Last Seen in Massilia: A Novel of Ancient Rome

by Steven Saylor

  Then I glimpsed a figure in the shadows of a nearby building and almost lost my footing. Davus was beside me. I gripped his arm.

  “Look there!” I whispered. “Do you see?”

  “Where? What?”

  It was the same cowled figure we had first seen outside the city, then again on the way back from Verres’s house. “Enkekalymmenos,” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “The veiled one.”

  The figure haltingly stepped from the shadows and moved toward the base of the rock as if to meet us. He raised his hands. For a moment it seemed that he intended to push back the cowl and show his face.

  Suddenly he stiffened and looked over his shoulder toward the shadows from which he had come. He bolted in the opposite direction, his cloak billowing after him, and vanished.

  A moment later I saw what had caused him to flee. A troop of soldiers appeared from the shadows and marched straight to the foot of the Sacrifice Rock.

  Their commander signaled for his men to halt, then crossed his arms and glowered up at us. “Scapegoat! Reports reached the First Timouchos that you were seen on the Sacrifice Rock, trespassing on sanctified ground. By order of the First Timouchos, I command you to vacate the site immediately. The same goes for your two companions.”

  “Well, really!” said Hieronymus, sounding petulant and a little out of breath. The rock flattened considerably at the base, so that he was able to turn around and take the last few steps facing the officer head-on. Davus followed him, hanging back a bit to make sure that I stepped off the rock safely.

  “There, we’re off the rock. Now that you’ve done your job, you can run along,” Hieronymus snapped at the officer. “Unless you’re here to escort me safely home. My litter seems to have vanished, and there’s an ugly mob forming along the battlements—”

  “I’m here to escort you, but not to your house,” said the officer, sneering.

  Hieronymus’s sarcasm suddenly deserted him. From behind I saw his fingers tremble. He clenched his hands to stop the shaking. He swayed as if he were dizzy.

  If the soldiers did not mean to escort him home, then where?

  Massilia had lost its navy. Massilia had been betrayed by Pompey. Her people already faced starvation and pestilence; now they could look forward to capitulation and total catastrophe. Their city was older than Rome, her ancient ally; older even than their mutual enemy, Carthage. But Carthage had been destroyed, obliterated so completely that no trace of that once-great city, or its proud people, remained. Massilia could be destroyed just as completely. Until now, hope had staved off that cruel realization. Now hope was gone. Was this the moment for the scapegoat to earn his name? Had the priests of the xoanon Artemis determined that now, in this darkest hour, the time had come for the scapegoat to take all the sins of the troubled city upon his shoulder and, with him, into oblivion? Had these soldiers come to drive him back up the rock, onto the precipice, and over the edge—no longer trespassing, but enacting his destiny—while all Massilia watched and cursed his name?

  I held my breath. At last the officer spoke.

  “You’re not to return to your own house, Scapegoat. I’m to take you directly to the house of the First Timouchos. And I have orders to bring along these two as well.” He glared at Davus and me. “Come along!”

  Meekly, we obeyed. The soldiers drew their swords and formed a phalanx around us. At a quick pace we headed away from the Sacrifice Rock toward the house of Apollonides.

  XVI

  As we made our way through the heart of the city, I had cause to be thankful for our armed escort.

  The streets were crowded with men and women rushing aimlessly about in panic. Hieronymus in his green robes was quickly recognized. Shouts of “Scapegoat! Scapegoat!” preceded us. At first, the citizens we passed were content to yell curses, shake their fists, and spit on the ground. Then a few of them began to dog our little retinue, running alongside us, waving their arms and screaming hysterically, their faces twisted with hatred. Soon we were surrounded by a roving mob. Urged on by their fellows, a few men, and even some women, dared to rush the moving phalanx. The soldiers shoved them roughly back with their shields, but several of them managed to thrust a hand past the soldiers. They reached for the scapegoat; failing to clutch him, they made obscene gestures. One managed to wriggle his head through. He spat in Hieronymus’s face before being thrown back into the crowd.

  Finally the commander ordered his men to use their swords if necessary. When the next man rushed the phalanx, there was a flash of steel and a piercing scream. My face was spattered with warm drops. I wiped my cheeks. Beyond the blood on my fingertips, I caught a glimpse of the wounded man as he fell back, howling and clutching his arm.

