"It was rather more complicated than that, Meto. Did Davus not tell you the name of Pompey's murdered kinsman?"
"No."
"It was a young man named Numerius Pompeius." Even in the dim light, I saw the tension that creased Meto's face. "Does that name mean something to you?"
"Perhaps."
The tavernkeeper brought two cups of wine and a pitcher of water.
"Meto, on the day before Pompey fled Rome, Numerius came to my house. He showed me a document, a kind of pact, written in your hand- in your style, for that matter- signed by yourself and a few others. You must know what I'm talking about."
Meto ran a fingertip around the rim of his cup. "Numerius had this document?"
"Yes."
"What became of it?"
"I burned it."
"But how-?"
"I took it from him. He tried to blackmail me, Meto. He threatened to send the document to Caesar. To expose your part in plotting Caesar's assassination."
Meto turned his face so that a shadow fell across his eyes, but I could see the hard line of his mouth, and the scar he had received at Pistoria. "And Numerius was murdered?"
"He never left my house alive."
"You-"
"I did it for you, Meto."
His shoulders slumped. He shifted uneasily. He picked up his cup and drained it. He shook his head. "Papa, I never imagined-"
"Numerius told me he had other documents, equally compromising, also in your handwriting. Could that be true? Were there other such documents?"
"Papa-"
"Answer me."
He wiped his mouth. "Yes."
"Meto, Meto! How in Hades could you have been so careless, to let such documents fall into the hands of such a man? Numerius told me he hid them somewhere. I searched- I wanted to destroy them- but I never found them." I sighed. "What became of the plot, Meto? Did the others lose their nerve? I know you didn't; you're anything but a coward. Did it become impossible to carry out? Are you still planning to do it? Or have you had a change of heart?"
He didn't answer.
"Why did you turn against him after all these years, Meto? Did you finally see him for what he is? Men like Caesar and Pompey- they're not heroes, Meto. They're monsters. They call their greed and ambition 'honor,' and to satisfy their so-called honor they'll tear the world apart." I grunted. "But who am I to judge them? Every man does what he must, to protect his share of the world. What's the difference between killing whole villages and armies, and killing a single man? Caesar's reasons and mine are different only in degree. The consequences and the suffering still spread to the innocent."
"Papa…"
"Perhaps you became too close to him, Meto. Intimacy can turn to bitterness. People say that you and he… Did he slight you in some way? Was that the break between you- a falling-out between lovers?"
"Papa, it isn't what you think."
"Then tell me."
He shook his head. "I can't explain."
"It doesn't matter. What matters is this: as long as Caesar remains alive, and those documents still exist somewhere, you're in terrible danger. Should they ever be discovered and brought to his attention-"
"Papa, what happened on Pompey's ship, in the harbor at Brundisium?"
"It was as Davus told you. I took his place by telling Pompey that I knew who killed Numerius. As we were about to run the gauntlet, Pompey demanded that I tell him then and there. So I did. I told him everything. He was like a raging animal. I went aboard his ship never expecting to leave alive, Meto. But I leaped overboard and somehow survived, and Davus found me the next day."
"Thank the gods for that, Papa!" He took a long breath. "You say that you told Pompey everything. Did you tell him about the plot to kill Caesar?"
"Yes."
"And about my part in it?"
"Yes."
"Did he believe you?"
"Not at first. But in the end, yes."
Meto fell silent for a long moment. "You must believe, Papa, that I never intended for you to be drawn into this." He turned toward me. Lamplight illuminated his eyes. The look on his face was so miserable that I reached for his hand and covered it with mine.
He allowed the touch for a moment, then abruptly stood up. "Papa, I have to go."
"Now? But Meto-"
His eyes glimmered brightly. "Papa, whatever happens, don't be ashamed of me. Forgive me."
"Meto!"
He turned and left, bumping blindly against the maze of benches. His silhouette reached the foyer and vanished.
What had I expected from our meeting? More than this. Meto had told me nothing. He was trying to protect me, of course, as I had tried to protect him. I was left with the same unanswered questions and blind conjectures that had been spinning in my head for months.
I had not yet touched my wine. I reached for the cup and drank slowly, gazing into the dark corners of the room. The murkiness that had unnerved me when I entered the tavern I now found comforting.
The tavernkeeper ambled over with a pitcher. "More wine?"
"Why not?"
He refilled the cup and ambled off. I sat and drank and thought. What would become of Meto? What would become of Caesar? And Pompey, and Cicero, and Tiro? And Maecia, and Aemilia…?
The warmth of the wine spread through me. I found myself staring at one of the uncertain silhouettes across the room and imagining that it was the lemur of Numerius Pompeius. The fantasy became so powerful that I could almost feel him staring back at me. I felt no fear. Instead, I thought what a fine thing it would be if I could wave him over and invite him to share a cup, if lemures drink. What would I ask him? That was obvious. Had he lived, would he have married Aemilia after all, despite the fact that Pompey had plans for him to marry someone else? Or would he have spurned her, dooming the unborn child as surely as his death had doomed it?
And of course, I would ask him where in Hades he had hidden the other documents.
Where in Hades- indeed! I laughed a bit tipsily at the notion. I had eaten no breakfast that morning, and like Meto, I wasn't used to drinking in the middle of the day.
My thoughts wandered aimlessly, thanks to the wine. Thanks, I thought, to Dionysus, the god of wine, looser of loins, emancipator of minds, liberator of tongues. Even slaves could speak freely on the Liberalia, the day of Dionysus, because the sacred power of wine transcended all earthly shackles. Through wine, Dionysus illuminated the minds of men as could no other god, not even Minerva. So it was, there in the Salacious Tavern, that Dionysus gave me wisdom. How else to explain the chain of thoughts that led me to the thing I sought?
Something Tiro had said about Numerius popped into my head. In the very spot where I sat, Numerius had boasted to Tiro of certain documents he had come by, the evidence of the plot to assassinate Caesar. The sheer danger of possessing them and the lucrative possibilities for blackmail had exhilarated him. He had told Tiro, "I'm sitting on something enormous."
Where were those documents?
Numerius's mother had searched the family house. I had searched his secret love nest. Numerius must have had some other hiding place for the documents.
"I'm sitting on something enormous." Numerius had been drunk when he made that boast to Tiro. Perhaps only a man equally drunk could see that he meant exactly what he said.
With my fingers, I examined the bench beneath me. The seat was worn smooth from long use, the boards seamlessly joined. I leaned forward, reached between my legs and rapped my knuckles against the boards which formed the upright. The bench sounded hollow.