The house of the widow Atia, Octavius's mother, was not far from my own on a slope of the Palatine. The next morning I put on my best toga, called for Rupa, and went to pay a visit-and encountered a crowd outside the house of Atia so large it blocked the street.
Most of the men wore togas. Others were dressed in military regalia. In the sea of faces I recognized senators, magistrates, high-ranking officers, and wealthy bankers. There were also a number of foreigners, including diplomats, traders, and merchants. I seemed to have stumbled into a open-air gathering of the most elite men in Rome.
I had expected a crowd, though not quite this big. It was traditional for well-wishers to pay their respects to a young citizen and his family on the day he reached adulthood and put on his manly toga. Usually, such guests trickle in over the course of the day. But in this case, the young man happened to be the grandnephew of Julius Caesar, and the well-wishers were legion. Because the rather modest house of Atia was too small to accommodate more than a handful of guests at once, an officious-looking slave was keeping strict order at the door, allowing only one or two callers to enter at a time, as other guests departed.
"Well, Rupa," I said, "we shall never get in. Mentioning Hieronymus won't count for much in these circumstances."
The situation was even worse than I first thought. After watching awhile, I realized that callers were not being admitted by order of arrival; instead, the less important visitors were expected to give way to the more important. Even as I watched, Caesar's rabble-rousing favorite Dolabella showed up. With a swaggering gait, Marc Antony's young nemesis (and the erst-while son-in-law of Cicero) strode through the throng. No elbowing was necessarily; the crowd parted for him as if by instinct. He stepped past the officious doorkeeper and into the house without so much as a nod.
If admission was by order of influence, I would be the last man admitted, unless perhaps I could argue my way ahead of young Gaius Octavius's fuller or shoe mender.
"Come, Rupa," I said, "let's go home." I was about to leave when I felt a strong grip on my shoulder.
"Gordianus, isn't it? The father of Meto Gordianus?"
I turned around to see a man in his middle forties. He had a plump but handsome face, twinkling eyes, and touches of gray at his temples. A neatly trimmed beard strengthened his round jaw. The outlines of his toga suggested a robust physique with a touch of plumpness to match his face. The toga's purple border, and the fact that lictors attended him, indicated he was a praetor, one of Caesar's handpicked magistrates in charge of the city.
He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place him. He saw the uncertainty on my face, slapped my shoulder, and laughed.
"Hirtius is the name. Not sure we've ever been properly introduced, but I know your son very well, and I've seen you before. Let me think; was it in Caesar's tent outside Brundisium, that day we ran Pompey out of Italy? No?" He tapped his fore-finger against his lips. "Or maybe it was at one of Cicero's estates? You're thick with Cicero, aren't you? So am I. Very old friends, Cicero and I; we have adjoining properties down in Tusculum, see each other more there than we do here in the city. He gives me oratory lessons. In return, I share my favorite recipes with Cicero's cook-and beg Caesar not to cut the fool's head off when he will insist on picking the wrong side!"
His good humor was infectious. I smiled and nodded. "No, I don't think we've been introduced before, but of course I know of Aulus Hirtius." He had been one of Caesar's officers in Gaul and had fought with Caesar in Spain at the outset of the civil war. In the political arena, he had authored laws limiting the rights of Pompeians to serve in public office and legitimizing some of Caesar's more high-handed actions. Hirtius was a Caesar loyalist through and through.
"Here to pay respects to young Octavius, eh?" he said.
"Yes. One of the multitude, it seems."
"Know him, then? Octavius?"
"No," I admitted. "But I believe we had an acquaintance in common, a Massilian named Hieronymus."
"Ah, the Scapegoat. Yes, I heard about his death."
"Did you know Hieronymus, too?" I had not encountered Hirtius's name anywhere in Hieronymus's writings.
"I met the Scapegoat in this very house, as a matter of fact, that day he came to call on Octavius. I'm here rather a lot lately; spending time with the boy, at Caesar's request. Briefing him, you see, because I know my way around Spain, and Octavius will be heading there soon, now that he's old enough to serve. Your son is in Spain already, I believe."
"Yes, he is."
"Right. Meto is probably gathering intelligence, assessing the loyalty of the locals, judging the strength and resolve of the resistance, laying the groundwork for Caesar to sweep in and obliterate the enemy. Meto's good at that sort of thing. A Spanish campaign will give young Octavius a chance to gain valuable experience in the field-spill some blood, show his uncle what he's made of. I've been teaching the boy everything I know about the lay of the land and the local customs, reviewing basic strategy and tactics, drilling him in the use of different weapons. But there I go, still calling him a boy! Starting today, Gaius Octavius is a full-fledged citizen and the paterfamilias of his household."
