The Triumph Of Caesar

IV

I stayed up late that night, reading for as long as the lamps had oil to burn. My eyes are not what they were, and neither my brain nor my body can boast the stamina they once possessed. Deciphering Hieronymus's ornate handwriting and his cluttered prose, especially by dim lamplight, wearied me to exhaustion. The great majority of documents remained unread when I finally succumbed to a few hours of restless sleep.

Before breakfast, I stepped into the vestibule to view the body of Hieronymus. All had been properly done, according to Roman custom. Washed, perfumed, and dressed in a spotless tunic, surrounded by fragrant garlands, he lay upon a bier with his feet toward the door, his upper body slightly elevated so that any visitors could see him at once from the entrance, where a wreath of cypress had been hung on the door to signal the household's grief.

No doubt the Massilians had their own way of doing these things, but Hieronymus had rejected his native city, and it seemed to me that Roman rites would be proper.

I gazed for a long moment his face, which was peaceful in repose. In death, his features gave no indication of the tart words that could issue from that mouth of his, within which now lay the coin to pay his passage to the underworld.

"Puffed-up," he had called me, and "charlatan," and, worst of all, "windbag." Indeed! Yet, gazing at him, I could feel no resentment. Tears welled in my eyes, and I turned away.

After a breakfast of farina prepared in the Egyptian manner, with bits of dates and a sprinkling of poppy seeds-since our return from the Nile, Bethesda had prepared nothing but Egyptian dishes, revisiting all the favorites of her childhood-I set out, with Rupa at my side. If I were to discover the reason for Hieronymus's murder, I had to begin somewhere. The house of Pompey, where Antony now resided, seemed as good a place as any.

The so-called Great One had owned several houses in Rome. I was most familiar with his magnificent villa with gardens on the Pincian Hill, outside the city walls. The house claimed by Antony was within the walls, in the very heart of the city. People called it the House of the Beaks, because the vestibule was decorated with metal ramming beaks from ships captured by Pompey during his illustrious campaign to rid the sea of piracy some twenty years ago. Only the choicest of these trophies were displayed; it was said that Pompey captured some 846 ships. The House of the Beaks was located in the Carinae district, on the southwestern slope of the Esquiline Hill above the valley of the Subura.

The most prominent monument on the slope of the Carinae was the Temple of Tellus, the earth goddess. We passed it on the way to Pompey's house, and Rupa indicated, by a nod and gesture, that he wished to step inside for a moment. I could guess his reason. Tellus is celebrated during sowing and harvest, for accepting seed and giving forth grain, but she is also worshipped for receiving the dead, for all things return eventually to the soil. Rupa still mourned his older sister, Cassandra, whose death had brought him into my family. No doubt he wished to put a coin in the temple coffers and say a prayer for the departed spirit of Cassandra.

I waited outside on the temple steps, remembering Cassandra in my own way.

Just as Rupa emerged, I saw a litter coming up the hill, heading in the direction of the House of the Beaks. Through a break in the yellow curtains, I caught a glimpse of the occupant. It was Cytheris, lounging on a pile of rust-colored cushions that complemented her auburn hair and exquisite complexion. Cytheris had known Cassandra, and Rupa, back in her days as a dancer in Alexandria. If I moved quickly, I might make it appear that we had run into her by chance. A meeting that seemed fortuitous rather than premeditated was often to be preferred in my work-as I had more than once told Hieronymus. Had he absorbed that lesson, or had he considered it hot air from a windbag?

I grabbed Rupa by the arm (insofar as my hand could lay claim to such a massive limb) and hurried down the steps to intercept the litter, which was making slow progress through the crowded street.

Things could not have gone more to my liking. While I pretended to look the other way, Cytheris spotted the two of us and called out.

"Gordianus? Hello there! Can it truly be you? Back from the dead? But it must be, because that big blond demigod beside you can only be Cassandra's little brother. Rupa!"

She pushed aside the curtains and, not waiting for a slave to assist her, bounded from the litter. The flimsy gown she was wearing seemed more suitable for staying in than going out, and the hug she gave Rupa, pressing her small body full against him, caused him to blush to the roots of his golden hair. But when Cytheris threw back her head in a laugh of sheer delight, Rupa did likewise, though the sound that emerged from his throat was something between a bray and a bleat.

"But this is too delicious!" she said, turning her attention to me. "One heard that you were dead. Oh, dear, is it awful of me to say that aloud? I'm sure I must be flouting some superstitious rule of silence. But really, it's such a surprise. You were off in Alexandria, weren't you? Along with Rupa? But now you're back! What are you up to, here in the Carinae?"

"Well… we were just stopping here at the Temple of Tellus, so that Rupa could say a prayer for his sister." This was the truth, after all.

