Where was the queen's sister? Arsinoe was still in Rome, presumably, and still a prisoner. Having brushed so close to death, and having survived, what role would she play from this point onward?

"Gordianus!" I heard my name called from nearby, and turned to see Fulvia waving to me. Caesar had granted her a special seat at the triumph, and also at the dedication, it seemed. She appeared to be in unusually high spirits. Seated next to her, I saw the reason: Marc Antony, looking quite handsome and surprisingly sober in his senatorial toga.

I greeted the two of them. Fulvia smiled. "You needn't look so surprised, Finder. Antony and I are old friends. Aren't we, Antony? And Cytheris does occasionally let him off his leash."

"You were missed at the triumphs," I said to Antony, simply to make conversation. "The people expected to see you."

"That's exactly what I told him!" said Fulvia. "It was foolish, missing the opportunity to show himself off, especially since he earned a place of distinction in every one of those triumphs."

Antony smirked. "Technically, I didn't serve at all in the Egyptian campaign, or in-"

"And Gaius Octavius never served in Africa," said Fulvia, "yet Caesar saw fit to shower the boy with honors and show him off, as if Octavius himself put an end to King Juba. You may not have been by Caesar's side at every moment and in every battle, but you were always in his service. It was you who made it possible for him to wage war all over the world, because it was you who kept his name and his authority alive here in Rome-"

Antony clutched his head. "Please, must I hear all this again? Is it not enough that I'm here, as you wanted?"

"Caesar sent you a special invitation to attend this ceremony. You could hardly have refused without insulting him. Don't you see? This is his way of initiating a reconciliation with you. You couldn't turn your back on such an opportunity. Nor could you bring her with you, for all Rome to gawk at!" Apparently Cytheris had been left behind at the House of the Beaks-to brood, to pout, to plot her own next move? It looked as if Fulvia might be gaining the upper hand in her campaign to become Antony's wife. Where would her ambitions take them both?

I looked to see Antony's reaction, but he was distracted by someone nearby. I followed his gaze and saw that he was staring at Cleopatra. His expression was one of curiosity more than anything else. I recalled that he had met her years ago in Egypt, when she was hardly more than a child. Having been estranged from Caesar, he had not gone to visit the queen at Caesar's villa. This was his first look at Cleopatra in many years.

Fulvia followed his gaze. "The queen of troublemakers, I call that one," she muttered. "She leaves for Egypt soon, and without having achieved either one of her goals here. Her sister still breathes; her son is still a bastard. But I'll wager we haven't seen the last of that one!"

"I hope not," whispered Antony. Fulvia looked at him askance.

I left these two and continued to stroll among the crowd, searching every face I passed.

The sun was still high. The heat of the day sapped my strength. My instinct and reason were equally at a loss. Lurking behind every pair of eyes was a different consciousness with an unknown agenda. Every face might be utterly innocent; every face might be that of a murderer.

I looked at the rich and powerful, who milled among the benches, but also at the common people in the crowd beyond. They had suffered from the war and its reversals of fortune no less than their betters. How many of these men and women had lost a loved one, fighting for Caesar or against him? How many of them harbored feelings of hatred and resentment against the dictator? How many among that vast crowd, if they could have killed Caesar with a thought, would have done so?

A priest on the temple steps blew a shrill fanfare on a pipe, signaling that the ceremony was about to begin. People took their seats. The standing crowd pressed closer. I looked among them for Bethesda and Diana and the rest of my family, but saw them nowhere.

Calpurnia had instructed me to return to her, and so I did. She had moved from the tent and had taken a seat in the front row, not far from Gaius Octavius and his family, but I saw no empty seats around her. A hush was falling on the crowd, so I spoke in a low voice.

"Calpurnia, if you wish me to stay near you, I suppose I could stand over there, beyond the tent. That is, if the lictors will allow it." I frowned. "Where has Rupa gone? I left him at the entrance to the tent."

"I dismissed him," she said. "He couldn't stay there. Now hush, and sit here beside me."

I pointed out the obvious. "Your Uncle Gnaeus is sitting there."

"Not for long. He's performing the sacrifice, so he'll spend most of the ceremony at the altar."

"The sacrifice?"

"The slaughter of the ox. Why not? Uncle Gnaeus is as qualified as any other priest, and it seemed fitting that someone from my side of the family should play a role in the ceremony. This day shouldn't be entirely about Caesar and the Julii and their divine ancestress and-and that queen whose statue he insists on putting in the temple, next to Venus."

With a haughty flourish, Uncle Gnaeus stood and offered me his seat. I sat between Calpurnia and a man I had never seen before, presumably another of her relatives. Uncle Gnaeus strode toward the altar, pulling the mantle of the robe over his head.

Beside me, Calpurnia continually fidgeted, grunted, and pulled at her fingers.

The crowd fell silent. The ceremony commenced.

The camilli led the ox from the tent. Like the beast, the children were strewn with garlands of flowers and laurel leaves. While the ox lumbered forward, some of the camilli laughed and sang and danced in a circle around it. Others carried trays of smoking incense. They cajoled the creature into ascending a ramp, where the priests used hooks to pull it onto its side on the altar and quickly tied its limbs. The ox began to bleat in alarm. Some of the boys and girls assembled on the temple steps and sang a hymn to Venus while priests played upon pipes. Uncle Gnaeus stepped forward, holding aloft the ceremonial knife.

The heat of the day, the smoking incense, and the chanting of the children acted on me like a drug. Weariness descended on me. I bowed my head. I closed my eyes…

I gave a start. I opened my eyes. I looked around me, dazed, and saw a most remarkable thing.

The stranger sitting next to me had vanished. In his place sat my friend Hieronymus.

The chanting continued, but seemed strangely distant and muted. The smoky haze of the incense was thicker and more intoxicating than ever. I blinked and rubbed my eyes, but there was no doubt: Hieronymus was sitting next to me.

He was wearing his favorite pale blue tunic with a black border in a Greek key pattern. He looked quite strong and fit and younger than I remembered him. All gray was gone from his hair, and his face had no wrinkles. He fixed me with a sardonic gaze.

"What are you doing here?" I whispered. No one else seemed to have noticed his presence, not even Calpurnia.

"That's hardly a suitable way to greet a man who's back from the dead."

"But this is… unbelievable!"

"What's unbelievable is the manner in which you've conducted this so-called investigation into my death. Really, Gordianus, I had no idea you were capable of such incompetence. You're too old for this sort of thing. Time to pass the baton to that eager daughter of yours."

"Don't speak of Diana!"

"She's a beautiful girl, isn't she? And smart! Not like that husband of hers; poor Davus has a brick between his ears. But he's strong enough. They'll make a good team. He can go along and protect her when she sticks her nose into other people's business, the way young Rupa's been protecting you." He craned his long neck and peered around. "Where has Rupa got to, anyway? And where is Diana, for that matter?"