The Triumph of Caesar by Steven Saylor Read Free Book Online

Cytheris have done their share to empty the amphorae, but they've had plenty of help from every thirsty actor, dancer, street mime, and juggler in Rome. (Cytheris knows everyone connected to the theater.) She has told me I have a splendid voice for declaiming Greek, and says I should have gone on the stage.
    I laughed out loud at this sudden intrusion of Hieronymus's vanity into his report. It seemed that my friend had not only managed to get himself invited into Antony's house but also had won plaudits from Cytheris. I could easily imagine him reciting a racy bit of Aristophanes at one of the couple's raucous gatherings, after warming his throat with a draft from the dwindling store of Pompey's fine vintages.
    I quickly scanned the rest of the material about Antony. The details seemed to be as much about the spy as about the spied upon—Hieronymus reported that one of his puns had made Antony laugh so hard he spat out a mouthful of wine, and recounted at length a verbal duel in which he got the better of a faded actor with rouged cheeks. I grew weary of the ornate prose and found the documents increasingly difficult to read. It seemed to me Hieronymus was intentionally filling space to pad reports that had contained very little actual information. He would not be the first confidential informant to pull such a trick. As long as Calpurnia kept paying (and Antony kept inviting him back), why not stretch out the accounts as much as possible, even if he had nothing of importance to report?
    I wondered if his private journal had been as prolix. I set aside the material about Antony and picked up the scraps of parchment I had found in Hieronymus's apartment.
    I saw at once that the prose was indeed different—it was entirely in Greek, with some passages succinct to the point of abbreviation, like the shorthand code invented by Cicero's secretary, Tiro.
    I saw my own name and stopped to read the passage.
Beginning to think dear old Gordianus was a bit of a puffed-up charlatan. This "finder" business not remotely as difficult, or as dangerous, as he always made it out to be. The tales he used to tell, portraying himself as the fearless hero on a relentless quest for the truth! Half of those stories were probably made up. Still, if he's truly dead, as people say, I shall miss the old windbag. . . .
    My face turned hot. If the lemur of Hieronymus was present, watching me, what would he say now about the danger of this sort of work?
    I shuffled through the notes, looking for other mentions of my name, but instead I found this:
At last, I have hit upon it! Calpurnia's fears, which I had begun to think absurd, may be well-founded, after all—and the menace to Caesar will come at a time and from a direction we did not anticipate. 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. I dare not write my supposition even here; what if this journal were to be discovered? Must keep it hidden. But what if I am silenced? To any seeker who finds these words and would unlock the truth, I shall leave a key. Look all around! The truth is not found in the words, but the words may be found in the truth.
    An icy chill swept through me. Apparently Hieronymus had discovered something of deadly importance, after all. But what?
    It appeared he had even foreseen his death and anticipated the discovery of his journal. But what was the key he spoke of—a real key or a metaphorical one? "Look all around!" he wrote, yet I had searched every corner of his rooms and found no key, nor anything else of obvious significance. "The truth is not found in the words, but the words may be found in the truth." More of his irritating, self-indulgent wordplay!
    Mopsus appeared in the garden to announce that dinner was ready. I put aside the scraps of parchment and rose from my chair, glad to feel the warmth of the last rays of the sun on my face.

IV
    I