Pompey's Last
The sun was high, and he felt the sweat in his eyes. He was exhausted and unclean. Sand was stuck in his sandals, and the day was unforgiving. Pompey looked up from the ground. He was desperately waiting for Pharaoh Ptolemy to see him. Pompey had just suffered a terrible defeat by Caesar at Pharsalus. His army was demolished, and Pompey's last hope was to make an alliance with someone. It would not be long before Caesar was on his trail again. After the battle of Pharsalus Caesar had to see to other business in Asia Minor, or so Pompey had heard.
Suddenly a flourish of colors and people came forth from the door to Ptolemy's palace. The beating of drums only added to the pounding of Pompey's headache. Big, dark-skinned men slowly lowered Ptolemy to the floor at the top of the large flight of steps. Pompey, disgusted himself, knelt down to Ptolemy. If he wanted to live he was going to have to pay with his dignity!
"You may arise, Pompey," Ptolemy said, addressing Pompey with a hint of pleasure in his tone. Pompey arose, and looked into the Pharaoh's cold eyes. "What is it that you request here?"
"Well, your Majesty," Pompey started, cringing at the sound of his own voice, "I ask to make an alliance with you. You see Julius Caesar has cheated me out of so many things! I have left none but the mere clothing on my back, and a few remaining soldiers."
"Have you not a wife? Have you not a home?" Ptolemy asked, clearly angered by Pompey's informal and intolerably sudden request.
"No, I have not a wife. She died years ago, and my home is far off in Rome. Not only has Caesar cheated me out of these things, but he goes against an agreement! He goes against the Triumvirate, your Majesty," Pompey finished, feeling both dirty in and out.
As Ptolemy was about to respond one of his men, clearly an officer of some sort whispered something to the Pharaoh, looking at Pompey with fear. Ptolemy grew red in the face, and dismissed the man with a wave of his hand. He stood up, and his long golden garments draped to the floor. He accusingly pointed a long finger at Pompey, and said, "You are nothing but a traitor! You've led an army of Romans to my land!"
It hit Pompey hard. Caesar had followed him to Egypt! "Whatever do you mean?" the Roman asked, looking at the blue paint over Ptolemy's eyes.
"A Roman army is coming into my land! How dare you insult me like this?" Ptolemy hissed. "An alliance! Ha! You don't deserve to be in my presence!"
Pompey watched in utter fright and humiliation as the young Pharaoh signaled for two very large men. Ptolemy said something to them that was inaudible, but whatever the command all Pompey knew was that he was done for. The men took him by the arms tenaciously, dragging him up the rough steps. By the time they had climbed the stairs, Pompey's legs were bloody and torn. Ptolemy looked at him with a sick delight, and yet behind the pleasure in having so much superiority, there was a fear. The Pharaoh, but a boy left with the responsibility of ruling Egypt, feared this Roman man whom once had so much power. Perhaps Ptolemy saw his possible fate reflected in Pompey's predicament
The men pushed Pompey's head to the ground. One of the men who had aggressively dragged him up the stone steps unsheathed a blade from his belt. In that moment, as the dark-skinned man raised his blade high, Pompey's life flashed before his eyes. And as he was taken back through history all he could think of was why Jupiter desired to end his life so miserably How could Mars, the god to whom he had worshipped throughout his entirety, take his mortal existence in such a dishonorable way? Why did Apollo mock him in his golden chariot, high in the sky? Was his death truly worth such magnificent sunshine?
Pompey was in his den, enjoying the view of Rome from his balcony. He stroked the cool marble railing, and took pleasure in the warmth from the high sun. Yet, he was sad. It was only a year ago when his dear wife, Julia, had died. How he missed her laughter and the quality she possessed in making him happy. He hadn't known her for so long; only five years. She was the sister of Julius Caesar, whom had formed the Triumvirate with himself and Marcus Crassus. Her death did not only serve to graven his disposition, but it served as a dreadful problem to the agreement he had made with Crassus and Caesar. Caesar was becoming quite popular among the Roman people, and now more than ever, Julius had good reason to desire Pompey's elimination. At least Julia was an excuse for him not to take action against Pompey for five years, but now she was gone
Pompey closed his eyes, and just let the sun cleanse his aching soul. The sounds of people going about daily life were a comfort. Children frolicked in the street, and mothers ran after them, scolding them for scaring the chickens and causing a ruckus. He remembered when he was young. His father was a senator, and Pompey would love to walk beside his father dressed in a toga. He had always wanted those purple stripes, and he did eventually get them.
He heard light footsteps behind him. He turned, and one of his servants, dressed in a brown linen tunic knelt before him. "I bring a letter, Sire," he said.
"Thank you," Pompey said, taking the scroll from the boy. He unrolled the paper, and read silently. The ink was a crisp black, and at the top was the date, 53 BC. As Pompey read on tears burned behind his eyes. It was at this time when he truly missed Julia's tenderness, but being a man he could not cry.
Crassus was dead. He had been killed in battle against the Parthians. One of the three was deceased, starting the decline of an agreement; a pact made only half a decade ago. The whole, consisted of three parts, was now severed. Crassus had fought beside him in battle back in the day. They both had fought under Sulla against Gaius Marius in a civil war. Together they had risen to political power, and though there came a point in their lives when they were at each other's throats, Pompey had always respected that man. Pompey had Caesar to thank for the Triumvirate, which brought peace between them, but that was all he had to thank Caesar for.
Pompey leaned on a chair, and it creaked under the pressure. The purple drapes on the wall matched the color of the wine in his tarnished cup. He took the cup in his hand, and gulped what was left. It was a spicy wine, and he loved the feel of it going down his throat. He looked unappealingly at the salad on his tray. It was a weak meal, but his appetite was lacking recently. He looked at the mosaic tiles on the floor. They were beautiful sunbursts of yellow, orange, and red.
The blade fell, and Pompey screamed. He did not scream for fear of loosing his life, or in pain. He cried out for Marcus Crassus, and for Julia. Caesar had deceived them all. And suddenly, everything went black. The last words he ever heard were, "Clean up the mess."