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 he and his father warranted fifteen minutes of a petulant boy-king’s time. 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 and soldiers. 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 squinted at the harbour.
“Fifty-eight tomorrow, and I’ve grown both inept and blind.” Pompey sighed through his nose. “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. This elicited a reluctant chuckle, though his father continued to tap the ring against the rail. “You’re going to scratch it like that.” Sextus pointed to the ring and Pompey glanced down at his hand, splaying his fingers.
“No worse than when I let you play with it as a boy.” Pompey’s face softened. “Do you remember?”
Sextus nodded, a corner of his mouth curling. 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.”
Pompey chuckled. “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.” His expression clouded again, eyes raking the harbour traffic. Sextus recalled flashes of those days after his mother left. His father’s arms were the only place he’d felt safe. He wouldn’t learn until much later that tata had divorced her. Or why. Pompey loosed another sigh. “What is taking them so long?”
“Perhaps there’s a queue? Your petitioners took up every room in the house.”
Something in the air shifted as Pompey turned to face him.
“Were you…happy at home, Sextus?”
Sextus frowned, wrong-footed by the unexpected question. “Happy?”
A muscle worked in Pompey’s cheek. “I did my best, but…was it enough?”
“You’re Pompey Magnus,” Sextus said, unsure what his father wanted to hear. “Conqueror of continents. Defender of the Republic. You’re a legend, tata.”
“But at what cost?” Something in his father’s eyes guttered and Sextus looked away, uncomfortable under the weight of that searching gaze.
“We missed you, that’s all,” he said with a shrug. “You weren’t around much. We understood, though. Ny, Pompeia and I.”
Pompey regarded him a moment, then ruffled Sextus’ hair and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, the way he used to, when Sextus was little. Typical of tata. Deeply affectionate, frequently absent. Pompey concentrated his love in bursts before his attention inevitably drifted to something more important.
“If one good thing comes from this, it’s that I’ll be around more.” Pompey glanced at the ring on his finger. “If I can’t get any money out of Ptolemy, I might have to melt this down for the coin. A shame.”
“Tata?” Sextus braced his hands on the rail, watching the foreign harbour. “Do you think we’ll ever go home?”
Pompey’s expression tightened, gaze sliding over the warships and armed men clustered on the beach.
“Truthfully? I don’t know.” He glanced sidelong at Sextus. “Do you want to?”
Sextus made to reply, but a movement at the edge of his vision distracted him. A dinghy. Heading their way, a familiar, round-shouldered figure perched in its prow. Sextus tapped his father’s arm.
“Philip!”
“About time.” Pompey’s face lit up as the boat approached. “Cornelia,” he shouted towards the stern, where his wife sheltered from the merciless heat beneath the shade of a canvas canopy.
Cornelia emerged, the hood of her light cloak pulled low over her dark curls and fine-featured face. She joined them, hooking a delicate hand through her husband’s arm and gifting Sextus a pleasant, if reserved, smile. Sextus inclined his head to his stepmother.
Gnaeus Pompeius Philip, Pompey’s steward, pulled himself aboard and approached the family, bowing deeply.
“Domine. I delivered your message but received no further instructions than to wait. It seems the news at Cyprus was correct. The Queen’s exile has plunged Egypt into civil war.”
“There seems to be a fashion for it lately.” Pompey patted Philip on the shoulder, then turned to Cornelia and Sextus, a rueful smile 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. “What have I brought us to?”
“You don’t know that.” Cornelia took Pompey’s hand in hers and nodded at the city. “They are…preoccupied. Once they realise it’s you, they will come.” Pompey ran his thumb over Cornelia’s hand, but the sigh that accompanied the gesture was heavy with regret and resignation. Cornelia cupped his cheek. “You are still master of the world, my love. Our circumstances change nothing. When you have reclaimed your rightful place, you will exact a heavy price from those who dared forget it.” Her eyes blazed with righteous fire, but Pompey seemed immune to it.
“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 unacquainted with failure - political or military. Pompey had dedicated his life to becoming a legend; had he realised that in 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 clenched his jaw. “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.” Pompey’s eyes darkened, and he paused, studying the ancient, crumbling city walls. “At the end, perhaps, we shall have some peace.”
Those eyes. Piercing, clear and self-assured. Unchanged by time or trial. There was a strange comfort in it. Pompey kissed Cornelia, then pulled Sextus into a bear hug. Sextus laughed and leaned into the embrace. 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, listening to the gossip of waves and creaking hull. A cool breeze caressed his skin and salted his lips with spray. Beneath his feet, the deck dipped and rose in the swell. If he closed his eyes and forgot the army chasing them, and their crushing vulnerability, he could almost enjoy the serenity. Could pretend it was a rare Campanian summer on tata’s pleasure barge -
“You look quite at home, domine.”