  The mob kept its distance after that, but began to throw things at us, using whatever was at hand—fistfuls of gravel and small rocks, bits of broken paving stones and fragments of roofing tiles, scraps of wood, even household items like small clay pots, which exploded with a loud pop when they struck the soldier’s shields and helmets. The rain of objects became so thick that the commander ordered his men into tortoise formation. A roof of shields closed over our heads. A solid wall of shields surrounded us, with swords thrust through the breeches.

  It was dark within the tortoise. I was jostled from all sides as we trudged forward. The smell of sweat from the soldiers filled my nostrils. The crashing of hurled debris was like the din of a hail storm.

  “Impious fools! Hypocrites! Idiots!” Hieronymus clenched his fists and shouted at the top of his lungs. “The person of the scapegoat is sacred! Harm me now and you only curse yourselves!” His cries were drowned by the clatter and the screams of the mob.

  At last we reached our destination. The commander shouted orders. The soldiers contracted into an even tighter formation. We passed through a portal of some sort. Bronze gates clanged shut behind us, muffling the cries of the mob outside. The soldiers broke formation.

  We were in a small, graveled courtyard. Relieved to be free of the tortoise and the mob, I turned my eyes upward and for a brief, incongruous moment I was struck by the beauty of the sky above us. It was the hour of twilight. The firmament was dark blue at its zenith, lightening toward the horizon to shades of aquamarine and an improbable orange, streaked with high bands of tenuous, elongated clouds suffused with the blood-red glow of dying sunlight.

  I was drawn back to the moment by the clatter of debris hurled against the closed gates behind us. The mob had not dispersed. The soldiers were busy making sure that the crossbar securing the gates was properly in place. Their commander, looking a bit unnerved, mounted the short flight of steps that led up to the porch of a grand-looking house. Its door was open. On the threshold, Apollonides stood with his arms crossed, looking down at us.

  “First Timouchos!” barked the officer, saluting. “As you ordered, I’ve brought the scapegoat, along with the two men who were seen with him trespassing on the Sacrifice Rock.”

  “You took your time fetching them here.”

  “I took the most direct route, First Timouchos. Our progress was…difficult.”

  Something—a large wine jug perhaps—crashed against the courtyard gates with a loud explosion.

  “I want that mob dispersed at once,” said Apollonides.

  “First Timouchos, the noise is misleading. They’re not as dangerous as you might think. They’re completely disorganized. Loud, but not armed—”

  “Then they should be easily dispersed.”

  The officer ground his jaw. “The sight of the scapegoat excited them. Perhaps if we allow them a little time to cool off—”

  “At once, I said! Call up archers. Spill some blood if you have to, but clear the streets immediately. Do you understand?”

  The officer saluted and backed down the steps. Apollonides turned his attention to us. He glared at Davus and me, then settled his gaze on Hieronymus, who stared sullenly back at him. “You’re lucky to still be alive,” Apollonides finally said.r />
  “The goddess protects me,” answered Hieronymus, his voice steady but hoarse from yelling. “I have a higher purpose.”

  Apollonides’s pale blue eyes flashed. A thin smile spread across the mouth too small for his massive jaw. “Call it what you want. Your higher purpose will still lead you straight to Hades. When you meet them there, give your parents my regards.”

  Hieronymus stiffened, and for a moment I thought he might rush up the steps and hurl himself at Apollonides. But Apollonides, a better judge of Hieronymus than I, never flinched.

  “Am I under arrest, then?” demanded Hieronymus.

  Apollonides snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. I had you brought here for your own safety. You should be thankful for my diligence.”

  “And my friends? Are they under arrest?”

  Apollonides glowered at us. “I’m not sure. I haven’t yet made up my mind. Would you believe I’ve had other things to think about today? In the meantime, you’ll all spend the night here—where I can keep an eye on you.”

  Apollonides withdrew without another word: Slaves escorted us into the house to show us to our quarters. On the way, we passed through the central garden, where evidently a dinner party of considerable size was being prepared. A little army of slaves hurried this way and that, carrying couches, small tables, portable lamps, and stacks of empty serving trays. A celebration feast, I thought; only tonight there would be no cause for celebration.

