Стивен Сейлор - The Throne of Caesar

As we drank and ate and commented on the food, I took a closer look at Caesar. Despite his ebullient mood, it seemed to me that he appeared a bit thin and haggard, especially for a man about to set out on an expedition to the far side of the world.

“Remind me, Meto, that I must bring a gift for Cleopatra the next time I visit,” said Caesar. “What do you think, a pair of gladiators, perhaps? I own so many, and they’re something of a novelty in Egypt.”

“I’m sure the queen would find some use for them,” said Meto.

Turning to me, Caesar explained, “The queen and I always exchange gifts or perform some other ceremonial act of state when I come to the garden villa. That way, no one can say that I visit the queen for any reason other than in my role as Dictator, conducting the business of the Senate and People of Rome. As for the gifts themselves … sometimes we swap them back and forth. The queen knows I’m fond of gladiators, and with all the intrigue that surrounds her, Cleopatra surely has more need of that poison detector than I do!”

“Such intrigues do not surround the Dictator?” I said.

“Interesting that you should ask,” said Caesar. “What do you think, Gordianus? Is there some danger hanging over me?”

I should like to have said, What a coincidence. Your old friend and enemy Cicero was just asking me that same question. Instead I said, “Are you worried about the omen delivered by Spurinna a month ago?”

“Not quite a month has passed since then,” said Caesar. “But no; Spurinna’s divination is not on my mind. I think you know that I give no credit to such things. Concrete information is another matter. As long as I have you here, I’ll ask you outright: Have you any knowledge of any intended threat to my person?”

The question was framed in such a way as to imply that he had actually summoned me for some other purpose and was asking only to take advantage of my presence. I should like to have asked him, outright, to tell me the reason I was there, but it would have been impertinent for a citizen to answer a direct question from the Dictator with another question. “No, Caesar. I have no knowledge whatsoever of any plot to do you harm. But my value as a source of such intelligence is very small. It was different once upon a time, perhaps, but nowadays I’m like the sleeper in the Etruscan fable who dozes through one calamity after another and wakes only after all the trouble is over.”

“Oh, I think you underestimate yourself, Finder,” said Caesar.

“He’s right, Papa,” said Meto. “You always know more than you give yourself credit for.”

“In any case, should you think of some bit of hearsay you’ve forgotten, or come by some useful information, if you would convey the details to me as quickly as possible I would be grateful, as would the Senate and People of Rome—and my wife.”

“Your wife, Caesar?”

He flashed a crooked smile. “To be honest, Calpurnia suggested that I should seek you out expressly for this purpose. ‘It is the way of wives to wait and to worry,’ as Ennius says, and my wife worries more than most. For some reason she has a great deal of faith in you.”

Because she hired me herself a couple of years ago, behind your back, I thought, and my efforts on that occasion saved your life—a fact that Calpurnia made me vow never to reveal to you. Now she was sending Caesar to me directly. Was the threat this time as real as it had been before, or just the conjecture of a worried wife and an overly zealous haruspex?

“Keep your ears to the ground,” Caesar went on. “Perhaps you might actively seek out such information, using whatever channels are available to you. Make a few discreet inquiries in that establishment you frequent.”

“Establishment?”

“The Salacious Tavern, I mean.”

How in Hades did Caesar know where I spent my idle hours? Not from Meto, who only an hour earlier had been informed about my drinking habits by Bethesda and Diana. Who had been talking about me behind my back? Was Caesar actually bothering to spy on me?

“See if any of your drinking companions have any thoughts on the matter.”

“My drinking companions?” I had an image of old graybeards like myself, drunk on wine, singing bawdy songs and pinching barmaids, and was quite sure I didn’t fit the description. The Salacious Tavern these days was a quiet, sad place where many of the patrons drank alone, not the thriving den of vice it had been in its heyday, when the poet Catullus and his circle frequented the tavern. “I hardly think, Caesar—”

“Nonetheless, do this favor for me.” His tone put an end to the discussion.

“Of course, Caesar.”

“In fact, it occurs to me that you might drop in on certain men, discreetly. Find some pretense for your visit. You know how to do that sort of thing. And while you’re there, ask a subtle question or two, and keep your eyes and ears open for any bit of useful information. Use that power of yours to draw the truth out of men even when they try to hide it from you. I see the ambivalent look on your face, Finder! But don’t you understand, it’s that very attitude of yours, your doggedly diffident approach to politics and matters of state, that makes you the perfect hound for catching the hare? Men known to be loyal to me—like your son—are useless for ferreting out such secrets. No enemy would confide in them. And men not so loyal to me … well, those are the ones I’m worried about. I’ll make up a short list of the men I’d like you to visit, and in a few days you can convey your impressions to me.”

“But, Caesar,” I said, “didn’t every senator take an oath to protect you, with his own life if necessary? All the senators who survived the war, whatever side they fought for, took the oath, did they not? And all those new senators you’ve appointed have done so as well.”

“True. The oath must be taken before the Senate on the day a New Man wears his senatorial toga in public for the first time. As you will soon discover.”

His last words somehow escaped my attention. Nor did I take much notice of the smile that appeared on Meto’s face.

Caesar also smiled. “What does Parthenius say? ‘A spoken oath is only air passing the lips. True loyalty need never be spoken aloud.’ Well, then, I’ll make sure that list of names is in your hand before you leave.”

The word “list” sent a chill through me. In my experience, any time a dictator had made a list, heads ended up on stakes, never mind Caesar’s much-vaunted propensity for mercy. I sighed. How had it come about that in a matter of hours both Cicero and Caesar had drawn me into conducting an investigation for which I had no appetite whatsoever? If only Eco had not moved down to the Cup, I would have passed the burden to him.

“Oh, and in the unlikely event that you should cross paths with Calpurnia, say absolutely nothing about this matter. She worries enough as it is.”

“First you ask me to discover secrets. Now you ask me to keep one.” I shook my head, but I understood Caesar’s concern. Spouses sometimes felt compelled to protect one another from the ugly parts of life.

I could hardly refuse a commission from the Dictator. A happy thought occurred to me: Surely I would report anything I should discover, significant or not, to Meto—and so I would have more precious chances to see my son before he left Rome.

A final course was served, of mushroom caps stewed in vinegar, to cleanse the palette. Our cups were filled again with wine and springwater. Caesar looked bemused.

“Let me ask you something, Finder—because you’re older than I, and there aren’t many such men left alive in Rome.…”

Thanks to you, I thought. Caesar gave me a sharp look. Was my face so easy for him to read?