A familiar baritone punctured his reverie. Sextus opened his eyes to find the ship’s captain standing before him, arms folded and legs akimbo, gazing out towards Pelusium.
“Menas.” Sextus grinned in greeting. “I’m enjoying the last of the fresh air before Apollo bakes us into the deck.” He motioned at the shoreline, as congested and bristling as yesterday. “Something tells me we’re going to be here awhile.”
Menas sniffed at the air and licked his thumb, holding it up.
“Wind’s changing. The Etesians will be gone soon. 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 fantastical stories for a lonely boy in a busy house.
“Spoilsport.”
Menas arched an expectant brow and Sextus rolled his eyes, but obliged. “We’ll have a window to sail north, but it’s slim,” he said, squinting as he rummaged for half-forgotten scraps of memory. “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 eyed the estuary at their backs. His 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 isn’t bothering you, is he, Menas?” Pompey joined them, stifling a yawn.
“We were discussing the expected duration of our stay, domine.”
“Not a moment longer that we must.” Pompey crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Not that I have much control over that now.” He glanced at the stern where Cornelia leaned on the starboard rail, lost in thought. “Did you sleep well, love?”
Cornelia turned and moved gingerly towards them, timing her steps with the swell.
“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. I just don’t like ships.” Cornelia shivered, pressing into Pompey. “They feel…exposed.”
“Domine,” Menas called. He had drifted to the rail and now motioned for them to join him. “A delegation.” He pointed to an approaching despatch vessel, two figures in its prow. Armed figures, Sextus realised. One dressed in the Alexandrian style, the other a Roman centurion. Sextus exchanged wary glances with Menas. Where was the honour guard? The chamberlain?
“That cannot be it,” he said, staring at the compact twelve-man boat. “It’s barely a dinghy.” At his side, Sextus noticed Cornelia stiffen as she took in the boat and its occupants. She took a step backwards, hugging Pompey’s arm tightly.
“We should leave,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically abrupt. “Go east. Seek support there.”
“Leave? Why would we leave?” Pompey’s eyes rounded. “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.
“We seek Pompey Magnus,” the Alexandrian 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. His Majesty is in Pelusium and wishes to receive the great general directly. My companion,” Achillas nodded to the centurion, “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 a stocky man, with a brown weathered face like old leather left in the sun. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword as he spoke. Sextus heard Menas curse. The captain’s face was shadowed, his focus fixed on Septimius.
“What is it?” Sextus hissed under his breath. The captain’s eyes narrowed.
“Nothing. Probably.” Menas sucked the moustache of his beard into his mouth. “If you’ll excuse me, domine.” Menas inclined his head and stalked towards the gangway. Troubled, Sextus turned back to the delegation.
“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’re not seriously considering getting into that insult, are you?” Sextus switched to Latin, casting a sideways glance at the boat and its strange crew. Surely his father sensed the wrongness? 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?”
The subtle insolence in the tone had Sextus bridling, but Pompey placed a warning hand on his forearm.
“I understand completely,” Pompey said, consular smile unwavering. Cornelia clung to Pompey’s arm, trembling. Pompey glanced askance at Cornelia, irritation sparking. “What is it, woman?” 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. I have a terrible feeling that if you do, something awful will happen. It feels wrong. Send them away. You can change your mind; you’re Pompey the Great. Don’t you agree, Sextus?”
Sextus glanced towards the Egyptians.
“She’s right,” he said, frowning. “Two soldiers and a tiny boat? It's odd.”
“I cannot send them away.” Pompey’s tone was sharp. “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 roared behind his eyes before his expression softened. He kissed his wife’s brow. “Do not worry. All will be well.” Sextus received a stern look. “You too. No need for groundless accusations.” Sextus thought to protest, but Pompey was already gone, calling for his steward.
Sextus scowled at his father’s back. Tata 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.
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 the centurions, but you stay put. I need you here to protect your stepmother.”
“Again?” Wasn’t being left behind last time shameful enough? Condemned, like a child, to haunt those sycophant-filled halls with only Cornelia for company. Sextus made to pull away, but Pompey 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. “Good lad.” Pompey ruffled his son’s hair one last time. “I’ll be back soon.”
Flashing his family a warm smile, Pompey swung over the gunwale as gracefully as his toga would permit. Philip, accompanied by Scythes, 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. The two centurions sat in the stern, Philip and Scythes amidships. The despatch pushed off, carrying the 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 gripped his wrist. She was pale. Sextus 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, her voice barely audible. “I saw this in my dream.”
Ice frosted Sextus’ veins as they traced the boat’s path through the overcrowded harbour. With the wharves jammed, it headed toward an empty strip of muddy beach. The oarsmen brought the dinghy ashore, and Philip and Scythes jumped out to help Pompey disembark. Achillas said something to Pompey, who nodded, gathering his toga. Sextus’ father took Philip’s extended hand and lifted his foot to step over the gunwale.
Cornelia shrieked.