Months ago, the gates had been closed to Caesar. They had remained barred ever since. Now, with a great deal of creaking, they slowly swung outward until they stood wide open. Around me I heard sighs and weeping. The breaching of the wall had been an unimaginable disaster, but for the gates to be opened to the enemy was a disaster of even greater magnitude. Massilia had not merely been bested; the proud city that had stood independent for five hundred years had now surrendered herself to a conqueror.
Roman soldiers marched through the gates. No one could have been surprised, yet the crowd still gave a collective shudder and a gasp. There were scattered screams. Men and women fainted.
The first Romans to pass through the gates fell out of rank and took the places of the Massilian soldiers lining that end of the cordon; the Massilians threw down their spears and tramped out of the gates, giving themselves up. The next rank of marching Romans took the places of the Massilians farther up the cordon, and so on. This ceremonial replacement continued in an orderly fashion until not a Massilian soldier was left. Romans now made up the cordon that held back the crowd, and the broad passage from the gateway to the center of the square was littered with discarded spears.
There was another blast from the trumpets. Trebonius came riding in on horseback, accompanied by his officers. Among them I recognized the engineer Vitruvius, who kept looking over his shoulder and peering at the breach in the wall, more interested in Massilia's failed ramparts than in her conquered people.
A few people cheered halfheartedly. Their uncertainty prompted scattered laughter. The mood of the crowd was tense. Trebonius scowled.
If the gates of Massilia seemed an overwrought theatrical facade, then Caesar's arrival was like that of a deus ex machina. Had he been lifted down from the sky by a crane, literally like a god at the climax of a drama, the effect on the crowd could hardly have been more stunning. A white charger cantered through the gates, and upon it sat a figure wearing a golden breastplate that gleamed in the sunlight. His bright crimson cape was thrown behind him. His balding head was bare and his red-crested helmet was tucked under one arm, as if to demonstrate that he was unafraid to show his face to men and gods alike; for though the gods might have turned a blind eye to Massilia in the preceding months, who could doubt that they were watching now?
Caesar reached the clearing at the center of the marketplace, then slowly turned his charger in a full circle, surveying the crowd. In the utter silence, the clatter of the charger's hooves against the paving stones echoed loudly.
Davus and I had worked our way through the crowd to a place just outside the cordon of soldiers at the center, close enough to see Caesar's face clearly. His lips were tightly pressed together, not quite smiling. His bright eyes were wide open. His long chin, high cheekbones, and balding pate (about which, according to Meto, he was so sensitive) gave him an austere, ascetic appearance. Somehow he managed to look both grim and pleased at the same time. It was an appropriate expression for the god to wear at the end of a drama, when he appears from nowhere to pronounce the judgment of heaven and restore order to chaos.
Caesar spoke at what seemed to be a normal, almost conversational pitch, but from long training in the Forum and on the battlefield his voice reached every corner of the market square. "People of Massilia," he began, "for many years we were the best of friends, you and I. Just as Massilia has ever been the ally of Rome, so you were my ally. Yet when I came to you some months ago, you shut your gates to me. You severed all ties to me. You pledged your allegiance to another.
"Today, you see the fruits of that decision. Your harbor is desolate. Your fathers and mothers are sick from pestilence. Your children weep from hunger. Your walls have fallen and your gates stand open against your will. When I asked for it, had you given me your friendship and your support, I would have rewarded you generously; my arrival today would be an occasion of mutual thanksgiving. Instead, it has come to this. I must take what I require, and my terms will not be those of an ally with an ally.
"When I last passed by, my situation was uncertain. Ahead, I faced the prospect of a long campaign in Spain. Behind me, in my absence, I had no assurance that events in Rome would unfold to my liking. The circumstances were such that you might have negotiated with me to your advantage; oh, yes, I know how you Massilians love to drive a hard bargain! Whatever agreements I might have made with you then, I would have honored, upon my dignity as a Roman. But it was not to be; you closed your gates to me and declared yourself my enemy. "Now, upon my return, the circumstances are quite different. The forces that opposed me in Spain have been vanquished. From the East comes word that Pompey and his misguided supporters are more confused and paralyzed with uncertainty than ever. And upon my arrival in camp this morning, extraordinary news arrived simultaneously by messenger from Rome. To deal with the current crisis, the Senate has voted to appoint a dictator. I am honored to say that the praetor Marcus Lepidus has nominated me for that distinguished post, and upon my return to Rome, I intend to accept the people's mandate to restore order to the city and her provinces.
