Steven Saylor - Rubicon

I was ten years older than Caesar, and by habit still thought of him in terms of his early reputation in the Senate, as an aristocratic, radical young troublemaker. He was a troublemaker still, but now in his fifties. To the ambitious, vibrant young men in that tent, he must have seemed a father figure, the brilliant man of action they all aspired to emulate, the commander who would lead them into the future. What appeal could musty relics like Pompey and Domitius hold for such young men? Pompey's conquests were all in the past. Domitius's glory was secondhand, inherited from a dead generation. Caesar embodied the moment. The fire in his eyes was the divine spark of destiny.

I looked about. Tiro stood behind me, taking in everything, but Antony had disappeared. I spotted him across the tent embracing another man in nearly identical armor. When they relaxed the embrace, I saw that the man in Antony's arms was his fellow tribune Curio. The two had been lifelong friends. More than friends, some said. When their boyhood attachment became the stuff of gossip, Cicero had urged Curio's father to separate them, saying Antony was corrupting Curio. Antony was banned from Curio's house, but it did no good; he sneaked into Curio's bedroom through the ceiling. So the story went, and Antony had never denied it. Now they were seasoned soldiers, and in the last year both had been elected tribunes. When the crisis came, they fled from Rome together to join with Caesar before he crossed the Rubicon.

The tent seemed full of such men, all bursting with energy and passion, all projecting the bright invincibility of youth. They made me feel old and very unsure of myself.

I turned about, seeking the face I longed to see. I gave a start. Meto stood before me, a look of utter consternation on his face.

My son did not looked pleased to see me.

"Papa, what are you doing here?"

Like the officers around us, Meto looked like a boy to me, though he was now almost thirty and had streaks of premature gray at his temples. He had the eyes of a scholar, but the weathered hands and rugged brow of a seasoned campaigner. The scar across his face, which he had received at the age of sixteen fighting for Catilina, had almost been erased by the winds and rain and burning sun of Gaul. As always when I saw him after an absence of months, I looked him quickly up and down and whispered a prayer of thanks to Mars that his body appeared whole and his limbs intact.

I felt such a flood of emotion that I couldn't speak. I reached for him. He was stiff for a moment, then returned the embrace. Remembering the boy he had once been, I was amazed at his strength. When he pulled back, he was smiling ruefully.

"What are you doing here, Papa? You must have been traveling for days. The danger-"

"I'm here for Davus."

"Davus?"

"He's with Pompey. At least I hope he still is, and not already across in Dyrrhachium… or…"

"With Pompey? Don't tell me Davus ran off to fight with his old master! We former slaves are entirely too sentimental." There was a bitterness in his voice I was not used to hearing.

"No. Pompey took Davus with him by force."

"By force?"

"Pompey claimed he had a legal right- something to do with the transfer of ownership and the terms of Davus's manumission. Legal or not, there was no way I could stop him."

"But why should Pompey steal Davus from you?"

"Partly for spite. Partly to have a hold over me."

Meto's face stiffened. "Is the rest of the family all right? Eco, Bethesda, Diana? The children?"

"I left them all in good health."

"Thank the gods. What does Pompey want from you?"

I looked at the crowd pressed close around us. I was acutely aware of Tiro standing silently behind me, straining to hear everything. It was impossible to say all I wanted to say. I lowered my voice. "The day before Pompey left Rome, a kinsman of his was… killed… in my house."

"And Pompey accused you of the crime?"

I shook my head. "No, no! But he held me responsible. He charged me with finding the killer. I told him I couldn't. I tried to refuse. But Pompey was in a state. On a whim, he took Davus to coerce me."

"Poor Diana!" whispered Meto.

"That's why I've come to Brundisium. To get Davus back, while I still can."

"How?"

"I'll find a way. What about you, Meto? I've been sick with worry for you-"

Meto suddenly pulled back. Tiro had taken a step closer, and Meto seemed to notice him for the first time. "Is this man with you, Papa?"

"Yes."

"One of your slaves? I don't know him."

"Let me explain-"

"Wait a moment…" Meto stared hard at Tiro. "By Hercules, it's-"

At that moment I felt a slap on my shoulder, and gave such a start I thought my heart had bounded from my chest. It was Antony.

"Here they are, father and son, off whispering and conspiring among themselves," he said.

I blinked. Beside Antony I saw a blur of gold and crimson, surmounted by the serene countenance of Julius Caesar.

"Gordianus! When did we last meet? In Ravenna, I think. You were investigating the murder of our friend Publius Clodius. You were then in the employ of Pompey, as I recall."

He always remembered me, which always surprised me, since he knew me chiefly as Meto's father and the two of us had never had a conversation of real significance. Meto had told me that Caesar's memory for names and faces was part of his charm. He could meet a foot soldier in the heat of battle, exchange no more than a few words, and years later greet the man by name and ask for news from his hometown.

"Imperator," I said, with a deferential nod.

"The slave with him is an old tutor of Meto's," explained Antony.

Meto raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

Caesar glanced past my shoulder at Tiro. I held my breath. His expression registered no change. His eyes reconnected with mine. He raised an eyebrow. "I hope you're not still in the employ of Pompey, Gordianus. Antony tells me that you've been traveling on a diplomatic passport signed by the Great One himself."

I took a deep breath. "That document came to me by way of Cicero, not directly from Pompey. Despite appearances, Imperator, I assure you that the Great One and I are hardly even on speaking terms."

Caesar flashed a wry smile. "That rather describes my own relationship with Pompey at the moment. You're an intrepid man, Gordianus, to have journeyed all this way, and a good father, if you did it to inquire after Meto. But I assure you, I take good care of him. He's as dear to me as he is to you. I suggest you return now to the lookout where you camped last night, out of harm's way. Observe developments from a safe distance. This could turn out to be a very interesting day. In particular, watch the rooftops of the city."

"The rooftops, Imperator?"

"The citizens of Brundisium are angry at the way they've been treated by Pompey's troops. Pompey never did learn to discipline his men properly. As a result, there are townspeople quite willing, even eager, to let us know when Pompey begins his nautical retreat. They will signal us from the rooftops. That will be the moment we strike. There's nothing harder to manage than a tactical withdrawal from a besieged city, even by ship. When he turns his back and begins to flee, that will be the moment of Pompey's greatest vulnerability. The gods willing, he shall not escape me."

I nodded and felt a trickle of sweat run down my spine, feeling the presence of Tiro close behind me, listening to every word. In his enthusiasm, Caesar himself was telling me secrets, treating me with complete trust, while a spy I had brought into his tent stood close enough to touch him. I felt lightheaded, as I had at the end of the forced march down the mountain when I fainted at Antony's feet.