Last Seen in Massilia (9 page)

“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.

“But despite Pompey’s message,” he went on, “I still had my suspicions about your oh-so-clever son. Milo warned me. You must remember Titus Annius Milo, exiled a few years back for murdering Clodius on the Appian Way?”

“Of course. I investigated the matter for Pompey.”

“So you did! I’d forgotten that. Did you somehow…offend…Milo?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“No? Well, for whatever reason, I’m afraid Milo wasn’t fond of your son. Suspected him right off. ‘The boy’s no good,’ he told me. I might have paid Milo no mind—when was Milo ever known for sound judgment?—but he echoed my own instincts. I continued to watch your son very closely. Even so, I could never quite catch him at anything. Until…”

Domitius turned his head and gazed at the view, sipping his wine in silence for so long that he seemed to have forgotten his thought.

“Until what?” I finally said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Do you know—I think Milo himself should tell you. Yes, I believe that would be best. We’ll go and see him right now. We can gloat about what a fine meal we’ve just had, while Milo dines on stale bread and the last of the fish-pickle sauce he brought from Rome.”

When I first met him at Cicero’s house months ago, I had decided that Domitius was a pompous, vain creature. Now I saw that he was also petty and spiteful. He seemed to relish my distress.

We bade the scapegoat farewell. Hieronymus invited Davus and me
to return later to sleep under his roof that night. Even as I promised that we would, I wondered if I lied. I had escaped death twice already that day; it might come for me yet.

Had death come already for Meto? Domitius had so far refused to tell me, but I kept thinking of his words:
Milo wasn’t fond of your son.
Why had he spoken in the past tense?

The way to Milo’s house took us through a district of large, fine houses. More than a few, I was surprised to see, had thatched roofs—a reminder that we were not in Rome, where even the poor sleep with clay tiles over their heads.

The moon was so bright that we made our way without torches. The only sound was the tramping of Domitius’s bodyguards on the paving stones. The narrow streets of Massilia, almost empty by daylight, were even more deserted after dark. “Martial law,” Domitius explained. “A strict curfew. Only those on state business can be abroad after nightfall. Anyone else is presumed to be up to no good.”

“Spies?” I said.

He snorted. “Thieves and black marketeers, more likely. Apollonides’s greatest fear now isn’t Trebonius with his tunnels and battering-rams; it’s famine and disease. We’re already feeling the shortages. As long as the blockade holds, the situation can only get worse. If the people become hungry enough, they’re likely to break into the public granaries. Then they’ll discover just how bad the situation really is. The Timouchoi fear an uprising.”

“The authorities didn’t stockpile enough grain for a siege?”

“Oh, quantity isn’t the problem. There’s a full store of grain—but half of it is ruined with mold. Emergency stores have to be replaced every so often; once every three years is the rule in most cities. Apollonides can’t even tell me when the stores were last replenished. The Council of Fifteen thought it was a wasteful expense. Now their
niggardliness has gotten the better of them, and my men are reduced to half rations.”

Domitius had left Italy with six million sesterces, I recalled; money enough to sail to Massilia and hire an army of Gaulish mercenaries once he arrived, with plenty left over. But no amount of riches could feed an army if there was no food to be purchased.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” he continued. “Apollonides is a good man, and he’s not a bad general. He knows everything there is to know about ships and war machines. But like all Massilians, he’s a merchant at heart, forever calculating and looking for a profit. These Greeks are clever, but they have a narrow view of things. They’re not like us Romans. There’s a fire they lack, a bigger way of looking at the world. They’ll never be more than minor players in the great game.”

“Does Apollonides have children?” I asked. I was remembering the way he had abruptly softened when I explained that I had come to Massilia seeking my son.

“Of course. No man can join the Timouchoi unless he has offspring.”

“Ah, yes. The scapegoat explained that to me.”

“But in Apollonides’s case, it’s a bit of a delicate subject. You’ll see. Or
not
see, rather.” He smiled at a secret joke.

“I don’t understand.”

“Apollonides has only one child, a daughter named Cydimache. Her ugliness is legendary. Well, she’s more than ugly; a monster, really. Hideous. Born with a cleft lip and her face all misshapen, like a lump of melted wax. Blind in one eye and has a hump on her back.”

“Babies like that are usually exposed at birth,” I said. “Discreetly gotten rid of.”