"What, then, shall I do about Massilia? When you might have welcomed me, you spurned me; more than that, you harbored my enemies and declared me your foe. When your walls were breached, my general Trebonius respected your flag of parley and restrained his men from storming the city-yet you dared to send an incendiary force against my siegeworks! A more vengeful man than myself might seize upon this occasion to make an example of such a treacherous city. If Massilia were to meet the same terrible fate as Troy or Carthage, who would dare to argue that I had dealt with her unjustly?
"But I am not a vengeful man, and I see cause for mercy. At the last moment, the leaders of your city saw reason. They ordered your soldiers to lay down their arms. They opened the gates to me. They have put in my hand the key to your treasury, so that Massilia may contribute her full share to my campaign to restore order. I see no reason why Massilia and Rome cannot once again be friends, although that friendship from now on must necessarily be on terms very different than before. When I leave for Rome, as I must do almost at once, I shall leave behind a garrison of two legions to make certain that the order I have established here will prevail.
"I have made up my mind, then, to show mercy to Massilia. I made this decision not in return for services rendered, however belatedly, and certainly not out of respect for those misguided leaders who delivered Massilia to this sorry pass. No, I was swayed to show mercy because of the deep and abiding veneration I feel for the ancient fame of this city. That which Artemis has protected for five hundred years, I will not obliterate in a moment. On this day, Massilia might have been destroyed. Instead, she shall be reborn."
Where the cheering started from, I couldn't tell. I suspected it originated with a cue from Trebonius to the cordon of Roman soldiers, and was then gradually picked up by the crowd, who at first murmured uncertain acclamations, then cried out more and more unrestrainedly. Caesar had, after all, spared them from death. They and their children would live. The future of Massilia-a vassal now to Rome-would not be what they had expected and hoped for, but for the simple fact that Massilia had a future, they were thankful. The long struggle was over; and if nothing else, they had survived. For that, they cheered, louder and louder, more and more wildly.
Perhaps, I thought grimly, the scapegoat's sacrifice had worked after all, even despite his apparent last-minute change of heart. Massilia had been spared.
As the cheering went on arid grew even louder, a slight commotion nearby indicated that a procession of some sort was making its way through the crowd, toward Caesar. I craned my neck in the direction of the movement and saw, bobbing above the crowd, a golden eagle with red pennants streaming behind. It was the eagle standard of Catilina.
Caesar saw the procession approaching and beckoned to the soldiers to make an opening. The standard entered the clearing, borne aloft, as I knew it would be, by Meto. My son was dressed now in his finest battle armor. He smiled broadly an
d gazed up at Caesar with unabashed adoration.
Caesar's face remained stern, but his eyes glittered as he looked upon the eagle standard. He glanced down only briefly to acknowledge Meto's worshipful gaze.
The others in the little procession did not enter the clearing but stood at its edge, outside the cordon of soldiers. Among them I saw Gaius Verres, who crossed his arms and tilted his head at a rakish angle, smiling smugly. Beside Verres I saw Publicius and Minucius and a great many other men in togas, whom I took to be their fellow Catilinarians in exile. At the sight of Caesar extending his hand to accept the eagle standard from Meto, they practically swooned. They threw their arms in the air, cried out, dropped to their knees, and wept with joy.
Wanting a better look at Meto, I had gradually drawn closer to the clearing until, like the Catilinarians, I stood just outside the cordon of soldiers. It was not Meto who noticed me-his gaze was for Caesar only-but the imperator himself. When Caesar at last took his eyes from the eagle to survey the cheering crowd, his gaze came to rest on me. We had met only a few times and always briefly, yet he recognized me at once. His lips curved almost into a smile. When he leaned over to hand his helmet to Meto, I saw him speak into Meto's ear.
