Last Seen in Massilia (24 page)

His face pale, his hands trembling, Apollonides ordered me to leave Meto’s cell. He stepped into the room, followed by several bodyguards, then slammed the door behind him. With the collapse of the wall, my son—Caesar’s agent—was the first person Apollonides wanted to talk to.

I wandered down the hall. Around a corner I came upon a group of furiously whispering guards. They scarcely noticed me and made no effort to stop me as I stepped into the main part of the house. I wandered through the hallways until I heard a cry of joy and turned to see Davus, who likewise had been released and apparently forgotten. He laughed and hugged me so hard he squeezed the breath from me.

Tired and confused and at a loss for what to do next, I decided to look for Hieronymus. The door to his quarters stood open. We stepped into the small anteroom, then into the bedchamber beyond. There was another room beyond that, with a balcony looking out on the street. There was no one in any of the rooms, not even a slave. Exhausted, I reclined amid the plush cushions strewn across the scapegoat’s bed, thinking to rest for only a moment. Davus stood guard in the anteroom for a while, until exhaustion overcame him as well. He joined me on the bed.

We woke at dawn in a house where confusion reigned. No one seemed to be in charge. Slaves seemed to come and go as they pleased, with no one to give them orders. But when I tried to enter the wing
where Apollonides had questioned me the previous night, two very unhappy guards blocked my way. When I tried to speak, they brandished their swords and shouted me down.

I tried to find Hieronymus again, without success. In the foyer, I saw that the front door of Apollonides’s house stood wide open. I stepped onto the porch and saw that the courtyard gates were open as well, with no soldiers standing guard.

The walls of Massilia were hopelessly breached, yet throughout the long night the Romans had held back. Dawn had come, and still Trebonius did not mount an assault.

But overnight, the rumor of Caesar’s imminent arrival had spread throughout Massilia. He was expected the next day…the next hour…the next minute. Fits of panic convulsed the city. Tearful worshippers thronged the temples. I had experienced something similar in Brundisium, but there the people had awaited Caesar as their deliverer. The Massilians awaited him as their destroyer. They knew too well the atrocities he had visited upon their neighbors, the Gauls—villages burned, men executed, women raped, children enslaved.

Chaos ruled the streets. What madness had possessed the sober people of Massilia, famed for their staid academies, their love of order, their bland equanimity? Massilians were said to love money above all else and to exemplify the concomitant virtues—diligence, shrewdness, patience. Yet in the streets that day I saw staggering drunkards, bloody fistfights, a naked corpse hanging from a tree, a man in rich banker’s robes chased down and stoned by an angry mob. In the final moments of a great city, some citizens had descended to barbarism and could think only of their last chance at retribution against a neighbor. Massilia was tearing itself apart before Caesar had the chance.

I saw a troop of gladiators marching toward us and gestured to Davus to hide, fearing trouble. But the man commanding the gladiators had already seen us. He ordered his men to halt and strode over to us. It was Domitius, dressed in full battle regalia, his cape thrown back to show the copper disk embossed with a lion’s head on his breastplate. Behind the cordon of gladiators, slaves wheeled carts piled high with
trunks. Evidently, Domitius was leaving Massilia as he had arrived, with his ragtag band of gladiators, his household slaves, and whatever was left of his six million sesterces. At the siege of Corfinium, rather than fall into Caesar’s clutches, he had attempted suicide—and failed. Caesar had forgiven and released him. Now, once again facing the same prospect, Domitius apparently had no stomach for a second suicide attempt and did not trust that Caesar would be as merciful a second time.

I couldn’t resist a sardonic jab. “Leaving us so soon, Domitius?”

He glared at me. “I understand that bastard son of yours is alive after all. So Milo was right.”

“Yes. But Meto’s not a bastard. He was a slave whom I adopted.”

“Aren’t all slaves bastards by definition?”

“One might say the same about Roman politicians.”

His eyes flashed. I glanced nervously at the band of surly gladiators and swallowed dryly, wondering if I had pushed him too far. But in the next instant Domitius barked out a laugh. “Like father, like son, even if yours is adopted. What audacity you Gordianii have! I might almost wish you were on our side.”

“What makes you think I’m on Caesar’s side?”

