Pietas

Chapter 1.
Egypt. Pelusium.
SEPTEMBER. 48 BCE

It occurred to Sextus that running for one’s life involved a surprising amount of waiting.
Waiting for the patience of allies to wear thin. Waiting for the right moment to slink, unseen, beneath sleeping city walls or slip a coin into the greasy palm of the inn-keeper: payment for a private room and a modicum of discretion. Today, it was waiting to hear if they warranted fifteen minutes of a petulant boy-king’s time. And if they didn’t? Best not to think about that.
Sextus rested a forearm on the ship’s rail and rubbed the back of his neck, wincing as something popped, pain radiating through the stiff muscles.
How long had it been since he’d properly slept?
Countless nights. Countless beds.
Each farther from home than the last. Not that this was a bad thing, mind.
The rough, pitching deck had been by far the worst, edging out even the dusty roadside tavern pallets full of mouse turds. Sextus straightened, his attention catching on the grim profile at his side. Sextus’ father gripped the rail, eyes boring holes into every passing vessel. He tapped a finger, crowned with his signet ring, against the wood beneath his hands in a quickening tattoo. Moulded from solid gold, the ring’s face bore a lion rampant, its maw stretched in menace. Embossed in thick letters, the name GN POMP MAGNUS ran along its oblong perimeter. Pompey the Great. Like Alexander. Sextus nudged his father’s shoulder with his own, hoping to rouse him.
“Never seen so many ships in one place,” he said, nodding at the congested port, a hand cupped over his eyes to shield them from the sun’s glare. “Was Gaius Claudius right? Is it civil war?”
Before them, the ancient harbour teemed with shipping traffic, vying for space in the narrow estuary. Sleek warships swayed on their lines within jumping distance from one another, enormous sails furled like raptor’s wings against thick spars, their covered decks littered with lounging marines. Fat-bellied transports clogged the wharves, and dinghies darted between the crowded hulls, barely avoiding the tangle of oars and cables. Beyond the ships, in the shadow of the tattered city walls, a muddy, unkempt shore heaved with people. Sextus frowned beneath the brim of his palm. They did not belong here, and the sooner they left, the better. At his side, his father furrowed his brow at the shoreline and squinted.
“Fifty-eight tomorrow, and I’ve grown both inept and blind.” Pompey sighed. “Certainly seems that way. That’s a lot of military machinery for this backwater port.”
“You’re neither, tata. Stop fishing for sympathy.” Sextus shot his father a playful smile. Pompey chuckled softly, continuing to tap the ring against the rail. “You’re going to scratch it like that.” Sextus pointed to the ring and his father glanced down at his hand, splaying his fingers.
“No worse than when I let you play with it as a boy. Do you remember?”
Sextus nodded, a corner of his mouth curled. How could he forget? It was among the brightest of the limited memories he had of his father.
“You let me sit with you during client meetings with some soft wax on a plate to keep me quiet.”
“I couldn’t get a word in, otherwise. You wouldn’t leave my side. Stuck to me like honey the moment I walked through the door.” Pompey nudged Sextus' shoulder softly.
“I missed you, that’s all,” Sextus said with a shrug. “You weren’t around much.”
Pompey regarded him a moment, then ruffled Sextus’ hair and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, giving them a squeeze.
“I regret that. If one good thing comes from this, it’s that I’ll certainly be around more.” He glanced at the ring on his finger again. “If I can’t get any money out of Ptolemy, I might have to melt this down for the coin. A shame. It could have served as a memento.”
“You’re doing it again.” Sextus nudged his father in the ribs with an elbow, eliciting a deep chuckle. Sextus braced his hands on the rail and stared out at the foreign harbour. “Tata?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you think we’ll ever go home?”
Pompey’s expression tightened momentarily before relaxing again.
“Truthfully? I don’t know." He glanced sidelong at Sextus and gave his shoulders another squeeze. "Perhaps, that's not a bad thing."
A playful retort half-formed itself on Sextus’ tongue, when a movement at the edge of his vision distracted him. A dinghy. Heading their way, with a familiar, round-shouldered figure perched in its prow. Sextus tapped his father’s arm. “Philip’s back.”
