Last Seen in Massilia: A Novel of Ancient Rome

by Steven Saylor

  “Get on with it!” snapped Domitius.

  “It’s a beautiful screen, isn’t it? Carved from terebinth in Libya, I think. That’s gold leaf along the border. Fausta’s father owned it; imagine the uses wily old Sulla must have found for such a screen to hide behind! I brought it with me when I left Rome. Fausta wanted to keep it, but I smuggled it out from under her nose. I wonder if she ever missed it?”

  “Tell the story, Milo!” I whispered hoarsely.

  He lowered his eyes. “You won’t like the ending.”

  “Tell me!”

  “Very well. You have to realize, Redbeard here thought I was deluded. Said my mind was addled from too much bad Massilian wine. ‘You’re wrong about Meto,’ he told me. ‘The man can be trusted; Pompey himself says so. What Meto knows about Caesar and the way his mind works could fill a book. His value to us is immeasurable.’ Ha! Don’t glare at me like that, Redbeard. You’re the one who insisted on bringing Gordianus into my house. If I needle you a bit, you’ll just have to bear it.

  “So there was Redbeard listening behind the screen, and in that storage room beyond he managed to stuff ten or so hand-picked soldiers—probably the same bodyguards escorting him tonight. Meto didn’t suspect a thing. At some point Redbeard made a shuffling noise. Meto glanced at the screen. I told him it was a rat. And so it was!” Milo laughed. Domitius stared at him coldly.

  “Meto and I talked around and around each other. The little dove fetched wine, and I pretended to be drunk—well, perhaps I wasn’t entirely pretending. Drunk or not, I turned in a performance worthy of Roscius the actor. My part was the diver who’s stepped to the precipice and needs just a puff of air at his back to take the plunge; the coward who’s mustered his last scrap of courage and needs only one more turn of the screw to reach the sticking point; the lover bursting with emotion who can’t quite bring himself to be the first to say, ‘I love you.’ Around and around we talked, your son and I, with Redbeard fidgeting behind that screen, about to sneeze at any moment, for all I knew. The suspense was terrible. I imagine it made my performance all the more convincing.

  “Finally, Meto made his play. ‘Milo,’ he said, ‘you’re trapped in Massilia. Domitius treats you like a slave. You have no hope of reconciliation with Pompey. Desperate times demand desperate actions. Perhaps you should consider a radical move.’

  “‘But where else is there for me to go?’ I asked. ‘After Massilia, the next port of call is Hades.’

  “Meto shook his head. ‘There’s another choice.’

  “‘Caesar, you mean? But Caesar would never have me. He relies too much on the good will of the Clodians. That rabble would turn on him in an instant if he took me in.’

  “‘Caesar is beyond needing the Clodians,’ said Meto. ‘He’s bigger than the Clodians now. Bigger than Rome. He can ally himself with whomever he chooses.’

  “‘But you’ve turned your back on Caesar,’ I said.

  “Meto looked at me squarely. ‘Perhaps not,’ he said.

  “I told him, ‘I can’t deny that I’ve thought about it. It seems to me that it’s the only choice I have left. But I’d need a go-between, someone to help me cross to the other side. Tell me, Meto, are you that man?’

  “Meto nodded. Why, at that precise moment, Redbeard felt it was necessary to make such a show of knocking the screen down, I don’t know. My heart almost flew out of my mouth. Meto was on his feet with his dagger drawn in an instant. He saw Redbeard, saw the look on my face, saw the first of the soldiers burst out of the storage room. It should have all been over in an instant. Instead….” Milo stopped and took another drink.

  “Tell me!”

  “No need to shout, Gordianus. Let Redbeard tell you. It’s his story from here on.”

  Domitius looked at me coldly. “I’d given my men instructions to capture Meto, not to kill him if they could help it. They were too cautious.”

  “Too clumsy!” interjected Milo.

  “It happened very quickly,” Domitius went on. “Meto was out of the room before my men could catch him. I had more men posted at the front door, but Meto surprised us by running into the garden and climbing onto the roof. He jumped down into a side alley and ran to the back of the house. I had more men posted there, but he got past them. They chased after him. He was a fast runner. He might have eluded them entirely, but one of my men threw a spear and managed to graze his hip. That slowed him down. Still, he managed to reach the city wall, down where it runs along the sea. He climbed the stairs up to the battlements, not far from the Sacrifice Rock—”

  “The Sacrifice Rock!” I whispered, remembering vividly what I had seen there at twilight.

