Hieronymus claimed that Octavius had been fascinated by him. What if Hieronymus had misread the boy's reactions? Hieronymus was not always tactful, and not always skilled in hiding his thoughts; had he given away to Octavius his suspicions about a relationship between the boy and Caesar? Had Octavius been embarrassed, offended, even outraged? Had he suspected that Hieronymus was maliciously spreading rumors about him? Antony was too powerful to be killed for such a thing, but Hieronymus was not. Here was yet another possible motive for someone to murder Hieronymus.

Or, if the story was true, did it provide Octavius with a motive to plot the death of his granduncle? The notion that Caesar's sixteen-year-old grandnephew and possible heir might conspire to kill him seemed far-fetched-and thus perfectly matched Hieronymus's warning of a menace from a quarter no one expected. But was the idea so unlikely? Catamites have been known to turn against their older lovers for all sorts of reasons. Perhaps Octavius was of the insanely jealous sort. Or perhaps he resented submitting to the domination of an older man, considering it a form of degradation, and craved revenge, no matter that his personal fortunes depended on Caesar.

Until I knew more about Gaius Octavius, these ideas were no more than idle speculation. Like Hieronymus before me, I decided that I needed to meet the boy face-to-face, so as to form my own judgment of him.

The house of the widow Atia, Octavius's mother, was not far from my own on a slope of the Palatine. The next morning I put on my best toga, called for Rupa, and went to pay a visit-and encountered a crowd outside the house of Atia so large it blocked the street.

Most of the men wore togas. Others were dressed in military regalia. In the sea of faces I recognized senators, magistrates, high-ranking officers, and wealthy bankers. There were also a number of foreigners, including diplomats, traders, and merchants. I seemed to have stumbled into a open-air gathering of the most elite men in Rome.

I had expected a crowd, though not quite this big. It was traditional for well-wishers to pay their respects to a young citizen and his family on the day he reached adulthood and put on his manly toga. Usually, such guests trickle in over the course of the day. But in this case, the young man happened to be the grandnephew of Julius Caesar, and the well-wishers were legion. Because the rather modest house of Atia was too small to accommodate more than a handful of guests at once, an officious-looking slave was keeping strict order at the door, allowing only one or two callers to enter at a time, as other guests departed.

"Well, Rupa," I said, "we shall never get in. Mentioning Hieronymus won't count for much in these circumstances."

The situation was even worse than I first thought. After watching awhile, I realized that callers were not being admitted by order of arrival; instead, the less important visitors were expected to give way to the more important. Even as I watched, Caesar's rabble-rousing favorite Dolabella showed up. With a swaggering gait, Marc Antony's young nemesis (and the erst-while son-in-law of Cicero) strode through the throng. No elbowing was necessarily; the crowd parted for him as if by instinct. He stepped past the officious doorkeeper and into the house without so much as a nod.

If admission was by order of influence, I would be the last man admitted, unless perhaps I could argue my way ahead of young Gaius Octavius's fuller or shoe mender.

"Come, Rupa," I said, "let's go home." I was about to leave when I felt a strong grip on my shoulder.

"Gordianus, isn't it? The father of Meto Gordianus?"

I turned around to see a man in his middle forties. He had a plump but handsome face, twinkling eyes, and touches of gray at his temples. A neatly trimmed beard strengthened his round jaw. The outlines of his toga suggested a robust physique with a touch of plumpness to match his face. The toga's purple border, and the fact that lictors attended him, indicated he was a praetor, one of Caesar's handpicked magistrates in charge of the city.

He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place him. He saw the uncertainty on my face, slapped my shoulder, and laughed.

"Hirtius is the name. Not sure we've ever been properly introduced, but I know your son very well, and I've seen you before. Let me think; was it in Caesar's tent outside Brundisium, that day we ran Pompey out of Italy? No?" He tapped his fore-finger against his lips. "Or maybe it was at one of Cicero's estates? You're thick with Cicero, aren't you? So am I. Very old friends, Cicero and I; we have adjoining properties down in Tusculum, see each other more there than we do here in the city. He gives me oratory lessons. In return, I share my favorite recipes with Cicero's cook-and beg Caesar not to cut the fool's head off when he will insist on picking the wrong side!"

His good humor was infectious. I smiled and nodded. "No, I don't think we've been introduced before, but of course I know of Aulus Hirtius." He had been one of Caesar's officers in Gaul and had fought with Caesar in Spain at the outset of the civil war. In the political arena, he had authored laws limiting the rights of Pompeians to serve in public office and legitimizing some of Caesar's more high-handed actions. Hirtius was a Caesar loyalist through and through.

"Here to pay respects to young Octavius, eh?" he said.

"Yes. One of the multitude, it seems."

"Know him, then? Octavius?"

"No," I admitted. "But I believe we had an acquaintance in common, a Massilian named Hieronymus."

"Ah, the Scapegoat. Yes, I heard about his death."

"Did you know Hieronymus, too?" I had not encountered Hirtius's name anywhere in Hieronymus's writings.

"I met the Scapegoat in this very house, as a matter of fact, that day he came to call on Octavius. I'm here rather a lot lately; spending time with the boy, at Caesar's request. Briefing him, you see, because I know my way around Spain, and Octavius will be heading there soon, now that he's old enough to serve. Your son is in Spain already, I believe."

"Yes, he is."

"Right. Meto is probably gathering intelligence, assessing the loyalty of the locals, judging the strength and resolve of the resistance, laying the groundwork for Caesar to sweep in and obliterate the enemy. Meto's good at that sort of thing. A Spanish campaign will give young Octavius a chance to gain valuable experience in the field-spill some blood, show his uncle what he's made of. I've been teaching the boy everything I know about the lay of the land and the local customs, reviewing basic strategy and tactics, drilling him in the use of different weapons. But there I go, still calling him a boy! Starting today, Gaius Octavius is a full-fledged citizen and the paterfamilias of his household."

Hirtius surveyed the crowd, which had grown even thicker since his arrival. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "Well, there's no way I'm waiting to take my turn. I have far too much to do today, getting ready for tomorrow's triumph. Lictors, clear a path to the front door. Easy does it. Gently but firmly!"

He stepped forward, looking over his shoulder to flash a parting smile. He saw my glum expression, leaned back, and grabbed my arm.

"Here, come along with me, Gordianus."

"Are you sure?" Even as I made a show of demurring, I signaled to Rupa to stay behind, and moved alongside Hirtius. "This is most gracious of you, Praetor."

"My pleasure, Gordianus. It's the least I can do for Meto's father."

As we reached the door, Dolabella was just leaving. In his mid-twenties, with a boyish face, the radical firebrand didn't appear much past his own toga-donning day. He and Hirtius exchanged a brief but boisterous greeting, with much grinning and shoulder slapping, but as we stepped past him, Hirtius made a face and lowered his voice. "What does Caesar see in that young troublemaker?"