“About time.” Pompey’s face lit up as the boat approached. “Cornelia,” he called towards the stern, where his wife sheltered from the merciless heat beneath the shade of a canvas canopy. “Come over here.”
Cornelia emerged, the hood of her light cloak pulled low over her dark curls and fine-featured face. She joined them at the rail, hooking a delicate hand through her husband’s arm and gifting Sextus with a warm, if reserved, smile. Sextus inclined his head to his stepmother.
Gnaeus Pompeius Philip, Pompey’s steward, pulled himself aboard and approached the family. He bowed deeply.
“Domine. I delivered your message to the clerk and received no further instructions than to wait. It seems the news at Cyprus was true. The Queen’s exile has plunged the country into civil war.”
“Them too.” Sextus flicked his eyebrows at his father.
“There does seem to be something of a fashion for it lately.” Pompey patted Philip on the shoulder, then turned to Cornelia and Sextus. A rueful smile settled on his lips. “A year ago, a message from me meant an immediate audience. Once master of the world, now all our futures dangle on the whim of a child.” He grimaced, flicking a hand at the city. “What have I brought us to?”
What indeed? Not that this was a thought Sextus dared voice.
“You don’t know that,” Cornelia said, taking Pompey’s hand in hers. She nodded at the city. “They are…preoccupied. Once they realise it’s you, the Palace will send an entourage to collect us.”
Pompey ran his thumb over Cornelia’s hand, but the sigh that accompanied the gesture was heavy with regret and resignation.
“Whoever comes to traffic with a king, is slave to him, however free he come,” he said, quoting Sophocles. Sextus considered his father’s face. The tanned skin was pallid and deep shadows nestled beneath the eyes. The once golden hair, still thick, was now a pale silver. Defeat weighed on his father, a man who had never lost a battle, political or military. Pompey had dedicated his life to becoming a legend. Had his father realised that in his pursuit of glory, Pompey the Great left precious little for his children of Gnaeus Pompey the Man? “Gods, I’m tired of civil war.” Pompey tapped the rail again. “No glory in it, only grime. However, I am not naïve enough to believe the disaster at Pharsalus has escaped even the farthest corners of Our Sea. Much as I dislike it, traffic with a king we must. We have no other choice.” Pompey’s eyes darkened, and he paused, staring out at the harbour before continuing. “At the end, perhaps, we shall have some peace.”
Those eyes, Sextus thought. Piercing, clear and self-assured. Unchanged by time or trial. There was comfort in that. Pharsalus or no, his father was Pompey, and that meant wherever they went, they would prosper. They would be safe.
Pompey hugged Cornelia then pulled Sextus, too, into one of his bear hugs. Sextus laughed and embraced his father. A peaceful life. Far from the expectations and suffocation of Rome. What an appealing notion.

***

Dawn was best in these southern waters. Night had not yet yielded to the sun’s relentless burn, and gentle winds trilled playfully through the ship’s rigging. Sextus leaned against the mast, eyes closed. A cool breeze caressed his skin and tinged his lips with salt spray. Beneath his feet, the deck dipped and rose in the swell. There were few voices up this early to interrupt the gossip of waves and creaking hull.
“You look quite at home, domine.”
A familiar baritone at his side. Sextus opened his eyes to find the ship’s captain standing before him, arms folded and legs akimbo, gazing out towards the Pelusian shore.
“Menas.” Sextus grinned in greeting. “I’m enjoying the last of the fresh air before Apollo bakes us into the deck.”
Menas sniffed at the air and licked his thumb, holding it up.
“Wind’s changing. The Etesians will be gone soon.” He eyed the shoreline. “What do you think that means, domine?”
“A little early for lessons, don’t you think?”
“It is never too early for lessons.”
Menas flicked his peculiar amber eyes to Sextus, scrutinising him from beneath hooded lids. A gaze Sextus knew all too well from the days when Menas was still a slave, weaving stories of endless seas for a lonely boy in a busy house.
