Kleopatra (54 page)

“It could not be helped, could it?” he asked Pollio rhetorically. “They asked for it.”

It had been a horrible summer of veritable starvation, playing cat-and-mouse games with Pompey, who had refused to engage
in battle. One terribly dry day in August, just when Caesar was sure his men would either murder him for putting them through
this or simply desert out of hunger and malaise, one of Caesar’s spies rode furiously into camp and announced that the senators
who were encamped with Pompey would no longer put up with his inaction. They were so confident of victory that they insisted
Pompey engage and, as the scout said, “finish Caesar off once and for all.”

The scout reported a speech he overheard made by the traitor Labienus, who assured the Pompeians that Caesar’s army was no
longer the fighting force that had conquered Gaul, but rather a tired bunch of mercenaries ready to desert at any time. Further,
the scout overheard the senators dividing up the spoils they would win in the wake of Caesar’s defeat. The scout said to Caesar,
“They squabble over your office on the Via Sacra, sir.”

“Do they?” Caesar had replied, feeling his entire being rise to meet the senators’ premature arrogance.

“Yes, sir. Every senator wishes to be Pontifex Maximus.” To Pollio, Caesar’s officer who was from the highest nobility, the
scout reported that three greedy senators were squabbling over who would take his family villa outside the city. “They are
fighting over it because of its lavish view of the ocean and its lovely baths that are reported to be the most rejuvenating
in the land.”

“Are they so contemptuous of me?” mused Caesar to Pollio. “Even after all these years? After I have demonstrated to them time
and again what eventually happens to those who oppose me? Who insult me? We seem to have no alternative but to give them what
they wish.”

Later that morning, Caesar saw Pompey’s men descend slowly from their position high atop the hill in Pharsalos—proof that
the gluttonous senators had indeed cajoled Pompey into abandoning his logical scheme of letting Caesar’s forces starve to
death. Now Caesar would have a shot at full-scale battle. Sensing that this was his most auspicious opportunity, here in the
hills where Pompey was completely cut off from his most excellent navy, Caesar immediately arranged his troops in the most
advantageous lines, considering their weak numbers. He assigned the terribly diminished Ninth, who had suffered most at Dyrrhachium,
to the left flank, under the command of Antony. The young officer’s fierceness in battle and smooth way of speaking could
hearten any soldier, could make ten men think they were as strong as an entire legion. The faithful Domitius took the middle,
and he, Caesar, commanded the right, where he could fight at the head of the Tenth, the legion for which he held the most
affection.

But upon further observation of Pompey’s formations, Caesar realized that Pompey had congregated his entire cavalry on the
left, aiming for Caesar’s right. Moreover, Pompey had stationed all of his archers and shooters on the left as well. It became
clear to Caesar that Pompey’s plan was to upset Caesar’s right with a barrage of missiles while the cavalry descended upon
his rear.

Covertly, Caesar drew six cohorts, one from each of his legions, and formed a separate line. He instructed them to carry the
rear of his right. In a moment of what he could only call divine inspiration, he commanded his javelin throwers to aim not
at the legs and thighs of the cavalry, but directly at their faces, as a Parthian savage might do.

“It will be death by vanity,” he told his men, who initially scoffed at Caesar’s idea. “We must do something to compensate
for their greater numbers. I promise you that these gaily dressed, longhaired prancing soldiers of the horse will be devastated
at the thought of scarring their handsome faces and will retreat immediately.” This earned a great roar of laughter from Antony,
who was the master of all cavalry strategy, and was all too aware of the great pride such men took in their appearance.

Caesar, as was his custom before battle, singled out one of his best men, the great centurion Caius Crassinius, and asked,
“What are our hopes today?” Crassinius looked at his general with a luminescent loyalty entirely in opposition to his fearsome
appearance. He said, “We shall conquer today, Caesar, and this day, I will deserve your praises whether at the end I am alive
or dead.” Capitalizing on the momentum of Caius’s fervor, Caesar led the charge, taking the grave risk of leaving behind his
baggage carts and supply kits, which would mean utter defeat if the confrontation lasted very long.