“Indeed. But Apollonides’s wife had already miscarried twice, and he was desperate to become a Timouchos, and for that he needed offspring. So he kept Cydimache and got himself elected to the next opening among the Timouchoi.”

“He had no more children?”

“No. Some say his wife’s labor with Cydimache left her barren.
Others say that Apollonides himself was too afraid of fathering another monster. At any rate, his wife died a few years ago, and Apollonides never remarried. Despite her deformities, they say that Apollonides genuinely loves his daughter, as much as any father could.”

“You’ve seen her?”

“Apollonides doesn’t hide her away. She rarely goes out, but she dines with his guests. She hides her face with veils and rarely speaks. When she does, her voice is slurred, on account of her cleft lip I suppose. I did get a glimpse of her face once. I was crossing the garden of Apollonides’s house. Cydimache had paused at a rose bush. She’d pulled aside her veils to smell a bloom, and I surprised her. Her face was a sight to stop a man’s heart.”

“Or break it, I should think.”

“No, Finder. Beauty breaks a man’s heart, not ugliness!” Domitius laughed. “I’ll tell you this: The face of Cydimache is not a sight I ever care to see again. I don’t know which of us was more unnerved. The girl fled, and so did I.” He shook his head. “Who’d have thought such a creature would ever find a husband?”

“She’s married?”

“The wedding took place just before I arrived in Massilia. The young man’s name is Zeno. Quite a contrast to his wife; damned good-looking, in fact. Not that my taste runs to boys—although faced with a choice of Zeno or Cydimache…!” He laughed. “Some people claim it was a love match, but I think that’s just these Massilians’ sense of humor. Zeno comes from a modest but respectable family; he married her for money and position, of course. This is his means to become a Timouchos—if he can manage to get Cydimache with child.”

“Apollonides was satisfied with the match?”

“I don’t suppose many young men with prospects were lining up to woo the monster, not even to become the son-in-law of the First Timouchos.” Domitius shrugged. “The match seems to have worked. Zeno and Cydimache sit at Apollonides’s right hand every night at dinner. The young man treats her with great deference. Sometimes they talk in low voices and laugh quietly among themselves. If you
didn’t know what was under the veils”—he made a face and shuddered—“you might think they were as lovestruck as any other pair of newlyweds.”

A Gaulish slave girl with braided blond hair answered the door at Milo’s house. She was scantily clad even for such a warm night. Her Greek was poor and atrociously accented, but it was obvious she had not been purchased for her language skills. She giggled incessantly as she invited Domitius, Davus, and me into the foyer. The only light was the lamp she held in her hand; outside the scapegoat’s house, fuel, like food, was severely rationed in Massilia. The oil was of low quality. The rancid-smelling smoke at least helped to cover the odor of unwashed humanity that permeated the house. Instead of running to fetch her master, the girl simply turned and yelled for him.

“I’d have expected a bodyguard to answer the door,” I muttered to Domitius under my breath. “I seem to recall that Milo took a large party of gladiators with him when he went into exile.”

Domitius nodded. “He’s hired his gladiators out to the Massilians as mercenaries. Most of them, anyway; I suppose he kept one or two for bodyguards. They must be somewhere about, probably as drunk as their master. I’m afraid dear Milo has rather let himself go. It might have been different if Fausta had accompanied him into exile.” He referred to Milo’s wife, the daughter of the long-deceased dictator Sulla. “She would have insisted on keeping up social appearances at least. But Milo, on his own—”

Domitius was interrupted by the appearance of the man himself, who shuffled into the foyer carrying a lamp in one hand and clutching a silver wine cup in the other, barefoot and wearing nothing but a loincloth.

It had been three years since I had last seen Titus Annius Milo, during his trial in Rome for the murder of the rival gang-leader Clodius. Against Cicero’s advice, Milo had refused to observe the time-honored tradition that an accused man should appear unkempt and in rags before the court. His pride mattered more to Milo than pandering for sympathy. Defiant to the end, infuriating his enemies, he had appeared at his own trial meticulously groomed.

His appearance had changed considerably since then. His hair and beard were grayer than I remembered and badly needed trimming. His eyes were bloodshot and his face bloated. He was even more scantily clad than the slave girl—his haphazardly arranged loincloth looked as if it might come undone at any moment—but not nearly as pretty to look at. His burly wrestler’s physique had lost its shape, like a clay sculpture gone soft from the heat. He needed a bath.

