“No, I mean—”
“I know what you mean, Gordianus.” He sighed. “Worst of all, I dare not leave this house, not even to step outside. If the mob should recognize my litter or my green robes—well, I’ve no intention of being thrown off the Sacrifice Rock.” He drew back his shoulders. “When the time comes, I expect a full ceremony—incense, chanting, et cetera, as you Latin speakers say. And I shall not be thrown over; I shall jump of my own accord, like that poor girl we saw.”
“She was pushed,” said Davus, his voice barely audible.
Hieronymus ignored him. “So here I am, trapped in the house of Apollonides, the one place in Massilia I least want to be, and the one place where Apollonides least wants me. I suppose the goddess thinks we deserve each other. Perhaps that dour virgin, Artemis, has a sense of humor after all.”
He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame, examining our little cubicle with a sardonic expression. “I’m afraid yesterday’s developments have landed you and Davus in considerably reduced circumstances. One lamp, two narrow beds, and a single chamber pot between you. There’s not even a door or a curtain to give you privacy.”
“It could be worse,” I said. “There might be a door—with a lock on it. I’m not sure whether we’re free to go or not.”
“I suspect, considering the tide of events, that Apollonides has forgotten all about you. His plate is full, if you’ll pardon a bad pun. You probably won’t cross his mind until the next time you cross his path. These accommodations are Spartan, to say the least, but since you’ve nowhere better to go, I’d suggest you take advantage of his hospitality for as long as you can. Keep quiet when you’re in this room. Find out where to empty that chamber pot. Ingratiate yourself with the household slaves—drop a few hints that you’re a friend of Caesar’s and therefore worth cultivating, though not such a good friend that you ought to be murdered in your sleep—and otherwise come and go as unobtrusively as you can.”
I nodded. “The hardest thing will be finding enough to eat. I heard Milo complaining to Domitius last night about a new reduction in rations. Every portion in every household is to be cut back.”
“Except for mine. Don’t worry about food, Gordianus. As long as I’m about, I won’t let you starve.”
“Hieronymus, truly, I don’t know how to—”
“Then don’t, Gordianus. There’s no need. And now I have to leave you. There’s some tiresome ceremony or other that the priests of Artemis feel obliged to perform this morning here in the house of the First Timouchos; honoring those lost at sea yesterday, I suppose. For some reason I’m expected to make an appearance, looming in the background.” He turned to go, then remembered something and reached into the small pouch he carried. “I almost forgot. Here, take these—two boiled hen’s eggs, still in the shell. You can eat them for your lunch.”
We had solved the problem of food, at least for the moment. But how were Davus and I to leave the house and get back in? Come and go unobtrusively, Hieronymus had advised—but how? We had entered Apollonides’s compound the previous night through a heavily guarded gate. I could hardly expect to pass back and forth through a guarded gate without being vetted by the First Timouchos himself or at least showing some sort of documentation.
I took another bit of Hieronymus’s advice and sought out the young slave who had escorted us to the banquet the previous night. The boy took it for granted that we were his master’s guests and men of some importance, and that we were also, as was clear from my accent, from somewhere else and thus in need of simple guidance. When I asked him the easiest way to come and go, he didn’t hesitate to show me the entrance the slaves used, which was a gate in a section of the wall at the back of the compound between the kitchens and the store houses. This small gate was manned, not by an armed guard, but by an old slave who had had the job all his life. He was a garrulous, simple fellow, easy to talk to if not very easy to understand, on account of his toothless-ness. When I asked him to repeat himself, I pretended it was due not to his mumbling but to my own poor Greek.
The guards at the front gate were something new, the old gatekeeper told me, called up in response to the chaos of the previous night. Ordinarily, the house of the First Timouchos required no more security than the house of any rich man, and probably less; what sneak-thief would dare to steal from the city’s foremost citizen?
