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The center of every tragedy is the image of a human being who has already died but keeps talking
The boat approaches his ship, and Gnaeus knows what’s going on. Ah, that’s it, he tells himself, now completely sure, that’s the end. Only his iron self-control prevents him from beaming. He feels no fear, for he’s already dead, for he was nothing but a myth for so long, and his myth has died on the field by Pharsalus. He doesn’t know who he is without it. Most likely, nothing at all. Truth be told, he doesn’t know who he was with it.
His advisors propose that he shouldn’t go, that he should sail away, but that would be impossible by now and rather dishonorable — so he tells them, though that’s not the reason he doesn’t follow their advice. Sextus says nothing, his eyes full of understanding, and for that Gnaeus is thankful. At least he’s raised his son properly.
The Roman on the boat addresses him as imperator, which is very nice of him, and Gnaeus almost chuckles. The other man — Achillas — salutes him in Greek and invites him on the boat. He explains why the ship can’t approach the shore, but Gnaeus doesn’t listen. He doesn’t care.
He embraces Cornelia, who’s begging him not to go, if only with her tearful eyes. He won’t grant her this wish, he has enough cruelty in him to deny her without even a pang of guilt. Maybe cruelty is all he has left. But then, is it cruel to free her from himself?
“Whatever man upon a tyrant takes his way, his slave he is, even though a freeman when he goes,” he quotes Sophocles to Cornelia and Sextus, feeling a wave of familiar dark amusement wash over him.
Pity Cicero isn’t here, pity Caesar doesn’t see him, they would appreciate the theatrics. Though Cicero won’t understand, not yet. And Caesar — probably never.
He promptly grabs Achillas’ hand, squeezing it with excessive force in a fit of petty malice. He’s enjoying himself. There’s something to be said about a certain kind of poetry in swimming towards his death in a boat. As if the sea is Styx and his killers are Charon.
He gives Achillas a sinister mocking grin for good measure, just to make sure that he understands that Gnaeus knows. Achillas frowns but doesn’t say anything. The boat is hilariously silent, and he studies people there until he recognizes a familiar face.
“Surely I am not mistaken, and you are an old comrade of mine!” he says to Septimius with the brightest smile he can manage, which is to say — a very bright one, maybe even blinding.
Septimius nods in agreement but stays silent. Gnaeus wonders if the silence is ringing in their ears; he hopes it does. He turns back to his speech to Ptolemy, the one he will never deliver — and thank Gods for that. He pretends to read it, sneaking glances at his companions, waiting almost giddily for the boat to draw nearer to the shore. He wonders if they will cut his head off and present it to Caesar. He’d like to see his face. His body contracts in a silent snort of amusement.
Septimius looks very uncomfortable when Gnaeus meets his eyes for a brief moment. It’s funny how the poor sod is so worked up about the whole ordeal, and he wants to laugh at him, though he doesn’t, because no one will understand, and he doesn’t want to bother them, doesn’t want to delay the inevitable. Let them do their job, there’s no getting out of it. Not for them, not for him — though he doesn’t want to get out of it. He never did.
He does smirk at Septimius, though, enjoying the terror in the man’s eyes. My dear man, you should think about your conscience before you agree to participate in a murder, not after it. That’s one of the first lessons he’s learned in life.
He glances back at the trireme, finding Cornelia there. It’s a pity she has to witness this; at least Publius had the decency to die far away from her. Oh, well, Gnaeus was never famous for his decency. He nods at Sextus slightly. The boy shall be fine. He hopes that Gnaeus and Pompeia will be fine too.
He looks at the people assembling at the landing and decides that it’s only right for his death to be a show. Just as his life was. And what a glorious show it was: a waste, yes, but a very entertaining one.
Philip extends his hand to him to help him rise to his feet. He doesn’t need help, but he takes it anyway — no need to disrupt the proceedings, after all.
The blade cuts through him, and he’s dying, but he’s already dead. He covers his face as is proper, though he suspects that it’s pointless. The stabs add up, and he chuckles, but it turns into a groan because of the pain — nothing unexpected, just a minor inconvenience on his way to eternity, to being forgotten, to being free from his myth. Finally, lastly. And all he feels is relief.
So passes Cn. Pompeius Magnus, imperator, son of Gnaeus, grandson of Sextus. And, in a way, the old world passes with him.