Meto stepped back. Looking dazed, he peered in my direction. It took him a moment to find me. When he did, he stepped toward the cordon and told the soldiers to let me through. The soldiers looked to Caesar, who discreetly nodded.
I stepped reluctantly into the clearing. Before me, Caesar sat astride his white charger, holding aloft the eagle standard that had once belonged to Marius. What did this moment mean to him? Now Caesar was conqueror of Gaul and Spain; now he had transcended even his mentor, for Marius had never become dictator of Rome. Nearby, the acclamations of the Catilinarians had become even wilder and more ecstatic. Here at the very center of the uproar, the cheering of the crowd was thunderous.
A curious revelation had come to me when I decided to enter
Massilia by tunnel: with age I seemed to have grown not less impulsive, but more so, not more cautious, but less. Was it because, from accumulated experience, I no longer needed to tortuously think a thing through before I acted? Or had I simply lost all patience with slow reason and fearsome hesitation, and come full circle to act as a child acts-as gods act-from pure, spontaneous willfulness?
I had not planned beforehand to do what I did in that clearing. I had not even imagined such a moment.
Meto stepped toward me. He was holding Caesar's helmet with one hand. With the other he was stroking the red horsehair plume, as one might stroke a cat. He grinned, shook his head, and raised his eyebrows. "It's all a bit overwhelming, isn't it, Papa?"
I simply stared at him, resisting a sudden impulse to knock the helmet from his hand.
"Papa, when all this is over… when I finally come home-"
"Home, Meto? Where is that?" I found myself shouting, simply to be heard. My heart pounded in my chest.
He wrinkled his brow. "Your house in Rome, of course."
"No! My home is not your home, Meto. Not now. Not ever again."
He laughed nervously. "Papa, what in Hades are you-?"
" `When all this is over,' you say. And when will that be, Meto? Never! And why should you want it to be over? You thrive on it! Trickery, lying, betrayals-for you, they're not means to some glorious end. They're an end in themselves."
"Papa, I'm not sure-"
"First you became a soldier, and you thrived on it, killing Gauls for the glory of Caesar. Burning villages, enslaving children, leaving widows to starve-it always sickened me, though I never spoke against it. Now you've found a new calling, spying for Caesar, destroying others by deceit. It sickens me even more." I had raised my voice so much that even Caesar overheard. Atop his charger, he glanced down at the two of us with a puzzled frown. Meto's face was ashen.
"Papa, I don't understand."
"Nor do I. Is this how I raised you? Did I pass nothing of myself on to you?"
"But, Papa, I learned everything from you."
"No! What matters most to me? Uncovering the truth! I do it even when there's no point to it, even when it brings only pain. I do it because I must. But you, Meto? What does truth mean to you? You can't abide it, any more than I can abide deceit! We're complete opposites. No wonder you've found your place at the side of a man like Caesar."
Meto lowered his voice. "Papa, we'll talk about this later."
"There is no later! This is our last conversation, Meto."
"Papa, you're upset because I… I wasn't as forthcoming… as I might have been."
"Don't talk to me like a politician! You deceived me. First, you let me believe that you were part of a plot to kill Caesar-"
"That was regrettable, Papa, but I had no choice-"
"Then you flaunted your disguise as the soothsayer in my face! You let me think that you were dead!"
Meto trembled. "When this is over… when we're able to talk-"
"No! Never again!"
"But, Papa, I'm your son!"
"No, you are not." Speaking the words made me feel cold and hollow inside, but I couldn't stop them from spilling out. "From this moment, you are not my son, Meto. I disown you. Here, before your beloved imperator-excuse me, your dictator-I disown you. I renounce all concern for you. I take back from you my name. If you need a father, let Caesar adopt you!"
Meto looked as if he had been struck in the forehead with a mallet. If I had wished merely to stun him, I had succeeded. But the look on his face gave me no pleasure; I couldn't stand to look at him. Caesar, knowing that something was wrong, called to Meto to come to him, but Meto stood unmoving and unheeding.
