Last Seen in Massilia (11 page)

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. “Father-in-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….”

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 quickly 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 unpleasant 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.”

He thrust out his jaw to stop it from quivering. “I think…I may know who she was.”

Hieronymus and Davus both stepped closer.

“I think…the girl who fell…was my daughter.”

I raised an eyebrow.

Arausio’s voice was suddenly choked and bitter. “He led her on, you see. Right up until the moment he married that monster, he led Rindel to think he might choose her instead.”

“Rindel?” I said.

“My daughter. That’s her name.
Was
her name.”

“Who led her on?”

“Zeno! The son of a whore said he loved her. But like every other lying Greek, all he cared for in the end was bettering himself.”

Zeno.
Where had I heard the name recently? From Domitius, I recalled, when he told me the tale of Apollonides and his hideously deformed daughter, Cydimache. The young man who had recently married Cydimache was named Zeno.

“Do you mean the son-in-law of the First Timouchos?”

“That’s the one.
We
weren’t good enough for him. Never mind that I could buy and sell Zeno’s father if I wanted. Never mind that Rindel was one of the most beautiful girls in Massilia. We’re Gauls, you see, not Greeks; and no one in our family has ever been elected to the Timouchoi. In this town, that puts us just one step above the barbarians in the forest. Even so, Zeno could have married Rindel. Greeks and Gauls do marry. But Zeno was too good for that. Curse his ambition! He saw his chance to leap to the top, and he took it, over the head of my poor Rindel.”

A part of me, frozen with grief for Meto, simply wanted the man to go away. But another part of me grudgingly stirred. I was curious. Looking at Arausio, his face now nakedly showing his misery, I felt a pang of sympathy as well. Were we not both fathers grieving for lost children? If I understood correctly, his daughter and my son had ended their lives within a few hundred feet of each other, beneath the same wall, claimed by a plunge into the same unforgiving sea.

“She was desperately in love with him,” Arausio went on. “Why not? Zeno’s handsome and charming. He dazzled her. The young can’t see beneath the surface of things. When he told her he loved her in return, she thought that was the end of it. She’d found her bliss and nothing could spoil it. I can’t say I wasn’t pleased myself; he’d have made a good match. Then Zeno stopped calling on her. And the next thing we knew, he’d married Cydimache. It broke Rindel’s heart. She wept and tore her hair. She shut herself away; wouldn’t eat or talk to anyone, not even to her mother. Then she took to slipping out of the house, disappearing for hours at a time. I was furious, but it did no good. She said it helped her to take long walks alone. Imagine that, a young girl walking the streets in broad daylight by herself, unescorted! ‘People will think you’ve gone mad,’ I told her. Perhaps she
was
going mad. I should have kept a closer eye on her, but with everything in such chaos…” He shook his head.

“What makes you think it was Rindel we saw on the Sacrifice Rock?” I asked. “And how did you hear about it? How did you know that we saw it happen?”

“Massilia is a small town, Gordianus. Everyone’s talking about it. ‘The scapegoat has two Romans staying at his house, and you won’t believe what the three of them saw—a man chased a woman up the Sacrifice Rock, and over she went. And one of these Romans is a character named Gordianus, called the Finder; investigates for people like Cicero and Pompey, digs up scandal and snoops under people’s sheets.’”

That was not exactly how I would have described my livelihood, but I felt curiously flattered to discover that my name was sufficiently well-known to provide fodder for gossip in a city where I had never previously set foot. Of course, anything to do with the scapegoat would be of interest to the locals, and any death at the Sacrifice Rock would excite speculation.