The Judgment of Caesar Read Online Free PDF Page B

life’s story. Had they now grown disinterested, distracted by the grander drama of the war that had swept over the world? Or had they watched my actions, judged me harshly, and found me no longer worthy of life? Surely some god, somewhere, had been laughing that afternoon when Pompey and I met, two broken men brought to the edge of ruin.
    Thus ran my thoughts that night, and they kept sleep far away.
    Bethesda slept and must have dreamed, to judge by her low murmurs and the occasional twitching of her fingers. Her dreams appeared to be uneasy, but I did not rouse her; wake a sleeper in middream, and the dark phantoms linger; but let a dream run its course, and the sleeper wakes with no memory of it. Soon enough Bethesda might have to face a nightmare from which there would be no waking. How would I die? Would Bethesda be forced to witness the act? Afterwards, how would she remember me? Above all else, a Roman must strive to face his end with dignity. I would have to remember that and think of Bethesda and the last memory of me she would carry, the next time the Great One summoned me.
    At some point in the middle of that very long, very dark night, Bethesda stirred and sought my hand with hers. She twined her fingers with mine and squeezed them so tightly that I feared she must be in pain.
    “What’s wrong?” I whispered.
    She rolled toward me and pressed a finger to my lips to silence me. In the darkness I could see the glimmer of her eyes, but I could not make out her expression. I murmured against the finger pressed to my lips. “Bethesda, beloved—”
    “Hush!” she whispered.
    “But—”
    She removed her finger and replaced it with her lips, pressing her mouth to mine in a deep, breathless kiss.
    We had not kissed that way in a very long time, not since the onset of her illness. Her kiss reminded me of Cassandra, and for a brief moment I experienced the illusion that it was Cassandra beside me in the bed, her ashes made flesh again. But as the kiss continued, my memory of Cassandra faded, and I was reminded of Bethesda herself, when she and I both had been very young and our passion was so fresh it seemed that such a thing had never before been known in the world—a portal to an undiscovered country.
    She pressed herself against me and slid her arms around me. The smell of her hair was intoxicating; neither illness nor travel had stopped her from the ritual of washing, combing, and scenting the great mane of black shot with silver that cascaded almost to her waist. She rolled atop me, and her tresses enclosed me, sweeping across my bare shoulders and over my cheeks, mingling with the tears that abruptly flowed from my eyes.
    As the boat swayed gently on the waves, with Rupa and the boys and the urn that contained Cassandra very close, we made love, quietly, slowly, with a depth of feeling we had not shared in a very long time. I feared at first that she might be expending herself beyond her limits, but it was she who set the pace, bringing me quickly to the point of ecstasy and then holding me there at her leisure, stretching each moment to exquisite infinity.
    The paroxysm wracked her body, and then again, and on the third occasion I joined her, peaking and melting into oblivion. We separated but remained side by side, breathing as one, and I sensed that her body had relaxed completely—so completely that I gripped her hand, fearing there might be no response. But she squeezed my fingers in return, even as the rest of her remained utterly limp, as if her joints had loosened and her limbs turned as soft as wax. It was only in that moment that I realized just how stiffly, for month after month, she had been holding her body, even when she slept. She released a long sigh of contentment.
    “Bethesda,” I said quietly.
    “Sleep,” she whispered.
    The word seemed to act as a magical spell. Almost at once I felt consciousness desert me as I sank into the warm, boundless ocean of Somnus. The last things I heard