Last Seen in Massilia: A Novel of Ancient Rome

by Steven Saylor

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Apollonides has only one child, a daughter named Cydimache. Her ugliness is legendary. Well, she’s more than ugly; a monster, really. Hideous. Born with a cleft lip and her face all misshapen, like a lump of melted wax. Blind in one eye and has a hump on her back.”

  “Babies like that are usually exposed at birth,” I said. “Discreetly gotten rid of.”

  “Indeed. But Apollonides’s wife had already miscarried twice, and he was desperate to become a Timouchos, and for that he needed offspring. So he kept Cydimache and got himself elected to the next opening among the Timouchoi.”

  “He had no more children?”

  “No. Some say his wife’s labor with Cydimache left her barren. Others say that Apollonides himself was too afraid of fathering another monster. At any rate, his wife died a few years ago, and Apollonides never remarried. Despite her deformities, they say that Apollonides genuinely loves his daughter, as much as any father could.”

  “You’ve seen her?”

  “Apollonides doesn’t hide her away. She rarely goes out, but she dines with his guests. She hides her face with veils and rarely speaks. When she does, her voice is slurred, on account of her cleft lip I suppose. I did get a glimpse of her face once. I was crossing the garden of Apollonides’s house. Cydimache had paused at a rose bush. She’d pulled aside her veils to smell a bloom, and I surprised her. Her face was a sight to stop a man’s heart.”

  “Or break it, I should think.”

  “No, Finder. Beauty breaks a man’s heart, not ugliness!” Domitius laughed. “I’ll tell you this: The face of Cydimache is not a sight I ever care to see again. I don’t know which of us was more unnerved. The girl fled, and so did I.” He shook his head. “Who’d have thought such a creature would ever find a husband?”

  “She’s married?”

  “The wedding took place just before I arrived in Massilia. The young man’s name is Zeno. Quite a contrast to his wife; damned good-looking, in fact. Not that my taste runs to boys—although faced with a choice of Zeno or Cydimache…!” He laughed. “Some people claim it was a love match, but I think that’s just these Massilians’ sense of humor. Zeno comes from a modest but respectable family; he married her for money and position, of course. This is his means to become a Timouchos—if he can manage to get Cydimache with child.”

  “Apollonides was satisfied with the match?”

  “I don’t suppose many young men with prospects were lining up to woo the monster, not even to become the son-in-law of the First Timouchos.” Domitius shrugged. “The match seems to have worked. Zeno and Cydimache sit at Apollonides’s right hand every night at dinner. The young man treats her with great deference. Sometimes they talk in low voices and laugh quietly among themselves. If you didn’t know what was under the veils”—he made a face and shuddered—“you might think they were as lovestruck as any other pair of newlyweds.”

  A Gaulish slave girl with braided blond hair answered the door at Milo’s house. She was scantily clad even for such a warm night. Her Greek was poor and atrociously accented, but it was obvious she had not been purchased for her language skills. She giggled incessantly as she invited Domitius, Davus, and me into the foyer. The only light was the lamp she held in her hand; outside the scapegoat’s house, fuel, like food, was severely rationed in Massilia. The oil was of low quality. The rancid-smelling smoke at least helped to cover the odor of unwashed humanity that permeated the house. Instead of running to fetch her master, the girl simply turned and yelled for him.

  “I’d have expected a bodyguard to answer the door,” I muttered to Domitius under my breath. “I seem to recall that Milo took a large party of gladiators with him when he went into exile.”

  Domitius nodded. “He’s hired his gladiators out to the Massilians as mercenaries. Most of them, anyway; I suppose he kept one or two for bodyguards. They must be somewhere about, probably as drunk as their master. I’m afraid dear Milo has rather let himself go. It might have been different if Fausta had accompanied him into exile.” He referred to Milo’s wife, the daughter of the long-deceased dictator Sulla. “She would have insisted on keeping up social appearances at least. But Milo, on his own—”

  Domitius was interrupted by the appearance of the man himself, who shuffled into the foyer carrying a lamp in one hand and clutching a silver wine cup in the other, barefoot and wearing nothing but a loincloth.

