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.
XXI
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?"
"Stop this talk!" I whispered. I glanced at Calpurnia, who was wringing her hands and muttering to herself.
"The poor woman's at her wits' end." Hieronymus clucked his tongue. "Married to the most powerful man in the world, and not able to enjoy a moment of it. Listening to soothsayers, crying on her uncle's shoulder, and hiring the likes of me to uncover the truth for her. Mind you, I did uncover the truth, and all on my own-which is more than I can say for you, Gordianus."
"If you found the truth, then why isn't it anywhere in your writings?"
"Didn't you read that passage in my journal? 'But I could be wrong. Consequences of a false accusation-unthinkable! Must be certain. Until then, not a word in any of my official reports to the lady and her soothsayer.' Well, as it turned out, my suspicion was correct." He sighed. "Which is why this happened."
I looked at him again, and saw a huge bloodstain on his breast, above his heart. His flesh had turned as pale as ivory, but his expression was as sardonic as ever. He saw my consternation, and laughed.
"But who did this to you, Hieronymus?"
"That is what you were supposed to find out, Gordianus!" He rolled his eyes.
I was stung by his sarcasm. "Help me!" I pleaded.
"I've already given you all the information you need."
"Nonsense! The material you left behind was worthless. Worse than worthless, because there was so much of it. Report after report, all written in that thorny, cryptic prose-nothing but words and more words, and nothing of substance for me to grasp!"
"Calm yourself, Gordianus. Emotion will lead you nowhere. Think!"
"You're not Hieronymus. You're a daemon, an evil spirit come to taunt me."
"No, Gordianus, I am Hieronymus-or at least, I'm the sum of all you ever knew about Hieronymus. All we can know of another human being is the image before our eyes and the voice in our ears. What you see and hear now, beside you, is as much as you ever knew of Hieronymus, as real as the man himself. Here I am!"