XIV

We set out before dawn. I was tired from lack of sleep and my stomach was out of sorts, but Tiro was in high spirits.

"I take it you didn't have the fish-pickle sauce last night," I said.

"Did Cicero break open a new jar? He must have been trying to impress Domitius. No, I ate simple fare. Nothing but millet porridge and roast pork off the spit."

"You ate outside with Domitius's men?"

"Of course. How else could I have gathered information from them? I posed as a freedman attached to the villa."

"You spied on Domitius? I thought he was Cicero's ally."

"I didn't spy on him. I simply talked to his men. They had a lot to say about the morale of Domitius's former troops, the size of Caesar's forces, the condition of the roads, and so on."

"What about the ambush Caesar supposedly set for Domitius after letting him go?"

Tiro smiled. "According to the men, there was an incident. A mail carrier passed them on the road just outside Corfinium."

"A mail carrier?"

"Yes, a lone man on horseback. Domitius panicked. He made his men hide in the bushes. They thought he might die of a heart attack. The ambush was entirely in his imagination!"

"Rather like the welcome that's waiting for him in Massilia, I suspect."

A sphinxlike expression crossed Tiro's face. "I wouldn't be too surprised if the Massilians welcome him with open arms. Open hands, anyway."

"What do you mean?"

Tiro slowed his mount and let Fortex ride ahead. "I appreciate your discretion last night, Gordianus. You said nothing to Domitius about me, even when my name was mentioned."

"I only did as you asked."

"And I thank you. I would appreciate it if you could be just as discreet about Domitius's visit to Cicero."

"Cicero wants it kept secret? Why?"

"He has his reasons."

I snorted. "Cicero won't join Pompey, he doesn't want it known that he's hosted Domitius- is he so fearful of offending Caesar?"

Tiro grimaced. "It's not that. All right, I'll tell you. Domitius didn't leave Corfinium empty-handed."

"He was stripped of his legions."

"Yes, but not of his gold. When Domitius arrived in Corfinium, he deposited six million sesterces in the city treasury. Most of it was public money he brought from Rome, for military expenses. Caesar could have seized it for himself, but I suppose he doesn't want to be seen as a thief. He returned the entire amount to Domitius when he set him free."

I sucked in a breath. "You mean Domitius and that ragtag retinue are transporting six million sesterces?"

"In trunks, loaded in wagons. You see now why he was so suspicious of Caesar and so fearful on the road."

"What will he do with all that money? Return it to the treasury in Rome?"

Tiro laughed. "He'll use it to go to Massilia and win over the Massilians, of course. But you see why Cicero doesn't want his visit made public. If the money vanishes- and who knows what might happen in the coming days?- and the trail leads back to Formiae, someone might presume that Domitius left it here with Cicero, for safekeeping. These are desperate times. That kind of rumor could draw cutthroats like grasshoppers to the green leaf. Whole households have been slaughtered for considerably less than six million sesterces, Gordianus. Cicero isn't ashamed of playing host to Domitius, and he isn't fearful for himself. But he has his family to think of. Surely you can understand that."

• • •

That day we rode forty-four miles and reached Capua. The next day we covered thirty-three miles and stopped at Beneventum. At various stables along the way Tiro exchanged our horses, always producing his courier's passport signed by Pompey. Some stablers honored it without question. Others treated us with barely concealed contempt and tried to give us inferior mounts. One stabler refused to deal with us at all. He took a long look at the document, gave us a cold stare, and told us to move on. Tiro was furious. "Do you realize the penalty for flouting a document issued under the Senate's Ultimate Decree?" he asked the man. "The penalty is death!" The stabler swallowed hard but said nothing. We went in search of another stable.

After a good night's sleep in Beneventum, Tiro decided that we should leave the Appian Way and strike out on an old mountain road that cut directly west to east across the Apennines. "A shortcut," Tiro called it. He insisted that we exchange our horses for a wagon and a slave to drive it. The stabler in Beneventum wrinkled his nose when he saw Pompey's seal on the document. He tried to resist the trade, but Tiro was in no mood to haggle. At last the man gave us a wagon with a canvas top and a toothless slave to drive it.

The wagon seemed unnecessary to me. Saddlebags were adequate for our provisions, and our progress on steep, winding roads would be faster on horseback. As we set out that morning, I said as much to Tiro. He shook his head and pointed toward the dull gray clouds that wreathed the mountaintops. Later that day, his judgment was confirmed. A few miles into the foothills, the sky opened and poured rain, then sleet, then hail. While we sat in the covered wagon, bundled in dry blankets, the miserable driver shivered and sneezed and urged the horses on.

The storm grew worse, until at last we had to stop at a little inn beside the road. We spent the night there- and the next three fretful days as well, as the storm continued to howl and bluster. Recriminations were pointless, but I still felt obliged to suggest to Tiro that we would have done better to stay on the Appian Way. He said the same storm would likely have trapped us no matter what route we took, and we were lucky to have found a snug place to pass the time. To combat the tedium, the innkeeper had a small library of well-worn scrolls (trashy Greek novels and dubious erotic poetry) as well as a supply of board games. After three days, I decided I could die happy if I never read another story of shipwrecked lovers. I envied Fortex and the wagon driver, who both seemed content to sleep day and night in the stable, like hibernating bears.

Occasionally, over a game of Circus Maximus or Pharaohs Down the Nile, I sensed that Tiro was trying to draw me out, following Cicero's instructions to discover my intentions and any secrets I might know about the death of Numerius Pompeius. As subtly as I could, I always deflected him and changed the subject.

At last, the storm passed. A full day of travel brought us to the eastern slopes of the mountains. We slept that night at an inn nestled amid rocky bluffs and pine forests. The following morning, watching the sunrise from the window of our room on the upper floor, I glimpsed a smudge of silver and blue in the distance that Tiro declared to be the Adriatic. It was our eleventh day out of Rome.

The sky was cloudless. We set out with the wagon uncovered. After an hour or so, descending through a narrow mountain pass, we encountered the soldiers.

We heard them first. The low booming of marching drums echoed up through the folds of the mountain. Tiro told the wagon driver to stop. I listened closely. Along with the drums I heard the stamp of feet and a muffled clatter of armor. Tiro and I left the driver and Fortex in the wagon. We climbed to the top of a rocky knob and gazed down.

Thousands of men were marching up from the coastal plain. Their helmets in the morning sunlight merged into a glittering ribbon that snaked sinuously up the mountainside, over crests, through saddles, around bends, filling the width of the road as water fills a river channel.

"Caesar's men, or Pompey's?" I said.