Meto suddenly pulled back. Tiro had taken a step closer, and Meto seemed to notice him for the first time. "Is this man with you, Papa?"
"Yes."
"One of your slaves? I don't know him."
"Let me explain-"
"Wait a moment…" Meto stared hard at Tiro. "By Hercules, it's-"
At that moment I felt a slap on my shoulder, and gave such a start I thought my heart had bounded from my chest. It was Antony.
"Here they are, father and son, off whispering and conspiring among themselves," he said.
I blinked. Beside Antony I saw a blur of gold and crimson, surmounted by the serene countenance of Julius Caesar.
"Gordianus! When did we last meet? In Ravenna, I think. You were investigating the murder of our friend Publius Clodius. You were then in the employ of Pompey, as I recall."
He always remembered me, which always surprised me, since he knew me chiefly as Meto's father and the two of us had never had a conversation of real significance. Meto had told me that Caesar's memory for names and faces was part of his charm. He could meet a foot soldier in the heat of battle, exchange no more than a few words, and years later greet the man by name and ask for news from his hometown.
"Imperator," I said, with a deferential nod.
"The slave with him is an old tutor of Meto's," explained Antony.
Meto raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
Caesar glanced past my shoulder at Tiro. I held my breath. His expression registered no change. His eyes reconnected with mine. He raised an eyebrow. "I hope you're not still in the employ of Pompey, Gordianus. Antony tells me that you've been traveling on a diplomatic passport signed by the Great One himself."
I took a deep breath. "That document came to me by way of Cicero, not directly from Pompey. Despite appearances, Imperator, I assure you that the Great One and I are hardly even on speaking terms."
Caesar flashed a wry smile. "That rather describes my own relationship with Pompey at the moment. You're an intrepid man, Gordianus, to have journeyed all this way, and a good father, if you did it to inquire after Meto. But I assure you, I take good care of him. He's as dear to me as he is to you. I suggest you return now to the lookout where you camped last night, out of harm's way. Observe developments from a safe distance. This could turn out to be a very interesting day. In particular, watch the rooftops of the city."
"The rooftops, Imperator?"
"The citizens of Brundisium are angry at the way they've been treated by Pompey's troops. Pompey never did learn to discipline his men properly. As a result, there are townspeople quite willing, even eager, to let us know when Pompey begins his nautical retreat. They will signal us from the rooftops. That will be the moment we strike. There's nothing harder to manage than a tactical withdrawal from a besieged city, even by ship. When he turns his back and begins to flee, that will be the moment of Pompey's greatest vulnerability. The gods willing, he shall not escape me."
I nodded and felt a trickle of sweat run down my spine, feeling the presence of Tiro close behind me, listening to every word. In his enthusiasm, Caesar himself was telling me secrets, treating me with complete trust, while a spy I had brought into his tent stood close enough to touch him. I felt lightheaded, as I had at the end of the forced march down the mountain when I fainted at Antony's feet.
"Are you well, Gordianus?" said Caesar. "Take a day of rest. But no rest for me! The signal to attack may come at any moment. Come, Antony. Meto, bring your stylus and wax tablets."
I cleared my throat. "Perhaps, Imperator, my son might stay behind for just a moment. I've come a long way to see him. We've barely had time to talk-"
"Not today, Gordianus." Caesar smiled at Meto and put his arm around him, then reached up to tug at his earlobe affectionately. I thought I saw Meto stiffen at the man's touch. Caesar seemed not to notice. "Today, your son is mine, every hour, every minute. My eyes and my ears, my witness, my memory. He must see all, hear all, record everything. Later, there'll be time to talk. Come, Meto." He slipped his arm from Meto's shoulder.
The tent rapidly began to empty, like a swarm leaving the hive. Meto followed Caesar for a few steps, then hung back. He looked over his shoulder at Tiro, then at me. He frowned. "Papa, what's going on?"
"I wanted to ask you the same question," I said.
"Meto, come on!" Antony barked.
My son gave me a last, cryptic look, then departed with the rest. I wished I had given him one more embrace.
• • •
"I suppose you're quite pleased with yourself," I said to Tiro. Along with Fortex, we were making our second circuit of the camp on horseback. Tiro was all eyes and ears, taking in every detail.
As we had left Caesar's tent, one of his aides handed me a copper disk stamped with an image of Venus. The man told me I could show it as a passport to anyone who questioned us. The disk signified that I was a guest of the imperator himself, allowed to come and go and move freely about the camp, as long as I stayed out of the way. The disk was even good for obtaining rations at the mess tent.
Had it been up to me, we would have spent no more time in the camp than it took to leave it. I was eager to get into Brundisium. Once Pompey began his nautical retreat and the siege commenced, everything would be in chaos. Any hope of finding Davus could slip away in an instant. I wanted to know Tiro's plan. But Tiro insisted on taking full advantage of Caesar's hospitality first. "You traveled on Pompey's passport," he said with a smile. "Now I shall travel a bit on Caesar's."
"Tiro, we must get inside the walls, quickly."
"Indulge me, Gordianus. Today is Liberalia, you know!"
"I should like to indulge you by sitting you down on one of those giant phalli the priests of Dionysus carry."
Fortex yelped at the idea. Tiro hooted. He was in high spirits, almost giddy. Why not? He had carried off his charade with spectacular success. He had slipped through Antony's hands unscathed, slipped in and out of Caesar's tent undetected, and had even garnered valuable information from the lips of the imperator himself. Now he was skimming a last bit of intelligence, observing the numbers and dispositions of Caesar's troops and siege machines.
After some morning cloudiness, the sky had cleared. An offshore wind was rising. It was a perfect day for sailing. At any moment Pompey might begin his retreat. The transport ships might be loading at that very moment. "What will be the use of all this information you're gathering, Tiro, if we wait too long to get into Brundisium? Pompey may leave without you- or he may become trapped, for lack of what you might have told him."
"You're right, Gordianus, we must be getting on. But first, something to quiet the rumbling in my belly. Who knows what sort of rations Pompey's troops have been reduced to inside the city? I suggest we eat at Caesar's expense, and slip into Brundisium with full stomachs."
"Where's the mess tent, then?" I grumbled.
"Three up and two over." Tiro had memorized the layout of the camp.
We were given steaming millet porridge sweetened with a dollop of honey. I even found a few raisins in my portion. Fortex grumbled at the lack of any meat.
"Meto tells me that a soldier fights best with grain in his belly," I said. "Too much beef bloats a man, makes him sluggish, turns his bowels to mud. Once, in Gaul, Caesar's troops ran out of grain. For days on end they had nothing to eat but cattle requisitioned from the natives. They hated it, to the point of becoming mutinous. They demanded their porridge!"
"Your son must be a remarkable person," said Tiro.
"Why do you say that?"
"Meto was born a slave, wasn't he?"
"So were you, Tiro."
"Yes, but I was educated and groomed to be Cicero's companion from early on. I had the life of a scribe. There's room for a slave to prove himself in that kind of position, to show off his natural talents and rise in the world. But Meto was born a slave to Marcus Crassus, wasn't he? A bad man to have for a master. Crassus may have been the richest man in the world, but he never knew the true value of anything."