The crowd continued to cheer. The cheering had taken on a life of its own; people cheered simply for the sake of cheering, as a means to let out all the pent-up emotions inside them. The sound they made was like a roaring waterfall that showed no signs of running dry.
I pushed my way past the soldiers and through the mass of jubilant Catilinarians. Verres threw back his head, laughing. Publicius and Minucius attempted to seize me and swing me about in a joyful dance, but I pulled free and plunged blindly into the crowd. Davus was nearby; I did not see him but sensed his presence, knew that he was staying close to me but keeping out of my way, wondering, no doubt, what in Hades had just happened. How often had I silently ridiculed Davus for his guilelessness and his simple nature? Yet at that moment, how much more like a son he felt to me than the man I was leaving behind!
XXVI
"Go ahead, say it. You think I made a terrible mistake, don't you?"
Davus frowned but said nothing. We stood side by side at the ship's rail, looking back at Massilia as it dwindled in the distance. Viewed from the sea, the narrow city within its high walls looked cramped and tiny.
Salt spray stung my nostrils. Gulls followed close behind us, flapping their wings and cawing shrilly. Sailors called back and forth as they lifted oars and hoisted sail. As we threaded a course between the rugged headlands and the islands offshore, Massilia disappeared from view.
The ship was one of the three that Domitius had held in reserve for his escape. Driven by the storm, Domitius himself-always the rabbit eluding the trap-had succeeded in slipping past the blockade, but his two companion ships had been turned back. Now they were Caesar's ships. This one Caesar was dispatching back to Rome, loaded with treasure and with lieutenants charged with making preparations for his triumphant return.
It was Trebonius who approached me and offered places for Davus and me on the first ship out. It seemed that Caesar's bountiful generosity extended even to me, despite my actions in the market square. Perhaps Caesar was fulfilling, a promise to Meto to see me safely home. More likely, he simply wanted to get me out of the way as quickly as possible, before my unwanted presence could dampen even further the morale of one of his most valued men.
I saw no reason not to accept. The sooner I could leave Massilia, the better, and I had no desire to retrace the long, landward rou
te back to Rome, especially if it meant sharing the road with Caesar's legions.
What would become of the proud city now? One thing was certain: Massilia would never be independent again. What Rome takes, she keeps; freedom is a gift she never gives back. The Timouchoi would be reduced to a mere ceremonial body or disbanded altogether; all power now would come from Rome and Rome's dictator. I could easily imagine Zeno presiding over the city as Caesar's puppet, obediently taking orders from a Roman governor.
As for the Roman exiles in Massilia, Caesar, exercising a dictator's largesse, had pardoned them wholesale. Publicius and Minucius and their fellows would be going back to Rome. But Caesar had specified two notable exceptions. Despite his guardianship of the eagle standard, Verres would remain in exile. So would Milo.
I sighed, and hefted the heavy, bulging purse tied at my waist. If nothing else, I was leaving Massilia a richer man than I had arrived. Even as I was boarding the ship, Arausio had sought me out and had insisted on paying me generously for my efforts to discover the truth about his daughter. Rindel was safely back in her father's house. Apollonides had released her and her parents just as he had allowed Davus and me to go free. The final scene on the Sacrifice Rock had posed yet another puzzle: Did Apollonides intend to revenge himself on Rindel, and had he been prevented only because Hieronymus pulled him, unwilling, to his death? Or did Apollonides intentionally throw himself from the rock, and before his suicide, had he made up his mind to be merciful to Rindel? Having lost his own daughter, perhaps he had no desire to inflict the same grief on Arausio.
For the time being, Rindel was locked in her room, where she would remain, Arausio declared, no matter how much she wept and tore her hair, declaring her love for Zeno. "What grief our children cause us!" he had muttered as he left me. I had not contradicted him.
Apollonides had lost his Cydimache. Arausio had lost his Rindel, and then, to his delight and consternation, had found her again. I had lost Meto, found him, and lost him again forever. I had acted rightly, I told myself. What I did, I had to do. Why, then, did I feel a nagging doubt? I professed to hate all deceit. Was I deceiving myself?
Last seen in Massilia rsr-8 Page 24
