“The eagle standard of Catilina,” I whispered.
“You remember!” said Publicius.
Of course I did. How could I forget? I had last seen it tumbling to earth at Pistoria, lost in the chaos of the battle, marking the spot where Catilina fell.
Publicius touched my arm and whispered in my ear, “This was what your son came here to find. That was his true mission to Massilia!”
I gazed up at the eagle, fascinated by the play of light and shadow across its spread wings. “What are you saying? I don’t understand.”
“Before Catilina, it was Marius who carried the eagle standard—Marius the mentor and hero of Caesar—in his campaign against the Teutones and the Cimbri, here in Gaul.”
“That was a long time ago,” I said.
“Yes, even before Caesar was born. Marius defeated the Teutones and the Cimbri. He returned to Rome in triumph with the eagle standard. Years later he prepared to carry it into war once again, against Mithridates in the East. But then Sulla, who had been his lieutenant, turned against him and waged civil war. Sulla marched on Rome itself! In the end, Marius died, and the eagle standard fell into Sulla’s bloodstained hands. He made himself dictator—but only for a while, because Sulla soon died, consumed by worms that grew out of his own flesh. A horrible death, but no more than he deserved; the gods dealt with him justly. And then—no one quite knows how—the eagle standard came into the possession of Catilina.”
“The Deliverer!” cried Minucius, clutching his breast.
“For many years Catilina hoarded it in secret, biding his time,” Publicius continued.
I nodded. “Cicero claimed that Catilina kept the eagle of Marius in a hidden room and bowed down to worship it before plotting his crimes.”
“The criminal was Cicero!” said Publicius vehemently. “Such a man could never understand the true power of the eagle standard. Catilina kept it safely hidden until the time came to carry it into battle again, against the same forces that Marius had fought, the oppressors of the weak, the defilers of the pure, the false pretenders who fill the Senate and mock the virtues that once made Rome great.”
Minucius, in a breathless, impatient voice, took up the story. “But the time was not yet right—Catilina was premature; his cause was doomed. Only we few who fled to Massilia were left to preserve his memory, and for a while longer the gods allowed the serpents who ruled the Senate to hold sway. The murderers of Catilina cut off the Deliverer’s head and showed it off as a trophy…but they never found the eagle standard! If they had, they would have destroyed it, melted it down, reduced it to a shapeless lump, and cast it into the sea. But the eagle eluded them.”
“For years we searched for it,” said Publicius, pressing his colleague aside, clutching at me and pushing his face close to mine. “We hired agents, offered rewards, followed false leads—”
“Those who tried to dupe us and cheat us lived to regret it!” cried Minucius.
“But the eagle had vanished. We despaired—”
“Some of us lost hope—”
“We feared that our enemies had found it after all, and destroyed it.” Publicius sucked in a breath and turned his head to gaze up at the silver eagle. “Yet all along, here it was! Here in Massilia, safe and sound in this vault! Hidden underground, in darkness, behind a bronze door. As if the eagle had known where to rendezvous with its next owner.”
I looked up at the eagle, then past Publicius and Minucius to Verres, who pursed his lips but said nothing.
“Then Gaius Verres is now your leader?” I asked.
“Not at all!” said Publicius. “Verres is merely the keeper of the standard, holding it in trust for its next, true owner. What better place for it to reside, temporarily at least, than here, forgotten by the world at large and safe from its enemies?”
I nodded. “And who is this next, true owner?”
“But surely that’s obvious! Caesar, of course. Caesar will complete what Marius and Catilina began. Caesar will abolish the Senate; he’s already driven them into exile. Caesar will remake the Roman state—”
“Remake the world!” cried Minucius.