“Any other day this is the safest house in Massilia!” he insisted. “Still, we can’t let in just anyone, can we? So when you come back, knock like this on the gate,” he said, tapping his foot three times against the wood. “Or never mind that, just call out your name. I’ll remember it—you’ve got a funny Roman name; never heard it before. Mind you be careful out in the streets. Things are getting strange out there. What kind of errand is so important you have to leave the safety of this house, anyway? Never mind, it’s none of my business.”
Davus stepped first through the open door into what appeared to be a narrow alley. Following him, I thought of something and turned back. “Gatekeeper,” I said, “you must know the First Timouchos’s son-in-law.”
“Young Zeno? Of course. Uses this gate all the time. Always in a great rush, coming and going. Except when he’s with his wife, of course. Then he slows his pace to match hers.”
“He goes out with Cydimache?”
“Her physicians insist that she take long walks as often as she can. Zeno goes with her. It’s a touching sight the way he hovers over her and dotes on her.”
“I noticed last night that he was walking with a slight limp. Has he always been lame?”
“Oh, no. A fit young man. Very fit. Won races at the gymnasium when he was a boy.”
“I see. Perhaps he was limping because of a wound he suffered in yesterday’s battle.”
“No, he’s had that limp for a while. It’s gotten much better.”
“When was he injured?”
“Let me think. Ah, yes, it was the day Caesar’s men tried to batter down the walls. A crazy day that was, with everybody running every which way. Zeno must have hurt himself running back and forth along the battlements.”
“No doubt,” I said. I stepped out to join Davus, who awaited me in the alley with a smug look on his face.
XIX
“The house of Arausio? You’re close. Turn down this street to the left. After a while you’ll come to a house with a blue door. Go down the little alley that runs alongside it, and when that comes to a dead end, you’ll be in what they call the Street of the Seagulls, on account of the crazy old woman who used to put out fish for seagulls; some days, when I was a little girl, they were so thick in the street that you couldn’t get past the nasty creatures. To your right, the street runs up a little hill. You’ll find Arausio’s house at the top. I always thought that house must have a wonderful view of the harbor….”
The speaker was a pale, thin, young woman, whose Greek was as heavily accented as mine, though with a Gaulish, not Latin, accent. Her fair hair was pulled back from her gaunt face, tightly bundled at the nape of her neck with a leather band, and hung in a tangle down her back, unwashed and badly in need of combing. She wore no jewelry, but bands of pale flesh around several fingers showed where she customarily wore rings. Had distress driven her to sell them, or did she fear to wear them in public?
Her voice had a slightly hysterical edge. She seemed glad to have someone to talk to, even two strangers asking for directions. “Those seagulls! When I was a girl, I remember helping my mother carry food home from the market—in a basket just like the one I’m carrying today, perhaps the very same one; this basket is older than I am—and once we took that street, and it was a terrible mistake, because the gulls attacked us. Horrible creatures! They flew at me and knocked me down, stole what they wanted from my basket, and scattered the rest all over the street. Oh, my basket must have been filled with all sorts of food, olives and capers and flatbread, but of course it would have been the fish that attracted them….” I glanced at the straw bask
et she carried at her side. The handle was of leather, and the Gaulish design featured a spiral pattern around the rim. No seagulls would attack her today for what her basket contained. It was empty.
“Down this street to the left, did you say? Thank you.” I gestured for Davus to move on. A glint of madness had entered the woman’s eyes.
“There, you see, Davus? I told you it would be a simple thing to find the house of Arausio. Just a matter of asking the locals.”
“Yes. You keep asking, and they keep sending us in circles.”
“It’s these winding streets. Very confusing. Do you suppose that’s the house with the blue door?”
“That’s not blue, it’s green.”
“Do you think so?”
“And I don’t see an alley running alongside it.”
“No, neither do I….”
Davus sucked in a sharp breath. He was justifiably exasperated, I thought, then I realized it was something more than that. “Maybe we should ask them for directions,” he said.
“Ask whom?”
“Those two fellows following us.”
