Tiro looked pensively into his wine cup, which was made of cheap yellow earthenware. He ran his finger over the chipped rim. "You've been very candid with me, Gordianus."
"And you've been candid with me, Tiro."
"The two of us have never been enemies."
"We never shall be, I hope."
"I'm going to tell you a secret, Gordianus. Something I probably shouldn't." He lowered his voice. I had to strain my ears to hear him above the bursts of laughter and the clatter of thrown dice. "Only a few days before his death, I met with Numerius Pompeius. We had messages to exchange, between Pompey and Cicero. We met here in the Salacious Tavern— in this very corner, as a matter of fact.
His
corner, he called it. I got the impression he transacted quite a bit of business from the very spot where you're sitting."
I shivered at the thought of the dead man's lemur sitting beside me. "What sort of business?"
Tiro hesitated. "So far as I know, Numerius was loyal to Pompey. I never had reason to believe otherwise. But the last time I met with him, he claimed to know some interesting things. Dangerous things."
"Go on, Tiro. You have my attention."
"Numerius drank more than he should have. That loosened his tongue. And he was very excited."
"About what?"
"About some documents he'd acquired. 'I'm sitting on something enormous,' he told me, smiling like a fox. 'Something so big it could get me killed if you breathe a word of this to anyone.' "
"What was it, Tiro?"
"Something to do with a plot to kill Caesar."
I managed a grim laugh. "Concocted by Pompey?"
"No! A conspiracy inside Caesar's own camp, involving men close to him. How Numerius could know of such a plot, and what sort of documents he had obtained, I don't know. But that's what he told me."
"When was this assassination supposed to take place?"
"It was supposed to have happened when Caesar crossed the Rubicon, the moment he invaded the motherland and showed his true intentions. For some reason it didn't come off. But this was the thing: Numerius seemed to think it still had a chance of happening."
"Wishful thinking!" I scoffed.
"Maybe. But he claimed to have proof of the plot in the form of documents." Tiro leaned closer to me. "
You
wouldn't know about that, would you, Gordianus?"
"What do you mean?"
"You say you found Cicero's report to Pompey in Numerius's shoe. What else did you find there? Be honest with me, Gordianus. I've been honest with you."
I took a deep breath. "I found exactly five pieces of parchment, all of the same color and quality, all written in the same hand and the same sort of cipher."
Tiro nodded. "That would have been Cicero's entire report; there were five pages in all. And you found nothing else?"
"That was all I found in Numerius's shoe."
Tiro sat back. After a moment he raised his cup and called for more wine. "And a decent cup as well, with a smooth lip!" he added, in a tone harsh enough to cause the eunuch's grin to vanish. I suddenly realized why he had been so generous with his information. He had hoped I would give him information in return, about the conspiracy documents. I had disappointed him.
We waited for our wine, then drank in silence. Across the room someone shouted, "Gaius Julius!" Dice clattered, and the gambler jumped from his seat. "The Caesar Throw! The Caesar Throw beats all!" The man did a victory dance and scooped up his winnings.
"Not a gracious winner," I muttered.
"I wonder if Caesar will be," Tiro muttered back.
"This talk you had with Numerius here in the tavern, about a plot to kill Caesar— that was a few days before he died."
"Yes."
"But on the day he died, it was the documents from Cicero he was carrying. And wasn't there ..." I had to tread carefully. "Wasn't there some sort of altercation that day, between Cicero and Numerius, just before he left Cicero's house and came to mine?"
"Altercation?"
"Shouting, loud enough to be heard in the street."
"Those damned guards! Did they tell you that?"
"I hate to get them in trouble ..."
Tiro shrugged. "Cicero may have raised his voice to Numerius that day."
"Raised his voice? He was practically screaming, according to the guards. Something about a debt owed to Caesar. Was it Numerius who owed money to Caesar ... or was it Cicero?"
Tiro's face told me I had touched on something sensitive. "Lots of people owe money to Caesar. That hardly compromises their loyalty to Pompey or the Senate."
I nodded. "It's only ... I got the impression from his mother that Numerius might have been blackmailing someone."
Tiro shifted in his seat. "I think I've had enough of this wretched wine. After a certain point it gets worse, not better. And this damned cup has more chips than the last!"
