"Papa…"

"Perhaps you became too close to him, Meto. Intimacy can turn to bitterness. People say that you and he… Did he slight you in some way? Was that the break between you- a falling-out between lovers?"

"Papa, it isn't what you think."

"Then tell me."

He shook his head. "I can't explain."

"It doesn't matter. What matters is this: as long as Caesar remains alive, and those documents still exist somewhere, you're in terrible danger. Should they ever be discovered and brought to his attention-"

"Papa, what happened on Pompey's ship, in the harbor at Brundisium?"

"It was as Davus told you. I took his place by telling Pompey that I knew who killed Numerius. As we were about to run the gauntlet, Pompey demanded that I tell him then and there. So I did. I told him everything. He was like a raging animal. I went aboard his ship never expecting to leave alive, Meto. But I leaped overboard and somehow survived, and Davus found me the next day."

"Thank the gods for that, Papa!" He took a long breath. "You say that you told Pompey everything. Did you tell him about the plot to kill Caesar?"

"Yes."

"And about my part in it?"

"Yes."

"Did he believe you?"

"Not at first. But in the end, yes."

Meto fell silent for a long moment. "You must believe, Papa, that I never intended for you to be drawn into this." He turned toward me. Lamplight illuminated his eyes. The look on his face was so miserable that I reached for his hand and covered it with mine.

He allowed the touch for a moment, then abruptly stood up. "Papa, I have to go."

"Now? But Meto-"

His eyes glimmered brightly. "Papa, whatever happens, don't be ashamed of me. Forgive me."

"Meto!"

He turned and left, bumping blindly against the maze of benches. His silhouette reached the foyer and vanished.

What had I expected from our meeting? More than this. Meto had told me nothing. He was trying to protect me, of course, as I had tried to protect him. I was left with the same unanswered questions and blind conjectures that had been spinning in my head for months.

I had not yet touched my wine. I reached for the cup and drank slowly, gazing into the dark corners of the room. The murkiness that had unnerved me when I entered the tavern I now found comforting.

The tavernkeeper ambled over with a pitcher. "More wine?"

"Why not?"

He refilled the cup and ambled off. I sat and drank and thought. What would become of Meto? What would become of Caesar? And Pompey, and Cicero, and Tiro? And Maecia, and Aemilia…?

The warmth of the wine spread through me. I found myself staring at one of the uncertain silhouettes across the room and imagining that it was the lemur of Numerius Pompeius. The fantasy became so powerful that I could almost feel him staring back at me. I felt no fear. Instead, I thought what a fine thing it would be if I could wave him over and invite him to share a cup, if lemures drink. What would I ask him? That was obvious. Had he lived, would he have married Aemilia after all, despite the fact that Pompey had plans for him to marry someone else? Or would he have spurned her, dooming the unborn child as surely as his death had doomed it?

And of course, I would ask him where in Hades he had hidden the other documents.

Where in Hades- indeed! I laughed a bit tipsily at the notion. I had eaten no breakfast that morning, and like Meto, I wasn't used to drinking in the middle of the day.

My thoughts wandered aimlessly, thanks to the wine. Thanks, I thought, to Dionysus, the god of wine, looser of loins, emancipator of minds, liberator of tongues. Even slaves could speak freely on the Liberalia, the day of Dionysus, because the sacred power of wine transcended all earthly shackles. Through wine, Dionysus illuminated the minds of men as could no other god, not even Minerva. So it was, there in the Salacious Tavern, that Dionysus gave me wisdom. How else to explain the chain of thoughts that led me to the thing I sought?

Something Tiro had said about Numerius popped into my head. In the very spot where I sat, Numerius had boasted to Tiro of certain documents he had come by, the evidence of the plot to assassinate Caesar. The sheer danger of possessing them and the lucrative possibilities for blackmail had exhilarated him. He had told Tiro, "I'm sitting on something enormous."

Where were those documents?

Numerius's mother had searched the family house. I had searched his secret love nest. Numerius must have had some other hiding place for the documents.

"I'm sitting on something enormous." Numerius had been drunk when he made that boast to Tiro. Perhaps only a man equally drunk could see that he meant exactly what he said.

With my fingers, I examined the bench beneath me. The seat was worn smooth from long use, the boards seamlessly joined. I leaned forward, reached between my legs and rapped my knuckles against the boards which formed the upright. The bench sounded hollow.

I remained bent over and blindly ran my fingertips over the flat surface behind my calves. The wood there was not as smooth and polished as the seat. There were little splinters and rough spots made by kicking heels, but no loose boards- except for one spot near the corner where a board was split. My finger discovered an empty nail hole.

"You're not throwing up on the floor, are you?" The tavernkeeper, alarmed at my posture, suddenly stood over me. "Gods, man, if you need a pot, ask for one!"

I ignored him and pushed at the loose bit of board, to no effect. I wriggled my little finger into the empty nail hole and pulled instead. Slowly but surely, a part of the split board yielded, just enough to allow me to slip my forefinger, then my middle finger, behind it. The hidden recess was small and narrow, but with two fingertips I was able to pinch the tip of something wedged within. I pulled too quickly and lost my purchase. I tried again, making grunts that further alarmed the tavernkeeper. Slowly, painstakingly, I extracted several pieces of parchment very tightly rolled into a cylinder the circumference of my little finger.

I sat upright and sucked in a deep breath, gripping the parchments in my fist. The tavernkeeper loomed over me, a lumpy silhouette with hands on hips.

"I think perhaps you should go now," he said.

"Yes," I said. "I think perhaps I should."

• • •

I longed to find Meto at once. The Regia was not far away, just across from the House of the Vestals. Then I realized, even as inebriated as I was, how foolish I would be to carry incriminating material into Caesar's residence. I had to destroy the documents first. But before I did that, I wanted to take a look at them. The only safe place to do so was in my own home. I made my way through a maze of alleys to the Ramp and trudged up the Palatine Hill, imagining I might be stopped at any moment by Caesar's spies.

Davus met me at the door. I told him to bar it behind me and rushed to my study. I unrolled the parchments and scanned them quickly, curious to see if they were as incriminating as Numerius had suggested. They were. The handwriting was indisputably Meto's. To judge by the dates, the plot to kill Caesar had been devised even before he crossed the Rubicon. One sheet was a manifesto of sorts, enumerating reasons why Caesar must be put to death. Chief among them was the absolute necessity to avoid a civil war that could end only in the destruction of the Republic. The men named in the documents were the same staff officers who had signed the pact Numerius had shown me on the day of his death, which I had taken from his dead body and burned.

I laid the documents in the brazier and set them aflame. I watched them burn and held my breath until the last bit of parchment withered to ashes. The fear that had gripped me ever since my visit from Numerius came to an end in the place where it began.