The Judgment of Caesar by Steven Saylor Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    “Sophocles, if I’m not mistaken,” I said. The man glowered at me. Pompey gave Cornelia a final nod of farewell, then moved to sit down, with Philip assisting him. Looking up abruptly, his eyes came to rest on me. It was only for an instant, for the business of settling himself on the moving boat required his attention, but an instant was all that was required for him to convey, in quick order, recognition, mild surprise, a flash of utter hatred, and an implicit promise that he would deal with me later, at his leisure. My throat constricted, and I squeezed the vial in my pocket.
    I was worth no more than that single glance; in the next instant, Pompey finished settling himself and turned his attention toward the shore and the company that awaited him at the royal pavilion.
    Without a word, those of us on the galley watched the skiff’s progress. Everyone on all the other ships watched as well, as did the ranks of soldiers assembled on the shore. The moment became slightly unreal; time seemed to stretch. The water, so close to shore, was quite murky, discolored by mud from the nearby Nile brought down by the rush of the annual floods. The sky was without a cloud but uniformly hazy, its color pearly gray rather than blue. No breeze stirred; the atmosphere was sullen and heavy with humidity. Sounds carried with peculiar clarity; I could clearly hear the noise of Pompey clearing his throat on the receding boat, and the low mutter as he attempted to engage the centurions Septimius and Servius in conversation. They did not answer but only averted their eyes, just as the men who had come for me that morning had averted their eyes. The barren, colorless shore assumed a peculiarly uninviting aspect. The throne set before the royal pavilion remained empty; King Ptolemy still declined to show himself.
    Cornelia stepped back from the crowd along the rail and began to pace the deck, keeping her eyes on the royal skiff. She touched her mouth