'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.'
