Caesar had stolen the sacred treasury. He had threatened the life of a tribune in the performance of his duties. For all his continuing rhetoric about negotiating with Pompey and restoring the constitution, the message was clear. Caesar was prepared to break any law that restrained him and to kill any man who opposed him.

What of Cicero? On his way to Rome, Caesar had visited him at Formiae. He asked Cicero to return to the city and attend the Senate. Cicero delicately refused, and made a point of going to his hometown of Arpinum instead, to celebrate his son's belated toga day. Caesar was tolerating Cicero's neutrality, for now. Would Pompey be as understanding if he came sweeping back through Italy with fire and sword? Poor Cicero, trapped like Aesop's rabbit between the lion and the fox.

"What of your brother Meto?" I asked. "I understand he paid the family a visit the day after Caesar arrived."

"And that's the only time any of us have seen him," said Eco. "Too busy to leave Caesar's side, I suppose. They'll be off again any day now, if rumors are true. Caesar is leaving Antony in military command of Italy and hurrying off to Spain, to fend with Pompey's legions there."

I shook my head. "I must see Meto before he leaves."

"Of course, Papa. Caesar and his staff are housed in the Regia, in the middle of the Forum. As Pontifex Maximus, that's his official residence. You and I will stroll down there tomorrow. I want to be there to see Meto's face- he'll be as surprised to see you as the rest of us were!"

"No. I want to see Meto alone, in a place where the two of us can speak privately." I pondered the problem, and had an idea. "I'll send him a message tonight. I'll ask him to meet me tomorrow."

"Certainly." Eco reached for a stylus and wax tablet. "Dictate and I'll write it for you."

"No, I'll write it myself."

Eco looked at me curiously, but handed me the stylus and tablet. I wrote:

To Gordianus Meto, from his father:

Beloved son,

I am back in Rome. I am well. No doubt you are curious about my peregrinations, as I am curious about yours. Meet me tomorrow at midday at the Salacious Tavern.

I closed the wooden cover of the tablet, tied the ribbon, and sealed the ribbon with wax. I handed it to Eco.

"Would you see that one of the slaves delivers it? I'm too exhausted to keep my eyes open for another minute."

"Of course, Papa." Eco looked at the sealed letter and frowned, but made no comment.

XXIV

In contrast to the brilliant sunshine outside, the gloom of the Salacious Tavern was nearly impenetrable. The unnatural darkness, lit here and there by the lurid glow of lamps, filled me with a vague unease that mounted quickly and explicably into a kind of panic. I almost fled back to the street, until I realized what I was reminded of: the cold, murky waters beneath the flaming flotsam at Brundisium. I took a deep breath, managed to return the smile of the fawning proprietor, and walked across the room, bumping my knees against hard wooden benches. The place was empty except for a few silent patrons who sat hunched over their cups, drinking alone.

I found my way to the bench built into the corner at the far side of the room. It was where I had sat when I last visited the tavern, to meet with Tiro. According to both the tavernkeeper and Tiro, it was also where Numerius Pompeius liked to sit when negotiating his shady transactions. "His corner, he called it," Tiro had told me.

Did the lemur of Numerius lurk in the shadows of the Salacious Tavern? On my last visit, I had felt a twinge of uneasiness at occupying the place where Numerius had sat and schemed. Now I felt nothing. I suddenly realized that I had not seen his face in my dreams, nor thought much about him at all since the night I confessed to Pompey and leaped from his ship, expecting to die. With the murder of Numerius, my pretensions to moral superiority had died. At Brundisium, my feelings of guilt had likewise died. I was not proud of the fact. Nor did I question it. I was stripped of both self-righteousness and self-recrimination. I was like a man without gods, no longer sure what I felt, or thought, or believed, or where I belonged in the scheme of things.

According to a public sundial not far from the tavern entrance, I had arrived a little early. With the punctuality born of his military training, Meto arrived exactly on time. His eyes were younger than mine and adapted more quickly. He peered into the darkness for only a brief moment before spotting me and crossing the room with a firm stride, not bumping into a single bench.

It was hard to read his face in the dimness, but there was something stiff and uneasy in his manner. Before either of us could speak, our host descended on us. I asked for two cups of his best. Meto protested that he never drank wine so early in the day. I called after the tavernkeeper to bring water as well.

Meto smiled. "This is becoming a habit, Papa- turning up where you're least expected. The last I heard-"

"I was sailing to Dyrrhachium with Pompey himself. Davus says you weren't entirely displeased at the news."

Meto grunted. "Hardly a fair trade if you ask me- you taking the place of Davus. I didn't quite understand the point. Pompey had a kinsman murdered, and forced you under protest to look for the killer, and Davus was taken as a sort of surety?" He shook his head. "Awfully petty behavior for the Great One. Truly, he's lost his wits."

"It was rather more complicated than that, Meto. Did Davus not tell you the name of Pompey's murdered kinsman?"

"No."

"It was a young man named Numerius Pompeius." Even in the dim light, I saw the tension that creased Meto's face. "Does that name mean something to you?"

"Perhaps."

The tavernkeeper brought two cups of wine and a pitcher of water.

"Meto, on the day before Pompey fled Rome, Numerius came to my house. He showed me a document, a kind of pact, written in your hand- in your style, for that matter- signed by yourself and a few others. You must know what I'm talking about."

Meto ran a fingertip around the rim of his cup. "Numerius had this document?"

"Yes."

"What became of it?"

"I burned it."

"But how-?"

"I took it from him. He tried to blackmail me, Meto. He threatened to send the document to Caesar. To expose your part in plotting Caesar's assassination."

Meto turned his face so that a shadow fell across his eyes, but I could see the hard line of his mouth, and the scar he had received at Pistoria. "And Numerius was murdered?"

"He never left my house alive."

"You-"

"I did it for you, Meto."

His shoulders slumped. He shifted uneasily. He picked up his cup and drained it. He shook his head. "Papa, I never imagined-"

"Numerius told me he had other documents, equally compromising, also in your handwriting. Could that be true? Were there other such documents?"

"Papa-"

"Answer me."

He wiped his mouth. "Yes."

"Meto, Meto! How in Hades could you have been so careless, to let such documents fall into the hands of such a man? Numerius told me he hid them somewhere. I searched- I wanted to destroy them- but I never found them." I sighed. "What became of the plot, Meto? Did the others lose their nerve? I know you didn't; you're anything but a coward. Did it become impossible to carry out? Are you still planning to do it? Or have you had a change of heart?"

He didn't answer.

"Why did you turn against him after all these years, Meto? Did you finally see him for what he is? Men like Caesar and Pompey- they're not heroes, Meto. They're monsters. They call their greed and ambition 'honor,' and to satisfy their so-called honor they'll tear the world apart." I grunted. "But who am I to judge them? Every man does what he must, to protect his share of the world. What's the difference between killing whole villages and armies, and killing a single man? Caesar's reasons and mine are different only in degree. The consequences and the suffering still spread to the innocent."