Here was a note from Caesar's young grandnephew, Octavius, who was about to turn seventeen; he included an epigram in Greek, probably from a play, though I didn't recognize it. Here was a note from the sculptor Arcesilaus, with whom many years ago I had shared cherries from the garden of Lucullus; it was his statue of Venus that was to adorn the new temple built by Caesar. Here was a note from a new playwright in town, Publilius Syrus, who paraphrased the last lines of Ennius's epitaph for Scipio, from which Cicero had recited earlier: "If any mortal may ascend to the heaven of immortals, for you let the gods' gate stand open."

And here, upon a very heavy piece of parchment rimmed with an embossed border of a repeating lotus leaf pattern, was a note from the queen of Egypt:

To Gordianus, with fond remembrance of our meeting in Alexandria. I have discovered that the late Hieronymus of Massilia was a member of your household, and it is to you I should send a message of condolence. Now you are here in Rome, and so am I. We live in a very small world. But the realm of the afterlife, where I shall reign as Isis in splendor, is vast and eternal. May our mutual friend be guided there swiftly to enjoy his reward.

I laid the notes amid the flowers piled upon the bier. Still in my hand was the wax writing tablet.

I untied the strings of the wooden cover panel. The reusable wax surface contained not a message of condolence, but two questions, below each of which space had been left to scratch a reply. I felt a bit like a pupil being handed a test by his tutor. The name of the sender was not included, but the tablet obviously came from Calpurnia. The first question read:

To whom have you spoken? Reply using initials only.

That was done easily enough. The second question read:

Have you discovered anything to indicate that he should not take part in tomorrow's event? Send your reply at once.

In other words, had I discovered anything to indicate an immediate danger to Caesar? I considered how to answer. If something untoward occurred, Calpurnia might hold me accountable, even if Caesar was unharmed. But I had discovered no clear and present danger to Caesar. "No," I wrote. The word looked small and inadequate amid the blank space she had left for my reply.

I rose before daybreak the next morning. The family, appropriately garbed in our darkest clothing, gathered to share a simple meal of mourning, consisting of black bread with black beans.

Had it been entirely up to me, I would have given Hieronymus the simplest possible ceremony. But since Cytheris, with her connections in the performing world, had volunteered to provide the traditional mourners, musicians, and mimes, as well as some sturdy young slaves to carry the bier, it would have been churlish to refuse her offer. Amazingly, the entire troupe showed up on time. It was a good thing Bethesda had prepared extra food, since they all expected to be fed.

An hour after daybreak, our little procession set out. We took a roundabout route, walking up and down the streets of the Palatine so as to pass by various houses where Hieronymus had been an invited guest. If the inhabitants were not awake before we passed by, the screeching mourners and the musicians with their rattles, flutes, horns, and bells surely roused them from bed. Pedestrians paused and curious onlookers peered from windows to watch the mime, trying to guess whom he was impersonating. The fellow had met Hieronymus only once at one of Cytheris's parties, but he was remarkably gifted; wearing one of Hieronymus's favorite tunics, he produced an uncanny simulation of my friend's posture, gait, hand gestures, facial expressions, and even his laugh.

One passerby, after watching the mime for a moment, made a typical comment: "Hieronymus the Scapegoat? Is that him on the bier? Didn't know he was dead!" Such recognition was a testament to the mime's talent and to the impression Hieronymus had made on a surprising number of people. I was amazed at how many men and women seemed to have known him. Walking at a slow gait with the rest of the family behind the musicians and the funeral bier, I found myself staring at every stranger who paused to watch the procession, wondering if Hieronymus's murderer was among them.

Eventually we descended the western slope of the Palatine and crossed the Sacred Way at a point well away from the Forum. Had Hieronymus been a Roman man of affairs, a pass through the Forum would have been mandatory, but I decided to forego the area, where huge crowds were already gathering for the Gallic Triumph. We avoided the narrow, noisome streets of the Subura as well, and instead ascended the slope of the Esquiline through the Carinae district. Cytheris had requested that the funeral cortege pass before the House of the Beaks.

The performers knew who was paying them; as we approached the house, the moaning and shrieking and the drumming and fluting rose to an earsplitting crescendo. At the same time, the passable portion of the street narrowed considerably. True to his word, Antony was holding an auction in front of the house to sell off some of Pompey's possessions. The auction had not yet begun, but numerous objects had already been laid out for preview on makeshift tables.

There were odds and ends from silver table settings, many of the pieces dented or black with tarnish. A few items of jewelry, presumably from the collection of Pompey's wife, Cornelia, had been put on display. These included single earrings that had lost their mates, necklaces that needed repair, rings that had lost their stones, and stones that had lost their rings. There were piles of clothing, pieces of furniture, and a few bookcases stuffed with tattered scrolls.

Behind me I heard whispering. I turned to see that Bethesda and Diana were looking sidelong at the goods for auction and holding a hushed conference. I shushed them, but they seemed not to hear. "Respect!" I finally said, and they tore their eyes from the items on display, looking a bit chagrined.

"We can come back later and see what's left," I heard Diana whisper to her mother. I had to admit that I myself was tempted to rummage through the shelves and see which of Pompey's books were on offer.

"See anything you like, Finder? I can put it aside for you."

I turned to see Antony nearby, leaning nonchalantly against one of the display tables. He reached for a voluminous green tunic with silver embroidery and held it up by the shoulders. "Can this huge sack have been Pompey's? 'The Great One,' indeed! The old fellow had gotten as big as an elephant."

A hand snatched the tunic from him. Cytheris replaced it on the table and gave him a chiding look. Antony crossed his arms and pouted.

"Can't you see that Hieronymus is passing by?" she said.

"Ah, yes." Antony raised his arm in a mock salute. "Hail and farewell, Scapegoat! In Elysium there shall be endless parties for you to crash."

The day was just beginning, yet Antony was already drunk. Or had he stayed up all night drinking and not yet gone to bed? This was how he chose to mark the day of Caesar's Gallic Triumph, in which he should have played a honored role.

As we passed beyond the constricted area of the auction and into the open street beyond, I noticed a man leaning against a fig tree. Before he could step behind the tree, I saw his face clearly and recognized him as Thraso, one of Fulvia's slaves. Realizing I had seen him, he made no further effort to conceal himself and even gave me a slight smile and a nod. Something told me he was the man who had followed me after my meeting with Cytheris. Did Fulvia keep a watcher posted on the House of the Beaks every hour of every day?

At length we passed though the Esquiline Gate. Beyond the old city walls, sprawling over the gently sloping hillsides, was the public necropolis, the city of the dead. The unmarked graves of slaves and the modest tombs of common citizens were crowded close together. On a normal day, there would have been other funerals taking place, their flaming pyres scenting the necropolis with the smells of burning wood and flesh. But on that day, ours was the only one.