"Ah, yes, Cassandra…" Cytheris and Cassandra had been close in their younger days, when they were both street performers in Alexandria. "But you must come with me, both of you. You must tell me all about Alexandria. It's been ages since I was there, but some days I still wake up with the salty smell of the harbor in my nostrils. Come with me to the House of the Beaks, and we'll share some wine in the garden."

Are you watching, lemur of Hieronymus? I thought. Take notes! I had intended to make your death the reason for my visit, as the bearer of sad news, but this is much better. To all appearances, we have met by chance, and my visit to the house of Antony is Cytheris's idea, not my own. I shall mention your death only in passing…

Slaves scurried to assist Cytheris back into her litter, but she shooed them away and beckoned to Rupa. With a single sweep of his arms he lifted her up and deposited her among the cushions. While Cytheris rode, we walked beside her. The litter bearers restrained their pace, in deference to my slow, uphill progress.

Like many houses of the rich in Rome, Pompey's old residence presented an unostentatious face to the street. The portico was small and there was little in the way of ornament. But once we passed through the front doorway, I saw how the house had come by its name. The vestibule was enormous-one could have fitted a more humble house inside it-and the display of ramming beaks was dazzling. Some were very crudely fashioned, little more than man-sized lumps of bronze with a pointed end. But some were amazing works of art, fashioned to look like griffins with ferocious beaks or sea monsters with multiple horns. They were fearsome objects, intended to wreak havoc on other ships, but strikingly beautiful. I pondered for a moment the degree of artistry that is lavished on spears and swords and other weapons, to make pleasing to the eye a thing designed to cause death and destruction.

"Hideous, aren't they?" said Cytheris, noting my fascination. "Antony dotes on them like children. He has names for them all! You'd think he had captured them himself. He says that someday he may build a fleet of warships and use the best of these to ornament them."

"His own fleet of ships? Caesar might have something to say about that."

"Ah, yes… Caesar." She made a wry face.

As we walked through the house it appeared to me that the rooms had been depleted of some of their furniture and ornaments. There were niches without statues and walls where paintings had been removed. It had the half-vacant feeling of a house where someone is moving in or moving out.

Completely secluded from the street, the garden at the center of the house was unusually large and splendid, full of fragrant roses in bloom and pebble-strewn pathways decorated with fountains and statues. Set amid the little arbors of myrtle and cypress were many dining couches piled with plump cushions. Clearly, the occupants of the house spent a great deal of time in this space, which could accommodate many guests.

Cytheris led us to a secluded corner, collapsed on a couch with a sigh, and gestured for Rupa and me to do likewise. There was no need to call for wine. A slave bearing a tray with a pitcher and cups appeared before I had time to settle myself.

"So, Gordianus, tell me everything about your stay in Egypt. Are the Alexandrians as mad as ever? Do they still hate Romans? Did you meet Cleopatra?"

"Yes, yes, and yes."

"Really? I keep telling Antony he should invite her here, since she's in Rome for a visit, but he says it wouldn't do. He'd be embarrassed to present his concubine to a queen, I suppose, but Antony says it's because Caesar is still disputing his claim to this house."

"Yes, I was curious about that. I thought the House of the Beaks and all its contents were to be sold at a public auction, to benefit the Treasury."

Cytheris laughed. "Oh yes, there's going to be an auction-but don't bother to come, because Antony's already given the best things to our friends. Every time we throw a party, no one is allowed to leave without a piece of silver or a rare scroll or whatever else they're up for carrying. Antony tells me, 'I'd rather your actor friends end up with Pompey's spoils than some rich banker friend of Caesar's.' Have a look around, Gordianus, and see what you might like to take home with you. Rupa's big and strong. He could probably carry that statue of Cupid over there."

"You are joking?"

"Are you not a friend, Gordianus? You've met Antony, haven't you?"

"A few times, over the years."

"And doesn't he like you? Antony likes everyone. Well, everyone except Cicero. Antony says Caesar should have executed Cicero after Pharsalus, instead of pardoning him. 'Shows just how little my opinion counts with Caesar these days,' as poor Antony says. But you were going to tell me about Alexandria, Gordianus. If you're going to earn that Cupid, you'll have to cough up an amusing anecdote or two."

"I'm afraid my time in Egypt was not particularly amusing."

"But you must have had many adventures. You were there for months, and right in the middle of that nasty little war between Cleopatra and her brother, with Caesar showing up to play kingmaker. You must have had a brush or two with death-or perhaps a dalliance with one of the queen's handmaidens?" Cytheris raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I suppose I could tell you about the narrow escape we had from a rioting mob, when we had to find our way through a secret passage beneath of the tomb of Alexander the Great…"

Cytheris sat forward. "Yes! That's exactly the sort of tale I want to hear! Hilarion, bring more wine. We must keep Gordianus's throat well lubricated."

