"I take complete responsibility for my slaves, Tribune." I kept my eyes straight ahead.

"Of course, Gordianus. I meant no offense." He gave me a firm slap on the back, then rode up to rejoin his men. He didn't give Tiro and Fortex another look.

I steadied myself with a deep breath, then looked sidelong at Tiro. It seemed to me that he clutched his reins too tightly, but his face betrayed no expression. He had overheard, of course; Antony was not the sort to lower his voice for the benefit of slaves. I thought of Daniel in the lion's den, a tale Bethesda told, handed down by her Hebrew father. Was that how Tiro felt, riding into Caesar's camp, led by a tribune who would gladly flay him alive? Yet here he was, despite his fear. I wondered if I could summon as much courage in the coming hours.

We came to a large tent, more elaborate than the others, made of red canvas embroidered with gold and decorated with pennants. Messengers on horseback waited in a line outside the entrance. As we approached, a soldier stepped out of the tent, conveyed an order to the first messenger, and the man was off. Meanwhile, another messenger came riding up, dismounted, and rushed into the tent.

"Morning reconnaissance," explained Antony. "Intelligence reports come in, orders go out. It's a beehive in there."

"Perhaps I should wait outside."

"Nonsense. Just mind that you don't get trampled." He climbed off his horse and offered me a hand. "Leave your slaves outside."

I looked at Tiro and shrugged. I had done my part. He was not to see the inside of Caesar's tent after all. But I underestimated his persistence.

Tiro jumped from his horse. "Please, Master! Let me come with you."

"You heard the tribune, Soscarides."

"But you brought me all this way to surprise Meto, to see the look on his face. If you talk to Meto first and let it slip that I'm here, where's the surprise? And the longer you wait, the more hectic the day may become. Even an hour from now, if there's to be a battle-"

"The tutor is right," said Antony. " 'Swiftly done is best done.' Who said that, tutor?" He looked at Tiro keenly.

"Euripides," said Tiro.

Antony frowned. "Are you sure? I once heard Cicero say it on the floor of the Senate House."

Tiro's face stiffened. "No doubt, Tribune. But Euripides said it first."

Antony laughed. "Spoken like a true tutor! I suppose you're not a spy or an assassin, after all. Bring him along, Gordianus. Give Meto a surprise."

"Yes, Master, please," said Tiro.

"Either that, or have the slave beaten for his insolence," suggested Antony. He wasn't joking.

I glowered at Tiro and seriously considered the option. I could see wheels spinning behind his eyes. "The date!" he suddenly said.

Antony looked at him quizzically.

"It's two days past the Ides," said Tiro. "Liberalia day!" I remembered Cicero and his wife arguing over the upcoming Liberalia and their son's toga ceremony. "You can't beat a slave for speaking his mind on the feast day of Father Freedom, Master. Letting slaves speak freely is part of the holiday." Tiro looked quite pleased with himself.

"Is it Liberalia already?" Antony grunted. "I always lose track of holidays during a military campaign. We count on augurs to watch the calendar and make the proper sacrifices, and leave it at that. Well, I celebrated the god of the grape in my own way last night, and I'm all for parading a giant phallus through the camp and singing bawdy songs, though I doubt we'll have time for it. But the slave's right, Gordianus, you should indulge him. We must court the favor of all the gods, including Dionysus."

Tiro looked at me archly. I looked back at him coolly. "Very well, Soscarides, come along. Fortex, you'll stay here with the horses."

Inside the tent, messengers rushed about and the crowd of officers buzzed with conversation, but the scene was more orderly than I expected. Antony's metaphor was fitting: not the frenzied scramble of a stirred antbed, but the steady swarm of a beehive.

Most of the officers appeared to be about Antony's age, in their early thirties or younger. A few I recognized, though I was more used to seeing them in senatorial togas. Outfitted in armor, they looked like boys to me. Their faces were radiant with excitement. I thought of the crippled old senator, Sextus Tedius, dragging himself off to make a stand with Pompey. The contrast was devastating.

A flash of red caught my eye. Through the crowd I glimpsed a bald head, singular amid so many full heads of hair, and spotted the king bee himself. Caesar was in the process of being strapped into a gilded breastplate even more elaborate than the one Antony wore. The flash of color was his cape. Caesar was famous for his red cape, which he wore on the battlefield so that he could always be seen, by his own men and those of the enemy as well. Even as he was being dressed, he appeared to be listening to three messengers at once. His deepset eyes stared straight ahead. He nodded occasionally, absently brushing his fingers over his brow, combing forward the thin hair at his temples. His expression was composed, determined, attentive but aloof. On his thin lips there was the faintest intimation of a smile.

I was ten years older than Caesar, and by habit still thought of him in terms of his early reputation in the Senate, as an aristocratic, radical young troublemaker. He was a troublemaker still, but now in his fifties. To the ambitious, vibrant young men in that tent, he must have seemed a father figure, the brilliant man of action they all aspired to emulate, the commander who would lead them into the future. What appeal could musty relics like Pompey and Domitius hold for such young men? Pompey's conquests were all in the past. Domitius's glory was secondhand, inherited from a dead generation. Caesar embodied the moment. The fire in his eyes was the divine spark of destiny.

I looked about. Tiro stood behind me, taking in everything, but Antony had disappeared. I spotted him across the tent embracing another man in nearly identical armor. When they relaxed the embrace, I saw that the man in Antony's arms was his fellow tribune Curio. The two had been lifelong friends. More than friends, some said. When their boyhood attachment became the stuff of gossip, Cicero had urged Curio's father to separate them, saying Antony was corrupting Curio. Antony was banned from Curio's house, but it did no good; he sneaked into Curio's bedroom through the ceiling. So the story went, and Antony had never denied it. Now they were seasoned soldiers, and in the last year both had been elected tribunes. When the crisis came, they fled from Rome together to join with Caesar before he crossed the Rubicon.

The tent seemed full of such men, all bursting with energy and passion, all projecting the bright invincibility of youth. They made me feel old and very unsure of myself.

I turned about, seeking the face I longed to see. I gave a start. Meto stood before me, a look of utter consternation on his face.

My son did not looked pleased to see me.