Last Seen in Massilia (25 page)

Like Cydimache, Hieronymus must have changed his mind at the last moment. How else to explain the fact that the priests suddenly swarmed around him, restraining him? It was Apollonides who stepped decisively forward and seized the struggling green chrysalis in a fierce embrace. The two of them spun about and rocked back and forth. The priests scrambled back. Apollonides’s silver mane whipped in the wind. His cape billowed and wrapped itself around them, until the two figures seemed to meld into a single, writhing creature shrouded in pale blue and chrysalis green.

Together, they staggered toward the precipice. I held my breath. For a brief moment they seemed to be frozen on the very edge of the rock. An instant later, still locked together, they vanished.

Davus gasped. “Apollonides! Hieronymus took Apollonides with him!”

I shook my head, stunned. “Or was it Apollonides who jumped and took Hieronymus along with him?”

The wind continued to rise. The sky turned black. Thunder boomed and lightning ripped the clouds. Davus and I hurried back to the house of Apollonides. Just as we reached the outer courtyard, rain began to pour down.

We found the house of the First Timouchos as we had left it, with the doors wide open and the slaves in a panic. The wing where I had last seen Meto was still guarded by soldiers, who barred our way and refused to listen to any pleas or threats I could think of.

Where was Meto? What arrangements—for the surrender of the city, for his own survival—had he made with Apollonides, and did those arrangements still mean anything now that Apollonides was gone? If Apollonides had intentionally thrown himself from the Sacrifice Rock, had he first taken revenge on his enemies? Once again I found myself desperately worried about my son.

If he were still alive and well, why did Meto not seek me out? Of course, I could guess the answer to that: Meto was too busy. With Apollonides gone, others among the Timouchoi would have to negotiate the surrender. In these final hours of Massilia’s independence, all Meto’s schemes were coming to fruition. Those schemes were his only priority, and in them his father played no part.

Davus, always practical, declared his intention to go scavenging for food. I was light-headed from hunger, but I had no appetite. Bone-weary, I made my way to the rooms that briefly had served as Hieronymus’s quarters. In the bedchamber, I collapsed amid the plush cushions
where I had slept the previous night. I had no fear of being disturbed. What Massilian would dare to venture into the scapegoat’s chambers in the first hours after his death, while his restless lemur might yet stalk the earth?

Rain lashed the house. Amid the crashing of thunder and the howling of the wind arose another noise: wails of lamentation. News of their master’s death had reached the slaves who still cowered in the house. One by one they joined in keening for the dead leader of a dying city.

Despite all this, I slept; and for better or worse, Hypnos sent me no dreams.

I awoke with the sensation that someone had been watching me while I slept and had just left the room. The sensation was so powerful that I bolted upright, instantly awake. The room was empty. It must have been Meto, I thought. But why had he not awakened me? Perhaps I had only been dreaming, after all….

A moment later, Davus stepped into the room. “Finally, you’re awake! You’ll want to hurry out of bed. Something’s happening down at the city gates. Something big!”

I rubbed my eyes. “Davus, were you just in this room…watching me?”

“No.”

“Was someone else just in this room?”

He frowned and put his hands on his hips. “I don’t know. I was over in the next room, out on the balcony, watching all the people heading down toward the city gates. Someone might have come in here from the anteroom and the hallway outside, and I wouldn’t have seen them…”

I blinked. “Is it still raining?”

“No. The storm lasted all night, but now it’s over. There’s a blue sky and bright sunshine. But what’s this?” He let out a cry of delight and rushed to a little tripod table in the corner. “Figs! A whole pile of figs! I couldn’t find a scrap of food anywhere last night. I hardly slept at all, I was so hungry. But look at these! They’re beautiful. So dark and
plump. And the smell! Here, have one. Then we’ll head down to the gates.”

Davus bit into a fig and laughed with delight. Until I ventured to take a small bite, I hadn’t realized just how hungry I was. The sheer pleasure of it overwhelmed me. It was the best fig I had ever tasted.

No starving slave could have been trusted to leave that pile of figs for a sleeping man; the slave would have devoured them. Meto himself must have left them for us, I decided. But why had he not awakened me? Why had he left without a word?

A great crowd had gathered at the city gates. A cordon of soldiers with upright spears held back the throng and kept clear a wide passage from the gates to the center of the market square.

The people around us looked weary, hungry and miserable, but their eyes gleamed with anticipation. For months they had waited, dreaded, hoped. Now, at last, in the next few moments, something would happen. Would they be forgiven and fed by their new master—or cruelly slaughtered? They seemed hardly to care which fate awaited them as long as something put an end to their suspense.

Every crowd makes its own peculiar noise. This one sounded like a field of tall grass on a breezy day, swaying and hissing in the wind. People spoke constantly, nervously, but never above a whisper. Like fickle winds, hushed rumors of imminent doom and deliverance flitted this way and that through the crowd.

Like everyone else, I found myself staring fixedly at the gates. The great bronze doors stood intact, as did the flanking towers, but only a few steps away gaped the huge breach in the wall, with great piles of rubble strewn about, including the remains of a bastion tower lying on its side. The breach had the strange effect of making the gates look as if they were merely a prop. A theatrical facade may have doors and windows and balconies, but only masquerades as a house or a temple. Just so, the gates of Massilia did not seem really to be gates at all, but only a convincing imitation. What function does a gate possess when the wall nearby has a gap in it large enough to admit a stampeding herd of elephants?

And yet, all eyes were on the gates. When trumpeters atop the flanking towers blasted a fanfare and the great bronze doors parted with a clang, every voice fell silent.

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 and 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 and gazed up at Caesar with 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.