Cicero pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Do you know what I think? I think Hieronymus made these calculations as a kind of mental exercise, a challenge to himself. He must have heard about Caesar's plan for a new calendar. Wouldn't it have been just like him to think, if Caesar can do it, then so can I? Or perhaps he somehow got hold of the proposed calendar and was attempting to find flaws. He was a very competitive sort of fellow. He had a high estimation of his talents and considerable cheek. Once, he told me that he thought he could quite easily become a finer orator than I. Can you believe that!"

I nodded. "I can believe it, indeed." It was easy enough to imagine Hieronymus obtaining information about the calendar from Calpurnia, or someone in her household, or perhaps from the household of Cleopatra, whom he had visited and whose scholars were working with Caesar on the project. But if Hieronymus had hoped to show up Caesar's calendar with one of his own, that dream, like all his others, had come to an abrupt end.

Cicero looked past me. The slave who had admitted me stood in the doorway.

"Speak," said Cicero.

"You have another visitor, Master."

"Who is it?"

"Marcus Junius Brutus."

Cicero smiled broadly and clapped his hands. "Ah, Brutus! He must have just arrived in the city. Show him in at once! And bring more wine and a basin of water and some food. Brutus will be hungry after his journey."

The slave hurried to obey.

"Thank you for the hospitality," I said, "and for your thoughts about Hieronymus." I began to rise from my chair, but Cicero gestured for me to sit.

"Please, Gordianus, stay for a while. I've shared your sadness for the loss of one friend; now you can share my joy at being reunited with another. By Hercules, not only is Brutus still breathing-a miracle!-but Caesar appointed him governor of Cisalpine Gaul. You do know Brutus, don't you?"

"Only by name," I said. "I don't think our paths have ever crossed."

Cicero nodded thoughtfully. "I always assume you know everyone, but that's not true, is it? You never did have any ties to Cato and his circle, did you? You were always too busy fetching and finding for Pompey or for Caesar. Well, then, you must stay, so that I can introduce you."

Brutus stepped into the room. His tunic and his shoes were still dusty from traveling. He and Cicero greeted each other and embraced. Rupa and I rose while Cicero introduced us, then we all sat. Brutus washed his face and hands in a basin of water held by a slave, then enthusiastically accepted a cup of wine.

He was a handsome man with a long face and keen eyes, not quite forty years old. Throughout his adult life, Brutus's family connections and political affiliations had repeatedly put him at odds with Caesar. Brutus had been the protege of his uncle Cato, who was the champion of the most hidebound conservative clique and one of Caesar's most relentless enemies. When the civil war erupted, Brutus did not hesitate to side with Pompey. But on the eve of the battle of Pharsalus, Caesar explicitly ordered his officers to spare Brutus and take him alive. After the battle, he not only pardoned Brutus but took him into his entourage as an honored companion.

Why did Caesar show such special favor to Brutus? For a number of years, Brutus's widowed mother, Servilia, had carried on a torrid love affair with Caesar (despite the consternation of her brother, Cato). Brutus was only a boy when the affair began, and came of age with Caesar coming and going in his house. The bond that formed between Caesar and Brutus survived the eventual cooling of Caesar's passion for Servilia and also survived their political differences.

When Caesar sailed off to Africa to deal with the last defiant survivors of Pharsalus-including Cato-he sent Brutus in the opposite direction. The appointment to govern Cisalpine Gaul not only rewarded Brutus but also got him out of Rome and away from the battlefront. Caesar could hardly expect Brutus to be in at the kill of his beloved uncle.

Caesar had no son, unless he intended to acknowledge Cleopatra's child. Perhaps he thought of Brutus as a surrogate son. Perhaps, as some people speculated, he even intended to make Brutus his heir.

"How was the journey?" asked Cicero.

"Long, hot, and dusty! Thanks for asking and thanks for the wine. Awfully good of you." Even in casual conversation, Brutus spoke with a clipped, cultured accent. His family claimed to be descended from the famous Brutus who led the revolt against King Tarquin the Proud and helped to found the republic. I found myself comparing him to Antony, who was every bit as aristocratic but seemed far less pretentious.

"So, how are things in the hinterland?" said Cicero.

Brutus snorted. "Cisalpine Gaul is practically Italy, you know. The Rubicon isn't the Styx. We do have the rudiments of civilization-books, brothels, and garum. On a fast horse, Rome is only a few days away."

"You made it just in time for the triumphs."

"Yes, for better or worse. Caesar didn't exactly demand my attendance, but he made his desire clear enough in his last letter. I suppose I shan't mind watching him parade the spoils of Egypt and Asia and further Gaul, but if he uses the African Triumph to crow about his victory over Uncle Cato, I'm not sure I can stomach that. Oh, dear, have I just made the most awful pun?"

Brutus flashed a lopsided smile. In Africa, after a crushing defeat, Cato first tried to commit suicide by cutting open his belly.

"It's my understanding," said Cicero, "that the African Triumph will chiefly celebrate the victory of Roman arms over King Juba of Numidia."

"Who went down fighting the good fight along with Uncle Cato." Brutus sighed. "Well, whatever else we may say of Caesar, the old boy won the war fair and square, didn't he? And saw fit to let you and me keep our heads, eh, Cicero? What about you, Gordianus? Not a military man, are you?"

"Gordianus has a son who's been serving under Caesar for quite some time," said Cicero. "You may have heard of him: Meto Gordianus."

"Numa's balls, not the fellow who wrote those memoirs for Caesar?"

"My son took Caesar's dictation, yes," I said.

Brutus snorted. "Dictation, eh? Caesar probably wasn't even in the tent while your boy was scribbling away. Give credit where it's due, old man. Everybody knows those memoirs were written by a shadow. And, by Hades, they certainly did their job! From the way those memoirs tell it, the poor Gauls didn't stand a chance. Quite a tale, all blood and thunder and beat my Roman chest. Pumped up Caesar's prestige with the common folk, eh? Made him look invincible. Scared the piss out of Cato, I can tell you. 'Wouldn't want to go up against that bloodthirsty madman,' quoth my doomed uncle. Well, bugger me! The father of great Caesar's ghost, sitting right here. This is quite the literary gathering, isn't it? Cicero's written his latest book especially for me, did you know? Been sending me chapters. A History of Famous Orators, dedicated to yours truly. Celebrating a dead art, I suppose. Who needs orators when the courts are closed and the Senate's a shadow? Nonetheless, my name shall enjoy immortality on the dedication page of Cicero's great opus."

Cicero smiled. "I have no doubt that you shall achieve immortality by your own actions, Brutus."

"Really? I don't see how. A hundred years from now, I doubt that anyone's likely to remember who was governor of Cisalpine Gaul in the year of Caesar's quadruple triumphs."

"You're still a young man, Brutus. And Caesar-" Cicero glanced at me, then looked back to Brutus. "Caesar won't live forever."

"Ah, yes, and what will come after Caesar?" said Brutus. "People are already speculating about that. What does that tell you? We've begun to think just the way people think when they live under a king. We're not worrying about the next election or who's liable to get himself exiled for corruption or how to keep a foot in a game. We're wondering, 'How long will the old fellow live, and who will be his heir?' For shame!" Brutus tossed back his wine and held out his cup for the slave to refill it.