“Spoilsport.” Menas arched his brows. Sextus rolled his eyes, but indulged the captain. “We’ll have a window to sail north, but it’s slim,” he said, squinting as he recalled half-forgotten scraps of information. “When the Pleiades set, the storms will come. Or so an old pirate once told me.” He winked at Menas, whose reply was a crooked grin.
“A wise, old pirate.” Menas turned back to the shore. The grin faded, lips sliding back into a thin line. “Slim, indeed. Will your father linger?”
Sextus glanced towards the canvas-covered corner of the stern that served as the family’s bedroom, from which his father had just emerged, stretching, dressed in his pristine, blindingly white proconsular toga with the Tyrian purple border at the hem.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Sextus waved his father over.
“He’s not bothering you, is he, Menas?” Pompey placed a heavy hand on Sextus' shoulder.
“We were discussing the expected duration of our stay, domine.”
“Not a moment longer that we must,” said Pompey, crossing his arms over his barrel chest. “Not that I have much control over that now.” He glanced at the stern and Sextus followed his gaze, noticing Cornelia leaning on the starboard rail, lost in thought. “Did you sleep well, love?”
Cornelia straightened and moved gingerly towards them, timing her steps with the swell to avoid being thrown off balance.
“More or less,” she said, resting her head on Pompey’s shoulder. “Though I had an unsettling dream.”
“A dream? What was it about?” Pompey kissed the crown of Cornelia’s head.
“You know, I struggle to recall it, but I woke up feeling afraid. I’m sure it's nothing.” Cornelia smiled up at Pompey, but her expression was oddly strained, Sextus thought. Pompey opened his mouth to reassure her when Philip appeared.
“Domine. A delegation.” Philip pointed to an approaching despatch vessel, two figures standing in the prow. Everyone moved to the rail. Sextus frowned, and exchanged wary glances with Menas.
“That cannot be it,” he said, staring at the compact twelve-man boat. “It’s barely a dinghy.” Looking up, Sextus noticed that Cornelia had stiffened. She took a step backwards, hugging Pompey’s arm tightly.
“We should leave.” Cornelia’s voice was uncharacteristically hurried. Her eyes - wide. “We don’t need Egypt; we can go east. Seek support there.”
“Leave? Why would we leave?” Pompey’s eyes rounded in surprise. “It’s not much, I’ll grant you, but maybe all their nice boats are taken. And, let’s be honest, I have rather come down into the world.”
“That’s not it, I…” Cornelia trailed off as the boat came alongside. Both men in the prow were soldiers and carried swords at their sides. One was dressed in the Egyptian style; the other a Roman centurion.
“We are here to speak with Pompey the Great,” the first man shouted in Greek. “Is he aboard?”
“Who wants to know?” Sextus shouted back before his father could intervene.
“I am Achillas, Lord Commander of his Majesty, Ptolemy XIII Philopator’s forces. I come to invite him to meet the king. His Majesty is in Pelusium and wishes to receive the great general directly. My companion,” Achillas turned to the man in Roman armour, “may be known to you – this is Lucius Septimius. I believe he served under you some years back?”
“Imperator, it is an honour.” The second man bowed to Pompey. Lucius Septimius was of stocky build, with a face weathered and brown, like old leather left in the sun. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword as he spoke.
“Lucius. Well met. It has been some time since we were hunting pirates in Illyricum,” Pompey said, tacking on the politician’s grin Sextus knew so well.
“Indeed, imperator.”
“You are not seriously considering getting into that insult, are you?” Sextus switched to Latin, casting a sideways glance at the boat and its crew. Pompey waved him away.
“Please forgive us,” Achillas replied cooly in Greek, gesturing apologetically at the boat. “I am afraid this is the best we could do under the circumstances. As you may have heard, we're at war. A situation that, I believe, is not unfamiliar to you.” He paused, holding Pompey’s gaze. “All of our larger vessels are otherwise engaged. I hope our humble despatch would be agreeable?”
A brazen lie. What are they playing at? Sextus turned to Menas. The captain’s face was shadowed, attention fixed on the centurion.
“What is it?” Sextus hissed under his breath, leaning in closer to Menas. The captain’s eyes narrowed.