Hirtius surveyed the crowd, which had grown even thicker since his arrival. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "Well, there's no way I'm waiting to take my turn. I have far too much to do today, getting ready for tomorrow's triumph. Lictors, clear a path to the front door. Easy does it. Gently but firmly!"
He stepped forward, looking over his shoulder to flash a parting smile. He saw my glum expression, leaned back, and grabbed my arm.
"Here, come along with me, Gordianus."
"Are you sure?" Even as I made a show of demurring, I signaled to Rupa to stay behind, and moved alongside Hirtius. "This is most gracious of you, Praetor."
"My pleasure, Gordianus. It's the least I can do for Meto's father."
As we reached the door, Dolabella was just leaving. In his mid-twenties, with a boyish face, the radical firebrand didn't appear much past his own toga-donning day. He and Hirtius exchanged a brief but boisterous greeting, with much grinning and shoulder slapping, but as we stepped past him, Hirtius made a face and lowered his voice. "What does Caesar see in that young troublemaker?"
We were greeted in the vestibule by Octavius's mother, Atia, dressed in a sumptuous stola made of richly woven cloth and wearing a great deal of jewelry. She must have been greeting visitors since daybreak, but her smile for Hirtius appeared completely genuine. She planted a kiss on his cheek.
"Greetings, stranger!" she said.
Hirtius laughed. "No stranger than that fellow who just left, I hope."
Atia narrowed her eyes. "Young Dolabella-such a charmer!"
Hirtius clucked his tongue. "Just be sure to keep him away from Octavia. Now that Dolabella is free of Cicero's daughter, no young lady will be safe. Or do you have your eye on the rogue yourself?"
Atia laughed. "You know my reputation as a chaste widow. All the dictator's women must be above suspicion-Caesar's niece as well as Caesar's wife."
Hirtius nodded. "Where is your uncle? I thought Caesar would be here by now."
"He's supposed to be. Too busy with some crisis or other, I'm sure. He'll eventually show up. He'd better! I certainly can't be the one who takes Gaius for a walk across the Forum in his new toga, and then up to the Capitoline to take the auspices. They're planning to perform the ritual in front of Uncle's new statue. We couldn't ask for finer weather. But who is this fellow?"
Hirtius introduced me. Atia's demeanor at once became more formal, softened by a smile that was obviously synthetic. Perhaps her uncle had taught her how to put on a politician's face when called upon to greet a horde of strangers.
We were shown to a small garden. A short young man in a toga stood inconspicuously amid the shrubbery. His face in repose displayed a thoughtful, almost somber expression. His forehead was quite broad but covered by a very thick head of fair hair. His eyebrows nearly met. His mouth was finely shaped but almost too small in proportion to his long nose. When he saw Hirtius, his lips curved into a smile, but his eyes remained distant. The result was an ironic expression that seemed precocious for his years.
The two greeted each other warmly, gripping elbows in a near embrace. Impulsively, it seemed, Hirtius leaned forward and kissed Octavius on the lips, then gave his cheek a playful pinch.
"My boy, my boy! Or should I say, my good man-look at you in that toga! How proud your uncle will be when he sees you."
"Do you think so? All I know is, this thing is hotter than I expected. I shall faint if I have to stand under the full sun when they take the auspices."
"Nonsense! You'll conduct yourself with perfect grace, as you always do." Hirtius grabbed Octavius by the scruff of the neck. The young man submitted to this familiarity with neither embarrassment nor apparent pleasure. He turned his curiously distant gaze to me.
"This is Gordianus," said Hirtius, "the father of Meto Gordianus, your uncle's amanuensis."
Octavius raised an eyebrow. "I see."
"You know my son?"
"Only by reputation."
What did Octavius mean by that? His detached manner hinted at thoughts unspoken and judgments made in silence. Or was I merely imagining this?
"Greetings on this special day, citizen," I said.
"Thank you, Gordianus."
"You two know someone in common," said Hirtius. "Or knew."
"Hieronymus of Massilia," I said quickly, wanting to see Octavius's reaction.
For a long moment, Octavius showed no expression at all. Then he lifted both eyebrows. "Ah, the Scapegoat. Excuse me, but so many names have passed through my head today, I drew a blank. How is Hieronymus?"
"You haven't heard?" said Hirtius. "The fellow was found stabbed to death. Somewhere on the Palatine, wasn't it, Gordianus?"
"Yes."