I regaled her with that story, and thought of a few more incidents in Alexandria that might amuse her, and then steered the conversation back to the subject of the house.

"How beautiful it is, here in your garden. And what a splendid house this is. No wonder Pompey loved it. But I still don't quite understand; does Antony own the house or not?"

The wine had relaxed her considerably. She spoke freely. "That depends on whom you ask. When Caesar saw that Antony was dragging his heels, they exchanged some harsh words. Caesar pressed the matter. 'Throw a final party there if you must, then auction the damned place and get out!' But Antony wouldn't budge. He was quite blunt. 'The way I see it,' he told Caesar, 'I deserve this house as much as anyone. I did my part to bring down Pompey, no less than you, and this is my reward!' The two of them have carried on a pissing match about it ever since. Officially, Caesar insists on an auction, but I think he may have finally given up, or maybe he's just too busy arranging his upcoming triumphs to keep pestering Antony. So Antony's plan now is to hold some semblance of an auction-toss out Pompey's moth-eaten togas and get rid of the dented silver-then declare that the auction is done and go on living here. I want to redecorate the whole place, anyway. Pompey's wife had dreadful taste in furniture."

What a long way Cytheris had come, from working as a street dancer in Alexandria to cohabiting with one of the world's most powerful men. An actress and a foreigner, speaking ill of Pompey's wife and brazenly living in Pompey's house, in defiance of Caesar himself!

"But surely," I said, "Antony must realize how this might look to those who accuse Caesar of betraying the common people. They might say Caesar's behaving like Sulla, allowing a henchman to distribute the spoils of war to a small circle of favorites rather than using them for the common good."

"The common people aren't that stupid. Every gossip in Rome knows that Antony is keeping the house against Caesar's wishes."

"But I should think that's even worse, from Caesar's point of view. The people will see that he allows open defiance. A dictator can't afford to tolerate disobedience. It makes him look weak."

Cytheris smiled. "No, it makes Antony look like a spoiled brat, and Caesar like an indulgent parent. Is he not the father of the Roman people now? And isn't Antony his most brilliant protege, a little stubborn and reckless at times but worth a bit of spoiling in the long run? Never mind that the two of them are hardly speaking at the moment. That will pass."

Was this really what Cytheris believed? Or was she glossing over a deeper anxiety? Had Caesar become a menace to her world?

And what were Antony's feelings? To me, he had always seemed a bluff, brash fellow, completely open about his likes and dislikes, an unlikely candidate for conspiracy. But anyone who had risen as high as Antony undoubtedly possessed the instinct for self-preservation at any cost that characterized such men and women. Just how serious was his falling-out with Caesar?

Even as these questions flashed through my mind, Cytheris spotted him across the garden, smiled, and waved. Antony came striding over, wearing a tunic that was a bit more brief than many would consider seemly; it certainly showed off his brawny legs. The rumpled yellow garment looked as if he might have slept in it, and there was a long wine stain down the front. He looked and moved as if he might be slightly hungover. He cast a curious, heavy-lidded glance in my direction, then bent forward to plant a kiss on Cytheris's cheek. She whispered something in his ear-my name, no doubt-and he gave me a halting nod of recognition.

"Gordianus… yes, of course, Meto's father! By Hercules, how long has it been?"

"Since our paths crossed? Quite some time."

"And yet, they cross again." Was there a glint of suspicion in his bleary eyes? Antony's face combined the poet and the brute, making his expression hard to read. He had a harsh profile, with his dented nose, craggy brows, and jutting chin; but there was something gentle about the curve of his full lips and a soulful quality in his eyes. I would have called him a bit homely, but women seemed to find his looks fascinating.

He grunted and held out his hand. A slave put a cup of wine in it. "Where is Meto nowadays? I suppose he must be back in Rome, for…" He was surely going to say "the Gallic Triumph," for Meto had served Caesar in Gaul, as had Antony, but his voice trailed away.

"No, Meto is in Spain, I'm afraid."

Antony grunted. "Scouting the extent of young Pompey's forces, no doubt. You and Meto were both in Alexandria, weren't you, while Caesar was there?"

"Yes," I said.

"But now you're back."

"Can you believe it?" said Cytheris. "We met by chance outside the Temple of Tellus. And this is Rupa, who's Gordianus's son now. Rupa is an old friend from my days in Alexandria."

"Ah, yes," said Antony, "all roads circle back to Alexandria, it seems. I shall have to return there myself someday. But I seem to recall hearing… yes, I'm certain someone told us that you were missing in Egypt and presumed to be dead, Gordianus. Now who was it who told us that? I can recall standing in this very garden, and somehow your name came up, and some fellow… Cytheris, help me remember."

