present during his tenure as master of the city.
Governing the city for month after month, while Caesar defeated his enemies and quelled unrest abroad, had been no easy task. The wartime capital was plagued by shortages and riven by factional violence. Antony had forbidden citizens to carry arms, but this ban was universally ignored. Gangs had ruled the streets by day; common criminals had ruled the city by night.
Added to the general violence had been the growing unruliness of the lower classes, many of whom expected Caesar to abolish all debts and (in their wildest dreams) to redistribute the vast properties of the defeated Pompeians to the poor. Stirred up by one of Caesar's youngest officers, the radical firebrand Dolabella, a mob had gathered in the Forum to call for debt relief. Antony explained that he had no authority to grant their demands; they would have to wait for Caesar's return. The mob rioted. Antony, determined to keep order, dispatched soldiers to clear the Forum. By the end of the day, more than eight hundred citizens were dead. The city was calmer after that.
When Caesar finally returned and learned of the massacre, one of his first actions was to publicly berate Antony for the heavy-handedness of his rule-and to heap praise on Dolabella, the instigator of the mob. Caesar's actions may have been purely pragmatic, a bid to regain the favor of the lower orders. Still, his rebuke of his longtime protege must have stung. Shortly after Caesar's return, Antony vanished from the public arena.
So much, from hearsay, I knew about the situation between Caesar and Antony. What else had Hieronymus discovered?
I scanned the notes written in Hieronymus's elegant hand. He went back and forth between Latin and Greek. His Latin was a bit stiff, but his Greek was almost absurdly elevated, full of Homeric flourishes, recondite references, and complicated puns. All this made for slow and difficult reading; glancing at the massive volume of material, I groaned at the idea of trying to read it all. I was surprised that Calpurnia had tolerated such prose.
Translating in my head, I tried to strip away Hieronymus's stylistic indulgences, looking simply for the facts.
Antony currently resides in Pompey's old house, called the House of the Beaks, in the Carinae district…
How could that be? I remembered the day, shortly after my return to Rome, when Caesar announced that Pompey's entire estate would be sold at public auction to benefit the Treasury. He had charged Antony with conducting the auction, a formidable task. Pompey's house was stuffed with so many precious items, looted from his many campaigns of conquest, that simply making an inventory would pose a logistical challenge. But so far as I knew, there had been no auction. Yet Antony himself was living in the house of Pompey, according to Hieronymus.
Had Caesar given Antony the house outright, and with it Pompey's treasures? That seemed unlikely. Rewarding a favorite with so much plunder would be a slap at the mob, many of whom were in desperate straits and still ready to agitate for a radical redistribution of wealth. It would also smack of the arrogant favoritism that Sulla had practiced when he was dictator, and Caesar would never wish to be compared to Sulla.
I read on.
Antony divorced his second wife (and first cousin), the lovely Antonia, some time ago. He is living, quite openly, with his lover, the even more beautiful Cytheris. There can be no question of marriage, of course. An aristocrat like Antony, no matter how dissolute, could never marry a mere actress, especially a foreigner from Alexandria…
News of Antony's divorce came as no surprise. I had met Antonia before I left for Egypt. She was a bitter woman. Her marriage had not been happy, thanks largely to Antony's open affair with Cytheris, whom I had met also. 'Even more beautiful' than Antonia, Hieronymus had written, but when I tried to picture Cytheris, the impression in my mind was not so much of her face as of her sheer sexual allure-a tangled mass of auburn hair; flashing hazel eyes; a loose gown that could barely contain her voluptuous breasts; and, most especially, the way she had of moving, executing even the smallest gesture with a dancer's sinuous grace.
Everything that one hears about the parties Antony and Cytheris have been throwing in Pompey's house is true. These events are obscenely lavish. If there are food shortages in Rome, one would never guess from looking at Antony's table. Pompey's famous stock of expensive wines? Almost gone! Antony and Cytheris have done their share to empty the amphorae, but they've had plenty of help from every thirsty actor, dancer, street mime, and juggler in Rome. (Cytheris knows everyone connected to the theater.) She has told me I have a splendid voice for declaiming Greek, and says I should have gone on the stage.
I laughed out loud at this sudden intrusion of Hieronymus's vanity into his report. It seemed that my friend had not only managed to get himself invited into Antony's house but also had won plaudits from Cytheris. I could easily imagine him reciting a racy bit of Aristophanes at one of the couple's raucous gatherings, after warming his throat with a draft from the dwindling store of Pompey's fine vintages.
I quickly scanned the rest of the material about Antony. The details seemed to be as much about the spy as about the spied upon-Hieronymus reported that one of his puns had made Antony laugh so hard he spat out a mouthful of wine, and recounted at length a verbal duel in which he got the better of a faded actor with rouged cheeks. I grew weary of the ornate prose and found the documents increasingly difficult to read. It seemed to me Hieronymus was intentionally filling space to pad reports that had contained very little actual information. He would not be the first confidential informant to pull such a trick. As long as Calpurnia kept paying (and Antony kept inviting him back), why not stretch out the accounts as much as possible, even if he had nothing of importance to report?
I wondered if his private journal had been as prolix. I set aside the material about Antony and picked up the scraps of parchment I had found in Hieronymus's apartment.
I saw at once that the prose was indeed different-it was entirely in Greek, with some passages succinct to the point of abbreviation, like the shorthand code invented by Cicero's secretary, Tiro.
I saw my own name and stopped to read the passage.
Beginning to think dear old Gordianus was a bit of a puffed-up charlatan. This 'finder' business not remotely as difficult, or as dangerous, as he always made it out to be. The tales he used to tell, portraying himself as the fearless hero on a relentless quest for the truth! Half of those stories were probably made up. Still, if he's truly dead, as people say, I shall miss the old windbag…
My face turned hot. If the lemur of Hieronymus was present, watching me, what would he say now about the danger of this sort of work?
I shuffled through the notes, looking for other mentions of my name, but instead I found this:
At last, I have hit upon it! Calpurnia's fears, which I had begun to think absurd, may be well-founded, after all-and the menace to Caesar will come at a time and from a direction we did not anticipate. But I could be wrong. Consequences of a false accusation-unthinkable! Must be certain. Until then, not a word in any of my official reports to the lady and her soothsayer. I dare not write my supposition even here; what if this journal were to be discovered? Must keep it hidden. But what if I am silenced? To any seeker who finds these words and would unlock the truth, I shall leave a key. Look all around! The truth is not found in the words, but the words may be found in the truth.
An icy chill swept through me. Apparently Hieronymus had discovered something of deadly importance, after all. But what?
It appeared he had even foreseen his death and anticipated the discovery of his journal. But what was the key he spoke of-a real key or a metaphorical one? 'Look all around!' he wrote, yet I had searched every corner of his rooms and found no key, nor anything else of obvious significance. 'The truth is not found in the words, but the words may be found in the truth.' More of his irritating, self-indulgent wordplay!
Mopsus appeared in the garden to announce that dinner was ready. I put aside the scraps of parchment and rose from my chair, glad to feel the warmth of the last rays of the sun on my face.
IV
I stayed up late that night, reading for as long as the lamps had oil to burn. My eyes are not what they were, and neither my brain nor my body can boast the stamina they once possessed. Deciphering Hieronymus's ornate handwriting and his cluttered prose, especially by dim lamplight, wearied me to exhaustion. The great majority of
