Steven Saylor - Rubicon

Cicero paused for a sip of wine. Terentia spoke up. "It was bad enough that you postponed your triumph, which may never happen now. But what about your son's toga day? Marcus turns sixteen this year. All the best families mark their sons' coming of age during the feast of Liberalia, just after the Ides of March. Will we be back in Rome by then to celebrate Marcus's majority, or not?"

From the way the children cringed, I sensed this was an ongoing family argument. Cicero released a heavy breath. "You know that would be impossible, Terentia. The Liberalia is only twelve days off. Why must you bring this up? You know how fervently I hoped for Marcus to celebrate the donning of his manly toga in Rome, with all the best people in attendance. But it cannot be. For one thing, the best people are scattered to the four corners of the earth. For another, I can't return to Rome with honor, not yet. And wherever we celebrate his toga day, arrangements can't possibly be made in time for the Liberalia."

"But the Liberalia is the proper day," insisted Terentia. "On the feast of Father Freedom, the priests carry the phallus of Dionysus from the fields into the city streets, and the young men in their manly togas follow behind, singing bawdy songs. It's a religious act, the symbol of a boy's emergence to manhood in the company of his peers."

"It's all right, Mother, really," said Marcus, turning red and frowning at his plate. "We've discussed this before. It doesn't have to be the Liberalia. Another day will do. And we can do it in Arpinum instead of Rome. It is the family's hometown."

"Hometown to your father's family, Marcus," said Terentia, with frost in her voice. "We can hardly expect your relatives on the Terentius side to trek all the way to Arpinum, with brigands and runaway soldiers stalking the highways. Besides, the villa at Arpinum is in no condition to receive visitors. The roof leaks, the kitchen's too small, and there aren't enough beds. At least here in Formiae I've managed to get the household up and running."

"Surely you're not suggesting that we celebrate his toga day here?" protested Cicero. "We've no family in the area. I scarcely know the members of the local town senate. No, if not Rome, then Arpinum."

"I don't see why we can't just go back to Rome tomorrow." Tullia sighed and looked to her mother for support. "Everyone else is. Your cousin Gaius returned, and my friend Aufelia and her husband are on their way back. Father's friend Atticus never left."

As the table talk degenerated into a family squabble, I waited for a pause in the conversation to excuse myself. Domitius, I noticed, paid no attention. He held an asparagus spear between his thumb and forefinger and seemed to be interrogating it. How pathetic the man seemed, with his delusions of military glory and his obsessive jealousy of Caesar. Yet he seemed to me no more pathetic than Cicero, the great orator reduced to agonizing over his postponed triumph and his son's toga day. How irrelevant, even ridiculous, they both seemed.

But as I lay in bed that night, kept awake by a disagreement between the fish-pickle sauce and my stomach, I wondered uneasily if I was not as deluded in my own way as Cicero and Domitius. What was the exact relationship between Julius Caesar and my son? Once, I had thought I understood it, but it appeared there might be a complicating factor which I had not accounted for. In such parlous times, I could not afford such a miscalculation. As we continued the journey, and grew closer to the camps of Caesar and Pompey, I could afford it even less.

Sleep finally came, and with it, nightmare. There was no narrative, only a series of wrenching horrors. I had misunderstood something and made a terrible mistake. Someone was dead. I was covered with blood. Bethesda and Diana wore shrouds and wept. The ground shook and the sky rained fire.

I woke drenched with sweat, and swore never to touch fish-pickle sauce again.

We set out before dawn. I was tired from lack of sleep and my stomach was out of sorts, but Tiro was in high spirits.

"I take it you didn't have the fish-pickle sauce last night," I said.

"Did Cicero break open a new jar? He must have been trying to impress Domitius. No, I ate simple fare. Nothing but millet porridge and roast pork off the spit."

"You ate outside with Domitius's men?"

"Of course. How else could I have gathered information from them? I posed as a freedman attached to the villa."

"You spied on Domitius? I thought he was Cicero's ally."

"I didn't spy on him. I simply talked to his men. They had a lot to say about the morale of Domitius's former troops, the size of Caesar's forces, the condition of the roads, and so on."

"What about the ambush Caesar supposedly set for Domitius after letting him go?"

Tiro smiled. "According to the men, there was an incident. A mail carrier passed them on the road just outside Corfinium."

"A mail carrier?"

"Yes, a lone man on horseback. Domitius panicked. He made his men hide in the bushes. They thought he might die of a heart attack. The ambush was entirely in his imagination!"

"Rather like the welcome that's waiting for him in Massilia, I suspect."

A sphinxlike expression crossed Tiro's face. "I wouldn't be too surprised if the Massilians welcome him with open arms. Open hands, anyway."

"What do you mean?"

Tiro slowed his mount and let Fortex ride ahead. "I appreciate your discretion last night, Gordianus. You said nothing to Domitius about me, even when my name was mentioned."

"I only did as you asked."

"And I thank you. I would appreciate it if you could be just as discreet about Domitius's visit to Cicero."

"Cicero wants it kept secret? Why?"

"He has his reasons."

I snorted. "Cicero won't join Pompey, he doesn't want it known that he's hosted Domitius- is he so fearful of offending Caesar?"

Tiro grimaced. "It's not that. All right, I'll tell you. Domitius didn't leave Corfinium empty-handed."

"He was stripped of his legions."

"Yes, but not of his gold. When Domitius arrived in Corfinium, he deposited six million sesterces in the city treasury. Most of it was public money he brought from Rome, for military expenses. Caesar could have seized it for himself, but I suppose he doesn't want to be seen as a thief. He returned the entire amount to Domitius when he set him free."

I sucked in a breath. "You mean Domitius and that ragtag retinue are transporting six million sesterces?"

"In trunks, loaded in wagons. You see now why he was so suspicious of Caesar and so fearful on the road."

"What will he do with all that money? Return it to the treasury in Rome?"

Tiro laughed. "He'll use it to go to Massilia and win over the Massilians, of course. But you see why Cicero doesn't want his visit made public. If the money vanishes- and who knows what might happen in the coming days? — and the trail leads back to Formiae, someone might presume that Domitius left it here with Cicero, for safekeeping. These are desperate times. That kind of rumor could draw cutthroats like grasshoppers to the green leaf. Whole households have been slaughtered for considerably less than six million sesterces, Gordianus. Cicero isn't ashamed of playing host to Domitius, and he isn't fearful for himself. But he has his family to think of. Surely you can understand that."

That day we rode forty-four miles and reached Capua. The next day we covered thirty-three miles and stopped at Beneventum. At various stables along the way Tiro exchanged our horses, always producing his courier's passport signed by Pompey. Some stablers honored it without question. Others treated us with barely concealed contempt and tried to give us inferior mounts. One stabler refused to deal with us at all. He took a long look at the document, gave us a cold stare, and told us to move on. Tiro was furious. "Do you realize the penalty for flouting a document issued under the Senate's Ultimate Decree?" he asked the man. "The penalty is death!" The stabler swallowed hard but said nothing. We went in search of another stable.