The "fleet," as the centurion had called it, was a more ragtag assembly than it had appeared to be at a distance. There were a few warships, to be sure, but all seemed to be in varying degrees of disrepair, with thread-bare sails, battered hulls, and mismatched oars. The other ships were transports. The soldiers loaded on their decks had the distracted, ill-disciplined look of conscripted slaves; I had seen enough of those since the outbreak of the war, for both sides in desperate bids for advantage had drafted gladiators, farmhands, and even clerical slaves into their ranks. These soldiers, with their squints and blank expressions and dented armor, were certainly not the crack troops whom Pompey had gathered for his campaign in Greece; those presumably had vanished at Pharsalus, either slain by Caesar's legions or else pardoned and absorbed into Caesar's ranks.
Pompey had escaped from Pharsalus with his life, but not much else. Rumor had it that his defeat had caught him completely by surprise. The engagement had begun at daybreak; as the battle commenced, so certain had Pompey been of victory that he withdrew to his command pavilion to relax and enjoy a midday repast. But Caesar's forces abruptly overran the opposition and sent them fleeing. When they reached Pompey's position, they stormed the ramparts and went streaming into the camp. Caesar himself was the first to reach Pompey's pavilion; when he entered, he found sumptuous furnishings strewn with pillows still warm to the touch, a banquet table set with silver plates piled high with steaming delicacies, and amphorae of fine Falernian wine not yet un-sealed. If Pompey had intended a victory banquet, the celebration had been premature; at the last moment, learning that all was lost, the Great One threw off his scarlet cloak and the other badges of his rank, mounted the first horse he could find, and rode through the rear gate of the camp, barely escaping with his life.
And now, here was Pompey with a ragtag fleet of warriors anchored off the coast of Egypt; and here was I, in Pompey's power.
My stomach growled, and I realized that I had grown hungry pacing the deck of the little ship and waiting for word from the centurion, who had diligently recorded my name before rowing off to his commander's ship for further orders. The Andromeda's captain sat nearby, giving me sidelong looks. At last he cleared his throat and spoke up.
"Look, Gordianus, you're not… I mean to say, you're not dangerous-are you?"
I smiled. "That depends. Do you think I could take you in a fair fight, Cretheus? We're about the same age, the same build-"
"That's not what I meant, and you know it."
"Am I dangerous to know, you mean? Am I dangerous cargo?"
He nodded. "This is Pompey we've run into. I've never had dealings with the man myself, but everyone knows his reputation. He's used to getting what he wants, and stopping at nothing to get it."
I nodded, remembering a famous comment from early in the Great One's career, when he ran roughshod over the Sicilians. They complained of his illegal tactics in bringing order to their island. Pompey's response: "Stop quoting laws to us; we carry swords!" Pompey had always done whatever was necessary to prevail, and throughout his long career he had never tasted defeat-until now.
"Considering what happened at Pharsalus, I imagine the Great One must be in a rather foul mood," I said.
"So you do know him, Gordianus?"
I nodded. "Pompey and I are acquainted."
"And will he be pleased or displeased when that officer tells him you're on my ship?"
I laughed without mirth. "Displeased to learn that I'm still breathing. Pleased that he has a chance to do something about that."
The captain wrinkled his brow. "He hates you that much?"
"Yes."
"Because you're a partisan of Caesar?"
I shook my head. "I am not and never was in Caesar's camp, despite the fact that my son-my disowned son…" I left the sentence unfinished.
"You have a son who fights with Caesar?"
"They're closer than that. Meto sleeps in the same tent, eats from the same bowl. He helps write the propaganda Caesar passes off as memoirs."
The captain looked at me with fresh eyes. "Who'd have thought…?"
"That such a common-looking fellow as myself would have such a close connection to the world's new lord and master?"
"Something like that. What did you do to offend Pompey, then?"
I leaned against the rail and stared into the water. "That, Captain, is my own business."
"My business, if it means Pompey decides to confiscate my ship and throw me overboard, to punish me for taking you as a passenger. I'll ask you again: What did you do to offend the Great One?"
"Even as Caesar was marching on Rome and Pompey was scrambling to escape, a favorite young cousin of Pompey's was murdered. Just before he left Rome, Pompey charged me with finding the killer."
"And you failed to do so?"
"Not exactly. But the Great One was not pleased with the outcome." I thought of Pompey as I had last seen him-his hands around my throat, his eyes bulging, determined to see me dead. He had been in the process of fleeing Italy by ship, disembarking from the port of Brundisium even as Caesar stormed the city. I'd barely managed to escape, wrenching free from Pompey's grip, diving into deep water, surfacing amid flaming flotsam, dragging myself to the shore while Pompey sailed off to fight another day.
I shook my head to clear it. "You've done nothing to insult the Great One's dignity, Captain. He has no reason to punish you. If Pompey confiscates your ship, it'll be because he needs more room for that sad-looking bunch of soldiers crowded on these transports. But he'll need someone to sail this ship, so why throw you overboard? Ah, but perhaps we'll know the Great One's intentions soon enough. I see a skiff approaching, and I believe it's carrying our friend, that centurion who detained us."