  It had been three years since I had last seen Titus Annius Milo, during his trial in Rome for the murder of the rival gang-leader Clodius. Against Cicero’s advice, Milo had refused to observe the time-honored tradition that an accused man should appear unkempt and in rags before the court. His pride mattered more to Milo than pandering for sympathy. Defiant to the end, infuriating his enemies, he had appeared at his own trial meticulously groomed.

  His appearance had changed considerably since then. His hair and beard were grayer than I remembered and badly needed trimming. His eyes were bloodshot and his face bloated. He was even more scantily clad than the slave girl—his haphazardly arranged loincloth looked as if it might come undone at any moment—but not nearly as pretty to look at. His burly wrestler’s physique had lost its shape, like a clay sculpture gone soft from the heat. He needed a bath.

  “Lucius Domitius—dear old Redbeard himself! What an honor.” The wine on Milo’s breath overpowered even the rank smell of his body. He handed his lamp to the slave girl and slapped her on the rump. She giggled. “Hope you haven’t come around sniffing for supper. We finished our day’s rations before noon. We’re having to drink our supper, aren’t we, my dove?” The girl giggled madly. “But who are these fellows you’ve brought with you, Redbeard? I’m sure I don’t know the big one; handsome brute. But this graybeard—great Jupiter!” His eyes sparkled, and I saw a hint of the old, wily Milo. “It’s that hound who used to hunt for Cicero—when he wasn’t snapping at Cicero’s fingers. Gordianus the Finder! What in Hades are you doing in this godforsaken place?”

  “Gordianus has come in search of his son,” Domitius explained, his voice flat. “I told him that you were the man to talk to.”

  “His son? Oh, yes, you mean”—Milo hiccupped violently—“Meto.”

  “Yes. It appears that Gordianus received an anonymous communication, claiming to come from Massilia, informing him of Meto’s demise. He’s come all this way, even managed to get inside the city walls at great peril, because he wants to know the truth of the matter.”

  “The truth,” Milo said wearily. “The truth never did me a bit of good.”

  “About my son,” I asked impatiently, “what can you tell me?”

  “Meto. Yes, well…” Milo refused to meet my gaze. “A sad story. Very sad.”

  I was utterly exhausted, confused and disoriented, far from home. I had come to Massilia for one reason only, to discover Meto’s fate. Domitius had teased me, coyly indicating that Milo knew the answer; now Milo seemed unable to complete a sentence. “Proconsul,” I said to Domitius through gritted teeth, “why can’t you tell me yourself what’s become of Meto?”

  Domitius shrugged. “I thought Milo would want the privilege of telling you himself. He’s usually such a braggart—”

  “Damn you!” Milo threw his cup against the wall. Davus dodged the splashes. The slave girl emitted a noise between a shriek and a giggle. “This is indecent, Redbeard. Indecent! To bring the man’s father into my house, to taunt us both like this!”

  Domitius was unperturbed. “Tell him, Milo. Or else I will.”

  Milo blanched. His face turned pale. A sheen of sweat covered his naked flesh. His shoulders heaved. He clutched his throat. “Little dove! Bring me my ewer. Quickly!”

  Maniacally giggling, the blond slave girl put down the lamps, skittered across the room, disappeared for a moment, and then hurried back bearing a tall clay vessel with a wide mouth. Milo dropped to his knees, seized the arms of the ewer, and loudly vomited into it.

  “For pity’s sake,
Milo!” Domitius wrinkled his nose in disgust. Davus seemed hardly to notice; his attention was riveted instead on the slave girl, who, leaning over to assist her master, was inadvertently revealing heretofore unseen portions of her lower anatomy. Plautus himself never staged a more absurd tableau, I thought. I wanted to scream from frustration.

  Gradually, with the slave girl wiping his chin, Milo staggered back to his feet. He seemed considerably less drunk, if not exactly sober. He looked utterly wretched.

  I couldn’t resist. “A pity the judges at your trial never saw you in such a state. You might never have had to leave Rome.”

  “What?” Milo blinked and looked about, dazed.

  “Meto,” I said wearily. “Tell me about Meto.”

  His shoulders slumped. “Very well. Come, we’ll sit in the study. Little dove, hand me one of those lamps.”

  The house was a cluttered mess. Clothes were strewn about the floor and festooned over statues, dirty bowls and cups and platters were stacked everywhere, unfurled scrolls overflowed from tables onto the floor. In the corner of one room a recumbent figure, presumably a bodyguard, lay noisily snoring.