“Aren’t you?”

I didn’t answer. I looked at the carts piled high with trunks. “I suppose you’ve kept a ship in the harbor?”

“Three ships, actually. Apollonides wanted to conscript them for battle, but I told him I’d have none of that.” He wet a finger and held it to the breeze. “The wind’s shifted from yesterday; we shall have good sailing. The ship I’ll be taking is a long, low beauty, swift as a dolphin.”

“She’ll have to be, to get past the blockade.” I glanced toward the north, where the sky was turning dark. “It looks as if Aeolus might be bringing us storm clouds.”

“Blockade or no blockade, storm or no storm, nothing shall stop me from getting out of this Hades-on-earth!”

“Caesar will be disappointed. I’m sure he looks forward to your reunion.”

“As do I! But not here, not now. Another day, on another battlefield!”

“What about Milo? I don’t see him in your retinue.”

“Milo is staying right here, where he belongs. If he’s lucky, when all this madness is over, Pompey will grant him a generous pardon and invite him back to Rome, where he can grow old and fat fishing on the banks of the Tiber. Until then, Milo must make do with Massilian mullets. No more talk, Gordianus! You’ve delayed me long enough.”

And with that he was off again, barking an order at his gladiators to quicken their pace.

Dark clouds obscured the sun. Sharp winds blew through the narrow streets of Massilia, carrying the scent of rain. Despite the looming storm, Davus suggested we go to a high place, where we might be able to see the breached section of the wall and scrutinize the activities of Trebonius’s army outside.

As we trudged uphill, looking for a good vantage point, we encountered a large crowd gathered outside a temple. Some of the people chanted solemnly with their eyes shut. Some shrieked and spun about madly while others looked on, appalled. I located a spectator who looked reasonably calm and sober and asked him what was happening.

“The scapegoat,” he said. “The priests of Artemis are making ready to conduct him to the Sacrifice Rock.”

I pushed into the crowd. Davus helped clear the way. At last we came to the steps of the temple, where a black funeral bier lay upon a familiar green-canopied litter. A group of priests were just stepping out of the temple. Their white robes whipped in the wind. Wavering streamers and vortices of smoke rose from their bowls of smoldering incense. Flanked by the priests, a tall figure in green emerged from the temple. His face was hidden behind a green veil, so that from head to toe he was covered in green, like a chrysalis. I tried to step toward him, but a cordon of soldiers barred the way.

I called out his name. Hieronymus turned his head in my direction. He whispered to one of the priests, who frowned but nevertheless approached the soldiers and told them to let me through. I rushed up the steps.

“Hieronymus!” I tried to keep my voice low. “What is this? What’s happening?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Hieronymus, I can’t see your face. That veil—”

“The scapegoat wears a veil on his final day. The gods are watching. The sight of the scapegoat’s accursed face could only offend them.”

I lowered my voice to a hoarse whisper. “Hieronymus, you mustn’t go through with this! If you can postpone the ceremony for only a little while—Caesar is on his way. It may be only hours—minutes—”

“Postpone the ceremony? But why?”

“There’s no need for it. The siege is all but over. Your death will change nothing. You can’t possibly save the city.”

“Not from conquest; but perhaps the city may yet be saved from utter destruction. Who knows what Caesar intends? The sacrifice of the scapegoat may tip the scales and cause Caesar to be merciful.”

“Caesar will as do he pleases, no matter what happens to you!”

“Shhh! Don’t tell the priests that, or the people of Massilia! For months they’ve pampered and pleasured me, preparing me to take on all their sins at once. Now they want to see the ceremony carried through to the end.”

“But, Hieronymus—”

“Quiet, Gordianus! I’m at peace. Last night Apollonides called me to his private chambers. He told me everything.”

“Everything?”

He nodded. “I know that your son Meto is alive. I’m happy for you, Gordianus! Apollonides also confessed to me that it was his father who ruined my father. I had long suspected as much. And…he told me about Cydimache. My father jumped from the Sacrifice Rock. Apollonides’s daughter was pushed. His line has come to an end. The shades of my parents are appeased.”

“And you, Hieronymus?”

