Rubicon

The night was still. Cicero's trained orator's voice carried like a bell on the crisp air. I distinctly heard my name. Tiro said something in response, but his voice carried less clearly and I didn't catch it. They both laughed, then were silent for a while. I imagined them sipping from their cups.

When Cicero spoke again, his tone was serious. 'Do you think he knows who killed Numerius?'

I strained to hear Tiro's reply, but caught only a mumble.

'But he must know something,' said Cicero. 'Why else is he going all the way to Brundisium with you to see Pompey?'

'Ah, but is he going to Brundisium?' said Tiro. 'Somewhere between here and there…'

'Is Caesar,' said Cicero. 'And with Caesar, Gordianus's son, Meto. I see your point. What is Gordianus up to?'

'Does it really matter?' I heard the shrug in Tiro's voice.

'I don't like surprises, Tiro. I've had far too many over the past year. Tullia's marriage to Dolabella… Caesar crossing the Rubicon… this unsavory business with Numerius Pompeius. No more nasty shocks! Especially not from Gordianus. Find out what he knows, Tiro.'

'He may know nothing.'

'Gordianus always knows more than he lets on. He's hiding something from you, I'm sure of it.'

I heard footsteps and drew back into the shadows. A slave crossed the garden, carrying something in each hand, and went into the study.

'Good, the extra lamps!' Cicero exclaimed. 'Light yours, Tiro, and I shall light mine. Every year that passes, my eyes grow weaker… There, now we have light enough to read. Have a look at this latest letter from Pompey. Nothing but a long rant against Domitius Ahenobarbus for losing Corfinium…'

The glow from the open doorway was strong enough now to dispel the concealing shadows of the colonnade. I stepped back into my room so as not to be seen by the departing slave. I lay on the bed and closed my eyes, thinking to rest for just a moment before going back to listen, and slept until noon of the following day.

I woke to the smell of roasting pork.

An hour earlier, another guest had arrived at Cicero's villa, accompanied by a sizable retinue. Cicero had ordered a pig butchered to feed the lot of them. After I splashed my face with water and dressed, I found my way to the roasting pit behind the house where a crowd of men passed a wineskin and watched the carcass as it was slowly turned on a spit. They appeared to be a ragtag bodyguard of freedmen and slaves. Their tents, pitched outside the house, were tattered and patched and their stacks of mismatched weapons and armor looked to be of poor quality.

Some of the men were playing trigon in a clearing by the vineyard. Young Marcus was among them, laughing and monopolizing the leather ball. An enthusiastic athlete and hunter was quite the opposite of what I would have expected of Cicero's son. I wondered if his father approved of his consorting with such lowly types.

I found Tiro and asked him what personage worthy of Cicero's hospitality had arrived accompanied by such a shabby retinue. Before Tiro could answer, I saw the visitor emerge from the little bathhouse connected by a covered walkway to the main building. He wore nothing but a large towel wrapped around his waist. His florid face and fleshy arms were flushed from the heat. His rust-colored beard and the wiry hair on his chest sparkled with beads of water. He disappeared into the house.

'But that can't be…' I began.

Tiro nodded. 'Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus.'

'But I thought Caesar captured Redbeard at Corfinium.'

'Captured him yes, but couldn't hold him. Or so Domitius tells it.' Tiro lowered his voice. 'Personally, I suspect Caesar simply let him go as a gesture of clemency. But Domitius has his own version of events. Several versions, actually. According to Cicero, in the hour since he arrived he's already told three different tales of his hairbreadth escape. I'm sure he wouldn't mind telling yet another, if you care to listen. But don't ask him about his botched suicide. He's liable to burst into tears.'

I looked at Tiro sidelong, unable to tell whether he was joking.

'And whatever you do, don't mention that I'm here,' he went on.

'Domitius isn't privy to the secret of your return to Italy?'

'No. We want to keep it that way, for now.'

'Why don't we resume our journey, then, and get away from here? I'm rested and eager to get started.'

Tiro smiled and shook his head. 'Cicero may have new instructions for me, after he's spoken with Domitius. We'll leave tomorrow. Get some more rest, Gordianus. Relax while you can. The way between here and Brundisium may be hard going.'

A little later, Cicero and Domitius set out on a leisurely ride around the estate, to discuss their affairs away from prying ears. Tiro seemed to vanish. Young Marcus spent the afternoon playing trigon. As for me, I passed the day pleasantly enough in my host's study. Cicero had instructed his slaves to give me access to his library, but he also must have warned them that I might snoop, for a slave was always present in the room, adding columns on a wax tablet or scrolling through a ledger, keeping an eye on me. I would have preferred to rifle through Cicero's correspondence; instead I reread the first book of the Gallic Wars. Cicero's copy was personally inscribed:

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!'