"You were in Rome that day, Tiro, the day Numerius died. Did you happen to ...
follow
him ... after he left Cicero's house?"
"I don't think I like the tone of your voice, Gordianus."
Did he think I suspected him of the murder? "I only wondered, if you did happen to follow Numerius, whether you might have seen anything significant. Someone besides yourself following him, for instance. Or someone to whom he might have passed documents before he entered my house ..."
Tiro looked at me squarely. "Yes, I followed Numerius. Cicero was curious to know where he was headed next. So I followed him along the rim road to your house. I waited so long for him to leave that I finally assumed he'd given me the slip. How was I to know that he was dead inside? And no, I didn't see him pass anything to anyone, nor did I notice anyone else following him. And before you ask, no, I didn't see anyone climb over the roof into your garden, either— though I could hardly have seen all four sides of your house at once, could I?"
I smiled.
"And don't even think of asking if
I
climbed over the roof and into your garden!" He tried to inject some levity into his voice. "You saw how carefully I had to climb down that rickety ladder at Cicero's house!"
"Yes. Still, you do manage to climb up and down that ladder, don't you?" I likewise tried to keep my tone light.
I excused myself to go to the privy, which was out the back door and across an alley in a little lean-to. There were several holes in the paved floor, but the drunken patrons of the Salacious Tavern were poor marksmen and the place stank of standing urine. It occurred to me that the Cloaca Maxima, the central sewer line into the Tiber, was probably located just beneath my feet.
When I returned to the corner bench, Tiro had vanished. I stayed and drank another cup of wine, in no hurry to go home. The interview had yielded more than I expected. Where were the documents of which Numerius had boasted to Tiro only days before his death? Who else knew about them? Like poor Numerius, I felt I was sitting on something enormous, if only I could lay my hands on it.
The remaining days of Februarius brought despair for Pompey's supporters, joy for Caesar's.
Flush with an unbroken chain of victories, Caesar continued his southward advance and surrounded Corfinium. Domitius Ahenobarbus, trapped in the city, sent desperate messages to Pompey begging for reinforcements. Pompey curtly replied that he had no intention of relieving Corfinium because Domitius had no business making a stand there in the first place.
Domitius concealed the contents of the letter from his officers and claimed that Pompey was on his way, but his agitated demeanor fooled no one. Behind his back, his officers decided to hand the city over to Caesar without a fight.
Domitius's longstanding grudge against Caesar was personal. Domitius's grandfather and father had begun the settlement of southern Gaul, conquering the Allobroges and the Arverni, building roads, establishing Roman colonies on the coast, and along the way amassing an enormous family fortune. The family had come to think of the region as their personal domain, to which Domitius should be heir. Caesar they considered an upstart who had built on their achievements to launch his own conquests. When Domitius made his first bid to acquire governorship of southern Gaul, six years ago, Caesar successfully thwarted him and held on to command of the region. Now Caesar's tenure had at last expired. Legally he was obliged to relinquish Gaul and let Domitius succeed him. Caesar's answer had been to cross the Rubicon with his army. Domitius had good reason to hate him, and better reason to fear him.
Finding himself betrayed and despairing of an ignoble death at the hands of Caesar or, even more ignobly, at the hands of his own rebellious men, Domitius asked his physician to give him poison. No sooner had Domitius swallowed the dose than word arrived that Caesar was treating all captives, even his bitterest enemies, with mercy and respect. Domitius wailed and tore his hair and cursed himself for acting too soon— until the physician, who knew his master better than his master knew himself, revealed that the dose was not poison, but a harmless narcotic. Domitius surrendered to Caesar and was allowed to keep his head.
In Rome, copies of Caesar's public pronouncement on entering Corfinium were posted in the Forum by his supporters:
I did not leave my province with intent to harm anybody. I merely want to protect myself against the slanders of my enemies, to restore to their rightful positions the tribunes of the people, who have been expelled because of their involvement in my cause, and to reclaim for myself and for the Roman people independence from the domination of a small clique.
Fence-sitters among the rich and powerful were heartened by the news of Caesar's clemency. Some who had fled now began to return to the city.
