I had met and had dealings with both Pompey and Caesar, as well as many of their confederates. I had seen them at their best and their worst. The idea that Rome's fate must inevitably fall into the hands of one or the other-that either Caesar or Pompey would ultimately become a king or something very close to it-filled me with dread. I attached no sentimentality to the old way of doing things, to the doddering, mean-spirited, greedy, frequently stupid maneuverings of the Roman Senate and the unruly republic over which they presided. But of one thing I was certain: Roman citizens were not born to serve a king-at least, not Roman citizens of my generation. The men of the younger generation seemed to have other ideas…

My thoughts had led me, as they often did in those days, to Meto.

It was for Meto that I had gone to Massilia the previous year, seeking news of my adopted son's fate; an anonymous message had informed me of his death in that city while spying for Caesar. How Meto loved Caesar, whom he had served for many years in Gaul! Having been born a slave, Meto could never become an officer like Caesar's other lieutenants, but he had become indispensable to his imperator nonetheless, serving him as a private secretary, transcribing his memoirs, sharing his quarters-sharing his bed, some said. In Massilia, I had found Meto alive, after all; but the play of events had so disgusted me that I turned my back on Meto, and on Caesar. I had spoken words that could never be taken back. I had publicly disowned Meto and declared that he was no longer my son.

Where was Meto now? Since that fateful parting in Massilia, I had heard no news of him. I assumed that he remained by Caesar's side, that he had returned with him to Rome, then followed him to Brundisium for the attempted crossing of the Adriatic.