"Oh, I know!" she said. "It was the Scapegoat."

"Scapegoat?"

"The Massilian. You know-Hieronymus. He's the one who told us the rumor of Gordianus's demise. He seemed quite upset. He hardly ate or drank a thing that night."

"Ah, yes… Hieronymus…" Antony nodded. "An odd character, that one. I thought he was another of your actor friends, my dear, until you explained where he came from. Claims to be a friend of yours, Gordianus."

"Hieronymus," I whispered. "So you knew him?" What a stroke of fortune, that they should be the first to mention him, not I.

"Oh, yes, the Scapegoat is one of Cytheris's pets." Antony did not sound entirely pleased.

"Come, Antony, Hieronymus never fails to make you laugh. Admit it! Such a naughty tongue that fellow has."

"Actually, I'm afraid I have some bad news about Hieronymus." I tried to make my face and voice register the emotion one feels when confronted, suddenly and unexpectedly, with the task of delivering sad news. I glanced at Rupa. His muteness made him a good companion for this investigation; he would never blurt out anything to give me away.

"Hieronymus is dead," I said bluntly.

"Oh, no!" Cytheris's surprise seemed genuine. Of course, she was a trained actress.

Antony was harder to read. He furrowed his forehead and narrowed his eyes. "When did this happen?"

"Two nights ago."

"Where? How?"

"He was stabbed, in an alley on the Palatine." This was true, if deliberately vague.

"By whom?" asked Antony. He had once been charged with keeping order in Rome; news of a crime seemed to pique his interest.

"I don't know. It happened at night. There seem to have been no witnesses."

"How distressing!" said Cytheris. "Who would have wanted to kill poor, harmless Hieronymus? Was it a thief? I thought the days of robbery and murder in the streets were over."

I shrugged and shook my head.

"We must send a garland for the bier," said Cytheris. "The body…?"

"Hieronymus lies in my vestibule."

"Yes, beloved, send a garland," said Antony. "I'll let you take care of that." He squinted and shielded his eyes from the sunlight. "You'll have to excuse me now. Suddenly my head is pounding. No need to get up, Cytheris. Stay here in the garden with your guests."

But she was already on her feet, gazing at him sympathetically and reaching out to gently stroke his temples. I saw it was time to go.

"Thank you for the wine and the hospitality. I should return to my house now, in case anyone comes to pay his respects to Hieronymus."

Antony nodded. "Let me know if you discover anything else about his death."

"If you wish. I realize how busy you must be, with Caesar's triumphs approaching. I believe the first, to celebrate his conquest of Gaul, is the day after tomorrow. I know from Meto what an important role you played in that war."

Antony scowled. "Be that as it may, I shall not be taking part in the Gallic Triumph."

"No? But you were a cavalry commander at Alesia, weren't you? When Vercingetorix led a night attack against the Roman besiegers, it was only your swift response that saved the situation."

Antony grunted. "Your son told you about that, did he?"

"Caesar himself says so, in those memoirs of his. Surely you'll be riding in a place of honor, the first mounted officer behind Caesar's chariot? And I should think you would be among the privileged few to witness the execution of Vercingetorix in the Tullianum."

"I'm sure they can manage to strangle the wretched Gaul without me. Do you know, Cytheris, I think we'll hold the auction that day, right here in the street outside the house. Let's see if we can lure any of the revelers away from the parade route to come gawk at Pompey's pinky rings and bedroom slippers."

"But surely Caesar himself will insist that you take part," I said.

"Caesar is a selfish, ungrateful-" Antony caught himself. "For months, after Pharsalus, I was left on my own, in charge of this unruly city, without any instructions from Caesar."

"To be fair, Caesar was trapped inside the royal compound at Alexandria, with no way to send word," I said.

"For part of that time, yes. But once he'd broken out, and defeated Ptolemy, did he hurry back to Rome? No, he took a leisurely trip up the Nile with Cleopatra. While he was sightseeing and doing who knows what else with the queen, I was facing an angry mob here in Rome, not even knowing whether Caesar was alive or dead! The situation was quite precarious, let me tell you! And Dolabella deliberately made it worse. It wasn't enough that the boy was sleeping with my wife-from whom I am now divorced, thank the gods. Oh, no! Dolabella insisted on promising wholesale debt relief to the poor, saying it was just what Caesar would have wanted. He raised the hopes of the rabble, whipped them to a frenzy, and pitted them against me. Do you know what he called that gathering he organized in the Forum? A demonstration. I called it a riot. If I hadn't ordered my men to restore the peace, there would have been a complete breakdown of order in this city, utter chaos, with looting and murders everywhere. I did what I had to do. But when Caesar finally returned, and heard all the complaints, did he thank me? Did he praise me, reward me? No! He scolded me in public-humiliated me! — and embraced Dolabella, saying what a good, clever boy he was to show such sensitivity to the needs of the poor."