But it did not. Pompey’s cavalry put up great resistance to Caesar’s initial charge, but soon the six hidden cohorts fell
upon the cavalry with a tremendous force, casting their javelins directly at the horsemen’s faces. Caesar’s prediction proved
so accurate that in the heat of battle, he let out a loud laugh. The vain cavalry officers realized the method of attack and
turned around and fled, leaving a great opening for Caesar to enter and claim the day. Pompey himself was thrown into a state
of confusion and made a hasty retreat back to camp, leaving Caesar to wonder if he had taken leave of his senses, for how
was such behavior fitting of a Roman general? He, Caesar, would happily have fought to the death with the last of his men
rather than scamper off like a scared child.

One of Pompey’s officers appeared to change his mind about the retreat. He circled his horse around. Caesar wondered if the
man was going to come over to Caesar’s camp, as soldiers often did when it was clear who had taken the day. But the man did
not ride toward Caesar. Instead, he took an unsuspecting Caius Crassinius by surprise and slashed him in the throat. Caesar
rushed to his man, who was about to fall back off his horse. He grabbed him by the back of the head, and, looking into his
dying eyes, said, “Today you have earned my praises above all men, my friend.”

Now Caesar felt a tear well up in his eye when he thought of Crassinius. He had ordered a special monument to be put up for
the faithful centurion, so that generations of men would come to this place and remember his courage. It was a fine gesture,
but it was hardly enough. So many had come and gone from Caesar’s service, even though he gave every thought, every ounce
of his energy, to protect them.

Pollio interrupted his thoughts. “Sir, the scribes have an estimate on the numbers. I am going to record them should you wish
to use them in your account of the battle. Apparently, Pompey had us outnumbered two to one. Forty-seven thousand to twenty-two
thousand. Antony, who is very good at this sort of thing, agrees with the count.”

Caesar looked about Pompey’s deserted camp. Only slaves and the support staff of a long-drawn-out war were left behind, begging
for mercy. Pompey, his army, and what was left of the Roman senate, had scattered to the wind like house dust a peasant throws
out her back door.

“Where goes Pompey?” Caesar asked Pollio. “Do we know?”

“He is said to be heading over the foothills to Larissa with about thirty men, and from there, to the shore where his fleet
is stationed. Undoubtedly, he will do his usual thing of trying to regroup in some eastern territory.”

“Here are my orders. Let the men know that we waste no time plundering the camp. Fortifications are to be built around the
hill by nightfall in the unlikely event of a surprise counterattack. I will divide the men between those who are to remain
here, those who will go back to our own camp and ensure its safety, and those who will come with me in pursuit of Pompey and
his army.”

Pollio summoned the proper officers to carry out Caesar’s wishes.

“General, we have a special souvenir for you,” said one of the captains. He carried a basket of yellowing scrolls. “Here is
the private correspondence of Pompey.” He held the basket out to Caesar, who cocked his head and eyed it but did not take
the proffered gift.

“Sir, the private papers of your enemy,” said Pollio. “Surely there are multiple insights in those pages.”

“Burn them,” said Caesar. “Those are the private papers of a gentleman. Burn them right away, I said. And do not take a peek
inside them yourselves. Burn every letter.”

“But why, sir?” asked Pollio.

“Because it is the proper thing to do,” said Caesar, nonchalant. He dismissed the officers.

“Of course, sir.”

“I am going to take four legions with me, Pollio. But before we depart, I believe we officers shall indulge in a special treat.”

“What is that, sir?”

“We have starved the summer long. Why should we waste all this food? Let us dine on the meal that Pompey’s excellent cooks
had prepared for his victory celebration. And let us not gorge ourselves like the fat men we have defeated, but let us savor
every bite.”

“An inspired idea, sir.”

The meal was a capital success. Antony, who loved food, drink, and talk equally, made a long speech praising the high quality
of the roasts, the fowl, the pork that was served by Pompey’s very submissive cooks, who acted as though it was quite normal
to be waiting on one army rather than the other. Treating the kitchen staff with extraordinary politeness, Caesar, usually
unimpressed by fine cuisine, allowed that he had never had such a sumptuous, tasty plate of food in all his life.