“That is his destiny. And he’ll do it under this standard. When the walls of Massilia fall and the city opens her gates to Caesar, and the imperator himself strides in, resplendent in glory, the eagle shall be here, waiting for him. Do you think it was merely coincidence that Massilia was Caesar’s first destination after taking Rome? Oh, no! Rumors had already reached him that the eagle standard of Marius was here in Massilia. He came here to find it. But the Timouchoi sided with Pompey and closed their gates to Caesar. The fools! To obtain what is rightfully his, Caesar was forced to lay siege. But a man like Caesar has recourse to more subtle tools than catapults and siege towers. He also sent your son here—Meto, who once fought beside Catilina—to confound Caesar’s enemies and search for the missing eagle standard.”
“And now you’ve come,” whispered Minucius. “The father of Meto! You, too, fought beside the Deliverer. When Caesar returns to claim Massilia, you shall be here to witness the moment he takes possession of the eagle standard. Do you see how the gods bring all things to a head? The strands they weave out of our mortal lives are like a pattern visible only from the heavens; we here on earth can only guess at their designs.” He shook his head and smiled, bemused by the wonder of it all.
The narrow vault suddenly seemed airless and cramped, and the treasures strewn about the room as tawdry as the masses of crowded statues in the rooms above our heads. The eagle standard itself, briefly invested with magic by the sheer enthusiasm of the acolytes, was merely another object after all, beautiful and precious but made by human hands for an all-too-human purpose, now reduced to one of a thousand items in the inventory of a shamelessly greedy miser.
I shook my head. “What does any of this matter to me? My son is dead.”
Publicius and Minucius exchanged a significant glance. Publicius cleared his throat. “But you see, Gordianus, that’s where you’re wrong. Your son is not dead.”
I looked at him dumbly. From the corner of my eye, a flicker of light created the illusion that the silver eagle stirred. “What did you say?”
“Meto is not dead. Oh, yes, everyone thinks he is; everyone but us. We alone know better. Because we’ve seen him.”
“Seen him? Alive? Where? When?”
Minucius shrugged. “More than once, since he supposedly drowned. He appears when we least expect it. Part of his mission is to prepare the way for Caesar, and for that, of course, the silver eagle must be ready—”
“To Hades with the silver eagle!” I shouted. Davus gripped my arm to restrain me. “To Hades with Caesar, where he can join Catilina for all I care! Where is Meto? When can I see him?”
They recoiled as if struck, gazed up at the eagle, and then averted their eyes, as if ashamed to have brought a blasphemer into its presence. “You’ve suffered much, Gordianus,” said Publicius through gritted teeth. “We acknowledge your sacrifice. Still, there can be no excuse for such impiety.”
“Impiety? You bring me into this…into such a”—I could not think of a word to describe the house of Gaius Verres—“and you accuse me of impiety! I want to see my son. Where is he?”
“We don’t know,” said Minucius meekly. “He comes to us at the time and place of his own choosing. Just as Catilina does—”
“What?”
“Oh, yes, we see Catilina quite often here in the streets of Massilia.” Minucius shook his head. “You say he’s in Hades, but you’re wrong. His lemur has never rested, never left the earth since the battle of Pistoria. As he planned to come here in life, so his lemur journeyed here in death. He sometimes affects the guise of a soothsayer, hiding himself in a cloak and cowl so that no one can see his face or the scar of the wound that separated his head from his shoulders….”
I remembered the soothsayer who appeared out of nowhere at the temple of the xoanon Artemis and rode with us as far as the ruined forest outsid
e Massilia, the one whom the Roman soldiers jokingly called Rabidus. The cowled figure had said to me: Nothing in this place is what it appears to be. Nothing! And later, to the soldiers: I know why the Roman has come here. He’s come to look for his son. Tell the Roman to go home. He has no business here. There’s nothing he can do to help his son….
The vault was suddenly as cold as a tomb. I shuddered and clenched my teeth to stop them from chattering.
“Meto comes to you, then—” There was a thickness in my throat that made it hard to speak. “Meto comes to you as a lemur. Like Catilina?”
Publicius shrugged. His voice was quiet now, no longer angry. “Who can say? What does it matter? Meto played his role in the story of the eagle standard, as did Catilina before him; as yet may you, Gordianus. Why else did the gods send you here to Massilia?”
