With my fingers, I examined the bench beneath me. The seat was worn smooth from long use, the boards seamlessly joined. I leaned forward, reached between my legs and rapped my knuckles against the boards which formed the upright. The bench sounded hollow.
I remained bent over and blindly ran my fingertips over the flat surface behind my calves. The wood there was not as smooth and polished as the seat. There were little splinters and rough spots made by kicking heels, but no loose boards- except for one spot near the corner where a board was split. My finger discovered an empty nail hole.
'You're not throwing up on the floor, are you?' The tavernkeeper, alarmed at my posture, suddenly stood over me. 'Gods, man, if you need a pot, ask for one!'
I ignored him and pushed at the loose bit of board, to no effect. I wriggled my little finger into the empty nail hole and pulled instead. Slowly but surely, a part of the split board yielded, just enough to allow me to slip my forefinger, then my middle finger, behind it. The hidden recess was small and narrow, but with two fingertips I was able to pinch the tip of something wedged within. I pulled too quickly and lost my purchase. I tried again, making grunts that further alarmed the tavernkeeper. Slowly, painstakingly, I extracted several pieces of parchment very tightly rolled into a cylinder the circumference of my little finger.
I sat upright and sucked in a deep breath, gripping the parchments in my fist. The tavernkeeper loomed over me, a lumpy silhouette with hands on hips.
'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.
XXV
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.
