Стивен Сейлор - The Throne of Caesar

“I asked him about you. After he told me we’re to dine together. Always nice to know a bit in advance. That’s why I dropped by. Just a casual visit. We can talk at greater length when we dine.”

“What in Hades are you talking about?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh. I see. The invitation hasn’t arrived yet. I’d thought—well, obviously I got it wrong. My timing, I mean.”

“Make that sort of error on a battlefield and men could die.”

He shut his mouth tightly and relaxed only when I smiled. “Did Caesar not warn you that I can be rather perverse, as well? When is this dinner that you speak of?”

“I really should say no more. But it was my understanding that you and I will be attending the same dinner on the day after tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“At a location to be decided.”

“How mysterious. With whom?”

“With Caesar, of course.”

I frowned. “That can’t be right. That’s the night before the Senate meets. Caesar will have a great deal to do. He won’t spend his time dining with me.”

“I may have arrived with news ahead of the official invitation, but I didn’t get the details wrong.” This was said with a military man’s conviction. “We are both to dine with Caesar two nights hence. Along with your son Meto.”

“That I find less surprising. Meto can at least take notes for the Dictator, but I should be quite useless at such a dinner.”

“He’s doing it for Meto, of course.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your son is very important to Caesar. Caesar wishes to honor him, here in Rome, before the departure for the East. And to honor you, as Meto’s father.”

“I should think that what happens on the Ides will be honor enough.”

He gave me a blank look, and for a long moment said nothing. Finally he drew a sharp breath and nodded. “You mean your elevation to the Senate.”

“What else?”

“Even so, I think we will soon be dinner companions. Ahead of the occasion, I thought I’d pay a call, to introduce myself.”

The man was a diplomat as well as a general, I thought. Both skills would be essential when it came to governing the numerous tribes of Gaul.

“There’s the guilty slave,” he said, looking past me. I turned to see the slave who was tending the door. Decimus Brutus looked as if he expected me to thrash the miscreant then and there. The slave caught his look and flinched, though no one was near him.

“Another visitor, Master. Your son.”

“You hardly need to announce Meto,” I said, and a moment later opened my arms to embrace my son as he stepped into the room. The slave scurried out of the way and quickly vanished.

Meto and Decimus Brutus acknowledged one another with curt nods. Neither seemed entirely surprised to see the other. Decimus Brutus no doubt surmised that Meto was the bearer of my dinner invitation, and Meto, with thinly veiled displeasure, surmised that his surprise had been spoiled.

Decimus Brutus said a hasty farewell and left the library, saying he would see himself out .

“He ruined my surprise, didn’t he?” said Meto.

“I’m afraid so. It’s true, then? Dinner with the Dictator, two nights hence?”

Meto smiled broadly. “I wanted to give you the news, but perhaps it’s better that Decimus Brutus got here ahead of me. You don’t always enjoy surprises.”

“Hardly ever. To an old man, there is no such thing as a friendly shock.”

“Are you quoting something?”

“Only the thoughts in my own head.”

“But Papa, isn’t it wonderful? It’s to be a very formal dinner, with lots of courses, and some sort of entertainment or recitation—something very special, Caesar says—but also a very intimate affair. Only six of us.”

“Only six! I shall run out of conversation after the appetizer.”

“Nonsense. You’re the best conversationalist I know. After Caesar, that is.”

“You flatter me.”

“Not at all. Did Decimus have some other reason to visit you?”

“He said it was a courtesy call, to introduce himself ahead of the dinner. Seems a bit odd, now that I think about it.”

“Not really, Papa. It’s an old military habit—scouting the terrain ahead of time. Decimus no doubt has his own agenda for the dinner—political favors to ask of Caesar, that sort of thing—and never having met you, he’s wondering just what sort of dinner companion you’ll be. How much of Caesar’s time will you take up, what sort of tone will you introduce? And so forth.”

“It’s not as if I’m some barbaric Gaulish chieftain.”

“Actually, the behavior of a barbarian from Gaul would be easier for Decimus to anticipate. Caesar likes to say that Decimus has ‘gone Gaul,’ the way some men are said to ‘go Greek’ when they become too at home with the natives and pick up local customs. I think Decimus feels a bit of an outsider when he’s back here in Rome. Dealing with Gauls is easy for him now. Dealing with his fellow Romans requires effort. The more Roman the Roman, the greater the effort. And there is no Roman more Roman than you, Papa. Except Caesar.”

“Again you flatter me!”

He smiled. “Besides telling you about the dinner invitation, I had another reason for calling on you.”

“Yes?”

From the way he scanned the little library and then peered down the hallway, making sure we would not be overheard, I knew what he was about to ask.

“You want to know if I’ve seen or sought out information about any of those men on Caesar’s list,” I said.

“Yes, Papa.”

“As a matter of fact I have. But I have nothing of substance to report.”

“Which of them have you seen?”

“Yesterday I paid calls on Brutus—the other one—and Antony. Oh, and I saw Cassius, as well, but only in passing. He was at his brother-in-law’s house when I happened to call.”

“Anyone else?”

“Only Cinna, who most certainly is not on Caesar’s list. Oh, and Decimus Brutus, just now, who isn’t on the list, either. I suppose Caesar must trust him as much as he does you, since you’ll both be at this dinner party.”

“Yes, Decimus is the last person Caesar would suspect of treachery. And your impressions?”

I shrugged. “If anything, I’d say the wives pose the biggest danger to Caesar.”

Meto snorted.

“I’m quite serious. Let me explain…”

XVIII

“It’s hard for me to see Brutus as a threat to Caesar,” I continued, “except for one thing—the fact that he’s now married to Cato’s daughter and subject to her influence. If Porcia is anything like her father, she detests the Dictator and everything he stands for, and almost certainly she blames Caesar for her father’s suicide. Cato never let go of a grudge. Like father, like daughter?”

“Cato didn’t have to die,” said Meto. “He could have surrendered. Caesar would have pardoned him.”

“Perhaps. But Cato preferred what he considered an honorable death to the dishonor of submitting to a tyrant. Many people respect Cato for that, whether they sided with him or not. As you may recall, when Caesar in his African triumph paraded a gory image of Cato gutting himself with a knife, many people were offended, and not just Cato’s supporters.”

“There may have been some who thought that picture was in poor taste—”

“I was there, Meto. I heard the booing. Of course, I don’t know how greatly Porcia influences her husband. But there’s also the fact that Brutus himself is Cato’s nephew, and his mother is Cato’s sister. Servilia is a formidable woman by any measure. Remember what I said about Cato and grudges? Like brother, like sister?”

Meto frowned. “You make it sound as if Cato poses a threat to Caesar, from beyond the grave.”