Steven Saylor - Last seen in Massilia

I swallowed a lump in my throat. "The tunnel was full of soldiers, waiting to emerge the moment the sappers broke through. We waited for hours. We could hear the boom of the battering-ram farther down the walls…" I lowered my eyes. "Suddenly, the tunnel was flooded. A rush of water came though, carrying everything before it."

"Perfect!" exclaimed Apollonides. "All those soldiers flushed through the tunnel like rats through a Roman sewer!" Domitius scowled at this, but said nothing. "But you, Finder-how did you survive?"

"My son-in-law pulled me into a cavity in the ceiling of the tunnel. We waited until the flooding settled, then swam out. As far as I know, we were the only survivors."

"I think the gods must like you, Finder." Apollonides looked sidelong at Hieronymus. "No wonder the wretched scapegoat scooped you up and fetched you home with him. He thinks you'll bring him good luck."

"You have no right to be here!" Hieronymus suddenly shrieked. "The scapegoat's house is sacred. Your presence here is sacrilege, Apollonides."

"Fool! You don't know what you're talking about. I have the right to enter any house that may be harboring enemies of Massilia." Apollonides returned his gaze to me. "Is that the case here, Finder? What were you doing in that tunnel with Trebonius's men, if not taking part in an armed invasion of the city?"

"First Timouchos, look at me. I'm an old man. I'm not a soldier! I'm not a partisan for either side, and neither is Davus. We've traveled overland from Rome. We spent one night in Trebonius's camp. I wanted to enter the city, and I saw a way to do it. Davus and I disguised ourselves and slipped into the ranks. Trebonius didn't know. He'd have been furious if he found out. My business here in Massilia is neither military nor political. It's personal."

"And what exactly is this `personal' business?"

"My son, Meto, was last seen in Massilia." I looked sidelong at Domitius, whose expression remained enigmatic. "I've come to look for him."

"A missing child?" The idea appeared to strike a sympathetic chord in Apollonides, who nodded slowly. "What do you think, Domitius? You know this fellow."

"Not that well." Domitius crossed his arms..

"Proconsul," I said, addressing Domitius with the formal title to which he aspired, knowing he fancied himself, and not Caesar, to be the Roman Senate's legally appointed governor of Gaul. "If Cicero were here, he'd vouch for me. You and I ate together at his table in Formiae; we both slept under his roof. Did you know that he once called me `the most honest man in Rome'?" The quotation was accurate. I saw no need to add that Cicero had not necessarily intended it as a compliment.

Domitius tilted his head back and breathed in sharply through his nostrils. "I'll take responsibility for these two, Apollonides."

"Are you sure?"

Domitius hesitated for a heartbeat. "Yes."

"Good. That's settled, then." Apollonides yawned, showing molars to rival those of a Nile river-horse. "By Hypnos, I'm tired. And hungry! Will this wretched day never end? I'd hoped for a moment's peace, but now I suppose I must go and check the condition of the inner moat to make sure it's still holding water."

He turned to leave. Some of his soldiers broke from their ranks to precede him down the stairs. At the second step he stopped and looked back. "Oh, Finder-if the story you tell is true, I suppose you had the last laugh on Trebonius today, infiltrating his ranks and getting through that tunnel alive. We had a good laugh at him, too. That battering-ram he sent against the city wall? We finally got the better of it. Some of my soldiers managed to lower a rope noose, capture the head of the ram, and haul it up. A good thing; all that booming was giving me a headache. You should have seen the reaction on that hillside where Trebonius and his engineers gather. They were furious! That battering-ram shall make a fine trophy. Perhaps, after we've broken the siege and sent Trebonius packing, I'll display it on a pedestal in the market square."

He turned and took a few more steps.

"First Timouchos!" I called. "The… incident… on the Sacrifice Rock. The soldier and the woman-"

"The murder!" insisted Davus.

"You heard me dispatch my men," snapped Apollonides, stopping again. "I shall look into the matter. It's no longer your concern."