“Nothing. Probably.” Menas sucked the moustache of his beard into his mouth. “Just in case I’d like to check on a few things. If you’ll excuse me, domine.” Menas inclined his head and stalked towards the gangway. Troubled, Sextus turned back to the delegation.
“I understand completely,” Pompey was saying, his smile forced. Cornelia clung to Pompey’s arm, visibly trembling. “What is it, woman?” Pompey asked out of the corner of his mouth, eyes pinned on the Egyptians. Cornelia grabbed Sextus’ arm and pulled father and son away from the gunwale, out of sight of the boat, then took Pompey’s face in her hands.
“Do not get in that boat. Please. I have a terrible feeling that if you do, something awful will happen. It all feels wrong. Send them away. You can change your mind. You are Pompey the Great. Don’t you agree, Sextus?”
“She has a point, tata.” Sextus glanced towards the Egyptians. “There’s something off about them.”
“I cannot send them away.” Pompey’s tone was firm. “My request for an audience has been granted, and I must accept. I admit the transport and deputation are a disappointment, but we must all adjust our expectations. We are out of options.” Pompey held Cornelia’s gaze and something like the old fire blazed behind his eyes before his expression softened. He kissed his wife first on the mouth, then the forehead. “Do not worry, my love. All will be well.” Sextus received none of that softness, but a stern look. “You too. No need for groundless accusations.” Sextus opened his mouth to protest, but Pompey swung around, calling for his steward. “Philip! Come here and grab a slave, would you?”
Sextus scowled at his father’s back. Tata was always like this; always knew best. Well, where had that landed them? Grumbling to himself, Sextus leaned against the mast, arms folded, when he spotted the two centurions they had picked up in Mytilene on the opposite side. Inspiration struck, and he marched across the deck towards them. Pompey was readying to leave, when Sextus returned, the centurions in tow.
“Take Publius Rufus and Tertius Gabinus with you,” he said, heading towards the gunwale. “I’m going too.”
“Absolutely not.” Pompey caught Sextus by the arm. “I’ll take Rufus and Gabinus, but you stay put. I need you here to protect your stepmother.”
“Again?” Sextus made to pull away. Wasn’t being left behind last time shameful enough? Condemned, like a child, to haunt those sycophant-filled halls with only Cornelia for company. “Tata, that’s not fair, I –”
Pompey cut him off and gripped his arm harder.
“I trust no one else, understand? We are in a foreign land during a foreign war. We cannot be too careful.”
His father’s eyes searched Sextus’ and held them until the latter lowered.
“I understand, tata.”
“Good lad.” Pompey ruffled his son’s hair one last time. “I’ll be back soon, son.”
Pompey flashed his family a warm smile and swung over the gunwale as gracefully as his toga would permit. Philip, a slave, and the two centurions followed.
“Welcome back to Egypt, sir,” said Achillas, helping Pompey to a seat in the prow, sitting down beside him. Lucius Septimius positioned himself just behind them. The two centurions sat in the stern and Philip and Scythes, the slave, amidships, ready to help their master disembark. The despatch pulled away, carrying the precious, white-clad figure of the Pompeii paterfamilias further and further away.

A knot coiled in Sextus’ gut as he watched the boat pull towards shore. Something wasn’t right. What was it? Cornelia stretched out a hand and gripped his wrist. Sextus glanced at his stepmother and realised she was pale. He had never seen Cornelia like this. She was normally calm to the point of apathy. Even leaving Rome had not fazed her.
“My dream, Sextus,” she said, catching his eye, her voice barely audible. “I saw this in my dream.”
Ice frosted Sextus’ veins at her words. They traced the boat’s path through the overcrowded harbour. With the wharves jammed, the boat headed toward an empty strip of muddy beach. As the oarsmen brought the dinghy ashore, Philip and Scythes, the slave, jumped out to help Pompey disembark. Achillas said something to Pompey, who nodded, gathering his toga about him. Sextus’ father took Philip’s extended hand and lifted his foot to step over the gunwale. It never came down.
Cornelia shrieked.