province-so their thinking must go.'
'But have they any choice? It's either Pompey now, or else…' Since she had not uttered the name Caesar, I did not either. 'Surely it's a good sign that the king has arrived in all his splendor to greet the Great One.'
Cornelia sighed. 'I suppose. But I never imagined it would be like this-here in the middle of nowhere, attended by a fleet of leaky buckets, arriving with our heads bowed like beggars after a storm. And Gnaeus-' Dropping all formality, she spoke of her husband by his first name. 'Gnaeus is in such a strait. You should have seen him yesterday after you left. He ranted for an hour, going on and on about the tortures he intends to inflict on you, hoisting you onto the ropes, publicly flaying you, commanding the troops on the other ships to stand at attention and watch. He's lost all sense of proportion. There's a kind of madness in him.'
I grew light-headed and strove not to lose my balance. 'Why in Hades are you telling me all this? What do want from me, Cornelia?'
She took something from a cabinet and pressed it into my hand. It was a small vial made of carved alabaster with a cork stopper, the sort of vessel that might ordinarily contain a scented oil.
'What's this?' I said.
'Something I've been saving for myself… should the occasion arise. One never knows when a quick, graceful exit might be required.'
I held the vial to the light and saw that it contained a pale liquid. 'This is your personal trapdoor to oblivion?'
'Yes. But I give it to you, Finder. The man from whom I acquired it calls it Nemesis-in-a-bottle. It acts very quickly, with a minimum of pain.'
'How do you know that?'
'Because I tried a sample of the stuff on a slave, of course. She expired with hardly a whimper.'
'And now you think-'
'I think that you will be able to maintain your dignity as a Roman much more easily this way, rather than my husband's way. Men think their wills are strong, that they won't cry out or weep, but they forget how weak their bodies are, and how very long those frail bodies can be made to suffer before they give up the lemur. Believe me, Finder, this way will be much better for all concerned.'
'Including Pompey.'
Her face hardened. 'I don't want to see him make a spectacle of your death, especially not with King Ptolemy watching. He'll take out all his rage against Caesar on you. Can you imagine how pathetic that will look? He should know better, but he's lost all judgment.'
I stared at the vial in my hand. 'He'll be furious if he's deprived of the chance to punish me himself.'
'Not if the gods decide to take you first. That's what it will look like. You'll swallow the contents-even the taste is not unpleasant, or so I'm told-and afterwards I'll throw the vial overboard. You'll die suddenly and quietly. You're not a young man, Finder. No one will be surprised that your heart gave out; they'll assume that you were frightened to death by the prospect of facing Pompey's wrath. My husband will be disappointed, but he'll get over it-especially if we do somehow manage to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Then there will be countless multitudes upon whom he can vent his rage.'
'You intend for me to swallow this now?'
'No, wait. Pompey's about to board a small boat that will take him ashore to parlay with King Ptolemy. Swallow it after he's gone.'
'So that I'll be cold by the time he returns?'
She nodded.
'And if I refuse?'
'I'll make you a promise, Finder. Accept this gift from me, and I'll see that no harm befalls your family. I swear by the shades of my ancestors.'
I pulled out the cork stopper and stared at the colorless liquid inside: Nemesis-in-a-bottle. I passed the vial beneath my nose and detected only a vaguely sweet, not unpleasant odor. Death by poison was not among the many ways I had imagined dying or had come close to dying over the years. Was this how I was to exit the world of the living-as a favor to a woman who wished me to spare her husband the embarrassment of killing me?
A rap at the door gave me a start. The vial nearly jumped from my fingers. Cornelia gripped my hand and pressed my fingers around it. 'Be careful!' she whispered, glaring at me. 'Put it away.'
I stoppered the vial and slipped it into the pouch sewn inside my tunic.
It was Centurion Macro at the door. 'The Great One is almost ready to depart. If you wish to bid him farewell-'
'Of course.' Cornelia collected herself, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the cabin. The centurion ushered me out. Keeping my hand inside my tunic, I tightly clutched the alabaster vial.
CHAPTER IV
Amidships, Pompey was descending the ramp toward a royal Egyptian skiff that had just arrived. Despite its small size, the craft was ornately decorated; images of crocodiles, cranes, and Nile river-horses were carved around the rim, plated with hammered silver and inlaid with pieces of lapis and turquoise for the eyes. The prow of the ship was carved in the shape of a standing ibis with wings outstretched. Besides the rowers, three soldiers stood in the boat. One of them was clearly an Egyptian of very high rank, to judge by the gold filigree that decorated his silver breastplate. The other two were outfitted not like Egyptians but like Roman centurions; presumably they were officers from the Roman force stationed to keep the peace in Egypt. While the Egyptian officer hung back, the two Romans stepped forward and saluted Pompey as he descended the ramp, addressing him in unison: 'Great One!'
Pompey smiled, clearly pleased to be properly addressed. To one of the men he gave a nod of recognition. 'Septimius, isn't it?'
The man bowed his head. 'Great One, I'm surprised you remember me.'
'A good commander never forgets a man who once served under him, even though years may pass. How goes your service in Egypt?'
'These are eventful times, Great One. I can't complain of being bored.'
'And you, Centurion? What's your name?'
'Salvius, Great One.' The other Roman lowered his eyes, not meeting Pompey's gaze. Pompey frowned, then looked beyond the centurions to the Egyptian whom they escorted. He was a powerfully built man with broad shoulders and massive limbs. He had the blue eyes of a Greek and the dark complexion of an Egyptian. Nearby, I overheard Centurion Macro speaking into Cornelia's ear: 'That's the boy-king's mongrel mastiff; fellow's part Greek, like his master, and part native Egyptian. His name-'
'Achillas,' the man said in a booming voice, introducing himself to Pompey. 'Captain of the King's Guards. I shall have the honor of escorting you into the presence of King Ptolemy… Great One,' he added, his voice falling flat on the final syllables.
Pompey merely nodded, then gestured for his party to begin boarding the boat. Only four men accompanied him: Macro and another centurion to act as bodyguards, a slave with a box of writing materials to act as a scribe, and Pompey's loyal freedman Philip, a small, wiry fellow with a neatly trimmed beard who was said to attend all important meetings with the Great One on account of his faculty for never forgetting a name, face, or date.
After the others had boarded, Pompey, assisted by Philip, stepped into the boat. While the others sat, Pompey remained standing for a moment. He turned and scanned the faces of those assembled on the galley to see him off. The crowd parted for Cornelia, who descended the ramp and extended her hand to him. Their fingers briefly touched, then drew apart as the rowers dipped their oars and the skiff set off.
'Remember your manners, my dear,' called Cornelia, her voice trembling. 'He may be only a boy of fifteen, but he's still a king.'
Pompey smiled and made a theatrical gesture of submission, opening his arms wide and making a shallow bow. ' 'He that once enters a tyrant's door becomes a slave, though he were free before,' ' he quoted.
'A bit of Euripides,' muttered one of the officers beside me.