"Sad news," said Octavius. "Such a terrible crime, in the heart of the city. His killer?"
"Unknown," I said.
"An outrage. Has my uncle been told? He must do something about it."
"I still have hope that the killer, or killers, may be exposed," I said. Octavius nodded. His expression had never altered. "But, forgive me, citizen, for marring the day with such tidings. This is a joyous occasion."
"It is, indeed!" Atia came striding into the garden. "And joy must be shared. We have many more visitors waiting to pay their respects."
Hirtius put on a wounded face. "Have we outstayed our welcome already?"
"You? Never! But right now, you're welcome to go find my uncle and bring him here, if you want to be useful." Atia smiled and left the garden.
"Farewell, then." Hirtius gazed wistfully at Octavius and cocked his head. "My boy, my boy, how very fine you look in that toga!" He took a step toward Octavius, and for a moment I thought he might kiss him again. But Octavius stiffened slightly and drew back, and there was something awkward and perfunctory about their parting embrace.
We left the garden and returned to the vestibule, where the next visitors were already being greeted by Atia.
Hirtius's lictors were waiting for him on the doorstep. As we headed back toward the place where I had left Rupa, with the lictors clearing a path, a murmur ran through the crowd. Heads turned in a single direction. In a hush, the name "Caesar" passed from tongue to tongue, then was shouted aloud: "Caesar! Hail, Caesar!"
Octavius's granduncle had finally arrived. He was attended by a considerable retinue and surrounded by lictors, but he broke away from his party to walk, alone and unprotected, into the gathering before Atia's house.
Everyone of importance in Rome appeared to know that this was the toga day of Caesar's grandnephew and that Caesar himself, sooner or later, would be in attendance. If anyone desired to harm Caesar in a public place, here was the perfect opportunity. How many knives might be hidden in that crowd? It would take only one to kill a man. How quickly could a determined assassin strike, before anyone could stop him?
I stood on tiptoes to watch Caesar's slow progress through the gathering. Men pressed forward to touch him, utter words of greeting, and speak their names in hopes that he would remember them. Every time Caesar turned or nodded, I flinched. By my heartbeats, I counted the number of times he escaped a possible death.
He saw Hirtius and moved toward us.
"Aulus Hirtius! How is our boy holding up on his special day?"
"Splendidly, Caesar. He was born to wear a toga."
"Good, good. And can this be Gordianus beside you? Tell me, Finder, did you enjoy your seats at yesterday's triumph?"
"We were able to see everything, Dictator."
He nodded and pursed his lips. "Including that business with Arsinoe and her anonymous admirer?"
My mouth went dry. Rupa was standing only a few feet away. I did my best not to look in his direction. "That was quite unexpected," I said.
"Yes. After a lifetime in politics, a man thinks he knows the Roman people, yet they continue to be full of surprises. But let's hope there'll be no more surprises in the triumphs to come."
I nodded. "Will your nephew be taking part?"
Caesar brightened. "He will, indeed. Not in tomorrow's triumph but in the one after, the final triumph, over Africa. Gaius Octavius shall receive military honors and ride at the head of my troops, and after the procession, he shall join me when I dedicate the new temple; Venus is his ancestress as well as mine. It's my hope that the people of Rome will love him as dearly as I do, and as does Hirtius here."
"They will, Caesar," said Hirtius. "How could they not embrace him?"
"I look to you, Hirtius, to see that the boy is properly outfitted and knows how to conduct himself in the triumph. We don't want him to look like a raw recruit by the way he handles his weapon or leaves a piece of armor unbuckled."
"I have every confidence that the boy-the young man-will satisfy your expectations," said Hirtius.
Caesar nodded and pressed on. A few moments later, he disappeared into Atia's house unharmed. I felt relieved.
I also experienced a nagging uncertainty. The rumors recounted by Hieronymus were stuck in my head; they had shaped my ideas about Octavius before I had a chance to meet him. I had found Hirtius's casual but insistent habit of touching the young man, and Octavius's passive but unemotional reaction to being touched, not innocent and endearing but oddly disturbing. What was the exact relationship between Caesar and Octavius, and between Octavius and Hirtius?
Was I allowing gossip and innuendo to color my observations? To be seduced into error by way of preconception-this was a common, often dangerous mistake made by amateurs such as Hieronymus when they set about uncovering secrets.
I reminded myself that Octavius was only seventeen, a sheltered youth without a father and hardly any practical experience of the world. He must be acutely self-conscious about living in his granduncle's shadow, and was probably a bit intimidated by the huge public reaction to his birthday. What I took to be aloofness was more likely the closely guarded expression of a young man who did not yet know himself and was quite uncertain of his place in the world.
