Last Seen in Massilia (10 page)

“Tell me, Gordianus, do you have any idea what your son was
really
up to these past few months?” Milo used his tunic to wipe a speck of vomit from his chin.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Were you in on his little game or not? This mime show he attempted, passing himself off as a traitor to Caesar.”

I looked him squarely in the eye. Outright lying has never come easily to me, but there are subtler ways of skirting the truth. “I know that Meto and Caesar parted ways when both of them were last in Rome. That was in the month of Aprilis, after Caesar ran Pompey out of Italy and Domitius was on his way here to Massilia. There was talk of a plot against Caesar, devised by some of his closest officers. Meto was said to be part of that plot. Supposedly the scheme was discovered and Meto had no choice but to flee.”

Milo nodded. “That’s what your son wanted us all to believe. Perhaps he even made
you
believe it.” He raised a shrewd eyebrow. As his intoxication receded, a more familiar Milo came to the fore—the rabble-rousing gang-leader, the politician unafraid of violence, the blustering, unapologetic victim of a legal system as ruthless as himself. Despite his squalid circumstances and his physical decline, Milo was still a very dangerous man. He no longer averted his eyes. “Did
you
believe your son was a traitor, Gordianus?”

I spoke carefully, feeling Domitius’s gaze on me. “At first it seemed
impossible that Meto could turn against Caesar. There had always been a bond between them, a closeness—”

“We’ve all heard
those
rumors, as well!” Milo interjected. A barely stifled belch reminded me that he was still more drunk than sober.

I ignored his insinuation and pressed on. “But don’t you see, that very closeness was what swayed me to accept that Meto had betrayed Caesar. Closeness can breed contempt. Familiarity can turn love to hate. Who might be more likely to be repelled by Caesar’s ruthless ambition, his carelessness in destroying the Republic, than a man who shared the same tent with Caesar day after day, who helped him write his memoirs, who came to see exactly how his mind worked?” Indeed, such had been my reasoning when, for a while, I myself believed that Meto had turned traitor.

Milo shook his head. “If you don’t know the truth, then truly I feel sorry for you. Redbeard here was taken in as well,” he said, shrugging at Domitius. “So was Pompey apparently. But not me. Not for a moment!”

“At last the braggart overtakes the drunkard,” said Domitius dryly. They exchanged a chilly glance.

Milo went on. “All that talk of Meto changing sides was nonsense. I’m a shrewd judge of character. Don’t forget, for years I ran the streets in Rome. It was my gang that did Pompey’s dirty work so that he could keep his own hands clean. A friendly candidate needed a good turnout for a speech? My gang was there in full force. Clodius’s rabble was hectoring a senator in the Forum? My gang could be there in minutes to clear the place out. An election needed to be postponed? My gang was ready to crack a few heads down at the voting stalls. All at the snap of my fingers.” He tried to demonstrate, but his fingers fumbled and made no noise.

“The coins from your purse spoke louder,” quipped Domitius.

Milo frowned. “The point is, you don’t become a leader of men without learning to judge a man’s character, figuring out how best to persuade him, knowing his limits, what he will or won’t do—getting under his skin. And I knew from the moment I laid eyes on him here in Massilia that Meto was no traitor. He wasn’t dodgy enough. Didn’t
have the smell of a man who’s out just for himself. And what reason did he have to turn on Caesar? All your high-flown talk about love turning to hate is just so much cow dung, Gordianus.”

“Some men love the Republic more than they love their imperator,” I said quietly.

“Show me one! Show me just one!” he barked, then fell to coughing. His forehead erupted in sweat. “I need a drink,” he muttered.

So did I. My throat was so dry I could hardly swallow. “Go on,” I said hoarsely.

Milo leaned back in his chair, lost his balance, and came close to falling. Domitius sniggered. Davus rolled his eyes.

Milo recovered himself and went on, unflustered. “Consider my position. Everything went wrong for me in Rome. My trial was a farce. Clodius’s mob burned down the Senate House! They didn’t even let Cicero finish his speech for me. They drowned him out, screaming for my head. The verdict was a foregone conclusion. Only one man could have saved me—but my dear friend, Gnaeus Pompey, the Great One himself,
turned his back on me
! After all I’d done for him….”