  Milo’s study was the most cluttered room of all. There were chairs for all four of us, but first Milo had to clear away scraps of parchment, piles of clothing (including an expensive-looking but badly wine-stained toga), and a yowling cat. He dumped them all on the floor. Hissing, the cat fled the room.

  “Sit,” Milo offered. He pulled a wrinkled tunic over his head, sparing us the sight of his sweaty, corpulent chest. “So you want to know what’s become of your son.” Milo sighed and averted his eyes. “I suppose there’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell you the whole wretched story….”

  X

  “Tell me, Gordianus, do you have any idea what your son was really up to these past few months?” Milo used his tunic to wipe a speck of vomit from his chin.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Were you in on his little game or not? This mime show he attempted, passing himself off as a traitor to Caesar.”

  I looked him squarely in the eye. Outright lying has never come easily to me, but there are subtler ways of skirting the truth. “I know that Meto and Caesar parted ways when both of them were last in Rome. That was in the month of Aprilis, after Caesar ran Pompey out of Italy and Domitius was on his way here to Massilia. There was talk of a plot against Caesar, devised by some of his closest officers. Meto was said to be part of that plot. Supposedly the scheme was discovered and Meto had no choice but to flee.”

  Milo nodded. “That’s what your son wanted us all to believe. Perhaps he even made you believe it.” He raised a shrewd eyebrow. As his intoxication receded, a more familiar Milo came to the fore—the rabble-rousing gang-leader, the politician unafraid of violence, the blustering, unapologetic victim of a legal system as ruthless as himself. Despite his squalid circumstances and his physical decline, Milo was still a very dangerous man. He no longer averted his eyes. “Did you believe your son was a traitor, Gordianus?”

  I spoke carefully, feeling Domitius’s gaze on me. “At first it seemed impossible that Meto could turn against Caesar. There had always been a bond between them, a closeness—”

  “We’ve all heard those rumors, as well!” Milo interjected. A barely stifled belch reminded me that he was still more drunk than sober.

  I ignored his insinuation and pressed on. “But don’t you see, that very closeness was what swayed me to accept that Meto had betrayed Caesar. Closeness can breed contempt. Familiarity can turn love to hate. Who might be more likely to be repelled by Caesar’s ruthless ambition, his carelessness in destroying the Republic, than a man who shared the same tent with Caesar day after day, who helped him write his memoirs, who came to see exactly how his mind worked?” Indeed, such had been my reasoning when, for a while, I myself believed that Meto had turned traitor.

  Milo shook his head. “If you don’t know the truth, then truly I feel sorry for you. Redbeard here was taken in as well,” he said, shrugging at Domitius. “So was Pompey apparently. But not me. Not for a moment!”

  “At last the braggart overtakes the drunkard,” said Domitius dryly. They exchanged a chilly glance.

  Milo went on. “All that talk of Meto changing sides was nonsense. I’m a shrewd judge of character. Don’t forget, for years I ran the streets in Rome. It was my gang that did Pompey’s dirty work so that he could keep his own hands clean. A friendly candidate needed a good turnout for a speech? My gang was there in full force. Clodius’s rabble was hectoring a senator in the Forum? My gang could be there in minutes to clear the place out. An election needed to be postponed? My gang was ready to crack a few heads down at the voting stalls. All at the snap of my fingers.” He tried to demonstrate, but his fingers fumbled and made no noise.

  “The coins from your purse spoke louder,” quipped Domitius.

  Milo frowned. “The point is, you don’t become a leader of men without learning to judge a man’s character, figuring out how best to persuade him, knowing his limits, what he will or won’t do—getting under his skin. And I knew from the moment I laid eyes on him here in Massilia that Meto was no traitor. He wasn’t dodgy enough. Didn’t have the smell of a man who’s out just for himself. And what reason did he have to turn on Caesar? All your high-flown talk about love turning to hate is just so much cow dung, Gordianus.”

  “Some men love the Republic more than they love their imperator,” I said quietly.

  “Show me one! Show me just one!” he barked, then fell to coughing. His forehead erupted in sweat. “I need a drink,” he muttered.

