I sighed. "Here is what I think. Cleopatra almost certainly could kill Caesar if she wanted to, but she probably doesn't. Arsinoe would kill him without hesitation if she could, but she almost certainly can't."

"Then Caesar will survive tomorrow's triumph?" Calpurnia looked at her uncle, then at the haruspex, and finally at me. She was demanding reassurance.

"I have no reason to think otherwise," I said, and prayed to Fortuna that I was right.

Rupa and I crossed the Palatine at twilight. The streets were almost deserted. For many people, this had been a day to recover from the festivities of the Gallic Triumph and to rest up for the next day's Egyptian Triumph. The only people stirring were slaves on ladders outside houses, setting torches in sconces to light the doorways and illuminate patches of the street.

We rounded a corner. My house came into sight, a little way down the winding street. A small company of armed lictors was standing outside my door. Rupa gripped my arm to alert me.

"Yes, I see them, Rupa. Lictors at the door-never a good sign." I tried to keep my tone light, but my heart was pounding.

The nearer we drew, the bigger the lictors appeared. Every one of them was half a head taller than Rupa and considerably broader. Veritable giants, they were; quite possibly Gauls, I thought, next to whom the Romans are a little people. Gallic senators, Gallic lictors-one of the chief complaints one heard against Caesar nowadays was that he had infested the city with Gauls. He had exterminated the Gauls who opposed him-Vercingetorix was presumably the last-and those who remained were loyal only to Caesar. Or were they? Everywhere I looked now, I sought threats to Caesar. Could even his own lictors be trusted?

But more to the point: what were the dictator's bodyguards doing outside my house?

As I approached the door, never breaking my stride, one of the men stepped forward to block my way.

"Remove yourself," I said, trying to keep my voice from quavering. "My name is Gordianus. I am a citizen. This is my house."

The man nodded. He looked at Rupa warily, but stepped aside.

Even as I reached toward the door, it swung open. There before me, framed by the doorway, stood Caesar himself.

I had not seen him face-to-face since our time together in Alexandria, where he had grown sleek and tan beneath the Egyptian sun. Now he looked thin and pale, almost as pale as his toga, and there was more gray than I remembered amid the scant hair on his head. For just an instant, I saw his face unguarded. The mouth was turned down, the eyes slightly vacant, the brow furrowed; he looked like a man with many worries. In the next instant he saw me, and his face was transformed by a beaming smile.

"Gordianus! Just the man I've come to see. They told me you were out and didn't know when to expect you. I waited for a while anyway. How blessedly peaceful it is in your quaint little garden. I was about to leave-but here you are!"

"Yes. Here I am."

"And who's that, behind you? Ah, yes, Rupa. I remember him from Alexandria."

"Those were memorable days, Dictator."

Caesar laughed. "No need to address me formally, Gordianus. We've been through too much together."

"Nonetheless, I am a Roman citizen, and you are my dictator. The office is a venerable one, is it not? Our ancestors created the dictatorship so that strong men could save the state in times of peril. The short list of citizens who have held the office is most distinguished."

His smile twisted at one corner. "The dictatorship was tarnished by Sulla, to be sure. Hopefully, I can burnish it to its former luster in the hearts of the Roman people. Well, now that you're here, perhaps you might invite me to rest a bit longer in your garden."

"Of course, Dictator. If your lictors will allow me to pass."

In fact, no one was really blocking my way, but at a nod from Caesar, the lictors all drew back. Caesar himself stepped aside to make way for me.

Bethesda, Diana, and Davus were standing in the vestibule. Mopsus and Androcles lurked behind them. Everyone looked stiff and uncomfortable; apparently they had just bade Caesar a formal farewell. As I passed, allowing Caesar to precede me, Diana whispered in my ear, "What in Hades does he want with you, Papa?"

I answered her with a shrug, since I had no idea. Unless, of course, he was aware of his wife's activities and was about to tell me what he thought of my investigations on Calpurnia's behalf.

Lamps had been lit in the house, but the garden was growing dark. I told Rupa to fetch some lights, but Caesar shook his head.

"No need for that, Gordianus. I don't mind the darkness, if you don't. It's rather pleasant like this, smelling the jasmine and the roses in the warm twilight."

We sat in chairs facing each other. In the gloaming, I found it difficult to make out his expression. Perhaps he liked it that way. It occurred to me that he must grow weary of being constantly scrutinized by others eager to read his thoughts and intentions.

And then my heart gave a lurch and my mouth turned dry, for it suddenly struck me that Caesar might have come with news of Meto. Had something occurred in Spain, where the scattered remnants of Caesar's enemies were said to be gathering in hopes of mounting yet another challenge to his supremacy? I pressed my hand to my chest, as if I could still my racing heart. Surely Caesar would not have greeted me with such a beaming smile if he had come to deliver bad news…

I must have muttered Meto's name aloud, for Caesar smiled again-I could see that, even in the gloaming-and said the name back to me. "Meto-ah, yes, dear Meto. How I miss that boy! And so must you. Of course, he's hardly a boy anymore, is he?"

"He turned thirty-three in Quinctilis," I said, my mouth dry.

"That's right! Do you know, I think I forgot to send him a greeting. A bit late to do so now, even belatedly. I wish he could be here now, but his service in Spain is too important. I need men there I can trust, and your son's devotion to me is truly a gift from the gods."

I relaxed. He had not come with bad news, after all. "I'm surprised you can spare a thought for such trivialities as birthdays. You must have so many things on your mind."

"Indeed I do. Which is why I completely forgot about you yesterday, Gordianus."

"But why should you have thought of me at all, Dictator?"

He clucked his tongue, to chide me for my insistent formality. "Because of Meto, of course. Your son should have been with me yesterday, to celebrate the Gallic Triumph. He was with me everywhere in Gaul, at practically every moment. He was always there, always ready and eager to receive my dictation, sometimes in the middle of the night."

I cleared my throat. Meto and I had never explicitly discussed his relationship with Caesar, but I had long assumed that my son had been receptive to more than Caesar's dictation. Their intimacy was none of my business, of course, and at any rate it seemed to have cooled with the passing years, as such affairs almost invariably do. As for their relationship as author and amanuensis, according to Meto, he himself had written a large part of Caesar's memoirs of the Gallic campaign, taking his imperator's raw notes and fleshing them into prose, with Caesar merely amending and approving a final version before it was copied and disseminated.

Caesar's expression became impossible to read in the darkness, but the politician's bluffness fell away from his voice. His tone was wistful. "Can I speak to you candidly, Gordianus? To call Meto my loyal secretary is to make light of what he's meant to me over the years. Meto has fought for me, spied for me, even risked his life for me, not once but many times. He was there with me in Gaul, and at Pharsalus, and in Alexandria; he was with me in Asia and Africa. He should have been here for all my triumphs. Instead, he's on a vital mission in Spain, which is only further testament to his unflagging loyalty."