He picked up a discarded loincloth from the floor and mopped his forehead. “Even Fausta refused to come with me into exile. The bitch! Married me because she thought I was a winner, then jumped off quicker than a flea from a drowning dog when things went wrong. So here I landed in Massilia, a man without a country, without a family, without friends. Abandoned. Forgotten. ‘Don’t fret, Titus,’ Cicero told me. ‘Massilia is a civilized place full of culture and learning…admirable government…delightful climate…delicious food.’ Easy for Cicero to say; he’s never even set foot in this Hades-on-earth! He can admire Massilia from a distance, relaxing in his house on the Palatine or at one of his summer places in the countryside. I used to have summer houses….”

He shut his eyes for a moment and sighed, then went on. “Now the whole world’s been turned upside-down. Caesar and his outlaw armies are in control of Rome. Pompey and the Senate have fled across the water. Even Rome’s oldest allies, these wretched Massilians, aren’t safe. And where does that leave me? Milo, who was always loyal, even
when it harmed his own prospects. Milo, who was abandoned by his friends, even the Great One, just because of a stupid, stupid, stupid incident on the Appian Way.

“With everything in such a muddle, you might think that Pompey would be ready to take me back, eager to make amends. But, no! A message comes from Pompey.” He launched into an uncanny impersonation of the Great One at his most pompous: “‘Stay in Massilia, good Milo. Stay right where you are! The verdict against you stands, and the law must be respected. Your choice remains the same: exile or death. It’s Caesar and his ilk who advocate allowing political exiles to return to Rome; I cannot possibly do the same, even for a friend such as you—
especially
for a friend such as you. In spite of the current crisis—indeed,
because
of the crisis—there can be absolutely no exceptions to the severe majesty of Roman law.’ In other words: ‘Stay put in Massilia, Milo, and rot!’”

By the dim lamplight, I saw the sparkle of tears in his eyes. Please, gods, I prayed, spare me the spectacle of Milo weeping.

He drew a deep breath and went on. “What I needed, you see, was some way to get back into Pompey’s good graces, to impress him—to put him in my debt if I could. But how, stuck here in Massilia with only a handful of gladiators, and those already hired to the Massilians as mercenaries? Then it occurred to me: What if I were to expose a dangerous spy? And not just any spy, but a spy planted in our ranks by Caesar’s own hand, a spy Pompey himself had instructed us to trust? That would be no small thing. Step one in the rehabilitation of Milo!

“First, I had to get Meto to trust me. That was the easy part. Look at me! I’m not blind to my own condition. I know how far I’ve fallen. I go naked all day. I live in a house that stinks of urine. I’m a Roman exiled from Rome, a man without prospects, without even dignity—bitter, desperate, the ideal candidate for recruitment in a dangerous game. Oh, yes, Meto came to me; he searched me out at once. He thought he was being subtle, I’m sure, but I could read his thoughts as if he spoke them aloud. Poor old Milo, abandoned by all; he should be easy to lure over to Caesar’s cause, ripe and ready to stab his old friend Pompey in the back. I simply went along; I let Meto seduce me. Slowly,
surely, he wormed his way into my confidence. I made a great deal of it, the day I was finally ready to show him that message from Pompey telling me to stay put. I wept real tears when I read it to him; that wasn’t acting.

“After that it was only a matter of time. I could sense the day approaching. Even before it happened, I knew the very hour Meto would make his move, the way a farmer can smell rain on the wind. It happened in this room. I was ready for him. The trap was laid. Do you see that wooden screen in the corner? Redbeard here was concealed behind that screen. Come on, Redbeard, why don’t you show our visitors how you hid and listened? We can reenact the moment.”

“Get on with it!” snapped Domitius.

“It’s a beautiful screen, isn’t it? Carved from terebinth in Libya, I think. That’s gold leaf along the border. Fausta’s father owned it; imagine the uses wily old Sulla must have found for such a screen to hide behind! I brought it with me when I left Rome. Fausta wanted to keep it, but I smuggled it out from under her nose. I wonder if she ever missed it?”

“Tell the story, Milo!” I whispered hoarsely.

He lowered his eyes. “You won’t like the ending.”

“Tell me!”

“Very well. You have to realize, Redbeard here thought I was deluded. Said my mind was addled from too much bad Massilian wine. ‘You’re wrong about Meto,’ he told me. ‘The man can be trusted; Pompey himself says so. What Meto knows about Caesar and the way his mind works could fill a book. His value to us is immeasurable.’ Ha! Don’t glare at me like that, Redbeard. You’re the one who insisted on bringing Gordianus into my house. If I needle you a bit, you’ll just have to bear it.

