"Gordianus's adopted son, Meto, is rather famous for his editorial services to Caesar. As important to Caesar, some say, as Tiro has been to me."

Comprehension dawned in Domitius's eyes. He smiled thinly. "Oh, I see, you're that Gordianus. Yes, I see." His smile became a leer. "But surely, Cicero, you don't mean to suggest that Tiro ever performed for you some of the services that one hears this Meto performs in private for his beloved commander?"

Terentia huffed. Young Marcus tittered. Tullia drew in a breath and looked at me sympathetically. Cicero actually blushed.

Had everyone in Rome heard and given credence to these rumors about Caesar and my son? While I ground my teeth and considered how best to answer Domitius, he moved to another subject.

"Very well, purely for the sake of argument, I'll concede that Caesar is the military genius his own prose makes him out to be, helped along by his starry-eyed amanuensis. In that case, whatever shall become of our Pompey? Do you know, I almost hope that Caesar does trap Pompey in Brundisium. Let him strip the Great One of his legions and give him the same slave's choice he gave to me. Pompey would have to commit suicide. After all his blunders, there could be no other honorable course. Then where would we be?" Domitius laced his fingers beneath his chin and stroked his red beard. "The Senate will need another champion- a savior from the West, not the East. The right man could summon Pompey's troops from Spain and rally the Gauls against their would-be king. Massilia would be the ideal place to carry out such a plan, don't you think? Yes, rally Spain and Gaul, then march directly into Italy- a second crossing of the Rubicon, a second invasion of armed men, not to destroy the constitution and the Senate but to restore them. Given proper resources, the right man could put that scoundrel Caesar on the run!" Domitius fell to ruminating and peered into the middle distance.

"In the meantime, what shall I do about my triumph?" said Cicero. "Now there's a dilemma."

"Your triumph?" I said, puzzled by the sudden change of subject.

"Yes, the triumphal procession due to me for my successful military campaigns in Cilicia. In the normal course of things, I should have been voted a triumph by the Senate directly upon my return. I should have entered the city gates in a chariot with blaring trumpets! What's the point of being a provincial governor if there's no triumph at the end of it? But of course, this hasn't been a normal year. I decided to forgo my triumph, in light of the crisis. But now… well, I must celebrate it sooner or later. I can't postpone it forever. But what if Caesar drives Pompey from Italy and then occupies Rome? If I celebrate my triumph while Caesar is in command of the city, it may be read as an endorsement of his tyranny. I suppose I shouldn't return to Rome at all, not while Caesar's there. I should make a point of refusing to take my seat in the Senate…"

Cicero paused for a sip of wine. Terentia spoke up. "It was bad enough that you postponed your triumph, which may never happen now. But what about your son's toga day? Marcus turns sixteen this year. All the best families mark their sons' coming of age during the feast of Liberalia, just after the Ides of March. Will we be back in Rome by then to celebrate Marcus's majority, or not?"

From the way the children cringed, I sensed this was an ongoing family argument. Cicero released a heavy breath. "You know that would be impossible, Terentia. The Liberalia is only twelve days off. Why must you bring this up? You know how fervently I hoped for Marcus to celebrate the donning of his manly toga in Rome, with all the best people in attendance. But it cannot be. For one thing, the best people are scattered to the four corners of the earth. For another, I can't return to Rome with honor, not yet. And wherever we celebrate his toga day, arrangements can't possibly be made in time for the Liberalia."

"But the Liberalia is the proper day," insisted Terentia. "On the feast of Father Freedom, the priests carry the phallus of Dionysus from the fields into the city streets, and the young men in their manly togas follow behind, singing bawdy songs. It's a religious act, the symbol of a boy's emergence to manhood in the company of his peers."

"It's all right, Mother, really," said Marcus, turning red and frowning at his plate. "We've discussed this before. It doesn't have to be the Liberalia. Another day will do. And we can do it in Arpinum instead of Rome. It is the family's hometown."

"Hometown to your father's family, Marcus," said Terentia, with frost in her voice. "We can hardly expect your relatives on the Terentius side to trek all the way to Arpinum, with brigands and runaway soldiers stalking the highways. Besides, the villa at Arpinum is in no condition to receive visitors. The roof leaks, the kitchen's too small, and there aren't enough beds. At least here in Formiae I've managed to get the household up and running."

"Surely you're not suggesting that we celebrate his toga day here?" protested Cicero. "We've no family in the area. I scarcely know the members of the local town senate. No, if not Rome, then Arpinum."

"I don't see why we can't just go back to Rome tomorrow." Tullia sighed and looked to her mother for support. "Everyone else is. Your cousin Gaius returned, and my friend Aufelia and her husband are on their way back. Father's friend Atticus never left."

As the table talk degenerated into a family squabble, I waited for a pause in the conversation to excuse myself. Domitius, I noticed, paid no attention. He held an asparagus spear between his thumb and forefinger and seemed to be interrogating it. How pathetic the man seemed, with his delusions of military glory and his obsessive jealousy of Caesar. Yet he seemed to me no more pathetic than Cicero, the great orator reduced to agonizing over his postponed triumph and his son's toga day. How irrelevant, even ridiculous, they both seemed.

But as I lay in bed that night, kept awake by a disagreement between the fish-pickle sauce and my stomach, I wondered uneasily if I was not as deluded in my own way as Cicero and Domitius. What was the exact relationship between Julius Caesar and my son? Once, I had thought I understood it, but it appeared there might be a complicating factor which I had not accounted for. In such parlous times, I could not afford such a miscalculation. As we continued the journey, and grew closer to the camps of Caesar and Pompey, I could afford it even less.

Sleep finally came, and with it, nightmare. There was no narrative, only a series of wrenching horrors. I had misunderstood something and made a terrible mistake. Someone was dead. I was covered with blood. Bethesda and Diana wore shrouds and wept. The ground shook and the sky rained fire.

I woke drenched with sweat, and swore never to touch fish-pickle sauce again.