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Cicatrix, aren't you?"
    "Yes, Great One."
    "You shall stay here and watch this house for me."
    "Yes, Great One." Cicatrix gave me a surly look.
    "Gnaeus Pompey, please, no!" I whispered.
    "Yes, Gordianus. I insist."
    I looked at the stunned faces of Davus and Diana. I felt as if a great stone was on my chest. "Great One, your kinsman is dead. That such a thing happened in my home fills me with shame. But as you yourself said, he's only the first. Thousands may die. What does one murder mean, when all the laws are suspended?"
    "You ask questions, Finder. I want answers. Discover who murdered Numerius, and then we shall see about returning your son-in-law to you."
    •        •        •

    As the last of the sunlight retreated from the garden, so did Pompey's men, taking Davus with them and carrying the body of Numerius. Pompey left the device that had been used to strangle him with me, thinking it might be of some use in finding his killer. I could hardly stand to touch it.
    Diana wept. Bethesda emerged from the house and gave me an accusing look. Mopsus and Androcles followed after her with my grandson between them, all holding hands. At the sight of the ugly giant Pompey had left to take Davus's place, little Aulus burst into tears, pulled free and toddled frantically back into the house.

IV

    Cicero's house was only a short distance from my own, along the rim road of the Palatine Hill. Even on such a brief walk I would normally have taken Davus with me for protection, especially after dark. On this night, of all nights, I sorely missed him.
    All around me I felt the uneasiness of the city, like a sleeper in the throes of a nightmare. The rustling of many footsteps rose up from the Forum in the valley below. Torches, like tiny fireflies at such a distance, darted to and fro across the open squares. What were so many people doing out after dark? They were lighting votives in the temples, I thought, praying for peace ... making preparations for hasty departures ... banging on their bankers' locked doors ... buying up the last scraps of food and fuel in the market stalls. I rounded a corner, and the Capitoline Hill came into view. At its summit, great fires had been lit in the braziers before the Temple of Jupiter— watchfires to alert the people that an invading army was on the march.
    Two guards were stationed outside Cicero's door. They appeared supremely unimpressed by the approach of a gray-haired visitor without even a bodyguard to accompany him.
    My relations with Cicero were strained at best. I asked to see his private secretary, with whom I had always been on closer terms.
    The younger of the guards scratched his head. "Tiro? Never heard of him. No, wait— isn't that the one who died while the Master was on his way home from Cilicia?"
    The other guard, a fellow with a bristling beard, saw my alarm and laughed. "Pay no attention to this young idiot. He's been around only a few months, never even met Tiro, who isn't dead, just too sick to travel."
    "I don't understand. Is Tiro here or isn't he?"
    "He isn't."
    "Where is he?"
    The older guard looked thoughtful. "Now what is the name of that place? In Greece, close to the water ..."
    "What town in Greece isn't close to water?" I said.
    "This one starts with a P ..."
    "Piraeus?"
    "No ..."
    "Patrae?"
    "That's it! I was with the Master during his stint as governor of Cilicia, you see, and so was Tiro, of course. Last summer, we all started back to Rome. Took a slow, easy route. Along about November, Tiro fell sick and had to stay behind with one of the Master's friends in Patrae. The Master pushed on, and we got back to Rome this month, just in time to celebrate his birthday."
    "Cicero's birthday?"
    "Three days before the Nones of Januarius. Fifty-seven— same age as Pompey, they say."
    "What about Tiro?"
    "He and the Master write each other back and forth, but it's always the same. Never seems to get much worse, but never gets much better, either.