This was just the kind of spontaneous response I was hoping for. How might I goad him to further candor? I frowned and feigned surprise at his vehemence. I clucked my tongue. "Dolabella, that naughty fellow, sleeping with your Antonia! Presumably he did so behind the back of his own dear wife?"

"The pathetic Tullia, Cicero's whelp? Dolabella divorced her-after finally getting her pregnant. But don't trick me into saying that cursed name again."

"What name?" I ventured.

Antony narrowed his eyes and glared at me, suspicious now that I was deliberately taunting him.

"Ah, you mean Cicero," I said. "I realize that the two of you have been bitter enemies for a long time. But Caesar saw fit to pardon Cicero, did he not?"

Antony gritted his teeth. "Yet another example of Caesar's outrageous-" He caught himself. He pinched the bridge of nose, grimaced, turned around, and left without another word.

"Oh, dear," said Cytheris. "I'm afraid you set him off."

"I hadn't realized the situation between Antony and Caesar was so delicate."

"It's not as bad as it sounds, truly." She shook her head. "These headaches he's suffering-they worry me. It's not what you think. It isn't the drinking that causes them. It's the pressure he's under."

"A man like Antony must have much on his mind."

"Not enough, these days. That's the problem! These headaches never plague him when he's in the thick of things, having to contain a riot or lead a cavalry charge. It's the idleness afterward that brings them on. It's as if he's still releasing the pressure, after all those months of stress, running the city as Caesar's surrogate, facing one crisis after another, not knowing if Caesar would ever come back. It took a toll on him. Who can blame Antony if all he wants now is to throw parties and drink and sleep until noon?"

"Who can blame him, indeed?" I said.

V

As Rupa and I departed from the House of the Beaks and made our way back to the Palatine, I experienced a distinct sensation of being followed.

Over the years I have learned to trust this sensation; it never misleads me. Unfortunately, my skill at spotting a stealthy pursuer has diminished over the years, even as my skill at sensing one has grown more acute. At one point, I asked Rupa to lag behind a bit, to see if we could outstalk my stalker, but the ruse didn't work. I arrived home safely but with the disturbing sensation of having been followed and no idea who had done so or why.

I retired to the garden, found a shady spot, and resumed my reading of Hieronymus's reports and his private journal. There was little in them to hint at any danger that Antony might pose to Caesar; mostly Hieronymus listed in great detail who attended the parties at the House of the Beaks; what they wore, ate, and drank; and what they gossiped about. After my single interview with them, I could have done a better job of reporting on Antony's state of mind and speculating on any dangerous motivations that might be attributed to Cytheris.

Hieronymus had uncovered something dangerous enough to get himself killed. It would appear he harbored no particular suspicions of Antony, and yet that very fact raised an alarm. How had Hieronymus put it? "The menace to Caesar will come at a time and from a direction we did not anticipate." To judge by his reports, Hieronymus had not anticipated any menace from Antony and Cytheris-or had he grown suspicious only when it was too late to save himself?

I scribbled a few of my own notes toward assembling a report to Calpurnia, then skimmed more of the material. Which of Hieronymus's paths should I retrace next?

I decided to talk to Vercingetorix as soon as possible. In two days, the man would be dead.

Since his defeat and capture at Alesia six years ago, the former leader of the Gauls had been kept a prisoner. Had the civil war not intervened, Caesar would long ago have staged his Gallic Triumph, and Vercingetorix would be dead. Thus it had been since the earliest days of the Republic: when a victorious Roman general celebrates a triumph, his most prominent captives are paraded in fetters; and at the conclusion of the procession, they are taken to the dungeon chamber called the Tullianum and strangled to death, to the delight of the gods and the glory of Rome.

Now the time had come for Caesar's triumph, and for Vercingetorix to face his destiny.

It was hard to see how the captured leader of the Gauls could pose any threat to Caesar-surely he was kept under strict guard-yet Calpurnia had arranged for Hieronymus to see him, so she must have considered him a possible menace. Looking through Hieronymus's notes on their single meeting, I saw references to the Gaul's appearance and state of mind, but the most important question was not addressed: Had Vercingetorix been allowed any contact at all with friends and family? If he had been kept in complete seclusion, as I suspected, then he could not be plotting against Caesar, nor have any knowledge of a plot. On the other hand, even during the most controlled visits from the outside he might have exchanged information in code or might simply have given inspiration to his visitors by a show of fortitude. Caesar had done his best to undermine any remaining Gallic resistance, partly by rewarding those who cooperated, but there must be many Gauls who hated him fiercely and wished him dead.

