According to a public sundial not far from the tavern entrance, I had arrived a little early. With the punctuality born of his military training, Meto arrived exactly on time. His eyes were younger than mine and adapted more quickly. He peered into the darkness for only a brief moment before spotting me and crossing the room with a firm stride, not bumping into a single bench.
It was hard to read his face in the dimness, but there was something stiff and uneasy in his manner. Before either of us could speak, our host descended on us. I asked for two cups of his best. Meto protested that he never drank wine so early in the day. I called after the tavernkeeper to bring water as well.
Meto smiled. ‘This is becoming a habit, Papa – turning up where you’re least expected. The last I heard –’
‘I was sailing to Dyrrhachium with Pompey himself. Davus says you weren’t entirely displeased at the news.’
Meto grunted. ‘Hardly a fair trade if you ask me – you taking the place of Davus. I didn’t quite understand the point. Pompey had a kinsman murdered, and forced you under protest to look for the killer, and Davus was taken as a sort of surety?’ He shook his head. ‘Awfully petty behaviour for the Great One. Truly, he’s lost his wits.’
‘It was rather more complicated than that, Meto. Did Davus not tell you the name of Pompey’s murdered kinsman?’
‘No.’
‘It was a young man named Numerius Pompeius.’ Even in the dim light, I saw the tension that creased Meto’s face. ‘Does that name mean something to you?’
‘Perhaps.’
The tavernkeeper brought two cups of wine and a pitcher of water.
‘Meto, on the day before Pompey fled Rome, Numerius came to my house. He showed me a document, a kind of pact, written in your hand – in your style, for that matter – signed by yourself and a few others. You must know what I’m talking about.’
Meto ran a fingertip around the rim of his cup. ‘Numerius had this document?’
‘Yes.’
‘What became of it?’
‘I burned it.’
‘But how – ?’
‘I took it from him. He tried to blackmail me, Meto. He threatened to send the document to Caesar. To expose your part in plotting Caesar’s assassination.’
Meto turned his face so that a shadow fell across his eyes, but I could see the hard line of his mouth, and the scar he had received at Pistoria. ‘And Numerius was murdered?’
‘He never left my house alive.’
‘You –’
‘I did it for you, Meto.’
His shoulders slumped. He shifted uneasily. He picked up his cup and drained it. He shook his head. ‘Papa, I never imagined –’
‘Numerius told me he had other documents, equally compromising, also in your handwriting. Could that be true? Were there other such documents?’
‘Papa –’
‘Answer me.’
He wiped his mouth. ‘Yes.’
‘Meto, Meto! How in Hades could you have been so careless, to let such documents fall into the hands of such a man? Numerius told me he hid them somewhere. I searched – I wanted to destroy them – but I never found them.’ I sighed. ‘What became of the plot, Meto? Did the others lose their nerve? I know you didn’t; you’re anything but a coward. Did it become impossible to carry out? Are you still planning to do it? Or have you had a change of heart?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Why did you turn against him after all these years, Meto? Did you finally see him for what he is? Men like Caesar and Pompey – they’re not heroes, Meto. They’re monsters. They call their greed and ambition “honour,” and to satisfy their so-called honour they’ll tear the world apart.’ I grunted. ‘But who am I to judge them? Every man does what he must, to protect his share of the world. What’s the difference between killing whole villages and armies, and killing a single man? Caesar’s reasons and mine are different only in degree. The consequences and the suffering still spread to the innocent.’
‘Papa . . .’
‘Perhaps you became too close to him, Meto. Intimacy can turn to bitterness. People say that you and he . . . Did he slight you in some way? Was that the break between you – a felling-out between lovers?’
‘Papa, it isn’t what you think.’
‘Then tell me.’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t explain.’
‘It doesn’t matter. What matters is this: as long as Caesar remains alive, and those documents still exist somewhere, you’re in terrible danger. Should they ever be discovered and brought to his attention –’
‘Papa, what happened on Pompey’s ship, in the harbour at Brundisium?’
‘It was as Davus told you. I took his place by telling Pompey that I knew who killed Numerius. As we were about to run the gauntlet, Pompey demanded that I tell him then and there. So I did. I told him everything. He was like a raging animal. I went aboard his ship never expecting to leave alive, Meto. But I leaped overboard and somehow survived, and Davus found me the next day.’
‘Thank the gods for that, Papa!’ He took a long breath. ‘You say that you told Pompey everything. Did you tell him about the plot to kill Caesar?’
‘Yes.’
‘And about my part in it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he believe you?’
‘Not at first. But in the end, yes.’
Meto fell silent for a long moment. ‘You must believe, Papa, that I never intended for you to be drawn into this.’ He turned towards me. Lamplight illuminated his eyes. The look on his face was so miserable that I reached for his hand and covered it with mine.
