"It's impossible to think of you as naive, Consul."
"Is it? Alas! The youth whom Nico instructed in the ways of the world has long since vanished-but the man remembers those golden days as clearly as if they just happened. I shut my eyes, and I'm in Bithynia again, without a scar on my flesh and with all my life ahead of me.
Do you think Ptolemy will remember me that vividly when he grows old, and ruling Egypt has become a tired habit, and that fellow called Caesar has long since turned to dust?"
"I think the world will remember Caesar long after the Ptolemies have been forgotten." I said this matter-of-factly, but Caesar mistook my tone. His gentle mood suddenly evaporated.
"Don't humor me, Gordianus-you, of all people! The last thing I need right now is another sycophant."
The whole time we talked, he had been fiddling with the little vial, turning it over in his hand. Now he gripped it in his fist, so tightly that his knuckles blanched as white as the alabaster. Suddenly he threw it with all his might against the marble wall. Unbroken, the vial ricocheted and struck my leg. The blow was harmless, but still I jumped.
The gesture expended Caesar's fury. He drew a deep breath. "Just when I thought I was on the verge of restoring peace between the king and queen, Achillas marches on Alexandria-and someone attempts to poison me."
"Perhaps the queen was the intended victim."
"Perhaps. But how and when was the wine poisoned, and by whom? We know where the poison came from-and that fact casts a ray of suspicion upon you, Gordianus."
"Consul, I didn't even know the vial was missing-"
"So you've already explained. But the possibility remains that you were in collusion with your son-that you provided him with the poison, knowing how he intended to use it. Did you conspire against me?"
I shook my head. "No, Consul."
"Meto claims to know nothing. The queen advises me to torture him. She doesn't understand how strong willed he is. I myself trained Meto to endure interrogation. But if I thought that torture would loosen his tongue-"
"No, Consul! Not that."
"The truth must be discovered."
"Perhaps… perhaps I can do so, Consul. If you'll allow me-"
"Why? Meto means nothing to you. In Massilia, you disowned him. I witnessed that moment with my own eyes and ears."
"Consul, please! Let me help my son."
Caesar gazed at me for a long moment. A shadow seemed to dim the light in his eyes, as if some powerful, dark emotion gripped him, but his face remained devoid of expression. At last he spoke. "Over the years, your son has demonstrated great loyalty to me. I've rewarded his devotion with a degree of trust I've given to very few men. And yet, when that slave girl died today, a part of me was not surprised. The worm of deceit starts small, but grows. I think back, and I perceive that a rift has been growing between myself and Meto for quite some time. The signs have been subtle. He never defies me outright, but on his face I've glimpsed a sour, fleeting look; in his voice I've heard a faint note of discord. If Meto has betrayed me, he shall be punished accordingly."
I bit my lip. "Caesar has a reputation for clemency."
"Yes, Gordianus, I've shown great clemency to those who've fought against me. Even that rat Domitius Ahenobarbus I forgave, only to see him take up arms against me at Massilia and again at Pharsalus. But for a traitor who resorts to lies and poison, there can be no pardon. I tell you this outright, Gordianus, so that if you harbor any notion of pleading for your son's life, you can spare yourself the indignity. Don't bother to rip your tunic and weep, like one of Cicero's guilty clients playing for sympathy in the courts. If Meto did this thing, my judgment will be harsh and irreversible. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Consul. But what if I can prove to you that he's innocent?" Again the shadow dimmed his eyes. "If Meto is innocent, then someone else is guilty."
"So I would assume, Consul."
"In which case, the truth is likely to pose a problem."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"The poisoner must have come from one of three camps-my own, or that of the queen, or that of the king. Whatever the truth, the revelation is likely to cause yet more… complications. Which is why you will report anything you discover directly to me, and to me alone. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Consul."
Caesar strode across the room, stooped, and picked up the alabaster vial. He held it to the light. "What an irony, if the poison intended for Pompey's widow had taken the life of Pompey's rival! Do you think our poisoner has a sense of humor, Gordianus?"
"I shall take that possibility into account, Consul."
CHAPTER XXII
I had to stoop to enter through the low doorway. The jailer, one of Caesar's men, shut the door behind me. Meto, sitting on a low cot, sprang to his feet.
He was being held in a small room underground. The walls were dank, and the only light came from a tiny, grated window high above our heads, from which I heard faint, echoing sounds of the harbor-bells, gulls, men calling out, the low murmur of the water.
"Papa! What are you doing here? Caesar can't think that you had anything to do with-"
"I'm not here as a prisoner, Meto. Caesar agreed to let me visit you."
"You looked in your trunk?"
"Yes. The vial wasn't there. I don't know when it was taken. Caesar has it now. He wants to know how it came to be on your person."
"But I never possessed it! The only time I ever saw it was that day in your room, when I told you to get rid of it."
"If only I had!"
Meto shook his head. "This is madness. Why is Caesar holding me here? He can't possibly believe I tried to poison him."
I remembered the darkness in Caesar's eyes. "I'm afraid he does believe it, though it causes him great pain. But if we can prove otherwise-"
Meto was staring at the dank stone wall, not listening. "How the gods must despise me! First, you disowned me, Papa. I thought that nothing could be worse than that. But now Caesar turns against me. All that I've loved and trusted and given my life for has abandoned me. Why did I ever allow myself to expect anything more? I began this life as an orphan and a slave. I shall leave this world in an even lowlier state, branded as a traitor and a criminal, without a father, without a friend, without a name."
"No, Meto! Whatever else may happen, you're still my son."
He looked at me with tears in his eyes. "In Massilia-"
"I repent of the error I made in Massilia! You're my son, Meto. I'm your father. Forgive me."
"Papa!"
I embraced my son. For the first time since Massilia, a place in my heart that had grown numb and cold quickened and sprang to life. I felt an almost palpable relief, as if a jagged stone that had been lodged in my breast was now removed. I had learned to ignore the pain in order to bear it, but now that it was relieved, I realized the grinding, wearing burden of the suffering I had inflicted on myself. I embraced the warm solidity of Meto's body and rejoiced that he was still in the world, alive and whole. But for how much longer? In Egypt, I had lost Bethesda, only to find Meto again; had I now reclaimed Meto only to face losing him forever?