Hieronymus had not remarked on the question of outside contacts with Vercingetorix, perhaps because Calpurnia already had that information. Mostly he ruminated on the special attributes he possessed for winning the captive's trust:

The two of us have something in common, after all. As the Scapegoat in Massilia, impending doom hung over me every day, every hour. I tasted the torment that V. faces as his final day draws near. Because I escaped the Fates, he may deduce that I received special dispensation from the gods. For a man in his circumstances, it will be natural to draw close to me, hoping that some of that favor might rub off on him.

"Hieronymus, Hieronymus!" I whispered, shaking my head. "You cheated the Fates for a time, but no man escapes them forever. The doomed Gaul still lives, while you lie on a bier in my vestibule. Did he have anything to do with your death?"

"Papa?"

Diana stepped into the garden. The sunlight sparkled and glimmered upon her dark hair. I was struck anew by her beauty-inherited entirely from her mother-but her face was grave.

"What is it, daughter?"

"There's a visitor who's come to pay respects to Hieronymus."

"So soon?" Word of his death had already begun to spread, then, faster than I expected. The official entry had been registered by the undertakers, of course, and there are gossip vultures who follow those lists daily. Or had someone in Calpurnia's household spread the news? "Who is it?" I asked.

"Fulvia. She says she'd like to speak to you."

"Of course. Would you show her to the garden yourself, Diana? Have the boys bring refreshment."

My association with Fulvia went back many years. It was safe to say that she was the most ambitious woman in Rome. But what had she gained by her ambitions except a widow's garments? First she married the rabble-rouser Clodius, whose mobs terrorized the city; but when Clodius was murdered on the Appian Way, Fulvia, as a woman, could do nothing with the tremendous political power her husband had harnessed. Then she married Curio, one of Caesar's most promising young lieutenants. When the civil war began, Curio captured Sicily and pressed on to Africa-where King Juba of Numidia made Fulvia a widow again and took Curio's head for a trophy. When I last saw her, before my departure for Alexandria, she was still beautiful, but bitter and brooding, lacking the one thing a woman in Rome needed to exercise power: an equally ambitious husband. In Alexandria, a woman like Cleopatra may exercise power alone, but Romans are not Egyptians. We may revert to having a king, but we have never submitted to the rule of a queen.

So far as I had seen, Fulvia did not figure in any of Hieronymus's reports to Calpurnia. Her ambitions thwarted, she had become irrelevant. But if Hieronymus had not visited her, why was she coming to pay her respects? Even as I recalled Hieronymus's reference to a threat "from a direction we did not anticipate," Fulvia stepped into my garden.

Appropriately for such a visit, she was dressed in a dark stola, with a black mantle over her head. But she had been similarly dressed when I last saw her, in mourning for Curio. Perhaps she had never put off her widow's garments. She was now in her late thirties; her face was beginning to show the strain and suffering she had endured over the years, but the fire in her eyes had not gone out.

Fulvia spoke first, as if she were the hostess and I the guest. That was like her, to take the initiative. "It's good to see you, Gordianus, even if the occasion is a sad one. I had heard-"

"Yes, yes, I know-that I was dead."

She smiled faintly and nodded.

"But you must have known that wasn't the truth, Fulvia. Surely you knew the moment I arrived back in Rome, from your famous network of all-seeing, all-hearing spies. I seem to recall, at our last meeting, that you boasted to me that nothing of importance could occur in Rome without your knowledge."

"Perhaps your return to Rome was not of sufficient importance."

I winced. Was this sarcasm? Her expression indicated that she was simply stating a fact.

"You came here to pay respects to Hieronymus?"

"Yes."

"Did you know him well?"

She hesitated an instant too long, and chose not to answer.

"You didn't know Hieronymus at all, did you, Fulvia?"

She hesitated again. "I never met him. I never spoke to him."

"But you knew of Hieronymus-who he was, where he went, what he was up to?"

"Perhaps."

"And somehow you knew about his death, ahead of nearly everyone in Rome, and of the presence of his body in this house. How could that be? I wonder. And why should you care enough about this stranger Hieronymus to come pay your respects?"

She drew back her shoulders and stood rigid for a moment, then released her tension with a short laugh. "It's a good thing I have nothing to hide from you, Gordianus. With only two eyes and two ears, you perceive all. What a gift you possess! Very well: I know who Hieronymus was, because I have men who watch the House of the Beaks and report back to me on everyone who comes and goes-including your old friend, the so-called Scapegoat."