“Why, indeed?” I muttered. I felt hollow, as I had felt in my lowest hours at the scapegoat’s house, drained of anger, of hope, even of the disdain I felt for these simpering disciples and their strange cult. I looked past them to Verres, who gazed back at me with a sardonic expression, barely able to contain his amusement. I could not even muster the energy to feel disgust for him. I felt nothing.
“Take me away from here, Davus,” I whispered. “I need air.”
We stepped out of the room, but Verres held the lamp, and without it the passage was pitch-black. I was reminded of the flooded tunnel and felt dizzy. We waited while Verres locked the bronze door, then pressed ourselves against the wall while he awkwardly squeezed ahead of us to lead the way out. The forced contact with his corpulent body repulsed me. The smell of his perfume, mixed with his sweat and the smoke from the lamp, was nauseating.
We ascended the stairs, emerged into the house, and proceeded to the garden, then to the foyer, without a word. At the door, the Catilinarians hesitated. If they had more to say, I was in no mood to hear it.
“You needn’t escort me back to Hieronymus’s house,” I said. “Davus and I can find the way.”
“Then we shall leave you now,” said Minucius.
They each clasped one of my hands and looked into my eyes. “Have strength, Gordianus,” said Publicius. “The moment of our deliverance is coming very soon. All questions will be answered.” Then the two of them departed.
I swayed, feeling a bit dizzy. Davus held my arm.
Behind me, Verres laughed. “They’re both completely mad, of course,” he said. “And they’re not the only two. There are quite a few of those fanatics here in Massilia, clinging to Catilina and his so-called dream. Can you believe it? Completely mad, every one of them.”
I turned to face him. “And you, Gaius Verres? What word would you use to describe yourself?”
He shrugged. “Acquisitive, I suppose. And shrewd—I hope. Ten years ago, when one of my contacts in Italy offered to sell me that eagle standard, I thought it might be a good investment—a unique acquisition, certainly—but I had no idea it might someday purchase my return to Rome.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mad our two friends may be, but they’re right about one thing: Caesar does want the eagle standard. Oh, not for some mystical purpose. And not for political reasons, either; all the old Marian supporters have already rallied to his side. No, he wants it for sentimental reasons. Marius was his mentor, after all, and a kinsman; and Catilina was his friend. I’ve always suspected that Caesar would have openly supported Catilina, if the moment had been right.”
“Those two think that Caesar headed straight for Massilia to claim the thing.”
Verres laughed. “Anyone who can read a map knows why Caesar made a detour to this spot: Massilia happens to be on the way to Spain, where Caesar must first dispose of Pompey’s troops before he can make any further moves. Nonetheless, he wants the eagle standard—and I happen to own it. Surely such a prize will be worth the redemption of a single harmless exile such as myself.”
“You expect Caesar to restore your citizenship in return for the eagle?”
“A fair bargain, I should think.”
“You’re merely using the Catilinarians, then?”
“As they hope to use me. They disgust me. I suppose I disgust them. But we have one thing in common: We’re all homesick. We want to go back to Rome. We want to go home.”
“So do I, Gaius Verres,” I whispered. “So do I.”
Davus and I headed back toward the scapegoat’s house. My mind was in a tumult. The Catilinarians, casually claiming to have seen Meto since his fall into the sea, had cruelly raised my hopes, then dashed them. They were mad, as Verres had said. And yet…a part of me clutched at even this tattered shred of hope that Meto might somehow be alive. Was it because I hadn’t seen his dead body with my own eyes that I couldn’t accept the hard fact of his death? Uncertainty allowed for doubt, and doubt allowed for hope; but false hope was surely crueler than the grief of certain knowledge.
What was I to make of the two acolytes’ reference to visitations from a hooded figure they claimed to be the restless lemur of Catilina, whose appearance sounded strangely similar to the hooded soothsayer the Roman guards had called Rabidus? Could it truly have been the spirit of Catilina I met in the wilderness outside Massilia? Had Catilina himself tried to warn me away from the city, knowing that my son was already dead?
