How Cleopatra first met Julius Caesar | The Head of Pompey: A King's Folly
The Head of Pompey: A King's Folly
The tension in the Alexandrian palace was palpable, thick enough to be cut with a gladius. Caesar, having established his temporary quarters, received the Alexandrian regents, Pothinus and Achillas, in an audience chamber of austere grandeur. The conversation was terse, dominated by Caesar's pointed inquiries about Pompey Magnus, his once formidable rival. The regents, smug in their perceived cleverness, sought to present a 'gift' that they believed would win Caesar's favor and solve their Roman problem. What transpired next was a moment of profound historical weight, revealing the stark moral chasm between Roman political calculation and Alexandrian brutality.
Achillas, with a grim flourish, produced a basket. As the lid was lifted, a collective gasp rippled through Caesar’s Roman retinue. Inside, grisly and unmistakable, was the severed head of Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, Caesar’s son-in-law, his fellow consul, and his great civil war adversary. His features, once so noble and commanding, were now distorted by death and indignity. Accompanying the gruesome offering was Pompey’s signet ring, a final, poignant testament to his identity.
Pothinus, eager to explain their 'service,' began to recount how they had lured Pompey ashore and brutally murdered him, believing they were currying favor with the victor. They expected praise, gratitude, perhaps even payment. Instead, a deathly silence descended. Caesar, typically a man of calculated expressions, allowed his carefully constructed facade to crumble, if only for a fleeting moment. A profound sense of shock and disgust washed over him. This was not the victory he had sought. He had pursued Pompey to defeat him, yes, but to defeat him honorably, to offer clemency as he had to so many other Roman citizens. He harbored no desire for such a savage, ignoble end for a man who, for all his opposition, was still a Roman consul and a figure of immense standing.
The Alexandrian regents had not only committed a horrific act of regicide but had also robbed Caesar of his ultimate triumph: the chance to demonstrate magnanimity, to show the world that Roman civil war, however bloody, was still a matter of Roman dignity. His eyes, usually cold and strategic, filled not with tears of grief, but with a searing anger at the barbaric spectacle and the blatant disrespect for Roman norms. He turned away, sickened, issuing a sharp command for the head to be removed and properly interred. His voice, though low, carried the undeniable authority of a man deeply offended. For Pothinus and Achillas, the scene was bewildering. They had misjudged Caesar entirely, mistaking his pursuit of Pompey for a thirst for blood, when it was a drive for political supremacy and reconciliation, albeit on his terms. The ‘gift’ had backfired spectacularly.
It had not won them an ally; it had earned them the profound disdain of the most powerful man in Rome. Caesar now understood the true nature of the court he had stumbled into: treacherous, opportunistic, and fundamentally incapable of grasping the intricate codes of Roman honor. This gruesome introduction solidified his resolve. He would not tolerate such barbarity, nor would he allow such a kingdom to dictate terms to Rome. The episode was a brutal awakening, hardening his resolve and setting a dangerous precedent for his dealings with the Alexandrian government, inadvertently clearing the path for an entirely different kind of alliance, one that would soon emerge from the shadows.
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