  “He wasn’t mad enough to leap from the rock,” said Domitius. “The surf and the rocks below would kill any man. Instead, he ran farther on, to a bend where the sheer wall drops to deep water. Perhaps that was his goal all along; he may have scouted out the place in advance, planning for just such an emergency. I suppose it’s barely possible that a man could dive from the wall and swim all the way out to the islands where Caesar’s ships are moored.”

  “Meto never learned to swim as a boy,” I whispered. Had he learned to swim as a soldier?

  “Well, if he could swim, Meto might have made a clean escape….”

  My heart pounded in my chest. “But?”

  “But that’s not what happened. My men stayed close on his heels. They were almost on him when he jumped. One of them swears he pierced Meto with an arrow on his way down, but that may be idle boasting. The fall alone might have killed him. He disappeared beneath the water. When my men saw his body break the surface, they showered him with arrows. The sun was in their eyes, casting a glaring light on the waves, which made it hard to see, but some of the men swear they saw blood on the water. They all saw his body being swept out to sea by the current. They say he didn’t kick or flail his arms, as any conscious man would; he simply floated like a cork for a while, then disappeared below the surface.”

  Domitius sat back and crossed his arms, looking pleased with himself. “Well, then, Gordianus, is that what you wanted to know? Is that what you came all this way to find out? Your son died an outlaw, pursued by soldiers of the legal proconsul of Gaul. I suppose you can take some comfort in the fact that he died loyal to his imperator, if not to Rome.”

  The whole world seemed to have contracted to that squalid, dimly lit room. Milo’s face was in shadow, impossible to read. Domitius wore an expression of smug satisfaction. I had never shared my son’s love for Caesar, but how small these men seemed in comparison!

  I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Fatherin-law, you’re exhausted. The scapegoat promised us a bed for the night. We should go now.”

  I rose without a word and left Milo’s study. Milo, almost tripping, hurried after us. “The little dove will show you out,” he said. “And I’ll send one of my gladiators along to show you the way. There’s a curfew, but no one’s likely to question you in this neighborhood. If they do, just mention Redbeard.” He lowered his voice and laid a hand on my arm. “Gordianus, it gave me no pleasure, exposing your son for what he truly was. Meto was no more honest with me than I was with him. Caesar would never have taken me in. Never! Meto tried to deceive me, just as I deceived him.” I tried to draw my arm away, but Milo clutched it and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m not proud of myself, Gordianus. What I’ve done, I had to do!”

  My eyes were hot with tears. I pulled my arm free. As I hurried on, behind me I heard Domitius address the empty room: “But who sent the anonymous message that brought Gordianus to Massilia? That’s what I’d like to know….”

  XI

  I scarcely remember our moonlit journey through the streets of Massilia and our return to the scapegoat’s house. Hieronymus took one look at my face and nodded gravely. “Ah, bad news,” he said quietly. Without another word he showed Davus and me to a room with two beds. My mind was in such turmoil that I couldn’t imagine sleeping. Sleep came nonetheless, as quick
ly and deeply as if I had been drugged.

  I dreamed. Missiles flew from catapults. Flaming bodies plummeted from siege towers. At my side the engineer, Vitruvius, blithely chattered on about machines of death. He was interrupted by a hooded soothsayer who tugged at his elbow and loudly whispered in his ear, “Tell the Roman he has no business here.” A soldier in a fluttering blue cape hurried past, limping slightly, and disappeared in a hole in the ground. I took Davus’s hand and told him we had to follow. The hole led straight to Hades. I saw a disembodied head levitating amid vents of steam and jets of flames, ringed by blood at the severed neck. “Catilina!” I cried. The head flashed a sardonic grin and vanished. A cloaked figure stepped out of the mist. She pulled away her veils and I confronted the grossly misshapen xoanon Artemis come to life. “Marry me,” the thing said, and I started back in horror. Suddenly all Hades was flooded. Bodies floated past. Flames hissed and died out. All was darkness. The water kept rising. I sucked in a breath and felt the burn of saltwater in my throat and nostrils. I felt a strange mixture of relief and dread, and a sadness that crushed me like a stone. Was it my own watery death I dreamed of, or Meto’s?