"But I heard you order them not to set foot on the rock. If you won't even allow them to examine the place where-"

"No one may set foot on the Sacrifice Rock! That includes you, Finder." He gave me a penetrating look. "The priests of Artemis sanctified it during the same ritual that invested the scapegoat. From the time that a scapegoat is invested until the day he fulfills his destiny, the Sacrifice Rock is sacred ground, forbidden to all. The next person to set foot on it, and not until the priests of Artemis say so, will be your friend Hieronymus here. That will also be the last time he sets foot on it." He shot a sardonic glance at our host, then turned, quickly descended the steps, and disappeared, his soldiers following.

"Not a bad fellow, for a Greek," said Domitius under his breath.

"Where are your soldiers, Proconsul?" asked Hieronymus suspiciously.

"My bodyguards are outside the house," said Domitius. "Apollonides wouldn't let me bring them in. He's that pious, at least-no foreigners bearing arms in the scapegoat's house. Don't worry. They'll stay where they are until I tell them otherwise. By Hercules, I'm hungry! I don't suppose, to show a bit of hospitality…

Hieronymus stared back at him glumly for a long moment, then clapped his hands and instructed a slave to bring food. Hieronymus then withdrew, sulking, into the house.

"I'll eat far better here than I would at Apollonides's house," Domitius confided. "This fellow gets all the best cuts. There's a priest of Artemis who sees to it. The city's facing serious shortages, but you'd never know it from the way they stuff this goose."

Lamps were brought onto the terrace, then trays of food, along with little tripod tables. Seeing the feast made me dizzy from hunger. There were steaming slices of pork glazed with honey and aniseed, a pate of sweetbreads and soft cheese, a gingery fava bean puree, a barley soup flavored with dill and whole onions, and little must cakes speckled with raisins:

Domitius ate like a starving man, popping fingers into his mouth and sucking them clean. Davus, seeing such manners, made no pretense to refinement and did likewise. I was tormented by hunger but hardly able to eat, my stomach seized by sudden anxiety about Meto. What did Domitius know? I tried a few times to raise the subject, but Domitius refused to respond until he had eaten his fill. What was he playing at?

At last he sat back, took a long swallow of wine, and let out a burp. "The best meal I've had in months!" he declared. "Almost worth the trip to this godforsaken city, don't you think?"

"I came here-"

"Yes, I know. Not for the food! You came to look for your son."

"Do you know Meto?" I asked quietly.

"Oh, yes." Domitius stroked his red beard and was silent for a long time, content to observe my discomfort. Why did he look so smug? "Why have you come here looking for him, Gordianus?"

"I received a message in Rome, sent anonymously, claiming to come from Massilia." I touched the pouch that hung from my belt, felt the small wooden cylinder inside, and wondered if the parchment it contained had survived the flood. "The message said that Meto… was dead. That he'd died in Massilia."

"An anonymous message? Curious."

"Please, Proconsul. What do you know about my son?"

He sipped his wine. "Meto arrived here several days before Caesar's army did. He said he'd had enough of Caesar; said he wanted to join our side. I was skeptical, of course, but I took him in. I confined him to quarters and gave him light duties-nothing sensitive or secretive, mind you. I kept an eye on him. Then a ship from Pompey arrived, the very last ship in before Caesar launched his little navy to blockade the harbor. Pompey sent word on various subjects-his hairbreadth escape from Caesar at Brundisium, his position in Dyrrhachium, the morale of the senators in exile from Rome. And he specifically mentioned your son. Pompey said that `incontrovertible evidence'-his phrase-had come into his hands that Meto was indeed a traitor to Caesar and should be trusted.* That seemed to settle the matter; the last time I ignored Pompey's advice I had cause to regret it-though there was plenty of blame to go around." He referred to his humiliation by Caesar in Italy when Pompey had urged Domitius to withdraw before Caesar's advance and join forces, but Domitius had insisted instead on making a stand at Corfinium; Domitius had been captured, attempted suicide (and failed), then was pardoned by Caesar and released, whereupon he fled to Massilia with a ragtag band of gladiators and a fortune of six million sesterces.