“So there was Redbeard listening behind the screen, and in that storage room beyond he managed to stuff ten or so hand-picked soldiers—probably the same bodyguards escorting him tonight. Meto didn’t suspect a thing. At some point Redbeard made a shuffling noise. Meto glanced at the screen. I told him it was a rat. And so it was!” Milo laughed. Domitius stared at him coldly.

“Meto and I talked around and around each other. The little dove fetched wine, and I pretended to be drunk—well, perhaps I wasn’t entirely pretending. Drunk or not, I turned in a performance worthy of Roscius the actor. My part was the diver who’s stepped to the precipice and needs just a puff of air at his back to take the plunge; the coward who’s mustered his last scrap of courage and needs only one more turn of the screw to reach the sticking point; the lover bursting with emotion who can’t quite bring himself to be the first to say, ‘I love you.’ Around and around we talked, your son and I, with Redbeard fidgeting behind that screen, about to sneeze at any moment, for all I knew. The suspense was terrible. I imagine it made my performance all the more convincing.

“Finally, Meto made his play. ‘Milo,’ he said, ‘you’re trapped in Massilia. Domitius treats you like a slave. You have no hope of reconciliation with Pompey. Desperate times demand desperate actions. Perhaps you should consider a radical move.’

“‘But where else is there for me to go?’ I asked. ‘After Massilia, the next port of call is Hades.’

“Meto shook his head. ‘There’s another choice.’

“‘Caesar, you mean? But Caesar would never have me. He relies too much on the good will of the Clodians. That rabble would turn on him in an instant if he took me in.’

“‘Caesar is beyond needing the Clodians,’ said Meto. ‘He’s bigger than the Clodians now. Bigger than Rome. He can ally himself with whomever he chooses.’

“‘But you’ve turned your back on Caesar,’ I said.

“Meto looked at me squarely. ‘Perhaps not,’ he said.

“I told him, ‘I can’t deny that I’ve thought about it. It seems to me that it’s the only choice I have left. But I’d need a go-between, someone to help me cross to the other side. Tell me, Meto, are you that man?’

“Meto nodded. Why, at that precise moment, Redbeard felt it was necessary to make such a show of knocking the screen down, I don’t know. My heart almost flew out of my mouth. Meto was on his feet with his dagger drawn in an instant. He saw Redbeard, saw the look on my face, saw the first of the soldiers burst out of the storage room.
It should have all been over in an instant. Instead….” Milo stopped and took another drink.

“Tell me!”

“No need to shout, Gordianus. Let Redbeard tell you. It’s his story from here on.”

Domitius looked at me coldly. “I’d given my men instructions to capture Meto, not to kill him if they could help it. They were too cautious.”

“Too clumsy!” interjected Milo.

“It happened very quickly,” Domitius went on. “Meto was out of the room before my men could catch him. I had more men posted at the front door, but Meto surprised us by running into the garden and climbing onto the roof. He jumped down into a side alley and ran to the back of the house. I had more men posted there, but he got past them. They chased after him. He was a fast runner. He might have eluded them entirely, but one of my men threw a spear and managed to graze his hip. That slowed him down. Still, he managed to reach the city wall, down where it runs along the sea. He climbed the stairs up to the battlements, not far from the Sacrifice Rock—”

“The Sacrifice Rock!” I whispered, remembering vividly what I had seen there at twilight.

“He wasn’t mad enough to leap from the rock,” said Domitius. “The surf and the rocks below would kill any man. Instead, he ran farther on, to a bend where the sheer wall drops to deep water. Perhaps that was his goal all along; he may have scouted out the place in advance, planning for just such an emergency. I suppose it’s barely possible that a man could dive from the wall and swim all the way out to the islands where Caesar’s ships are moored.”

“Meto never learned to swim as a boy,” I whispered. Had he learned to swim as a soldier?

“Well, if he could swim, Meto might have made a clean escape….”

My heart pounded in my chest. “But?”

“But that’s not what happened. My men stayed close on his heels. They were almost on him when he jumped. One of them swears he pierced Meto with an arrow on his way down, but that may be idle
boasting. The fall alone might have killed him. He disappeared beneath the water. When my men saw his body break the surface, they showered him with arrows. The sun was in their eyes, casting a glaring light on the waves, which made it hard to see, but some of the men swear they saw blood on the water. They all saw his body being swept out to sea by the current. They say he didn’t kick or flail his arms, as any conscious man would; he simply floated like a cork for a while, then disappeared below the surface.”