When poets sing of lovers, they celebrate Harmodias and Aristogiton, or Theseus and Ariadne. But lovers need not always be so evenly matched in beauty and youth. I thought of my own affair with Cassandra, a much younger woman, and I comprehended the spark of mutual desire that Caesar and the king might have ignited in one another. Despite all his worldly success, Caesar was at that age when even the most robust of men feel acutely the increasing frailty of their once-invincible bodies, and begin to look with envy (and yes, sometimes lust) upon the firm, vigorous bodies of men younger than themselves. Youth itself becomes an aphrodisiac to the man who no longer possesses it; youth coupled with reciprocal desire becomes irresistible.
To an outsider, such love affairs can appear absurd or demeaning-the doddering man of means hankering after some hapless slave boy. But this was a meeting of two extraordinary men. I thought of Ptolemy's combination of boyish enthusiasm and grave sense of purpose, self-assurance and naivete. I thought of Caesar's effortless sophistication and supreme confidence, and of his slightly ridiculous vanity, as betrayed by the way he combed his hair to cover his bald spot. Both were not merely men but rulers of men; and yet, not rulers only, but men as well, with appetites, frailties, uncertainties, needs; and not merely men and rulers, but-so they themselves appeared to believe-descendents and incarnations of divinity. Added to this was the fact that Ptolemy had lost his beloved father, and Caesar had never had a son. I could well imagine that Caesar and the king had something unique to offer one another, in a private realm far removed from the public arena of riches, arms, and diplomacy; that in a moment alone with each other, they might share an understanding inaccessible to the rest of us.
Why was Meto so scornful in conveying his suspicions? Had he been as intimate with Caesar as I had often been led to believe? Had that intimacy lessened, or ended altogether? Were his feelings about Caesar's dalliances with the royal siblings tinged with jealousy-and did that jealousy make his assumptions more reliable, or less?
I gave a start, as if waking from a dream. Meto and the way of life he had chosen to follow with Caesar were no longer my concern. Even if what he had just told me was true-that he himself had begun to doubt that way of life-still, it was of no consequence to me. So I told myself.
"You speak as if a gulf has opened between you and Caesar. Yet earlier tonight, I saw with my own eyes how the two of you got along-like the best of old friends, completely at ease. Almost like an old married couple, I daresay."
"Did it look that way? Appearances can be deceiving." He lowered his eyes, and suddenly I felt a stab of doubt. Had Meto grown cagey and dissimulating with Caesar, using the skills of deception that had become second nature to him to put on a face to the man he had once admired but now doubted? Or was I the one being fooled? For all I knew, Meto was still very much Caesar's trusted spy, and I was simply another source of information to be cultivated.
I stiffened my spine and hardened my heart. "You've said what you had to say, and so have I. It's been a long day-too long and too eventful for an old man like me. I need my rest now. Go."
Meto looked crestfallen. "There's so much more I wanted to say. Perhaps… next time."
I looked at him without blinking and gestured to the open door.
He gave each of the boys a hug, nodded curtly to Rupa, then turned to leave.
"Meto-wait a moment."
He stopped in the doorway and turned back. "As long as you're here-Rupa, would you pull the trunk closer to the bed? Open the lid, please." Since we had settled in our rooms, I no longer kept the trunk locked. I sat on the bed and sorted through its contents.
"What are you looking for, Papa?" said Meto. "Bethesda's things are here. She would have wanted you to have something… as a keepsake."
I removed various items from the trunk, spreading them beside me on the bed to sort through them. I came across Bethesda's silver-and-ebony comb. My fingers trembled as I picked it up. Would it mean as much to Meto as it meant to me? Perhaps; but I could not bear to part with it. I would have to find something else to give him.
"What's that?" he asked.
"What?"
"There-that alabaster vial. Was it Bethesda's?"
"No."
"Are you sure? It looks like the sort of thing in which she might have kept a perfume. To be able to smell her scent again-I'd like that."
"That vial was not Bethesda's!"
"You needn't speak so harshly."
I sighed. "The vial was given to me by Cornelia."
He frowned. "Pompey's wife?"
"Yes. The whole story is too complicated to recount, but believe me, that vial does not contain perfume."
"Poison?"
I looked at him sharply. "Caesar has indeed taught you to think like a spy."
He shook his head gravely. "Some things I learned from you, Papa, whether you like it or not, and a penchant for deduction is one of them. If not perfume, what else would a woman like Cornelia carry in a vial like that? And if she gave it to you…"
"She didn't hire me to assassinate someone, if that's what you're thinking."
"I was thinking that she gave it to you out of mercy, or perhaps simple convenience-to spare you a more violent death. The poison was intended for you, wasn't it, Papa?"
I almost smiled; his cleverness pleased me, in spite of myself. "It's something called Nemesis-in-a-bottle, quick and relatively painless, or so Cornelia told me. She claimed it was her personal supply, for her own use if the need should arise."
"Poor Cornelia! She must be missing it now."
"Perhaps, but I doubt it. Cornelia survived Publius Crassus. She survived Pompey. She'll probably survive yet another ill-starred husband."
"If any man would be foolish enough to marry such an ill-starred wife!"
I pulled myself upright and stiffened my jaw. Engaging in banter was not my reason for calling Meto back. Among the objects strewn across the bed, I spotted a small jar made of carved malachite, with a lid of the same stone secured by a brass clamp. I picked it up, gazed it at for a long moment, then handed it to Meto.
"Perhaps you'd like this, to remember her by. The beeswax inside is suffused with the scent Bethesda wore on special occasions. I told her to leave it in Rome, but she insisted on packing it. 'What if we attend a dinner with Queen Cleopatra?' she said. She was being facetious, of course."
He unclamped the lid and held the jar to his nose. The perfume was subtle but unmistakable, its ingredients a secret even to me. I caught a faint whiff. Tears came to my eyes.
Meto clamped the lid. His voice was choked with emotion. "If you're sure you want to give it to me…"
"Take it."
"Thank you, Papa."
He turned to go, then turned back. "That vial of poison, Papa-you should get rid of it."
And you should mind your own business, I started to say, but the lump in my throat was too thick. The best I could manage was a curt gesture of dismissal.
Meto stepped through the doorway and disappeared.
Why did I not do as Meto advised? From my window, I could have cast the alabaster vial into the harbor, where it would have sunk like a stone. Instead, I gathered it up with the other things on the bed and stuffed them back into the trunk, then closed the lid and threw myself onto my bed.
Rupa hovered over me. I told him to go to his room. Mopsus approached, clearing his throat to speak. I told him to take Androcles and follow Rupa. They left me alone.