He allowed the touch for a moment, then abruptly stood up. ‘Papa, I have to go.’
‘Now? But Meto –’
His eyes glimmered brightly. ‘Papa, whatever happens, don’t be ashamed of me. Forgive me.’
‘Meto!’
He turned and left, bumping blindly against the maze of benches. His silhouette reached the foyer and vanished.
What had I expected from our meeting? More than this. Meto had told me nothing. He was trying to protect me, of course, as I had tried to protect him. I was left with the same unanswered questions and blind conjectures that had been spinning in my head for months.
I had not yet touched my wine. I reached for the cup and drank slowly, gazing into the dark corners of the room. The murkiness that had unnerved me when I entered the tavern I now found comforting.
The tavernkeeper ambled over with a pitcher. ‘More wine?’
‘Why not?’
He refilled the cup and ambled off. I sat and drank and thought. What would become of Meto? What would become of Caesar? And Pompey, and Cicero, and Tiro? And Maecia, and Aemilia . . . ?
The warmth of the wine spread through me. I found myself staring at one of the uncertain silhouettes across the room and imagining that it was the lemur of Numerius Pompeius. The fantasy became so powerful that I could almost feel him staring back at me. I felt no fear. Instead, I thought what a fine thing it would be if I could wave him over and invite him to share a cup, if lemures drink. What would I ask him? That was obvious. Had he lived, would he have married Aemilia after all, despite the fact that Pompey had plans for him to marry someone else? Or would he have spurned her, dooming the unborn child as surely as his death had doomed it?
And of course, I would ask him where in Hades he had hidden the other documents.
Where in Hades – indeed! I laughed a bit tipsily at the notion. I had eaten no breakfast that morning, and like Meto, I wasn’t used to drinking in the middle of the day.
My thoughts wandered aimlessly, thanks to the wine. Thanks, I thought, to Dionysus, the god of wine, looser of loins, emancipator of minds, liberator of tongues. Even slaves could speak freely on the Liberalia, the day of Dionysus, because the sacred power of wine transcended all earthly shackles. Through wine, Dionysus illuminated the minds of men as could no other god, not even Minerva. So it was, there in the Salacious Tavern, that Dionysu
s gave me wisdom. How else to explain the chain of thoughts that led me to the thing I sought?
Something Tiro had said about Numerius popped into my head. In the very spot where I sat, Numerius had boasted to Tiro of certain documents he had come by, the evidence of the plot to assassinate Caesar. The sheer danger of possessing them and the lucrative possibilities for blackmail had exhilarated him. He had told Tiro, ‘I’m sitting on something enormous.’
Where were those documents?
Numerius’s mother had searched the family house. I had searched his secret love nest. Numerius must have had some other hiding place for the documents.
‘I’m sitting on something enormous.’ Numerius had been drunk when he made that boast to Tiro. Perhaps only a man equally drunk could see that he meant exactly what he said.
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 rancour. 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 unravelled from their tapestry and dangled in the void. I felt mocked by the gods – who were not yet done with me.
One morning, about the middle of Aprilis, a stranger came to the door. He told Davus that he had olive oil to sell. Davus told him that the mistress of the house was out, Bethesda having gone with Diana to the fish market. The man asked if he might leave a sample of his product. He handed Davus a small, round clay jar and departed.
The incident seemed innocuous enough, but I had told Davus to report all visitors to me without exception. He came at once to the garden, where I sat brooding beneath the statue of Minerva.
‘What’s that?’ I said.
‘A jar of olive oil. At least, that’s what the man said.’
‘What man?’
Davus explained.
I took the jar and examined it. A piece of cloth had been pulled over the short, narrow spout at the top, tied with twine and sealed with wax. The jar itself appeared unremarkable. Near the base, two words were etched into the clay. On one side was the word olivum; on the other, Massilia.
‘Olive oil of Massilia,’ I said. ‘A fine product. But a curious coincidence. I wonder . . . Davus, bring an empty jar.’
While he was gone, I untied the string and broke the wax seal. The cloth covering the spout appeared to be nothing more than a swatch of white linen. I removed the cork. It, too, appeared unremarkable. Even so, I cut it open. It was solid all through.
When Davus returned, I slowly decanted the contents into the empty jar, scrutinizing the thin stream that glistened with golden highlights.
‘Do you think it might be . . . poisoned?’ asked Davus.
I touched my finger to the stream and sniffed it. ‘It pours, looks, and smells like olive oil to me.’
I finished emptying the little jar, then held it so that sunlight shone into the spout. I peered inside, but saw only flashes of oily residue. I shook the jar and turned it upside down. Nothing came out but a few more drops of oil.
‘Curious,’ I said. ‘But why shouldn’t a merchant of fine imported olive oil leave us a free sample of his wares? Stranger things have happened.’
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