What a long way Cytheris had come, from working as a street dancer in Alexandria to cohabiting with one of the world's most powerful men. An actress and a foreigner, speaking ill of Pompey's wife and brazenly living in Pompey's house, in defiance of Caesar himself!

"But surely," I said, "Antony must realize how this might look to those who accuse Caesar of betraying the common people. They might say Caesar's behaving like Sulla, allowing a henchman to distribute the spoils of war to a small circle of favorites rather than using them for the common good."

"The common people aren't that stupid. Every gossip in Rome knows that Antony is keeping the house against Caesar's wishes."

"But I should think that's even worse, from Caesar's point of view. The people will see that he allows open defiance. A dictator can't afford to tolerate disobedience. It makes him look weak."

Cytheris smiled. "No, it makes Antony look like a spoiled brat, and Caesar like an indulgent parent. Is he not the father of the Roman people now? And isn't Antony his most brilliant protege, a little stubborn and reckless at times but worth a bit of spoiling in the long run? Never mind that the two of them are hardly speaking at the moment. That will pass."

Was this really what Cytheris believed? Or was she glossing over a deeper anxiety? Had Caesar become a menace to her world?

And what were Antony's feelings? To me, he had always seemed a bluff, brash fellow, completely open about his likes and dislikes, an unlikely candidate for conspiracy. But anyone who had risen as high as Antony undoubtedly possessed the instinct for self-preservation at any cost that characterized such men and women. Just how serious was his falling-out with Caesar?

Even as these questions flashed through my mind, Cytheris spotted him across the garden, smiled, and waved. Antony came striding over, wearing a tunic that was a bit more brief than many would consider seemly; it certainly showed off his brawny legs. The rumpled yellow garment looked as if he might have slept in it, and there was a long wine stain down the front. He looked and moved as if he might be slightly hungover. He cast a curious, heavy-lidded glance in my direction, then bent forward to plant a kiss on Cytheris's cheek. She whispered something in his ear-my name, no doubt-and he gave me a halting nod of recognition.

"Gordianus… yes, of course, Meto's father! By Hercules, how long has it been?"

"Since our paths crossed? Quite some time."

"And yet, they cross again." Was there a glint of suspicion in his bleary eyes? Antony's face combined the poet and the brute, making his expression hard to read. He had a harsh profile, with his dented nose, craggy brows, and jutting chin; but there was something gentle about the curve of his full lips and a soulful quality in his eyes. I would have called him a bit homely, but women seemed to find his looks fascinating.

He grunted and held out his hand. A slave put a cup of wine in it. "Where is Meto nowadays? I suppose he must be back in Rome, for…" He was surely going to say "the Gallic Triumph," for Meto had served Caesar in Gaul, as had Antony, but his voice trailed away.

"No, Meto is in Spain, I'm afraid."

Antony grunted. "Scouting the extent of young Pompey's forces, no doubt. You and Meto were both in Alexandria, weren't you, while Caesar was there?"

"Yes," I said.

"But now you're back."

"Can you believe it?" said Cytheris. "We met by chance outside the Temple of Tellus. And this is Rupa, who's Gordianus's son now. Rupa is an old friend from my days in Alexandria."

"Ah, yes," said Antony, "all roads circle back to Alexandria, it seems. I shall have to return there myself someday. But I seem to recall hearing… yes, I'm certain someone told us that you were missing in Egypt and presumed to be dead, Gordianus. Now who was it who told us that? I can recall standing in this very garden, and somehow your name came up, and some fellow… Cytheris, help me remember."

"Oh, I know!" she said. "It was the Scapegoat."

"Scapegoat?"

"The Massilian. You know-Hieronymus. He's the one who told us the rumor of Gordianus's demise. He seemed quite upset. He hardly ate or drank a thing that night."

"Ah, yes… Hieronymus…" Antony nodded. "An odd character, that one. I thought he was another of your actor friends, my dear, until you explained where he came from. Claims to be a friend of yours, Gordianus."

"Hieronymus," I whispered. "So you knew him?" What a stroke of fortune, that they should be the first to mention him, not I.

"Oh, yes, the Scapegoat is one of Cytheris's pets." Antony did not sound entirely pleased.

"Come, Antony, Hieronymus never fails to make you laugh. Admit it! Such a naughty tongue that fellow has."

"Actually, I'm afraid I have some bad news about Hieronymus." I tried to make my face and voice register the emotion one feels when confronted, suddenly and unexpectedly, with the task of delivering sad news. I glanced at Rupa. His muteness made him a good companion for this investigation; he would never blurt out anything to give me away.

"Hieronymus is dead," I said bluntly.

"Oh, no!" Cytheris's surprise seemed genuine. Of course, she was a trained actress.

Antony was harder to read. He furrowed his forehead and narrowed his eyes. "When did this happen?"

"Two nights ago."

"Where? How?"

"He was stabbed, in an alley on the Palatine." This was true, if deliberately vague.

"By whom?" asked Antony. He had once been charged with keeping order in Rome; news of a crime seemed to pique his interest.

"I don't know. It happened at night. There seem to have been no witnesses."

"How distressing!" said Cytheris. "Who would have wanted to kill poor, harmless Hieronymus? Was it a thief? I thought the days of robbery and murder in the streets were over."

I shrugged and shook my head.

"We must send a garland for the bier," said Cytheris. "The body…?"

"Hieronymus lies in my vestibule."

"Yes, beloved, send a garland," said Antony. "I'll let you take care of that." He squinted and shielded his eyes from the sunlight. "You'll have to excuse me now. Suddenly my head is pounding. No need to get up, Cytheris. Stay here in the garden with your guests."

But she was already on her feet, gazing at him sympathetically and reaching out to gently stroke his temples. I saw it was time to go.

"Thank you for the wine and the hospitality. I should return to my house now, in case anyone comes to pay his respects to Hieronymus."

Antony nodded. "Let me know if you discover anything else about his death."

"If you wish. I realize how busy you must be, with Caesar's triumphs approaching. I believe the first, to celebrate his conquest of Gaul, is the day after tomorrow. I know from Meto what an important role you played in that war."

Antony scowled. "Be that as it may, I shall not be taking part in the Gallic Triumph."

"No? But you were a cavalry commander at Alesia, weren't you? When Vercingetorix led a night attack against the Roman besiegers, it was only your swift response that saved the situation."

Antony grunted. "Your son told you about that, did he?"

"Caesar himself says so, in those memoirs of his. Surely you'll be riding in a place of honor, the first mounted officer behind Caesar's chariot? And I should think you would be among the privileged few to witness the execution of Vercingetorix in the Tullianum."

"I'm sure they can manage to strangle the wretched Gaul without me. Do you know, Cytheris, I think we'll hold the auction that day, right here in the street outside the house. Let's see if we can lure any of the revelers away from the parade route to come gawk at Pompey's pinky rings and bedroom slippers."

"But surely Caesar himself will insist that you take part," I said.