  While Hieronymus was shown to his own private quarters, Davus and I were escorted down the same hallway but in the opposite direction. We descended a short flight of steps. The hallway grew narrower, the ceiling lower, the way more poorly lit, until at last we came to a tiny, windowless room at the very end of the hallway. There were two small sleeping cots and just enough space to walk between them, if I angled my body sideways. A feeble light was cast by a little hanging lamp burning rancid oil. I fell onto my cot and realized, with a long exhalation, how weary I was. But sleep was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw twisted faces from the mob.

  At the sound of footsteps, I sat up. Hieronymus stood in the doorway. He surveyed our accommodations and raised an eyebrow. “Cozy,” was all he said.

  “I suppose your own quarters are rather larger.”

  He shrugged. “An anteroom, a bed chamber, and another room with a private balcony. Anything less would be an insult to the goddess!”

  By the lamp’s flickering light I noticed a shiny object on the little finger of his left hand. It was the ring set with a black stone that he had discovered on the Sacrifice Rock. In the rush of events, I had forgotten about it.

  He followed my gaze and wriggled his finger, making the stone flash in the light. “A tight fit, even on my little finger. What do you make of it, Gordianus?”

  “A woman’s ring, obviously. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a stone quite like it.”

  “No? I suppose they’re more sought after in Massilia than elsewhere, on account of the xoanon Artemis. It’s a bit of skystone, fallen from the heavens, just as the xoanon Artemis fell to earth long ago. Skystones aren’t necessarily pretty. Sometimes they’re quite ugly, in fact, but this one is rather interesting; not solid black, you see, but with smoky swirls of silver shot through it, and as smooth and shiny as polished marble. Quite valuable, I imagine.”

  “The sort of ring a Massilian might give to his lover?”

  “I suppose, if the man were rich and the lover beautiful enough to wear such fine jewelry.” With a bit of effort he twisted it off his finger and handed it to me.

  “What was it doing on the Sacrifice Rock?” I asked. “We’ve seen how difficult it is to get to the summit. No one goes there casually, especially now, with everyone banned from climbing the rock. So how did this ring come to be there?”

  Hieronymus pursed his lips. “We do know of two people who were on the rock not long ago. The officer in the light blue cape and the woman who jumped.”

  “Who was pushed,” corrected Davus.

  I nodded. “Apollonides dispatched his men to have a look in the vicinity of the Sacrifice Rock, but he explicitly forbade them to climb onto the rock itself. We must assume that the summit of the Sacrifice Rock was never searched. This ring may have been there ever since.”

  “Perhaps,” conceded Hieronymus. “But how did it get there in the first place? It seems unlikely that it could have slipped accidentally from the woman’s finger, unless she had very small hands indeed.”

  “Perhaps she pulled the ring off her finger before she…went over the edge,” I said.

  “Or perhaps the man pulled it off,” suggested Davus. “We saw them struggle for a bit, remember? Perhaps he pulled it off her finger, then dropped it when he pushed her—”

  “When she jumped,” insisted Hieronymus.

  “In either case, if this ring did come from the woman’s finger….” I left the thought unfinished. “Do you mind, Hieronymus, if I keep it for a while?”

  “You can cast it into the sea for all I care. I’ve no use for it.” He pressed a hand to his belly. “Do you suppose we can expect anything resembling a meal this evening?”

  Davus’s stomach growled sympathetically.

  As if on cue, a young slave appeared in the shadowy hallway behind Hieronymus. “Dinner is served in the garden,” he announced.

  “A dinner under the stars—delightful!” said Hieronymus, turning to smile at the slave.

  By the lamp’s feeble glow I saw the boy’s look of surprise. His eyes grew wide, then he stepped back and averted his face. “Not…not for you,” he managed to stutter. “I’ve come for the two Romans.”

  “Then where am I to eat?” demanded Hieronymus.

  “In…your rooms,” the slave stuttered, his voice hardly more than a whisper, his face turned away from the scapegoat.

  “Of course,” said Hieronymus dryly. “What was I thinking? The scapegoat dines alone.”

