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To M. Tullius Cicero,

Who has expressed approval of the

author's prose if not his politics.

G. Julius Caesar

That night, while Domitius's bodyguards feasted outside and sang camp songs, I was again invited to the formal dining room, where I found myself demoted from the place of honor in favor of Domitius. Tiro was not present.

We dined on the choicest cuts of the roast pig, served with a rosemary gravy. There was more asparagus, marinated in herbs and olive oil, and fried carrots tossed with cumin seeds and dressed with a fish-pickle sauce that Cicero claimed had just been unearthed after fermenting for ten years in a clay jar buried in his cellar.

Domitius's mood was as changeable as a comet. He was boisterous and talkative one moment and sullen the next. He behaved as men will who have suffered a rapid series of shocks and reversals. He had boldly broken from Pompey to make a stand at Corfinium, then been betrayed to Caesar by his own men. He had screwed up the courage to kill himself rather than face a humiliating death, then learned too late that Caesar intended mercy. He had wept in the face of certain death, then discovered that his physician had given him not poison but a narcotic to calm his nerves. He had been captured by Caesar, then just as abruptly had been released— for no matter how often or variously Domitius told the story of his "escape," the truth was evident.

"Barely escaped with my life!" Domitius said to me, pleased to have two fresh ears for the tale. "Oh, Caesar pretended that I was free to go, but he intended an ambush from the start."

"But why an ambush?" I asked.

"So that Caesar could spare himself the ugly business of executing his legal successor to the governorship of Gaul! He could claim that the perimeter guard mistook us for deserters and killed me by accident, or some such nonsense. He offered me a choice first. 'You're free to join with me, Lucius. Perhaps I could even post you to Gaul. With your family connections there, you could be of great value.' As if the decision were his to make! As if the Senate hadn't already appointed me governor! As if Gaul were his private kingdom, not the property of the Senate and people of Rome, to administer as
they
please, according to the law!"

Cicero, of course, had heard this earlier. Domitius sensed his waning attention and directed his words chiefly to me and to young Marcus, sparing hardly a glance for the women.

"I told the scoundrel no, absolutely not, that I would never serve under him at any time or in any capacity. 'Very well,' he said, in that cool, supercilious, oh-so-superior, oh-so-disappointed manner he affects. 'Run to Pompey, if you must. I'll even allow you to take bodyguards. No regular soldiers, though; I can't spare them. Choose a few from among the freedmen and slaves who've been attending your household in Corfinium. They'll have to make do with odds and ends; I need the best weapons and armor for my own men.'
My own men
— meaning the cohorts he stole from me, soldiers I recruited, trained, and equipped with my own money!"

"So I found a few brave men willing to go with me. That night we barely eluded one of Caesar's scouting parties. He must have sent them after us. We hid in the brush alongside the road. They passed so close I could hear the breath in their nostrils."

"Why didn't you fight them?" asked Marcus eagerly.

"And give Caesar the satisfaction of tricking me into a battle I couldn't possibly win? No, I didn't play his game. That was always his way with enemies in the Senate. Pretend to want a settlement, negotiate the fine points until their eyes glaze over, and then—" He grabbed the carving knife from the serving platter and thrust it into the pork. "Stab them in the back!"

Cicero bit the head off a piece of asparagus and nodded in agreement. "No one has ever been more adept at political chicanery than Caesar."

Domitius lapsed into one of his moody silences. I saw his lips move, engaging in some internal debate or recrimination, and wondered what he was rehashing— the decision to stand at Corfinium, the betrayal of his men, the bungled suicide?

"But if you left Caesar to join with Pompey, why aren't you there?" asked young Marcus innocently. "You've come in the opposite direction." I saw his father wince.

"Join Pompey? Why should I do that?" said Domitius. "Without men to command, what purpose could I serve? Pompey can fend for himself."

"Does Pompey mean to make a stand at Brundisium?" asked Marcus. "Or will he sail across the Adriatic?"

Domitius managed a bitter laugh. "Every man in Italy would like to know the answer to that question, my boy. I'm afraid that the Great One is not in the habit of making his secret strategies known to my humble self. But we shall all know soon enough. Caesar moves with such speed, he'll be at Brundisium in a matter of days. Then Pompey will see what he's up against— and without me to help him! The fool should have joined me in Corfinium. That was the place to make a stand!"

Cicero shifted uneasily. "We've all been puzzled by Pompey's apparent lack of—"

"He plans to head east, of course," said Domitius suddenly. "That must be what he was planning all along. Well, let him. If he can lure Caesar into a trap in Greece or Asia, good for him. For myself, I intend to head for Gaul and carry out my duty to the Senate. Governor of Gaul they appointed me, and governor of Gaul I shall be."

"If you go by land, won't the way be blocked by troops loyal to Caesar?" asked Marcus.

"I intend to take ships, if I can find ships to hire, and sail directly to Massilia. The Massilians aren't like the rest of Gaul. Their city-state was founded by Greek colonists hundreds of years ago. They're remarkable people, not barbarians like their neighbors."

"But will they welcome you?" I asked.

"Of course they will. Their treaties are with the Senate, not with Caesar. The Massilians know Caesar! They've had to deal with him all these years, during his illegal tenure as governor. They've seen firsthand what Caesar is— a preening pretender, pompous, vain, covering himself with glory every time he managed to conquer another tribe of dimwits and toothless crones."

I cleared my throat. "I happened to be reading his memoir of the Gallic Wars today. You can't deny the man's—"

"What, his 'military genius'? Yes, I can deny it, and I do! That book is pure rubbish, nothing but nauseating self-glorification from start to finish, propaganda posing as history. He writes about himself in the third person— so insufferably pretentious— but did you ever see a book so full of vanity? No mention of the great men who came before him, who settled the southern coast of Gaul and built the roads that got him there, no bow to those in the Senate who voted against their better judgment to extend his command. You'd think he won the whole province in a dice game with Vercingetorix! I'll tell you this: any competent Roman commander, given the same resources and advantages that the Senate gave to Caesar, could have accomplished the same thing, and probably in less time."

This was too much even for Cicero. "I think, Lucius, we must give Caesar his due. In military matters, at least—"

Domitius scoffed. "Please, Marcus Tullius, you can hardly expect me to defer to
your
judgment of military matters!"

Cicero looked at him sourly. "Even so ..."

I cleared my throat again. "Actually, you misunderstood me, Domitius. I wasn't going to say that you can't deny Caesar's military genius. I was going to say that you can't deny the man's
literary
genius."

"On the contrary, I can deny it, and I do!" said Domitius. "As a stylist he's completely inept, an amateur. His prose has no ornament, no style. It's as bald as his head! They say he dictates from horseback. Given the grunts he produces, I believe it!"

Cicero smiled. "Some find Caesar's lean prose to be elegant rather than undernourished. Our friend Gordianus can be excused for having a prejudice in the matter. Whatever virtues Caesar's writing may possess, some credit must go to the son of Gordianus."

Domitius looked at me blankly. "I don't follow you, Cicero."

"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.