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

with an anxious gesture.
    The tension that hung in the air became so oppressive that I began to think it emanated from me alone. Perhaps the sky, seen though other eyes, was a normal blue, and the moment no stranger than any other—except to me, facing my death. “Quickest done is best done,” the Etruscan proverb says. I fingered the vial inside my tunic. A not-unpleasant taste, a little discomfort, and then oblivion . . .
    The royal skiff reached the shore, where an honor guard awaited. The oarsmen jumped out and dragged the boat forward until the hull grounded in the sandy surf. Salvius and Achillas stepped out of the boat, followed by Philip, who turned about and offered his hand to Pompey.
    Cornelia screamed.
    Perhaps she had an instant of precognition. Perhaps she was simply watching more closely than the rest of us. I stared at the boat and at first saw only a confusion of sudden movements. Only afterwards, reviewing those fleeting images in memory, would it become clear to me exactly what happened.
    The oarsmen in the surf, joined by soldiers awaiting them on shore, reached for Centurion Macro and Pompey’s other bodyguard and pulled them out of the boat. Septimius, standing in the boat behind Pompey, drew his sword from its scabbard. As he raised it to strike, the delayed sound of Macro’s cry reached us in the galley, followed, in a weird moment of disconnection, by the scraping noise of Septimius drawing his sword. The blade descended at a sharp angle, plunging between Pompey’s shoulder blades. Pompey stiffened and convulsed. In what seemed a bizarre mimicry of his parting gesture to Cornelia, he flung his arms wide.
    Philip was seized by soldiers on the beach and pulled back, his mouth open in a cry of anguish. Salvius and Achillas drew swords and clambered back into the boat. On either side, Pompey’s two bodyguards were held under the water until their flailing subsided. Inside the boat, while Pompey’s scribe cowered and ducked, the Great One collapsed as Achillas, Salvius, and Septimius swarmed over him, their swords flashing in the sun.
    Abruptly, the stabbing stopped. While the other two pulled back, their chests heaving and their breastplates spattered with blood, Achillas squatted down in the boat and performed some operation. A few moments later he stood upright, his bloody sword in one hand and the severed head of Pompey held aloft in the other.
    Those of us on the deck of Pompey’s galley stood frozen and speechless. From the various ships around us, scattered shrieks and cries echoed across the still water, punctuating the unnatural silence. Achillas deliberately made a point of displaying the head of Pompey to the fleet offshore. The Great One’s eyes were wide open. His mouth gaped. Gore dripped from his severed neck. Then Achillas turned about to show the head to the troops on shore. In their midst, in front of the royal pavilion, King Ptolemy had at last appeared. At some point during the attack, he had taken his place upon the throne, surrounded by a coterie of attendants. He was small in the distance, his features hard to make out, but he was instantly recognizable by the glittering uraeus crown of the Egyptian pharaohs upon his head, a jewel-encrusted band of gold with a rearing cobra at the center. In his crossed arms the king clutched a flail and a staff with a crook at the end, both made of bands of gold interspersed with bands of lapis lazuli. An adviser spoke in his ear, and the king responded by raising his staff in a salute to Achillas. The assembled Egyptian troops broke into a stunning cheer that swept across the water like a thunderclap.
    I turned and looked up at Cornelia. She was as white as ivory, her face contorted like a tragedy mask. The galley’s captain ran to her, whispered in her ear, and pointed toward the west. Looking dazed, she turned her head. From the direction of the Nile, a fleet of ships had appeared on the horizon. “Egyptian warships!” I heard the