Caesar washed his hands in a finger bowl and stood. Pollio jumped to his feet. Caesar motioned for the rest of the men to
remain seated. “Finish your plates. You worked hard for this meal. But I must go.”

Caesar’s men groaned at his early departure. Some urged him to sit and enjoy himself. He smiled at them, at their loyalty
and affection. But he indicated that he would not linger.

“I simply must catch up with Pompey and thank him for this delightful repast.”

Caesar left his men laughing and applauding as he walked away from the table. He took Pollio aside. “How long will it take
to spread the word that Caesar has prevailed?”

“As long as it takes men to travel, sir. If I go through the usual channels.”

“They have been effective for us in the past, haven’t they?”

“Yes they have. In two weeks, sir, the civilized world will know what happened here today.”

P
othinus the eunuch stood on the shore looking out to sea. He had rushed to Pelusium the day before with the boy king to meet
the threat of the troublemaker, Kleopatra, who had gathered a paid gypsy army and was encamped just a few miles to the east.
They were certain she was going to strike that morning. His information he thought, was infallible. He was so sure that his
informers were correct that he had neglected his morning ablutions and left his breakfast sitting in its bowl in the city
so that he could rush to Pelusium to meet the menace. And to witness her demise.

But she did not come. Probably because the very morning she planned to strike, the Harbormaster at Pelusium awoke to the fact
that Pompey the Great, fleeing Julius Caesar, was lingering two miles offshore with a small flotilla of warships and merchant
vessels, waiting for an invitation to quarter in Egypt. Pothinus received the news just before dawn. He estimated that it
reached Kleopatra’s ears at about the same time.

He hated the unexpected. But that was what he got. So instead of spending the day in the war tent, the eunuch and his council
of advisers called an emergency meeting to decide how they would receive the defeated Roman general.

What an ordeal that was. And what patience it required. Pothinus knew what the outcome would be even before the meeting convened,
because he and Theodotus had already discussed it. But others were not as quick to see the inevitable. Some argued to make
good relations with Pompey before Kleopatra got to him. She was just crafty enough to seduce him into backing her cause. After
all, she had met him in Rome and had been a guest in his home. Pompey needed an Egyptian ally, and she could make good use
of the troops he had managed to save from Caesar’s wrath. That would never do, Pothinus agreed. Others said they should fight
Pompey then and there. Confront him while he’s down, they said. Yes, yes, quite right, Pothinus said again and again while
he listened to their anxieties about the Roman general. He let them all have their say, sitting patiently through one erroneously
constructed argument after another.

Then, he enlightened them.

Now he and Theodotus stood on the dock, where he would have a fine view of the events that he had been promised would happen,
and happen according to his own plan. The stage was perfectly set. Achillas’s officers were lined up at the harbor, not in
fighting formation, but waiting to greet a dignitary, flanking the boy king, this latest Ptolemy, who was bedecked in his
official purple robes. The child—fidgety, nervous despite his enthusiasm for the plan—stood out in the sunlight like some
quivering, aberrant breed of orchid. Pothinus wished he would have stayed home, but it was not to be. The boy had insisted,
and the eunuch had learned through the years to pick his battles with the headstrong, foolish thing. Pothinus was not certain
exactly whom he could trust. But his co-regents had little reason to betray him. Not now, not when Pompey had been defeated
and was floating in the bay, waiting for an invitation to bring him to shore where he could take over the Egyptian army and
bilk the Egyptian treasury as he had done so marvelously in the past.

“Are you certain we are doing the right thing?” asked Theodotus.

“Your nervousness gives me cramps, Theodotus. You argued brilliantly on our behalf this morning. Why are you now acting so
sheepishly?” Pothinus was losing patience with this paid rhetorician. “Please keep quiet. If you do not have the stomach for
the decision we made, then go hide in your carrel in the Mouseion and comfort yourself with poetry.”

“I suppose we have no choice,” said the jittery scholar.

“Caesar will be here in three days’ time. His boats have been spotted by the scouts at sea. Do we wish for the continuation
of the Roman Civil War on our soil? Do you wish to face Caesar’s army? Or his vengeance for helping his enemy?”