I resisted the urge to look behind. “The same two we saw the other day?”
“I think so. I thought I got a glimpse of them not long after we left the First Timouchos’s house. Now I’ve just seen them again. It can’t be coincidence.”
“Unless two other lost strangers are wandering the streets of Massilia in circles, looking for the house of Arausio. But who could have sent them? Who wants us followed? Surely not Apollonides. We slept last night under his roof. If he wanted to confine us, he could have locked us in a room. The fact that we’re out on the streets today must mean that he’s forgotten us, cares nothing about us.”
“Unless he intentionally allowed us to leave his house and sent these men to see where we’d go,” suggested Davus.
“Why would he do that?”
“Maybe he knows what we’re up to.”
“But, Davus, even I’m not sure of that.”
“Of course you are. We saw Apollonides’s son-in-law murder an innocent young woman, and you’re trying to find the proof. Things are going quite badly enough for Apollonides these days without the scandal of a murder to taint his household.”
“You’re assuming that Apollonides knows that Zeno killed Rindel—”
“Perhaps he confronted Zeno. Perhaps Zeno confessed the crime to him!”
“And you’re assuming that Apollonides knows that I have some interest in the matter.”
“You witnessed it. You reported what you saw directly to Apollonides. And if he kept watch on the scapegoat’s house, he knows that you had a visit from Arausio. Why else would Rindel’s father have come there, except to ask about her murder.”
“If I grant that you’re right on all counts, then why doesn’t Apollonides simply lock me in a room? Or cut off my head and be done with me?”
“Because he wants to see where you go, whom you talk to. He wants to find out who else suspects the truth, so that he can deal with them as well.” Davus tapped his head. “You know how such a man’s mind works. Apollonides may be just a mullet compared to sharks like Pompey and Caesar, but he swims in the same sea. He’s no less a politician than they are, and his mind works just like theirs. Always scheming, always putting out fires, trying to guess what happens next and who knows what, thinking up ways to turn it all to his advantage. It makes my head hurt, thinking about men like that.”
I frowned. “You’re saying I’m a hound who imagines he’s out foraging on his own, but all the time Apollonides has me on a long leash?”
“Something like that.” Davus wrinkled his brow. Too many metaphors had worn him out.
“Tell me, Davus, do you see our two followers now?”
He discreetly glanced over his shoulder. “No.”
“Good. Because this must be the house with the blue door, and that must be the alley that runs alongside it. If we disappear around the corner fast enough, we may give them the slip.”
The house of Arausio was exactly where the young woman had said it would be. We seemed to have eluded our two followers. Davus kept watch as I knocked on the door, but he saw no sign of them.
Arausio himself answered the door. Meto had once told me that this was the custom among some of the Gaulish tribes, something to do with ancient laws of hospitality, for the head of the household and not a slave to greet visitors. Arausio looked haggard and pale. It had been only two days since I had seen him in the scapegoat’s house, yet even in that short space of time he seemed to have lost some vital spark. The ordeal of the siege and his own personal tragedy had worn him down.
When he recognized me, his face momentarily lit up. “Gordianus! I wondered if you were still alive! They say there’s nothing left of the scapegoat’s house but ashes. I thought you might have…”
“I’m perfectly well. Lucky to be alive, but alive nonetheless.”
“And you’ve come…with news? About Rindel?”
“No news; not yet. Only questions.”
The light went out in his eyes. “Come inside, then.”
It was a well-ordered house, clean and neat, with a few costly ornaments to demonstrate its owner’s success—a collection of silver bowls ostentatiously displayed in one corner, a few small pieces of Greek statuary placed on pedestals here and there. Arausio’s taste was more refined than I would have expected.
He led us to a room where a woman sat at a loom of some sort; the device was of a Gaulish design I had never seen before, as was the pattern of the garment she was weaving. I realized I knew very little of the Gauls and their ways. Meto had spent years among them, playing his part in Caesar’s conquests, learning their various languages and their tribal customs, yet we had seldom talked about such matters. Why had I not been more curious, displayed more interest in his travels? He had always been in a rush, and so had I; there had never been time enough to really talk. Now there never would be.