When I arrived home, Calpurnia's messenger was waiting for me.
Again, she asked whom I had interviewed and what I had discovered. Despite her deliberately cryptic choice of words, I could sense her increasing anxiety.
Again I sent a reply saying I had nothing significant to report.
I spent the rest of the day in a strange state of mind, hardly stirring from my garden. The day was brutally hot. I thought of young Octavius sweltering in his toga while augurs watched the flight of birds from atop the Capitoline, no doubt assuring Caesar that all the auspices were good. I drank only water, abstaining from wine, and took a number of brief naps. From time to time I reached for Hieronymus's reports, but his handwriting seemed more indecipherable than ever and his prose more pointlessly prolix. There was still a great deal of material I had not yet read or had only scanned in a haphazard fashion.
Finally, shadows began to lengthen, but the heat of the day gave no indication of relenting.
My daughter joined me in the garden.
"Are you all right, Papa?" said Diana.
I considered the question. "I'm not unwell."
"It's this heat! Davus and I were just down at the riverside market. The whole city is in a kind of daze."
"Good. I thought it was only me."
She frowned. "Your work isn't going well, is it?"
I shrugged. "Who can say? A sudden revelation could come to me at any moment. That's happened before. But right now, I have no idea who killed Hieronymus or why."
"It will come to you. You know it will. But something else is bothering you."
I nodded. "You can see inside my head; you inherited that ability from your mother."
"Perhaps. From the look on your face, I can see that you're troubled."
I shaded my brow and squinted at the sun. It seemed to have caught on the edge of the roofline; I could have sworn it was just sitting there, not moving. "When I accepted this mission from Calpurnia, I told her I was doing so for only one purpose: to see justice done for Hieronymus. But that's no longer true, if it ever was. Somehow, I've become caught up in her zeal to safeguard Caesar. Today, outside the house of Gaius Octavius, there was a large gathering. Caesar walked through the crowd alone, without any lictors, without even friends to protect him. I found myself very nearly in a panic when I thought of the danger he was facing. My breath shortened. My pulse began to race. I was relieved beyond words when he passed safely through the crowd and disappeared into the house."
"Was he any safer inside?" said Diana. "Weren't all those people going to follow him in, one or two at a time, to pay their respects to his kinsman? And might not this Gaius Octavius himself pose a threat to Caesar? You must have thought so, or you wouldn't have paid a call on him."
"You can see inside my head! I never discussed any of this with you."
She smiled. "I have my own ways of 'finding,' Papa. But the point is, neither you nor anyone else can protect Caesar all the time, especially if someone close to him is determined to harm him."
"True enough, Daughter. But you miss the point."
"Which is?"
"Why should I care whether Caesar lives or dies? I told Calpurnia I would study these documents and follow them wherever they led only so that I might discover who killed Hieronymus. Caesar means nothing to me."
"Not true. Caesar means something to all of us. For better or worse, he's brought an end to the civil war and all its suffering."
"Caesar himself inflicted a great deal of that suffering!"
"But now it's over, at least in Rome. People are beginning to live again-to hope, to plan, to think about the future. To think about life instead of death. No one wants a return to the bloodshed and sorrow of the last few years. If Caesar were to be murdered-especially before he names an heir-the killing would start all over again. You don't have to love Caesar to want him to keep breathing. You don't even have to like him. You can despise him-and still want him to stay alive, for the sake of peace, for the good of all of us."
"Has it come to that? Must a man submit to having a king, and want him to live forever, because the alternative is too awful to consider?"
Diana cocked her head. "It must be terrible to be a man and to have think about such things, even in this heat. For those of us who can't vote, or fight, or own property-or ever hope to do any of those manly things-it's all much simpler. How many more people have to die before the world can be at peace? If Caesar were to be killed, I don't know if any good would come of it, but I'm certain a great deal of evil would follow. That's what you dread, Papa. That's why you care about what happens to Caesar."
I looked up, and realized that the sun had slipped behind the roofline. Twilight would come after all, followed by night, and then another day.
I closed my eyes.
I must have slept, because I seemed to be in the Tullianum. The dank, cool darkness was almost pleasant compared to the brutal heat of the day. Amid the shadows, lemures were all around me-the lemures of Vercingetorix and Ganymedes and countless other Gauls and Egyptians, soon to be joined by more victims from Asia and Africa and unheard-of lands beyond. But the lemur of Hieronymus was not among them.