“Lucius Domitius—dear old Redbeard himself! What an honor.” The wine on Milo’s breath overpowered even the rank smell of his body. He handed his lamp to the slave girl and slapped her on the rump. She giggled. “Hope you haven’t come around sniffing for supper. We finished our day’s rations before noon. We’re having to drink our supper, aren’t we, my dove?” The girl giggled madly. “But who are these fellows you’ve brought with you, Redbeard? I’m sure I don’t know the big one; handsome brute. But this graybeard—great Jupiter!” His eyes sparkled, and I saw a hint of the old, wily Milo. “It’s that hound who used to hunt for Cicero—when he wasn’t snapping at Cicero’s fingers. Gordianus the Finder! What in Hades are you doing in this godforsaken place?”

“Gordianus has come in search of his son,” Domitius explained, his voice flat. “I told him that you were the man to talk to.”

“His son? Oh, yes, you mean”—Milo hiccupped violently—“Meto.”

“Yes. It appears that Gordianus received an anonymous communication, claiming to come from Massilia, informing him of Meto’s demise. He’s come all this way, even managed to get inside the city walls at great peril, because he wants to know the truth of the matter.”

“The truth,” Milo said wearily. “The truth never did me a bit of good.”

“About my son,” I asked impatiently, “what can you tell me?”

“Meto. Yes, well…” Milo refused to meet my gaze. “A sad story. Very sad.”

I was utterly exhausted, confused and disoriented, far from home. I had come to Massilia for one reason only, to discover Meto’s fate. Domitius had teased me, coyly indicating that Milo knew the answer; now Milo seemed unable to complete a sentence. “Proconsul,” I said to
Domitius through gritted teeth, “why can’t you tell me yourself what’s become of Meto?”

Domitius shrugged. “I thought Milo would want the privilege of telling you himself. He’s usually such a braggart—”

“Damn you!” Milo threw his cup against the wall. Davus dodged the splashes. The slave girl emitted a noise between a shriek and a giggle. “This is indecent, Redbeard. Indecent! To bring the man’s father into my house, to taunt us both like this!”

Domitius was unperturbed. “Tell him, Milo. Or else I will.”

Milo blanched. His face turned pale. A sheen of sweat covered his naked flesh. His shoulders heaved. He clutched his throat. “Little dove! Bring me my ewer. Quickly!”

Maniacally giggling, the blond slave girl put down the lamps, skittered across the room, disappeared for a moment, and then hurried back bearing a tall clay vessel with a wide mouth. Milo dropped to his knees, seized the arms of the ewer, and loudly vomited into it.

“For pity’s sake, Milo!” Domitius wrinkled his nose in disgust. Davus seemed hardly to notice; his attention was riveted instead on the slave girl, who, leaning over to assist her master, was inadvertently revealing heretofore unseen portions of her lower anatomy. Plautus himself never staged a more absurd tableau, I thought. I wanted to scream from frustration.

Gradually, with the slave girl wiping his chin, Milo staggered back to his feet. He seemed considerably less drunk, if not exactly sober. He looked utterly wretched.

I couldn’t resist. “A pity the judges at your trial never saw you in such a state. You might never have had to leave Rome.”

“What?” Milo blinked and looked about, dazed.

“Meto,” I said wearily. “Tell me about Meto.”

His shoulders slumped. “Very well. Come, we’ll sit in the study. Little dove, hand me one of those lamps.”

The house was a cluttered mess. Clothes were strewn about the floor and festooned over statues, dirty bowls and cups and platters were stacked everywhere, unfurled scrolls overflowed from tables onto
the floor. In the corner of one room a recumbent figure, presumably a bodyguard, lay noisily snoring.

Milo’s study was the most cluttered room of all. There were chairs for all four of us, but first Milo had to clear away scraps of parchment, piles of clothing (including an expensive-looking but badly wine-stained toga), and a yowling cat. He dumped them all on the floor. Hissing, the cat fled the room.

“Sit,” Milo offered. He pulled a wrinkled tunic over his head, sparing us the sight of his sweaty, corpulent chest. “So you want to know what’s become of your son.” Milo sighed and averted his eyes. “I suppose there’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell you the whole wretched story….”