The woman seated at the loom stopped what she was doing and looked up at me. I drew in a sharp breath. She was beautiful, with piercing blue eyes, and wore her blond hair as Arausio had described Rindel’s hair, braided like ropes of spun gold. Was it possible that the missing Rindel had returned? But no, Arausio had been anxious for news of her, and his mood, if his daughter had come back, would have been entirely different.
The woman was not Rindel then, but Rindel’s mother. From looking at Arausio’s red cheeks and drooping mustache, I had formed no clear picture of the beautiful daughter who could have tempted a youth like Zeno; but if Rindel took after her mother—indeed, if she was half as beautiful—I could well imagine how Zeno might have fallen for her.
“This is my wife,” Arausio said. “Her name is Rindel, too; we named our daughter for her.” He smiled wanly. “It leads to all sorts of confusion, especially as they look so much alike, and my wife looks half her age. Sometimes, when we’re out among strangers, people mistake the two of them for sisters. They think I’m an old man showing off his two beautiful daughters—” His voice caught in his throat.
The woman stood and acknowledged us with a slight nod. Her lips were tightly compressed and her jaw was clenched. Her eyes brimmed with sudden tears. “My husband says that you can help us.”
“Perhaps, if finding the truth is of help.”
“We want to know what’s become of Rindel. We need to know.”
“I understand.”
“My husband says that you may have seen her…at the end.”
“We saw a woman on the Sacrifice Rock. Perhaps it was Rindel. When you last saw her, what was she wearing?”
She nodded. “Arausio told me that you wanted to know this, so I’ve thought about it and looked through her clothes. I can’t be sure, but I think she must have been wearing a simple yellow gown, not her best but fairly new.”
“And a cloak of some sort? With a hood?”
She frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“The woman we saw wore such a cloak
. It was dark, possibly green—”
“More blue than green,” said Davus, interrupting.
The woman nodded. “Rindel owns such a cloak; I’d call the color a gray-green, myself. But I’m almost certain—wait here.” She left the room for a moment, then returned, bearing a cloak over her arms. “Here it is. I found it among her clothes. She couldn’t have been wearing it, then, not if you saw her….” She lowered her eyes, then raised them. “If the woman you saw was wearing such a cloak, perhaps it wasn’t Rindel you saw after all!”
Arausio took her hand and squeezed it, but when she tried to look into his eyes he pulled at his mustache and turned his face away. “Wife, you mustn’t raise your hopes. We both know what happened to Rindel. There’s no use—”
“Perhaps this will be more conclusive.” I held up the ring with the skystone.
The two of them gazed at it curiously but made no comment.
“Did this belong to your daughter?”
“I never gave her such a ring,” said Arausio.
“Not all rings given to a beautiful young woman are gifts from her father.”
He frowned at the insinuation. “I never saw her wear it.”
“Neither did I.” His wife shook her head. She seemed fascinated by the stone, unable to take her eyes off it. “Why do you show it to us? Where does it come from?”
“It was found yesterday on the summit of the Sacrifice Rock.”
Arausio’s face went blank for an instant, then became twisted with rage. “He gave it to her! The filthy swine! He thought he could placate her—flatter her, buy her silence—with a ring! She must have thrown it at his feet in disgust. And that’s when he—”
His wife put a fist to her lips and sobbed. Arausio put his arms around her and shuddered, his features torn between fury and grief.
I was in no hurry to return to Apollonides’s house. We walked aimlessly about the city. Davus saw no sign of our followers.
“What do you think, Davus? If it wasn’t Rindel we saw on the Sacrifice Rock, then perhaps it wasn’t Zeno, either.”
Last Seen in Massilia: A Novel of Ancient Rome Page 19