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"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.

Now I needed to tell Meto.

I called for Davus. Together we made our way down to the Forum. Outside the Regia, the line of citizens waiting to be seen by Caesar stretched almost to the Capitoline Hill. Among them I recognized senators, bankers, and foreign diplomats. Some wore wide-brimmed hats. Others were attended by slaves who held parasols aloft to protect their masters from the glare of the sun, and from the gaze of gods who would be ashamed to look down and see what could only be described as supplicants awaiting audience with a king.

I went to the head of the line. I told a guard that I was the father of Gordianus Meto. "I've come to see my son," I said.

"Not here. Went out on some errand, a little before midday."

"Yes, he came to see me. I need to see him again."

"Hasn't come back yet."

"No? Do you know where he might be?"

"Should be here, but he's not. Nobody's seen him. I know, because the imperator was just asking for him."

"I see. When he comes back, will you give him a message?"

"Certainly."

"Tell him it's urgent that I talk to him, as soon as possible. I shall be at home, waiting to hear from him."

•        •        •

No reply from Meto came that day.

The next morning I went down to the Regia again. I found the same guard. I asked to see Meto.

"Not here." The man stared straight ahead with a stony countenance.

"Where is he?"

"Couldn't say."

"Did you give him my message yesterday?"

The guard hesitated. "Couldn't say."

"What do you mean, you couldn't—"

"I mean that I shouldn't be talking to you at all. I suggest you go home now."

I felt a cold weight on my chest. Something was wrong. "I want to find my son. If I have to, I'll stand in this line and wait my turn to see Caesar himself."

"I wouldn't suggest it. You won't get in to see him."

"Why not?"

The guard finally looked me in the eye. "Go home. Lock your door. Talk to no one. If the imperator wants to see you, he'll send for you soon enough. I hope for your sake he doesn't."

"What do you mean?" The guard refused to answer and stared stonily ahead. I lowered my voice. "Do you know my son?"

"I thought I did."

"What's become of him? Please tell me."

The guard worked his jaw back and forth. "Gone," he finally said.

"Gone? Where?"

He looked at me. His eyes were almost sympathetic. "Word is, he's run off to Massilia. To join up with Lucius Domitius. You didn't know?"

I lowered my eyes. My face flushed hotly.

"Meto, a traitor. Who'd have thought it?" The guard spoke without rancor. He felt sorry for me.

I did as the guard advised. I went home. I barred the door. I spoke to no one.

Was Meto's flight to Massilia the result of long deliberation, or was it the act of a desperate man, a would-be assassin who feared he might be discovered at any moment? If I had found Numerius's hiding place only moments earlier, while Meto was still with me, would he still have fled to Massilia?

I stirred the ashes in the brazier in my study, and wondered at the joke the gods had played on me.

A few days later, Caesar left Rome, headed for Spain.

His route would take him along the Mediterranean coast of Gaul and past the city-state of Massilia, which was now defended by Lucius Domitius with his six million sesterces and some semblance of an army. Domitius had lost Corfinium to Caesar without a struggle. Would he do better at Massilia? If Caesar took the city, would he pardon Domitius a second time? What sort of mercy would he mete out to the Massilians? What mercy would he show to a defector who had plotted to kill him?

To save Meto, I had done something unspeakable. Now he would have to save himself. I felt like an actor who leaves the stage before the final scene, with no more lines to speak, while the drama goes on. Was this how lemures felt, observing the living?

I felt abandoned by the Fates. The snarled thread of my life had come unraveled from their tapestry and dangled in the void. I felt mocked by the gods— who were not yet done with me.

•        •        •

One morning, about the middle of Aprilis, a stranger came to the door. He told Davus that he had olive oil to sell. Davus told him that the mistress of the house was out, Bethesda having gone with Diana to the fish market. The man asked if he might leave a sample of his product. He handed Davus a small, round clay jar and departed.

The incident seemed innocuous enough, but I had told Davus to report all visitors to me without exception. He came at once to the garden, where I sat brooding beneath the statue of Minerva.

"What's that?" I said.

"A jar of olive oil. At least, that's what the man said."

"What man?"

Davus explained.

I took the jar and examined it. A piece of cloth had been pulled over the short, narrow spout at the top, tied with twine and sealed with wax. The jar itself appeared unremarkable. Near the base, two words were etched into the clay. On one side was the word olivum; on the other, Massilia.

"Olive oil of Massilia," I said. "A fine product. But a curious coincidence. I wonder ... Davus, bring an empty jar."

While he was gone, I untied the string and broke the wax seal. The cloth covering the spout appeared to be nothing more than a swatch of white linen. I removed the cork. It, too, appeared unremarkable. Even so, I cut it open. It was solid all through.

When Davus returned, I slowly decanted the contents into the empty jar, scrutinizing the thin stream that glistened with golden highlights.

"Do you think it might be ... poisoned?" asked Davus.

I touched my finger to the stream and sniffed it. "It pours, looks, and smells like olive oil to me."

I finished emptying the little jar, then held it so that sunlight shone into the spout. I peered inside, but saw only flashes of oily residue. I shook the jar and turned it upside down. Nothing came out but a few more drops of oil.

"Curious," I said. "But why shouldn't a merchant of fine imported olive oil leave us a free sample of his wares? Stranger things have happened."

"What about this, father-in-law?" Davus held up the other jar, now brimming with golden oil.