His army swelled by the troops of Domitius Ahenobarbus and by fresh reinforcements from Gaul, Caesar continued his southward advance. Pompey fell back and ordered all loyalist troops to rendezvous at Brundisium, in the heel of Italy.
• • •
"Davus will die there," Diana said. "He'll die in Brundisium, trapped with the rest of Pompey's men. Caesar will put his foot into the boot of Italy and grind them all beneath his heel."
"Caesar has shown mercy, so far," I said cautiously. "He took Corfinium without spilling a drop of blood."
"But this is different. This is Pompey. He'll never surrender to Caesar."
"Perhaps Pompey will flee, rather than fight."
"Across the sea? But Davus can't swim!"
I tried not to smile. "I imagine they'll take ships, Diana."
"I know that! I'm thinking of the weather. No one sails at this time of year if they can help it. It's too dangerous, especially crossing the Adriatic. Storms and shipwrecks— I keep seeing Davus clinging to a scrap of flotsam, waves crashing over his head, lightning all around ..."
The curse of an overactive imagination was something she inherited from her mother. "Davus is cleverer than you think," I said. "He can take care of himself."
"That's not true! He's sweet as honey on a cold morning and just as slow, and you know it. And what if Pompey doesn't flee, and there
is
a battle, Caesar's men against Pompey's? Davus would never do the sensible thing and run away. He'll feel obliged to stay and fight, for the sake of the other soldiers. It's like that for men in battle, isn't it? Comrades and loyalty, to the last drop of blood?"
I had no answer to that. I had been in one battle in my life, fighting with Catilina at Pistoria; what she said was true.
Diana grimaced. "Meto says you don't even feel the wounds when they happen. You just keep fighting until you can't fight anymore." She looked at me with sudden horror in her eyes. "Davus and Meto could be in the same battle, on different sides. They could kill each other!"
Now her imagination was definitely getting the better of her. I rose from my chair and crossed my study. I laid my hands on her shoulders. She leaned back against me and I circled her with my arms.
"Davus was trained to be a bodyguard, not a soldier. You know that, Diana. That's how Pompey will use him— to guard his person. He'll keep Davus close to him, day and night. Now I ask you, where could Davus be safer? Pompey is no fool. Look how cautious he's been so far, retreating two steps every time Caesar advances one. Davus is probably safer with Pompey than he would be in Rome."
"But what if there is a battle, and Pompey is at the head of the charge, leading his men? Caesar does that; Meto says so. Davus would be doomed then. It's as you say, he was trained to be a bodyguard. He'll sacrifice himself rather than let Pompey be harmed. He won't even stop and think. If there's a sword aimed for Pompey's heart, he'll throw himself on it!"
"Diana, Diana! You must stop imagining such things!" I sighed. "Listen, I want you to close your eyes. Now picture Davus. What's he doing this very instant? I'll tell you. He's standing at attention outside Pompey's tent, bored out of his mind, struggling not to yawn. There, can you see him? I can. I can even see the fly buzzing about his head. If he yawns, it may fly into his mouth!"
"Oh, Papa!" Diana sniffled and laughed in spite of herself. I held her close.
"What do you suppose Davus is thinking about right now?" I said quietly.
She laughed. "His next meal, probably!"
"No. He's thinking about you, Diana. About you and little Aulus."
Diana sighed and snuggled against me. I congratulated myself on having successfully comforted her— prematurely, as it happened, for the next moment she trembled and burst into tears and pulled herself from my embrace.
"Diana, what now?"
"Oh, Papa, I can't stand to think of Davus like that, so far from home, so lonely for us! He must be utterly miserable, and there's nothing he can do about it. Papa, you must promise me that you'll get him back. You must do whatever it takes to bring him back to us!"
"But Diana—"
"You must find whoever killed Pompey's kinsman, and tell Pompey, and make him give back Davus!"
I shook my head. "You don't know what you're asking, daughter."
She gave me a puzzled, dissatisfied, desperate look. In her eyes I saw something I had never seen before. For the first time, it occurred to her that her beloved father, upon whom she had always relied as upon a rock, might simply be too old now, too far past his prime to keep his family safe. I wanted to assure her that nothing could be further from the truth, but my tongue was like lead in my mouth.