  I woke, thinking: Even in my dreams, my son refuses to appear. Then I realized that Davus was standing over me, his hand on my shoulder, his face drawn with concern.

  “Where are we?” I asked. The words came out in a gasp. I had been sobbing in my sleep.

  “The scapegoat’s house. In Massilia.”

  I blinked and nodded. “What time is it?”

  “After dark.”

  “But it was after dark when we went to bed. Surely….”

  “It’s nighttime again. You slept all day. You needed it.”

  I sat up and groaned. My joints were stiff. Every muscle ached. The journey, the ordeal in the flooded tunnel, the revelations of the previous night had drained all my resources. I felt as hollow as a reed.

  “You must be hungry,” said Davus.

  “No.”

  “Then sleep some more.” He gently pushed me back.

  “Impossible,” I said, remembering my nightmares with a shudder. And that was all I remembered until I woke again the next morning.

  Had I not known for a fact that we were in the middle of a city under siege, blockaded by land and sea, threatened by famine and disease, I would never have guessed it from our breakfast at the scapegoat’s house. We were given farina sweetened with pomegranates and honey, dates stuffed with almond paste, and all the fresh figs we could eat.

  Rested and fed, I sat alone on the scapegoat’s rooftop terrace and began to realize the predicament into which I had put Davus and myself. From the moment I had received the message about Meto, I had thought only of coming to Massilia to discover the truth, and had never thought beyond that. I had always assumed that I would find Meto alive, or at worst discover that he had vanished. Instead, the anonymous message had been borne out. My son was dead and his body lost. There was nothing more for me to do in Massilia, but thanks to my own perseverance and ingenuity, I was trapped there.

  Was it for this that the gods had saved me when the tunnel was flooded? I had thanked them at the time, forgetting that they always have the last laugh.

  At least in Rome I could have shared my grief with Bethesda and Diana and my other son, Eco, and the daily rhythms of the city would have afforded some distraction. In Massilia, there would be nothing for me to do but brood.

  I had no friends in Massilia. Milo had as good as murdered my son. Domitius despised me, and I despised him. Apollonides had dismissed me as beneath his interest. Hieronymus alone had been hospitable to me, but over his head hung a cloud of ruin and death that only depressed me further. I felt what many a Roman exile must have felt in Massilia: helpless and hopeless, cut off from all that makes life worth living. Even if Hieronymus continued to grant me food and shelter, how could I continue to exist in such a state, hour after hour, day after day?

  My thoughts ran from one recrimination to another. I blamed myself for coming to Massilia. I blamed Milo for having laid the bait that ruined Meto. I blamed Meto for having accepted such a dangerous mission. I blamed Caesar for a multitude of sins—for having seduced my son (in every sense, if the rumors that reached my ears were true), for having sent him on a fool’s errand to certain death, for having crossed the Rubicon in the first place. The vanity of the man, to believe that his destiny should eclipse all else, that the whole world was made to quiver in his shadow! How much suffering had he caused already? How many more sons would die before he was done? Meto had loved the man, had given his life for him. For that, I hated Caesar.

  If I closed my eyes, I could see Meto clearly. Not one Meto, but many: as a small boy in the house of Crassus at Baiae, where he had been born a slave and where I first met him; walking proudly if a little uncertainly through the Forum at the age of sixteen on the day he first put on his manly toga; dressed as a soldier—the first time, with a shock, I ever saw him in armor—in Catilina’s tent just before the battle of Pistoria. He had been a bright, beautiful child, full of laughter. He had grown into a sturdy, handsome young man, proud of his battle scars. Each time he came home after campaigning in Gaul with Caesar, I greeted him with a mixture of elation and dread, happy that he was alive, fearful that I would find him maimed or disfigured or crippled. But the gods had seen fit to keep him alive and whole through all his battles. Until now.