“Me?” The wind pressed the veil against his face so that I clearly saw his expression—his lips slightly pursed, one eyebrow sardonically raised. “I’m a Massilian, Gordianus, and above all else, a Massilian respects a contract. When I became the scapegoat, I entered into an
agreement with the priests of Artemis and the people of Massilia. I did so with my eyes open. They honored their side of the contract. Now it’s my turn. My obligation is to willingly face my sacrifice. Not all scapegoats do so in the end; some have to be drugged, or bound, or even knocked unconscious. Not me! I shall stand tall and meet my destiny proudly.”

My voice caught in my throat. I tried to think of words to persuade him, of something I could do to stop the farce. He laid his hand on my forearm and seized it with a powerful grip.

“Gordianus, I know that you don’t take this ceremony seriously, that you don’t believe it actually works.”

“Do you?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. My personal belief hardly matters. But it may be that a scapegoat
can
take on the sins of others and can carry them with him to oblivion, allowing those who survive to start afresh. Since I first met you, Gordianus, I’ve sensed that you carry a burden of guilt. Some wickedness—some crime you committed—perhaps in trying to save that beloved son of yours? Am I right?”

I made no answer.

“Never mind. I absolve you!” He suddenly released my arm. “There. Whatever burden of sin you may carry has gone out of you and come into me. Do you know, I believe I actually felt something. Truly!”

There was such a thickness in my throat that I could hardly speak. “Hieronymus…”

“Now go, Gordianus. This is my moment!”

Two priests of Artemis grabbed my arms, pulled me down the steps, and thrust me back into the crowd beyond the line of soldiers. I looked on helplessly as Hieronymus mounted wooden steps up to the litter and reclined upon the funeral bier, crossing his arms as if he were a corpse. The crowd around me surged and wailed. Some screamed curses at the scapegoat. Others shouted blessings. They began to throw objects at the funeral bier, and I started in alarm; but the objects were not rocks and stones but dried flowers and bits of crumpled parchment with names written on them. The priests of Artemis took the green litter onto their shoulders and began to carry it through
the street, protected by the cordon of soldiers. Before them and behind them, a retinue of priests clapped hands, chanted, and wafted incense. Shreds of smoke, dried flower petals, and scraps of parchment blew this way and that.

Davus and I followed the procession for a while. We stopped at a point where the street descended sharply and a small clearing on a crest afforded a view of the Sacrifice Rock. In the strange, false twilight that precedes a rainstorm, we watched the procession wind down the hill, gathering more and more spectators. The roar of the crowd, with its mingled curses and blessings, rang out and echoed though the city.

The procession came to a halt at the foot of the Sacrifice Rock. Ringed by the cordon of soldiers, Hieronymus stepped from the funeral bier and began, alone, to climb the rock. The crowd cried out and pelted him with dried flowers and bits of parchment.

More priests awaited him at the summit of the rock, where a green canopy had been pitched. The crowded priests leaned into the stiff wind. Those holding the poles of the canopy were sorely pressed to prevent it from blowing away altogether. Their white robes and the green flaps of the canopy snapped and fluttered. Standing among the priests was Apollonides, his mane of silver hair tossed by the wind and his light blue cape wrapped tightly around him.

Beyond the rock and the wall, mottled patches of shadow and sunlight played across the sea. The wind whipped the green waves into foaming whitecaps.

Hieronymus took his time. He climbed slowly, methodically, almost as if he were savoring the event. Or was he beginning to have second thoughts?

At last he reached the summit. Hieronymus in his green robes stood out, but there was such a crowd of priests beneath the canopy that I had trouble seeing clearly. Tears obscured my vision.

Atop the Sacrifice Rock there was more chanting and a great deal more incense. The capricious wind seemed to play with the smoke, and instead of dispersing it, caused it to whirl about the summit, enveloping the canopy. Priests coughed and waved their hands. They could
hardly be expected to control the wind—but surely the scuffle I saw was not a part of the ceremony….

“Davus, I can’t see clearly. Tears in my eyes—from the wind. Is Hieronymus—is he
struggling
against them?”

Davus squinted. “He must be! They’ve all surrounded him—restraining him—pitching back and forth. He’s putting up quite a fight. And now—Apollonides—!”

Davus had no need to finish. Blinking away tears, my jaw agape, I saw the final moment clearly. Or did I?