The skiff pulled alongside. The centurion called up to us. "Ahoy, Captain."
"Ahoy, yourself. Your men finished searching my cargo an hour ago. What now? Am I free to go?"
"Not yet. That passenger you're carrying…"
I leaned over the rail to show my face. "Are you referring to me, Centurion?"
"I am. Are you the same Gordianus who's called the Finder, who lives in Rome?"
"I suppose there's no point in denying it."
"You must be a rather important fellow, then. The Great One himself would like a word with you. If you'll join us here in the skiff, we'll escort you to his galley."
Bethesda, who had been standing to one side with Rupa and the boys, drew near and gripped my hand.
"Husband-"
"I'll be alright, I'm sure," I said.
She squeezed my fingers and averted her eyes. "We've come so far, Husband."
"All the way back to where we first began, you and I. Well, almost all the way. We didn't quite make it to Alexandria, but we did see the lighthouse, didn't we?"
She shook her head. "I should never have insisted on this journey."
"Nonsense! These days, no place is safer than any other. We came to Egypt so that you could bathe in the Nile and cleanse yourself of the malady that plagues you, and so you must. Promise me you will, no matter whether I'm there to see it or-"
"Don't say such a thing!" she whispered.
I took both her hands, but only for a moment. "The Great One doesn't like to be kept waiting," I said, reluctantly letting her fingertips slip from mine. "Look after her while I'm gone, Rupa. And you boys, behave yourselves!" Androcles and Mopsus both looked at me uncertainly, sensing trouble.
A man of my years should never be obliged to climb down a rope ladder into a skiff, but I managed the difficult descent with more grace than I thought possible. Perhaps the gods were watching after all, and thought it fitting to allow an old Roman to retain a shred of dignity on the way to meet his destiny.
"A beautiful day," I said to the centurion. "Not a sign of that storm that blew us here. You'd never know it happened. Nothing but blue skies."
The centurion nodded but did not speak. His reserves of bonhomie were apparently spent. His face was grim.
"Not a very cheerful group," I said, looking at the rowers. They kept their eyes straight ahead and made no response.
We rowed past warships and transports to the center of the little fleet. Pompey's galley stood out from the rest. Its sail was trimmed with crimson, its armored hull gleamed in the sunlight, and the soldiers on the deck were by far the best outfitted of any in sight. It was clearly the handsomest ship in the fleet, and yet, in some intangible way, the gloomiest. Was I only imagining the air of dread that seemed to thicken around us as each stroke of the oars brought us closer?
I was spared the challenge of attempting an ascent by ladder, for the galley was equipped with a ramp that unfolded from the deck. I stepped onto it, swaying a bit. When the centurion gripped my elbow to steady me, I turned to thank him; but the way he averted his eyes, as if the very sight of me might contaminate him, unnerved me. Mustering my courage, I turned and ascended the ramp.
The moment I stepped onto the deck, I was searched. My dagger was discovered and taken from me. I was told to remove my shoes, and those were taken as well; I suppose an enterprising assassin might find some way to conceal a deadly weapon in his shoe. Even the cord I used to belt my tunic was taken. Armed guards escorted me to the cabin at the stern of the galley. Its door stood open, and well before we reached it, I heard Pompey's raised voice from within.
"Tell the brat and his pet eunuch that I'll expect to meet them ashore tomorrow at noon-not an hour earlier and not an hour later. I'll be able to judge how subservient these Egyptians intend to be by what they feed me for lunch. If they spring for crocodile steak and swallows' tongues with a decent Italian wine, I'll tell the boy-king to wipe my bottom for me as well. If they think they can get away with serving Nile mullets and Egyptian beer, I'll know I have my work cut out for me." This was followed by a harsh laugh that made my blood run cold.
Another voice replied, in lower tones, "As you command, Great One," and a moment later an officer emerged from the cabin, wearing full regalia and carrying a plumed helmet under his arm. He spied me and raised an eyebrow. "Is this the one called Gordianus, Centurion Macro?"
"It is, Commander."
"Well, Citizen Gordianus, I don't envy you. But then, you probably don't envy me, either. I'm off to the mainland to parlay with that haughty boy-king and his insufferable advisers. The Great One expects to receive a fitting welcome when he goes ashore tomorrow, but one gets the distinct impression that the boy-king had rather be staging another battle against his sister and her rebels in the desert." The officer shook his head. "This sort of thing was so much easier before Pharsalus! I had merely to snap my fingers, and the locals cringed. Now they look at me as if…" He seemed to realize he had said too much, and scowled. "Ah, well, perhaps I'll see you again when I get back. Or perhaps not." He gave me a nudge in the ribs that was much too hard to be friendly, and then he pushed past me. I watched the officer descend the ramp and disappear from sight.
While I was distracted, one of the guards had apparently announced my arrival, for without further preamble Centurion Macro pushed me toward the cabin. I stepped inside, and he shut the door behind me.