"And your men were watching this morning, weren't they? They saw me arrive, with Cytheris, and at least one of them tracked me when I left. I knew someone was following me! The fellow must be very good. Try as I might, I couldn't trick him into revealing himself."

"That's quite a compliment, coming from Gordianus the Finder. He'll be flattered."

"And when your spy saw the cypress wreath on my door, he knew there must be a dead body in my vestibule."

"The death of Hieronymus is a matter of public record now. My man had merely to check the registry."

"And that gave you the pretext for this visit."

"Yes. But I see now that I needn't have bothered with a pretext. I should simply have come to you… as a friend."

This was exaggerating our relationship, but I let it pass. "And as a friend, what would you ask of me, Fulvia?"

"Why did you visit Antony's house today? Who's employing you to spy on him?"

My response was equally blunt. "Do your men merely watch the comings and goings at the House of the Beaks, or does someone follow Cytheris wherever she goes?"

Fulvia did not answer.

"Because, if one of your men was following Cytheris, he could tell you that she met me quite by chance outside the Temple of Tellus and invited me on the spot to come home with her."

"I don't believe it. If you met Cytheris in the street, it didn't happen by chance but because you wanted it to happen. You were at Antony's house today because you meant to be there, Gordianus. And that would happen only because someone has hired you to investigate Antony. Either that or you're acting entirely on your own-in which case you must suspect that Antony had something to do with your friend's death."

"Couldn't it simply be that I wished to inform Antony and Cytheris of Hieronymus's demise, knowing that he had been a guest in their home in recent months?"

She wrinkled her brow. "Perhaps." Her shoulders slumped. She was suddenly tired of sparring with me. I realized she was standing in the hot sunlight.

"Please sit, Fulvia, here beside me in the shade. There should be some wine on its way. I wonder where those useless boys have got to…"

As if they had been lurking out of sight, waiting to be prompted, Mopsus and Androcles appeared at once, one bearing a silver pitcher and the other two cups. At least they had the good sense to bring the best vessels. Hopefully they also had brought the best vintage.

At the sight of them, Fulvia expressed surprise, then smiled. "My, how they've grown! They're almost a big as my son, Publius."

I had almost forgotten that the boys had once belonged to Fulvia; I acquired them from her in the course of my investigation into the murder of her first husband. I saw now why the boys had hung back; they were still in awe of their former mistress, and why not? I was a little in awe of Fulvia myself. Androcles approached her with downcast eyes and offered her a cup. Mopsus was equally shy when he poured from the pitcher.

"They've served me very well," I said. "They went to Egypt with me, and kept me company in Alexandria. You may go now, boys."

After daring to raise their eyes to catch a glimpse of Fulvia's face, the two of them withdrew from the garden.

The wine was very good, a Mamertine vintage that was almost as smooth and delicate as a fine Falernian. I thought Fulvia might comment on it, but she said nothing. No doubt she took such quality for granted.

"As I see it, Fulvia, the question is not why I was at Antony's house this morning. The question is, why are you keeping such a close watch on him?"

She studied me over the rim of her cup. "Was this your first contact with Antony and Cytheris since your return?"

"Yes."

"And what did you make of their little household?"

"They seem very comfortable with each other."

"Were they… amorous?"

I smiled. "Not in my presence. If you're asking if they carried on like sex-mad lovers, the answer is no. To be candid, Antony seemed a bit hungover. I think he may have been asleep when I arrived. But Cytheris was lively enough."

"Cytheris!" Fulvia spoke the name with disdain. "Well, at least she's achieved her goal of getting him to divorce Antonia."

"I think Antonia may have done her part to make that happen, carrying on with Dolabella."

"Indeed. Well, their marriage is over, and that's what matters. Now it's just a matter of prying him away from that dreadful actress."

"You intend to marry Antony?"

"Yes."

"But does he intend to marry you?"

"We've discussed the matter at some length." She spoke as if they were negotiating a business partnership or planning a military expedition. "We agree on the advantages of such a marriage. We also agree on our… compatibility… in certain other areas. I am in every way woman enough to satisfy a man like Antony." She said this defiantly, as there might be some doubt. "I was a passionate wife to Clodius, and to Curio, as well a good partner. Why Antony thinks he must hold on to that creature, I can't understand. He actually proposes that I should agree to some formal arrangement for keeping her, letting her live in one of Antony's houses and draw an income, as if she were a second wife. When my mother heard that… well, the repercussions were not pleasant for anyone."

I remembered the gaunt, white-haired Sempronia, who was every bit as ambitious as her daughter but less charming.

"As for those who say I brought ill fortune to my previous husbands, and would bring ill fortune to Antony as well-"

"Who says such a thing?"