  The garden was dimly lit. In the few lamps scattered about, the flames burned low. Oil, like food, had become scarce in Massilia.

  The light was so uncertain that I had trouble estimating how many people had gathered in the garden; perhaps fifty or more. If this had been intended to be a celebration dinner, whom would the First Timouchos have invited? The most exalted of his fellow Timouchoi; the priests of Artemis; military leaders; perhaps a few important Roman exiles; certainly the Roman military commander. Sure enough, I noticed Domitius reclining on one elbow on a dining couch, sipping from a cup of wine. The slave escorted us to the empty couch next to him.

  Domitius peered at us blearily. If anyone should have felt betrayed by the day’s events, it was him. In Italy he had disregarded Pompey’s advice, made a stand at Corfinium against Caesar, and even before the siege was underway had been handed over to Caesar by his own men. Now, once again trapped in a city besieged by Caesar, he had desperately looked to Pompey for relief—and the ships sent by Pompey had sailed past Massilia and into the sunset.

  His speech was slurred. “There you are, troublemaker. I suppose you know you’ve caused me considerable embarrassment today. A fellow Roman—my personal responsibility—trespassing on sacred ground! What were you thinking, Gordianus?”

  “Davus and I wanted to watch the fleet sail out,” I said blandly. “The walls were very crowded. The Sacrifice Rock seemed to offer the best vantage point.”

  “You knew it was forbidden.”

  “Can a visitor be expected to remember every local custom?”

  Domitius took this fiction for what it was worth and snorted cynically. “You can climb up the Sacrifice Rock and take a piss off it for all I care. Better yet, take a leap into the sea. It’s probably the only way to get out of this godforsaken place.” He held up his empty cup. A slave appeared from the shadows and refilled it. “Only thing they seemed to have stockpiled in adequate amounts—good Italian wine. And slaves to pour it. What a wretched little town this is!” He made no effort to lower his voice. I looked about. Guests were still arr
iving. The mood of the place was somber and the conversations quiet. Quite a few heads turned our way in response to Domitius’s outburst.

  “If you’re not careful,” I said quietly, “your own tongue shall cause you more embarrassment than I ever could.”

  He laughed bitterly. “I’m a Roman, Gordianus. I have no manners and no fear. That’s how we’ve managed to conquer the world. How some of us have managed to conquer it, anyway. Ah, but here’s another glorious loser—Milo! Over here!”

  Out of the shadowy crowd Milo appeared, looking as glum and bleary-eyed as Domitius. He dropped onto the couch next to Domitius and snapped his fingers. When the slave brought more wine, I declined; it seemed a night to keep my wits about me.

  The garden was a square surrounded by a colonnade. In the center there was a dry fountain with a conventional statue of Artemis. Couches were gathered in U-shapes, alternately facing in or out from the center so that in rows they formed a sort of Greek key pattern of the type one often sees along the hem of a chiton. In this way guests faced in all four directions and there was no true center or focus; the layout also made it possible to overhear conversations from parties that were nearby but faced another direction. Our immediate vicinity seemed to be reserved for Romans. I heard the low murmur of Latin all around. Looking over his shoulder at me from a nearby couch, I saw Gaius Verres, who had the temerity to wink at me.

  The guests included both sexes, though men greatly outnumbered women. The women, I noticed, following Massilian custom and in marked contrast to Rome, took no wine.

  Apollonides and his retinue were the last to arrive. Everyone stood (some, like Domitius and Milo, not steadily) in deference to the First Timouchos. The grim-faced men surrounding Apollonides I took to be his closet advisors. Also in the party was a young couple. I had heard much about them. Now at last I saw them together: Apollonides’s only child, Cydimache, and her husband, Zeno.

  The girl wore a voluminous gown made of fine material shot through with gold and silver threads. The colorful veils that hid her face were of some gossamer stuff. On another woman such expensive and elaborate clothing might have made one think of wealth and privilege, but on Cydimache they seemed a sort of costume meant to distract curious onlookers from the misshapen, hunchbacked form within. Even her hands were concealed. Without a single, recognizable human feature for the eye to connect to, one might almost imagine that some bizarre animal had entered our midst beneath those mounds of veils.