I felt a pain in my chest. "Please don't refer him as my son."
Caesar shook his head. "Gordianus! The war has been very hard on you, hasn't it? You're rather like Cicero, in that way; you thrived during the old days, when everyone was dragging everyone else into the courts, bending laws to punish their political enemies, flinging reckless accusations, and casting dust in the jurors' eyes. Now all that has changed. Things shall never be the same. I fear that the times we live in no longer suit you. You've become discontented, disgruntled-bitter, even-but you shouldn't take it out on poor Meto. Ah, the second course has arrived: hearts of palm in spiced olive oil. Perhaps you'll like this dish more than you did the tilapia."
Caesar ate. I stared at the food. He had touched on a point that had been troubling my sleep ever since I had seen Meto on the landing. Bethesda had not been kin to Meto by blood, any more than I was; but in every way that mattered she had been a mother to him. Meto would have to be told of her loss. He would want to know exactly what happened; he might have questions that only I could answer, doubts that only I could assuage. Did he not deserve to be told the facts by me, face-to-face?
Caesar took a sip of wine. "Perhaps we should talk of something else. I understand that you witnessed the end of Pompey, and that you even helped to build his funeral pyre."
"Did Philip tell you that?"
"Yes."
"I suppose you had him thoroughly interrogated after Pothinus delivered him to you as a gift."
"That was an unfortunate moment. As a member of Pompey's house-hold-as a renegade and an enemy of the Roman people-Philip should have been delivered to me in a more discreet fashion, along with any other prisoners of war. But I've treated him with great respect. He was never interrogated, in the sense that you suggest; I myself talked to him at length, in private, as you and I are talking now."
"Surely he told you everything you might wish to know about Pompey's final days."
"Philip was revealing about some things, reticent about others. Since you were there, I should very much like to hear the tale from your lips."
"Why? So that you can gloat? Or to help you avoid the same fate at the hands of your Egyptian hosts?"
His expression darkened. "When I looked upon Pompey's head, I wept. He should never have met such an ignominious end."
"He should have been slaughtered by Roman arms, you mean, rather than Egyptian?"
"I would have preferred that he die in battle, yes, rather than by trickery."
"So that you might claim the glory of killing him?"
"I'm sure that death in battle would have been his preference, as well."
"But Pompey had his chance to die fighting, at Pharsalus. Instead, he fled. The end he met was gruesome, but quick. How many of the men you send into battle die as cleanly and as quickly, Consul, and for how many of those men do you weep? You can't possibly weep for them all, or else you'd never be done weeping."
He looked at me coolly, betraying neither anger nor offense. I think he was unused to being spoken to in such a way, and was not sure what to make of it. Perhaps he thought I was a little mad.
"There are other matters we might discuss, Gordianus. For example, during my absence from Rome, my wife has kept me abreast of events in the city. Calpurnia wrote me a particularly interesting letter about the scrape you got into when Milo and Caelius tried to rouse the people against me. She also told me the details of your involvement with that remarkable young woman called Cassandra. I gathered from Pothinus that another of your purposes in coming to Egypt was to allow Cassandra's brother to scatter her ashes in the Nile."
"Yes. That was done on the same day that Bethesda was lost."
"What a dreadful day that must have been for you! I can only imagine the grief you must have felt, given the special bond that developed between you and Cassandra. But I'm glad that my wife was able to facilitate the disposal of Cassandra's belongings after her death. I understand that Calpurnia took special care to see that you accepted Rupa into your household, and that you received the full amount of the bequest Cassandra intended for you."
This was the Caesar I knew: the consummate politician with an un-erring ability to find an adversary's weakness, with the aim to either disarm or destroy him. Caesar had no need to destroy me, but if he could disarm my animosity by appealing to my emotions and win me over to his side, he would. His behavior toward me that evening had been above reproach, yet he had managed to prick at the guilt I felt for avoiding Meto, and now, in a single stroke, he was reminding me of the link that Cassandra formed between us and also of the special favor his wife, Calpurnia, had shown me following Cassandra's death. Performing these subtle verbal manipulations came as second nature to him; perhaps he was hardly aware of what he was doing. Yet I felt his words acutely.
"Cassandra was many things," he said, his voice wistful. "Beautiful, gifted, amazingly intelligent. I can well understand how you came to desire her, admire her, perhaps even love her-"
"I had rather not talk about her. Not here. Not with you."
He studied me for a long moment. "Why not? With whom else could you ever talk about Cassandra, except with me? You and I have seen much of the world, Gordianus. We two are survivors. There are so many things we could talk about. We should be friends, not enemies! I still don't know what I ever did to offend you. I took your son into my confidence. I elevated him to a status far above that to which most freedmen could ever dream to aspire. Your son's course in life has thus far been one glorious ascent, thanks to my largesse and his own strong spirit. You should be thankful to me, and proud of him! I don't know what to make of you. Meto is equally baffled. Every Roman desires to please his father, and Meto is no different. Your estrangement causes him great pain-"
"Enough of this, Caesar! Must you win every argument? Must every man in the world give you his love and devotion? I won't do it. I can't. I see the mess the likes of you and Pompey have made of the world, and I feel not love but a deep loathing. My son loves you, Caesar, with all his heart and soul, and with his body as well, or so the gossips insist. Is that not enough for you?"
I stared at Caesar, who stared back me, speechless. Then both of us, in the same instant, felt the presence of another. We turned our heads in unison.
Meto stood in the doorway.
CHAPTER XIV
"Father?" whispered Meto. He was dressed for duty, in gleaming armor with a short cape and a sword in a scabbard at his waist. The rigors of war agreed with him; he looked very lean and fit. He was a man of thirty-one now, but he still looked boyish to me and perhaps always would. His broad, handsome face was dark from the sun. His deep tan highlighted the battle scars scattered here and there on his bare arms and legs. Whenever I met him after a long separation, I counted those scars, fearful of finding new ones. I saw none. He had emerged from the Greek campaign and the battle of Pharsalus without a scratch.
I made no reply.
Caesar frowned. "Meto, What are you doing here? I told you I was not to be disturbed."
Meto's eyes traveled back and forth between us. I looked away, unable to bear the confusion on his face. At last Caesar's question seemed to penetrate his consciousness. "You said you were not to be disturbed, Imperator… except under one condition."
Caesar's face lit up. His eyes glittered as if reflecting the beacon of the Pharos. "A message from the queen, at last?"