, to be opened only in the presence of Pompey himself-what was so very special about that wine, Philip?'
Philip shook his head, not wanting to answer, but Caesar was beginning to understand. 'Pompey meant to die by his own choice,' Caesar said. 'Not by falling on a sword-but by poison?'
I nodded. 'With his closet friends around him, surrounded by the trappings of wealth and luxury, and with a fine meal in his stomach. But then the ramparts were overrun, and you yourself came riding through the camp, Consul. Pompey faced a choice he could no longer postpone: capture and humiliation, or a quick, sure death by poison-the same poison his wife kept close at hand, in case she too should face such a choice. He had only to unseal the Falernian, drink a cup, and make his exit to oblivion. That had been his plan. But when the crisis came, he couldn't do it. Was it fear of death? Perhaps. But I think his will to live another day, even in misery and defeat, was simply too strong. He ran from the tent, mounted the first horse he found, and rode off, escaping in the very nick of time. And you rode after him, Philip, leaving the sealed amphora of Falernian behind.'
Caesar looked at Philip. 'Is this true?'
Philip lowered his eyes and gritted his teeth. His silence was answer enough.
Caesar shook his head. 'And to think, had I been of Pompey's ilk, craving luxury and self-indulgence at every turn, instead of overseeing the last stages of the battle, I might have sat down to help myself to a plate of Pompey's venison and a flagon of his Falernian-a victory feast! — and I would have died then and there, of poison. Or indeed, I might have died any day since, on any occasion I chose to drink Pompey's Falernian!'
I nodded. 'As the Great One himself was well aware. He said as much to me when he summoned me to his ship. 'Caesar may yet get his just deserts,' he told me, 'and when he least expects it. One moment he'll be alive, and the next-dead as King Numa!' I thought that he meant he had an assassin in your midst, or that he was simply raving-but he was talking about the Falernian, which he knew had fallen into your hands, and which, as he hoped, you might any day decide to open and drink.'
'Which must have been the hope of this scheming freedman here, as well. Eh, Philip? You knew about the Falernian, yet you never warned me about it. Did you hope that I might yet drink it and die the death Pompey was too craven to claim for himself?'
'Yes!' cried Philip. 'To his shame, the Great One discovered he was incapable of suicide, so he came to Egypt instead-which amounted to the same thing. I often wonder if he didn't come here knowing these monsters would do away with him, and thus relieve him of the burden of doing away with himself. But the acts of men live after them, and there was one hope left to me-that sooner or later messengers would come running through the palace, shouting the good news: 'Caesar is dead! No one knows how, no one knows why-he was simply drinking a cup of wine and suddenly dropped dead! Could it be poison? Oh, dear!' ' The little man seethed with sarcasm and fury.
'And so it would have been,' Caesar said coldly, 'had I drunk the wine that day on Antirrhodus. I would have died, struck down by a dead man!'
' 'Dead men don't bite,' ' I said. 'That was what Pothinus said of Pompey. But he was wrong. Even dead, Pompey might have exacted a final revenge upon you, Caesar. As it happened, the Falernian killed the queen's taster, instead; and the confusion spawned by that event very nearly drove you to do away with Meto-who as you now must realize was innocent all along.'
Caesar looked at me sidelong. 'But what of the alabaster vial discovered on Meto's person-a vial that we know contained poison, and that was empty when we found it?'