  A small voice in my head whispered: But Meto’s body was never found. He might still be alive…somehow…somewhere. I refused to listen. Such delusions were merely weakness. They could lead only to disappointment and even greater misery.

  And so I went round and round, from grief to anger, from bittersweet memories to doubt, from delusions of hope to hard, cold reason, and back to grief, resolving nothing. I sat on the terrace of the scapegoat’s rooftop, staring for hours at the Sacrifice Rock in the distance and the uncaring sea beyond.

  So a day or two passed, or perhaps three or four, perhaps more. My memory of that time is unclear. Both Davus and Hieronymus left me mostly to myself. Food was served to me occasionally, and I suppose I ate it. My bed was made for me each night, and I suppose I slept. I felt dull and remote, as disembodied as the levitating head of Catilina in my nightmares.

  Then, one morning, Hieronymus announced that a visitor had come to see me and was waiting in the atrium.

  “A visitor?” I asked.

  “A Gaulish merchant. Says his name is Arausio.”

  “A Gaul?”

  “There are a lot of them in Massilia.”

  “What does he want?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  “Are you sure it’s me he wants?”

  “He asked for you by name. Surely there can’t be more than one Gordianus the Finder in Massilia.”

  “But what can he possibly want?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” The scapegoat raised an eyebrow and gave me a hopeful look, such as a careworn mother might give to a child recuperating from a fever.

  “I suppose I should see him, then,” I said dully.

  “That’s the spirit!” Hieronymus clapped his hands and sent a slave to fetch the visitor.

  Arausio was a man of middle age with thinning brown hair, a ruddy complexion, and a drooping mustache. He wore a plain white tunic; but to judge by the well-made shoes on his feet, he was a man of means; and to judge by his gold necklace and gold bracelets, not averse to advertising it. His manner was skittish and he kept his distance from Hieronymus, who remained nearby on the terrace. He had a superstitious fear of the scapegoat, I realized, a dread of contagion. What, then, had induced him to enter the scapegoat’s house?

  He took stock of his surroundings. Did I imagine that he gave a start when he saw the view of the Sacrifice Rock in the distance? “My name is Arausio,” he said. “Are you Gordianus, the one they call ‘the Finder’?”

  “I am. I didn’t realize that anyone in Massilia had heard of me.”

  He flashed an un
pleasant smile. “Oh, we’re not all quite as ignorant in this backwater town as you might think. Massilia may not be Athens or Alexandria, but we do try to keep abreast of what’s happening in the great world beyond.”

  “I’m sorry. I never meant to suggest—”

  “Oh, that’s quite all right. We’re used to Romans turning up their noses when they come here. What are we, after all, but an outpost of second-rate Greeks and barely civilized Gauls just off the road to nowhere?”

  “But I never said—”

  “Then say no more.” The man held up his hand. “I’ll state my business, which you may or may not deign to find of interest. My name, as I said, is Arausio, and I’m a merchant.”

  “In slaves or wine?” I asked. Arausio raised an eyebrow. “I’m told it’s one or the other here in Massilia.”

  Arausio shrugged. “I handle a little traffic in both directions. My grandfather used to say, ‘Romans get lazy; Gauls get thirsty. Send slaves in one direction and wine in the other.’ We’ve done well enough. Not quite as well as this.” He gestured to the house around us. His eyes swept the view. Again I saw him focus sharply on the Sacrifice Rock, then tear his eyes away.

  He suddenly dropped his abrasive manner like a shield he no longer had strength to carry. “They say…you saw it happen,” he whispered. “Both of you.” He ventured a glance at Hieronymus.

  “Saw what?” I asked. But of course he could mean only one thing.

  “The girl…who fell from the rock.” His voice was strained.

  Hieronymus crossed his arms. “She didn’t fall. She jumped.”

  “She was pushed!” Davus, who had been standing discreetly out of sight inside the doorway, felt obliged to step forward.

  I gazed at the Sacrifice Rock. “Girl, you say. But why ‘girl,’ and not ‘woman’? The three of us saw a figure in a woman’s gown and a hooded cloak. We couldn’t see her face or even the color of her hair. She was fit enough to climb the rock, but she did so haltingly. Perhaps she was young, or perhaps not.” I looked at Arausio. “Unless you know more than we do.”