The little room seemed dark after the bright sunshine. As my eyes adjusted, the first face I saw was that of a young woman, a strikingly beautiful Roman matron who sat in one corner with her hands folded on her lap, fixing me with a condescending stare. Even at sea, she had managed to take considerable pains with her appearance. Her hair was tinted with henna and piled atop her head in a complicated coif. Her wine-dark stola was belted about her shapely torso with chains of gold, and more gold shimmered amid the jewel-encrusted pectoral that adorned her throat and the lapis baubles that dangled from her earlobes. Pompey's young wife had no doubt taken a great deal of jewelry with her when she fled from Rome with her husband; she must have lugged that jewelry from camp to camp as the arena of battle moved. If any woman had learned to look her best while on the move, and if any woman felt she had earned the right to wear her best jewels for any occasion, it was the long-suffering Cornelia.
Pompey was not her first husband. Her previous marriage had been to Publius Crassus, the son of Marcus Crassus, the lifelong rival of Caesar and Pompey. When the elder Crassus set out to conquer Parthia some five years ago, he took his son with him; both perished when the Parthians massacred the invading Romans. Still young and beautiful, and famously well versed in literature, music, geometry, and philosophy, Cornelia had not remained a widow long. Some said her marriage to Pompey was a political union; others said it was a love-match. Whatever the nature of their relationship, through good times and bad she had remained steadfastly at his side.
"So it is you, Finder!" The voice, so harsh it gave me a start, came from another corner. Pompey stepped forward, emerging from the deepest shadows in the room.
On the last occasion I saw him, he had been possessed by an almost supernatural fury. There was a glint of that same fury even now in his eyes. He was dressed as if for battle, in gleaming armor, and carried himself stiffly, his chin high, his shoulders erect-a model of Roman dignity and self-control. But along with the glint of fury in his eyes, there was a glimmer of something else-fear, uncertainty, defeat. Those emotions, held carefully in check, nevertheless undermined the stiffly formal facade he presented, and it seemed to me that behind his gleaming armor and scowling countenance, Pompey the Great was a hollow man.
Hollow, I thought-but hardly harmless. He fixed me with a gaze so intense that I had to struggle not to lower my eyes. When he saw that I refused to quail, he barked out a laugh.
"Gordianus! As defiant as ever-or merely stupid? No, not stupid. That can't be, since everyone credits you with being so very, very clever. But cleverness counts for nothing without the favor of the gods, and I think the gods must have deserted you, eh? For here you are, delivered into my hands-the last person on earth I should have thought to see today. And I must be the last person you expected to encounter!"
"We've followed different paths to the same place, Great One. Perhaps it's because the gods have withdrawn their favor from both of us."
He blanched. "You are a fool, and I shall see that you end like a fool. I'd thought you dead already when I left Brundisium, drowned like a rat after you jumped from my ship. Then Domitius Ahenobarbus joined me in Greece and told me he'd seen you alive in Massilia. 'Impossible!' I told him. 'You saw the Finder's lemur.' 'No, the man himself,' he assured me. And now you stand before me in the flesh, and it's Domitius who's become a lemur. Marc Antony chased him to ground like a fox at Pharsalus. Damn Antony! Damn Caesar! But who knows? Mark my words, Caesar will yet get his just deserts, and when he least expects it. The gods will abandon Caesar-like that!" He snapped his fingers. "One moment he'll be alive, plotting his next triumph, and the next moment-dead as King Numa! I see you scoff, Finder, but believe me, Caesar will yet receive his due."
What was he talking about? Did he have spies and assassins close to Caesar, plotting to do away with him? I stared back at Pompey and said nothing.
"Lower your eyes, damn you! A man in your position-think of those traveling with you, if not of yourself. You're all at my mercy!"
Would he really harm Bethesda to take vengeance on me? I tried to steady the quaver in my voice. "I'm traveling with a young mute of simple intelligence, two slave boys, and my wife, who is not well. I find it hard to believe that the Great One would stoop to exact vengeance on such-"
"Oh, shut up!" Pompey made a noise of disgust and looked sidelong at his wife. Some unspoken communication passed between them, and the exchange seemed to calm him. I sensed that Cornelia was his anchor, the one thing he could count on now that everything else, including his own judgment, had failed him so miserably.
Pompey now refused to look at me. "Go on, get out!" he said between clenched teeth.
I blinked, not ready to believe that he was dismissing me with my head still on my shoulders.
"Well, what are you waiting for?"
I turned to leave. "But don't think I'm done with you, Finder!" Pompey snapped. "At present I have too much on my mind to fully enjoy seeing the life torn out of you. After I've met with young King Ptolemy and my fortunes have returned to a firmer footing-then I'll summon you again, when I can deal with you at my leisure."
Centurion Macro accompanied me back to the skiff. "You look as pale as a fish belly," he said.
"Do I?"
"Mind your step, getting into the boat. I've been given orders that nothing untoward must happen to you."
"The dagger that was taken from me?"
He laughed. "You won't be seeing that again. Pompey says you mustn't hurt yourself."