"The die is cast!" shouted one of the players. A round of drunken laughter followed. It took me a moment to catch the joke. Caesar had uttered the same words to his men when he crossed the Rubicon.

"They've immortalized him with a throw, as well," remarked Tiro.

"A throw?"

"Of the dice. The Venus Throw is the highest combination and beats all else. The gamblers are all calling it the Caesar Throw nowadays, and shouting 'Gaius Julius' when they cast the dice. I don't think it means they've taken Caesar's side, necessarily. They're just superstitious. Caesar claims to be partly divine, descended from Venus. So the Venus Throw becomes the Caesar Throw."

"Which beats all else. Is there such a thing as the Pompey Throw?"

Tiro snorted. "I think that must be when the dice skip off the table."

"Is Pompey's position as bad as that?"

"Do you know what Cicero says? 'When he was in the wrong, Pompey always got his way. Now that he's in the right, he fails completely.' Caesar took them all by surprise. Not even his supporters believed that he'd dare to cross into Italy with his troops. You saw the panic that resulted. Pompey led the stampede! Ever since, he's been struggling to get a grip on the situation, day by day. In the morning he's elated and full of bluster. Come afternoon, he falls into a funk and orders his troops to retreat farther south."

I looked at him wryly. "You seem to be awfully well informed for a man who's been lying in a sickbed in Greece since November."

He smiled. "Tiro is still in that sickbed, and will be for some time yet. I'm Soscarides, an Alexandrian philosopher thrown out of work and cast adrift by the crisis."

"What's the point of this elaborate deception?"

"Cicero and I concocted the scheme together, on the trip back from Cilicia. At every stage of the journey, the news from Rome was more and more disturbing- Caesar mocking the constitution, refusing to give up his troops in Gaul, demanding to be allowed to stand for the consulship without coming back to Rome. Pompey likewise digging in his heels, refusing more concessions to Caesar, brooding outside the city gates and clinging to his own legions in Spain. And the Senate- our pathetic, confused, cowardly, grasping, greedy collection of the so-called best men in Rome- breaking down into acrimonious debates on the verge of open violence. You didn't have to be Cassandra to see that the situation was drawing to a crisis. Cicero decided it would be prudent if I were to arrive in Rome ahead of him; there was no one else he could trust to send back accurate reports."

"But why incognito?"

"So as to gather information without drawing attention to Cicero. The disguise is simple. A beard, a change of coloring; that's all."

"But you're slender again, as thin as when I first met you. It changes the shape of your face."

"As it happened, I did fall ill on the way back from Cilicia, early on, and lost quite a bit of weight. I decided to keep myself slim as part of the charade. No more sesame and honey cakes for me, I'm afraid! Altogether, the changes hardly constitute a disguise, but the combined effect suffices. No one seems to recognize me at a distance, or if they do, they decide they must be mistaken, because Cicero made a point of letting everyone know that his beloved Tiro is suffering a prolonged illness back in Greece. People put more faith in what they 'know' than in what they see. Except for you, Gordianus. I should have known you'd be the one to find me out."

"Since you got back, have you spent the whole time here in the city?"

"By Hercules, no! I've been all over Italy, visiting Caesar's garrisons, scouting Antony's movements, checking on Domitius's situation in Corfinium, relaying messages between Cicero and Pompey…"

"You've become Cicero's secret agent."

Tiro shrugged. "I rehearsed for the role during his term as governor of Cilicia. No one would talk to Tiro, the governor's secretary. Soscarides the Alexandrian, on the other hand, was everyone's friend."

I gazed at him over my wine cup. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Having made up your mind you'd seen me back in Rome, you'd have figured it out for yourself, sooner or later. And you might have jumped to some wrong conclusions."

"You could have refused to see me today."

"While you shouted my name in the street, and set those two little boys to dog my every step? No, Gordianus, I know how tenacious you can be, like a hound who can't remember where he buried a bone. Better to point you straight to it than have you digging holes all over the place. Holes are dangerous. They can hurt innocent people. So can jumping to wrong conclusions."

Our host brought more wine. The second cup was better than the first, but only by a little. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness. In the orange haze of the smoky lamps I could make out faces, but only vaguely. The noise would keep anyone from overhearing us.

I thought of something. "The guards told me that Cicero writes letters to you all the time, back in Greece."

"So he does. Our host in Patrae, who supposedly is nursing me back to health, is in on the scheme. As soon as he receives the letters, he posts back false ones, bearing my name."

"So Cicero's letters to you are blank?"

"Hardly! They're full of gossip, quotations from plays, exhortations to get better. You see, he always has the letters done in duplicate. Nothing unusual about that, except that he posts both copies. One goes by regular messenger all the way back to Patrae, to keep up the deception. The other is sent by secret messenger to me, wherever I actually happen to be."

"But if the messages are identical, Cicero is merely sending you gossip and get-well wishes."

"On the surface, yes. Safer that way." He smiled, seemed to mull something over, then produced a pouch from his tunic. From the pouch he pulled out a folded piece of parchment. He called for one of the serving girls to unhook a hanging lamp and bring it to our table. By its sputtering glow, I read the letter. It was dated the first day of the month, some fifteen days previous.

AT FORMIAE, ON THE KALENDS OF FEBRUARIUS.

Marcus Tullius Cicero, to Marcus Tullius Tiro at Patrae:

I remain very anxious about your health. The news that your complaint is not dangerous consoles me, but its lingering nature worries me. The absence of my skillful secretary vexes me, but more vexing is the absence of one dear to me. Yet though I long to see you, I urge you not to stir until you are fully recovered, especially as long as harsh weather prevails. Even in snug houses it is difficult to escape the cold, to say nothing of enduring wet, windy weather at sea. As Euripides says, "Cold to tender skin is deadliest foe."

Caesar continues to make pretense of negotiating with Pompey even as he plays invader. Like Hannibal sending diplomats ahead of his elephants! He says now that he will give up Gaul to Domitius and come to Rome to stand for the consulship in person, as the law requires- but only if Pompey will disband all the loyalist forces recently levied in Italy and depart at once to Spain. Caesar says nothing of giving up the garrisons seized since he crossed the Rubicon.

Our hope is that the Gauls among Caesar's troops may desert him, for they certainly have reason to hate him after all the pain he inflicted in conquering Gaul. To the north he would have a rebellious Gaul; to the west, Pompey's six legions in Spain; and to the east, the provinces which Pompey pacified long ago and where the Great One is still held in high esteem. If only the center can hold long enough to keep Caesar from sacking Rome!

Terentia asks, are you wearing the yellow scarf she gave you when we left for Cilicia? Do all you can to ward off the chill!

I looked up from the letter. "His hope that the Gauls will desert Caesar seems far-fetched to me. My son Meto tells me they cling to Caesar with the fervor of religious converts. Otherwise, the letter seems straightforward enough."