  So did I. My throat was so dry I could hardly swallow. “Go on,” I said hoarsely.

  Milo leaned back in his chair, lost his balance, and came close to falling. Domitius sniggered. Davus rolled his eyes.

  Milo recovered himself and went on, unflustered. “Consider my position. Everything went wrong for me in Rome. My trial was a farce. Clodius’s mob burned down the Senate House! They didn’t even let Cicero finish his speech for me. They drowned him out, screaming for my head. The verdict was a foregone conclusion. Only one man could have saved me—but my dear friend, Gnaeus Pompey, the Great One himself, turned his back on me! After all I’d done for him….”

  He picked up a discarded loincloth from the floor and mopped his forehead. “Even Fausta refused to come with me into exile. The bitch! Married me because she thought I was a winner, then jumped off quicker than a flea from a drowning dog when things went wrong. So here I landed in Massilia, a man without a country, without a family, without friends. Abandoned. Forgotten. ‘Don’t fret, Titus,’ Cicero told me. ‘Massilia is a civilized place full of culture and learning…admirable government…delightful climate…delicious food.’ Easy for Cicero to say; he’s never even set foot in this Hades-on-earth! He can admire Massilia from a distance, relaxing in his house on the Palatine or at one of his summer places in the countryside. I used to have summer houses….”

  He shut his eyes for a moment and sighed, then went on. “Now the whole world’s been turned upside-down. Caesar and his outlaw armies are in control of Rome. Pompey and the Senate have fled across the water. Even Rome’s oldest allies, these wretched Massilians, aren’t safe. And where does that leave me? Milo, who was always loyal, even when it harmed his own prospects. Milo, who was abandoned by his friends, even the Great One, just because of a stupid, stupid, stupid incident on the Appian Way.

  “With everything in such a muddle, you might think that Pompey would be ready to take me back, eager to make amends. But, no! A message comes from Pompey.” He launched into an uncanny impersonation of the Great One at his most pompous: “‘Stay in Massilia, good Milo. Stay right where you are! The verdict against you stands, and the law must be respected. Your choice remains the same: exile or death. It’s Caesar and his ilk who advocate allowing political exiles to return to Rome; I cannot possibly do the same, even for a friend such as you—especially for a friend such as you. In spite of t
he current crisis—indeed, because of the crisis—there can be absolutely no exceptions to the severe majesty of Roman law.’ In other words: ‘Stay put in Massilia, Milo, and rot!’”

  By the dim lamplight, I saw the sparkle of tears in his eyes. Please, gods, I prayed, spare me the spectacle of Milo weeping.

  He drew a deep breath and went on. “What I needed, you see, was some way to get back into Pompey’s good graces, to impress him—to put him in my debt if I could. But how, stuck here in Massilia with only a handful of gladiators, and those already hired to the Massilians as mercenaries? Then it occurred to me: What if I were to expose a dangerous spy? And not just any spy, but a spy planted in our ranks by Caesar’s own hand, a spy Pompey himself had instructed us to trust? That would be no small thing. Step one in the rehabilitation of Milo!

  “First, I had to get Meto to trust me. That was the easy part. Look at me! I’m not blind to my own condition. I know how far I’ve fallen. I go naked all day. I live in a house that stinks of urine. I’m a Roman exiled from Rome, a man without prospects, without even dignity—bitter, desperate, the ideal candidate for recruitment in a dangerous game. Oh, yes, Meto came to me; he searched me out at once. He thought he was being subtle, I’m sure, but I could read his thoughts as if he spoke them aloud. Poor old Milo, abandoned by all; he should be easy to lure over to Caesar’s cause, ripe and ready to stab his old friend Pompey in the back. I simply went along; I let Meto seduce me. Slowly, surely, he wormed his way into my confidence. I made a great deal of it, the day I was finally ready to show him that message from Pompey telling me to stay put. I wept real tears when I read it to him; that wasn’t acting.

  “After that it was only a matter of time. I could sense the day approaching. Even before it happened, I knew the very hour Meto would make his move, the way a farmer can smell rain on the wind. It happened in this room. I was ready for him. The trap was laid. Do you see that wooden screen in the corner? Redbeard here was concealed behind that screen. Come on, Redbeard, why don’t you show our visitors how you hid and listened? We can reenact the moment.”