"We'll offer it to Minerva." It seemed a logical solution. If the oil was what it was purported to be, it was of the highest quality and fit for an offering to the goddess. If it was what Davus feared, it could do no harm to a goddess made of bronze. I took the jar from Davus and set it on the pedestal at her feet.

"Accept this offering and grant us wisdom," I whispered. It couldn't hurt.

The jar which had originally held the oil, now empty, I placed on the paving stone beside my chair. I sat and closed my eyes, letting the warm sunlight of Aprilis warm my face. My thoughts wandered. I dozed.

Suddenly I was wide awake.

I went to my study. Among the scrolls in my pigeonhole bookcase I located the memoirs of the dictator Sulla. I scrolled past political scandals, slaughters, looted cities, visits to oracles, homages to favorite actors, sexual braggadocio, and finally found the passage I was looking for:

A military commander and political leader must often resort to sending secret messages. I credit myself with having invented a few clever methods of my own.

Once, when I needed to send secret orders to a confederate, I took the urinary bladder of a pig, inflated it stoutly, and let it dry that way. While it was still inflated, I wrote upon it with encaustic ink. After the ink was dry, I deflated the bladder and inserted it into a jar, then filled the jar with oil, which reinflated the bladder within. I sealed the jar and sent it as if it were a culinary gift to the recipient, who knew beforehand to open and empty the jar in private, then break the jar to retrieve the bladder, upon which the message remained perfectly intact.

I dimly recollected having read the passage long ago. I had no recollection of ever having discussed it with Meto, but I presumed he had read every volume in my small library. Besides that, Sulla's autobiography was exactly the sort of thing that Caesar would have pored over while composing his own memoirs and dictating them to Meto. The fact that the jar was manufactured in Massilia could hardly be a coincidence.

I returned to the garden. Minerva seemed to smile down sardonically as I struck the jar against the paving stones. It broke neatly in two and fell apart. The bladder within held the shape of the jar. I carefully unwrinkled the creases, then fully inflated it with my breath. The glistening coating of oil made the tiny wax letters appear still warm and pliant, as if Meto had just painted them. The message began at the top of the bladder and wound around it in a spiral. I turned it slowly as I read:

Papa, after you read this message, destroy it at once. I should not be writing to you at all, but I cannot let you go on believing a lie; the truth has always mattered so much to you. I have always been loyal to C. I still am, no matter what you may hear. The plot against C's life was a fiction. The documents which N obtained were false, contrived with C's knowledge and at his behest. They were deliberately passed to N through an intermediary whom N trusted. The intent was for N to pass them on to P, believing them to be genuine, so as to convince P that I and some others were hostile to C and could be suborned by the opposition. Thus we could infiltrate the enemy's higher circles. But instead of passing them on to P, N decided to use them for his own purpose. I never foresaw that he would blackmail you and draw you into the deceit. When I think of what you did, meaning to protect me, I feel hot with shame. I know how deeply that act went against your nature. Yet your confession to P of my part in the fictitious plot may have done more to convince him of my disloyalty to C than my original scheme would have done. Thanks to you, my mission is at last feasible. Excuse these crude sentences. I write in haste. For my sake, destroy this message at once.

There was a crowded postscript added in a corner, in letters so small it made my eyes ache to read them:

The night before C crossed the Rubicon, he dreamed that he committed incest with his mother. I think the dream was a message from the gods: to pursue his destiny, he would be compelled to commit terrible acts of impiety. He chose destiny over conscience. So it is with me, Papa. To follow my duty, I dishonored the man who freed me from slavery and made me his son. I kept secrets from you. I let you believe a lie. I am an impious son. But I made a choice, as C did, and once the Rubicon is crossed, there can be no turning back. Forgive me, Papa.

I read the entire message again, slowly, to be sure I understood it. Then I took it to the brazier in my study. The burning oil and pig's flesh gave off a smell that reminded me of Brundisium.

The crime I committed, thinking to save my son, had actually served to thwart his secret plans.

The confession I made to Pompey, thinking to cleanse my own conscience, had actually served to let Meto proceed with his scheme.

The world believed my son had fled to Massilia as a traitor to Caesar. In fact, he was Caesar's spy, now deep in the enemy's camp. Was his peril less than I had thought, or greater?

I returned to the garden. I sat and gazed at Minerva. I had prayed for wisdom and received it. But instead of making things simpler, each new piece of knowledge only made the world more mystifying.

From the front of the house, I heard the sounds of Bethesda and Diana returning from the fish market. I called their names. A moment later they appeared in the garden.

"Daughter, bring Davus. Wife, send for Eco. It's time for this family to have a meeting. It's time for me to tell my family ... the truth."

•        •        •

Aprilis passed. The month of Maius brought clear skies and mild sunshine. Trees came into leaf. Weeds sprang up and wildflowers bloomed amid gaps in the paving stones. The coming of spring brought a sense of relief, however illusory, from the dreadful uncertainties of war.

From Gaul came word that Massilia had closed her gates to Caesar, who left behind officers to mount a siege while he pressed on to Spain. Old soldiers in the Forum argued over how long the siege would last. The Massilians were stubborn, fiercely proud people. Some thought they could easily fend off any army for however long it took for reinforcements to arrive from Pompey. Others argued that Fortune was with Caesar, and the siege would be over in a matter of days rather than months. Could the Massilians expect the same clemency Caesar had shown in Italy, or would the city be leveled, its defenders slaughtered, and its people sold into slavery? I tried not to imagine what might happen to a spy discovered in such desperate circumstances, or mistaken for the enemy by his own side.