"Cytheris, of course. But it's a lie and a slander to suggest that I carry a curse. Given the times we live in, is it any wonder that two men who dared to raise themselves above the pack were struck down?"

I tended to agree with Fulvia, but it seemed prudent to change the subject. "What about Antony's falling-out with Caesar?" I said.

"The situation is ridiculous! And totally unnecessary. Cytheris is behind it, of course. She's the one who talked him into settling in at the House of the Beaks. She's made it their little love nest, where they can entertain her dubious circle of foreign dancers and acrobats."

"Dubious foreigners… like my friend Hieronymus?" I said.

"I'm sure they welcomed him into their circle because he had a certain freakish appeal-the Scapegoat who cheated death."

"On the contrary, Hieronymus could be quite witty and entertaining."

"Of course. I didn't mean to speak ill of your friend, Gordianus. But a woman like Cytheris is not to be trusted. She cares only for her own advancement. Everyone else is merely a stepping-stone, including Antony."

It occurred to me that Fulvia might be describing herself. "So your marriage to Antony…?"

"Our plans have not been finalized. He won't be pinned down. He's behaving like an irresponsible boy, rejecting the sensible advice of the two people who care most about his career and can do most to help him, Caesar and myself. He's spurning us to carry on with that-that Alexandrian whore!"

"Perhaps Antony is not such a good match for you, after all. If he lacks sound judgment…"

"No. He's come this far, and he'll go much, much farther. He's the man I should have married in the first place. We both know that; we've known it for years. But circumstances simply never fell out that way. I married Clodius, and he married that first wife of his, that nobody… I can't even remember her name. Then the Fates led us both to a second marriage but not to each other-I to Curio, Antony to Antonia-and our mutual destiny was postponed… until now. I am a widow again; Antony is divorced. Now is the time. It will happen. It must happen."

I shrugged. "The gods have a habit of thwarting even our most reasonable expectations."

"No! Not this time. It will happen because I will make it happen. Antony will achieve the destiny he deserves… and so will I."

I sighed. I feared it would not be the gods who denied Fulvia her desire but another mortal: Antony. There is nothing so unsure as the plans we make that rely on the sensible behavior of another human being.

"I gather, Fulvia, that you intend to 'save' Antony-from Cytheris, from himself. But what if Antony refuses to be saved?"

Her face lengthened. "Was that your impression, from your visit to the House of the Beaks?"

"Not exactly. I was there to talk about Hieronymus, not Antony." This was not entirely true, but the fact was that I had nothing useful to tell her about Antony's future plans, at least regarding the women in his life. "I do know that he won't be taking part in the Gallic Triumph, but I'm not sure if that was Caesar's decision or Antony's."

She shook her head. "He should be in the very front line, just behind Caesar. The whole city should see him and remember the part he played in conquering the Gauls. He offended many people when he was in charge of the city, but if they could be reminded of his sacrifice, his bravery, his loyalty-what a squandered opportunity! This rift with Caesar… it must be ended, one way or another!" The light behind her eyes suddenly flared, like flames fanned by a hot wind.

She closed her eyes, as if to hide their intensity from me. "At least I shall be able to take some satisfaction from the African Triumph, eight days from now. King Juba claimed my husband's head as a trophy; now Juba is dead, his kingdom belongs to Rome, and Caesar shall parade Juba's little son as a captive."

She abruptly rose and made ready to go, adjusting her mantle and gathering the folds of her stola. "As always, Gordianus, your candor is greatly refreshing. This city is full of flatterers and outright liars! Sometimes I think you must be exactly what that monster Cicero called you, 'the most honest man in Rome.' "

I smiled. "That was a rare compliment from Cicero, and I'm not sure he'd repeat it nowadays." I spoke carefully; if anyone hated Cicero even more than Antony did, it was Fulvia. "I haven't seen Cicero in a very long time."

"Not since you returned from Egypt?"

"No."

"I see. Then you don't know what the old goat is up to?"

"No." I raised an eyebrow.

She laughed shrilly. "It's too delicious! But I don't think I'll tell you. I'll let you find out for yourself. You won't believe it-what a fool that old scoundrel Cicero has made of himself."

I followed her out of the garden and into the vestibule. She paused for a moment to gaze at the body of Hieronymus.

"I truly am sorry about your friend," she whispered, and then stepped outside, where a retinue with a litter awaited her in the street.

I watched her depart. Hieronymus had jotted no notes about Fulvia in his reports or his journal, but he had also spoken of a menace from an unexpected quarter. It was Fulvia's ambition that Antony must be made to fulfill his destiny, at any cost. Before that could happen, his rift with Caesar must be ended-"one way or another," as Fulvia had stressed.