Over and over I imagined the sight of Meto plummeting from the high wall into the sea. The image became confused with my memory of the woman we had watched as she scrambled up the rock face and then vanished, either because she was pushed, or jumped, or fell….
I walked through the streets of Massilia in a daze, hardly aware of my surroundings, letting Davus lead the way. When he touched my arm and whispered in my ear, I gave a start.
“I’m not sure, fatherin-law, but I think we’re being followed.”
I blinked and looked around, for the first time taking notice of others in the street. There were more people about than I had realized. Life in Massilia went on despite the siege. “Followed? Why do say that?”
“There are two fellows who seem always to be about a hundred paces behind us. We’ve just completed a circuit of the block around Verres’s house, and they’re still there.”
I turned and saw that we stood once again before the door to Verres’s house. My wits were so dulled, I hadn’t even noticed that Davus had just led me in a circle.
“Are they closing on us?”
“No, they seem to be keeping their distance. And I think…”
“Yes?”
“I think they may have followed us earlier, when we left the scapegoat’s house. I wasn’t sure, then. But it must be the same two.”
“Probably agents of the Timouchoi, keeping an eye on the scapegoat’s Roman guests,” I said. “If the authorities are having us watched, there’s not much we can do about it. Do you recognize these two? Might you have seen them before, perhaps among Apollonides’s soldiers?”
Davus shook his head. “They stay too far back for me to get a good look at their faces.” He frowned. “What if they’re not from the Timouchoi? What if someone else is having us followed?”
“That seems unlikely.” Or did it? If I had learned anything since my arrival in Massilia, it was to expect the unexpected.
I glanced behind us, attempting to do so casually. “Which ones are they?”
Davus shook his head. “You can’t see them now. They’ve stepped out of sight. But fatherin-law…haven’t we seen him before?”
I turned my head and followed Davus’s gaze down a narrow side street, where a group of twenty or so women, all clutching empty baskets, had gathered before a closed storefront, whispering and wearing furtive expressions, drawn, it was painfully obvious, by some black marketeer’s promise of contraband rations on offer in a certain place at a certain hour. What would the Timouchoi think of that?
“I see a lot of women, Davus, but no men.”
“There, a little beyond the women, wearing a hood. It’s the soothsayer we met outside M
assilia!”
I drew a sharp breath. The figure could be seen only in glimpses, yet somehow, like Davus, I perceived it at once to be the soothsayer. But that was impossible; how could he have gotten inside the city walls? Our minds were playing tricks on us; the Catilinarians had mentioned a hooded visitor, and that had brought the soothsayer to the forefront of our thoughts. The figure was probably not a man at all, but simply another of the women standing a little beyond the crowd. And yet…
I stepped into the side street and walked toward the crowd of women. Davus followed. Did I only imagine that the hooded figure beyond the crowd gave a sudden start?
Davus gripped my arm. I tried to shake him off, but he tightened his grip. “Fatherin-law, there they are again—the two who’ve been following us. Beyond the soothsayer, at the far end of the street. They must have circled around.”
I saw the two men Davus was talking about. They were too distant for me to see their faces, dressed in plain brown chitons with nothing to set them apart. The hooded figure, turning his head, seemed to see them as well, and gave another start. I tried to move toward him, through the crowd of women. The look on my face must have alarmed them; I heard exclamations in Greek too fast for me to follow, and then they began to scatter like startled birds. They thought that Davus and I were agents of the Timouchoi come to break up their black market.
For a moment all was confusion, then the narrow little side street was suddenly empty. The women had vanished. So had the two men at the far end of the street. So had the hooded figure—if indeed he had ever been there.
XIV
I dreamed that night of Meto’s toga day, when he turned sixteen and for the first time put on his manly toga for a promenade through the Forum in Rome. The night before he had panicked and been paralyzed with doubt; how could a boy born a slave ever truly become a Roman? But I had comforted him, and on the appointed morning my heart soared with pride to see him stride through the Forum, a citizen among citizens.
Last Seen in Massilia: A Novel of Ancient Rome Page 13