"I think I like that idea-that I'm already dead," he said. "That means the ordeal is over. The thing I dreaded so much, for so long-it's behind me now. Yes, that's good. And for all I know, you're the Roman god of the dead, here to welcome me. Pluto is the name, I think. Isn't that right?"

The darkness grew thick around me. The dank air chilled my lungs. "Yes," I whispered. "Pluto… is the name."

"So, Hieronymus the Scapegoat arrived in Hades ahead of me. Too bad for him! He seemed to be having such a good time, being alive in the world. When he visited, I made him tell me all about the parties he went to. He described the houses of the rich and powerful, the sweet-smelling gardens, the banquets with food of every sort piled high. Oh, yes, the food!" In the darkness, I heard his stomach grumble.

"Can this be right?" he whispered. "Does a dead man's empty belly groan in Hades?"

I couldn't tell if he was joking, mad, or simply spinning a fantasy, as men do in unbearable circumstances. I only knew that he was speaking freely, which was what I wanted.

"Yes, Hieronymus loved life," I said.

"How did he die?"

"He was stabbed."

"Ha! By a jealous husband? Or some great warrior he insulted?"

"I honestly don't know. You say he was your only visitor?"

"Yes."

"No one else has come to see you?"

"No one except the warders."

"But you weren't always kept in the Tullianum, were you?" Usually the prison was only for those awaiting imminent judgment or execution.

"No. For a long time-months and months, years and years-I was kept here and there, in cages and boxes and holes in the ground. Moved from one of Caesar's estates to another, I presume, to keep my followers from knowing my whereabouts."

The siege of Alesia had ended more than six years ago. With that victory, Rome's conquest of Gaul was complete. Normally, Caesar would have returned to Rome to celebrate his triumph over the Gauls as soon as events allowed, certainly within a year or two; but his quarrel with the Senate and the eventual civil war had intervened. Vercingetorix should have been executed years ago. Instead he had been kept in captivity all this time, living a nonlife while awaiting a terrible death. No wonder he seemed more a ghost than a man.

"How did they treat you, in those cages and holes?"

"Not badly. No, not badly at all. I was fed well enough. Kept reasonably clean. Beaten only when I tried to escape or made other trouble. They needed to keep me alive, you see, for Caesar's triumph. You can't humiliate a dead man by parading him through the Forum. You can't inflict suffering on a corpse. No, they needed to keep me alive, indefinitely, so they never starved me and they never beat me beyond my endurance. They made sure I had no way to kill myself. They even sent a physician once or twice, when I was ill.

"Then everything changed. The time grew near. They brought me to Rome. I knew, when they lowered me into this pit, that I would never come out again until the day of my death. They began to starve me. They beat me, for no reason. They tortured me. They made me sleep in my own waste. For Caesar's triumph, they didn't want a strong, proud Gaul walking upright through the Forum. They wanted a broken man, a cringing, pathetic creature covered in filth, a laughingstock, an object of ridicule, something for children to jeer at and old men to spit on."

He suddenly lurched forward, pulling his shackles taut. I gave a start and almost dropped the lamp. "Tell me I'm right!" he cried. "Tell me you're Pluto and the ordeal is already over! They say the dead forget their troubles when they cross to the underworld and drink from the river Lethe. Have I drunk from the river? Have I forgotten the day of my death?"

My heart pounded in my chest. My hand shook, causing the lamplight to flicker. "Who knows what you've forgotten? Tell me what you remember, Vercingetorix. Tell me… about the plot to kill Caesar."

He fell silent. Was he puzzled or angry or too shrewd to answer? At last he spoke. "What are you talking about?"

"Surely your people won't let your death go unavenged. Are the Gauls not bitter? Are they not proud? Can they allow the great Vercingetorix to die and do nothing to avenge his death?"

Again, there was silence; it went on so long that I became unnerved, imagining that he had slipped from his chains somehow and was drawing toward me. I braced myself and stood upright, letting the lamp's steady glow illuminate my face.

"I have no people," he finally said. "The best of the Gauls died at Alesia. The survivors were sold into slavery. The traitors who sided with Caesar received their reward." This was true; all over Gaul, Caesar had placed the native chieftains who had supported him in positions of authority over the rest. Some he had even elevated to the Roman Senate.

"But the Gauls have other ways to inflict harm on a man," I whispered. "Druid magic! How you must long for Caesar's death. Have you placed a curse on him?"

He laughed bitterly. "If the Druids possessed true magic, would Gaul be a Roman province? There's nothing I can do to cause Caesar's death. But he'll die soon enough."

"How do you know that?"

"Every man dies, even Caesar. If not this year, then the next, or the year after. Vercingetorix dies. Caesar dies. The same fate awaits us all. Strange, that I should have to remind Pluto of that fact."

He began to weep. I moved the lamp so that I could see him. He shivered and trembled. He hid his face in his hands. Insects and glistening slugs crept amid the strands of his matted, filthy hair. A rat skittered between us. My stomach churned with nausea.

I tugged on the rope and called to the warder above. The winch gave a squeal. The rope pulled taut. I sat on the wooden plank and began to rise slowly. I turned my face up toward the opening, longing for light, desperate to fill my lungs with fresh, clean air.

I hurried across the Forum with Rupa beside me, thankful for the simple freedom to gaze at the blue sky above and to run my fingertips over the smooth, sun-heated stone wall of a temple. From a food vendor near the Temple of Castor and Pollux I paused to buy a little pastry stuffed with fig paste and slathered with fish-pickle sauce. Rupa, who had never acquired a taste for Roman garum, waved his hand to signal that he wanted a pastry with fig paste only.

Together, eating as we walked, we passed the House of the Vestals and trudged up the Ramp to the crest of the Palatine. At the top, we turned down the winding lane that would take us to the house of Cicero, not far from my own.

As we rounded the crest of the hill, I had a clear view of the top of the Capitoline Hill across the way. The Temple of Jupiter, rebuilt after its destruction by fire during the days of Sulla, was as imposing as ever. In a prominent place before the temple, obscured by a canopy of sailcloth pending its unveiling, stood the bronze statue that would be dedicated the next day. What pose had Caesar struck for his grand image on the Capitoline? That of a mortal supplicant, a man more than other men but still obeisant to the king of the gods? Or something more grand, the upright, unbowed image of a descendant of Venus, a demigod and junior partner to the Olympians?

We arrived at Cicero's door. Rupa gave a polite knock with his foot. To the slave who perused us through the peephole I stated my name and the desire to see his master on personal business. A few moments later, we were admitted to the vestibule, then conducted down a hallway to Cicero's library.

He was balder and fatter than I remembered. He rose from his chair, laid aside the scroll he had been reading, and gave me a beaming smile.

"Gordianus! How long has it been? I thought-"