The Triumph of Caesar Read Free Page B

information could Hieronymus possibly have obtained for you? He was an outsider, a foreigner. He spoke with a Greek accent. He could never pass as a citizen."
    "He had no need to be anything other than himself," said Calpurnia. "His notoriety opened doors."
    "Notoriety? The man shunned society."
    "Perhaps, but society did not shun him. Everyone in Rome had heard of the Scapegoat. And as Hieronymus quickly discovered, once he began making the rounds, there was hardly a household in Rome that wouldn't admit him if he paid a call. He was a curiosity, don't you see? Exotic, mysterious—the famous Scapegoat of Massilia, the sacrificial victim who was never sacrificed. In times such as these, a man who can cheat death is a man people want to meet. The superstitious hoped that some of his good fortune might rub off. The curious merely wanted to take a good look at him. And once he was admitted to a household, Hieronymus could be quite charming—"
    "Charming? He had a tongue like a viper!"
    "Amusing, then. Never at a loss for an epigram. Very erudite."
    This was true. As a child, before his father fell into ruin, Hieronymus had received an excellent education from his tutors. He could recite long passages from the Iliad and knew the Greek tragedies by heart. When he chose to show off his learning, it was usually to comic effect—an ironic rejoinder, a whimsical metaphor, an absurdly high-flown bit of poetry that deflated the self-importance of his listener.
    "I suppose Hieronymus was something of a character," I admitted, "and a good companion, when you got to know him. I can see how he might have been accepted in the households of your friends . . . and your enemies."
    I looked down at his face. It seemed his grimace had softened a bit. Was the rigor beginning to pass? I looked at his long, gangly limbs; at the pale, thin hair on his head; at the narrow strip of wispy beard that outlined his sharp chin. What a bitter irony, to survive a terrible fate in his native city, only to meet death in a such a manner—alone, in a dark alley, far from home.
    "Hieronymus, Hieronymus!" I whispered. "Who did this to you?"
    "We don't know who killed him," said Calpurnia quietly, "or why. It might have been any of the subjects on whom he's been delivering reports. Perhaps, Gordianus, if you were to read those reports and pursue the threads that Hieronymus was following, you might discover who killed him."
    I grunted. "And in the meantime, I'd be doing just as you wish—following in Hieronymus's footsteps and looking for threats to Caesar." How brazenly she played upon my sympathies to get what she wanted from me! "Why can't you deduce for yourself what Hieronymus discovered? You say he delivered reports. I presume you've read them. You must know what he was up to."
    Calpurnia shook her head. "Like all informants, Hieronymus was never entirely forthcoming. It's human nature to hold something back—for the next meeting, the next payment. Hieronymus was more . . . frustrating in that regard than most of my agents. I knew he wasn't telling me everything, but, given his unique potential, I decided to be patient with him. Perhaps if I had been less indulgent and more demanding, he might still be alive."
    "Or we might at least know who killed him," said Porsenna.
    I glared at the haruspex until he lowered his eyes.
    "Don't blame Porsenna," said Calpurnia. "No one recruited Hieronymus. He sought me out to offer his services."
    "And your soothsayer—the man who claims to see the future!—advised you to take him on. And now this: the end of Hieronymus." Tears filled my eyes. I refused to shed them while they watched. I averted my face. "Leave me alone with him," I whispered. After a pause, I heard the rustling of their clothing as they left the room.
    I touched the corpse's brow. The rigor had begun to release its grip. I straightened the fingers of the bloodstained hands that clutched his chest. I straightened his legs. I smoothed the grimace from