“Oh, no, it was Zeno we saw. And Rindel, too.”
“What about the cloak she was wearing?”
He shrugged. “Maybe Rindel owned more than one such cloak, and her mother is confused. Or perhaps Rindel took her mother’s cloak, and her mother simply hasn’t noticed yet. It’s a tiny detail.”
“And the ring? Is it as Arausio said—Zeno tried to give her the ring as some sort of consolation, and when she refused it, he decided to put an end to her?”
“Not necessarily.” Davus frowned. “I think Zeno must have given her the ring a long time ago, when they first became lovers.”
“But her parents never saw it.”
“She kept it a secret from them. That’s what the ring was, a lovers’ secret, shared between just her and Zeno.”
“I see. And that’s why she made a show of taking it off on the Sacrifice Rock—to spurn him in return?”
“Unless….” Davus furrowed his brow. “This is what I really think happened. It was Zeno who pulled the ring off her finger, against her will. I think that’s why he was chasing her in the first place, to take back the ring.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Who knows how the mind of such a fellow works? If the ring stood for a promise he’d made to Rindel before he spurned her, then as long as she possessed it, it was a reminder of his own lies and betrayal. Perhaps Rindel threatened to confront Cydimache with it, to flaunt the fact that Zeno really loved her, not his deformed wife.”
“So taking the ring from her not only retrieved the tangible evidence of his pledge, it marked a break with the past.”
Davus nodded. “Once he’d done that, he found the nerve to push her off the rock and never look back.”
I shook my head. “The man you’re describing is a complete monster, Davus.”
“Yes, he is.”
We rounded a corner. I was so lost in thought that I didn’t realize where we were, even when the smell of charred wood was suddenly strong in my nostrils. That smell was mixed with the less pleasant odor of ashes doused with seawater, and another smell, which only gradually I recognized as blood; not fresh blood, but blood spilled hours ago. Suddenly, we stood before the ruins of the scapegoat’s house.
The site was littered with broken, charred beams, cracked roofing tiles, pools of black water, and heaps of smoldering ashes. Usually, in the ruins of a great house, one sees remnants of furnishings and decorations—metal lamp stands and marble statues will survive a fire—but in these ruins there were no such artifacts to be seen; before it went up in flames, the scapegoat’s house had been picked clean by looters. Instead, poking up from the general debris were remnants of some of the looters themselves. Scattered amid the ruins were poles driven into the mud, and mounted on the sharpened, bloodstained poles were severed heads. I heard Davus murmur quietly and saw that he was moving his lips, counting.
“Eighteen,” he whispered. There were as many women as men among them; some looked hardly older than children.
The looters must have been beheaded on the spot, for at our feet were great pools of blood. Where it lay thin on the paving stones, the blood had dried to purple, almost black. Where it lay thickest, it appeared still moist and dark red. Elsewhere it had mingled with pools of sooty water, staining them deep crimson. Eighteen bodies contain a veritable lake of blood.
I turned my face away. I was ready to return to the house of Apollonides.
Suddenly, there was a sound like a thundercrack, followed by a loud rumbling noise. The earth shook. People in the street stopped in their tracks and fell silent.
The noise was not thunder; the sky above was blue and cloudless.
“Earthquake?” whispered Davus.
I shook my head. I turned to look in the direction of the city’s main gate and pointed to a great white plume that rose into the air, billowing and growing higher as we watched.
“Smoke? From a fire?” said Davus.
“Not smoke. Dust. A great cloud of dust. From the rubble.”
“Rubble? What’s happened?”
“Let’s go and see,” I said; but with a thrill of intuition that made my heart pound in my chest, I knew exactly what had occurred.
XX
“Apollonides thought he was being so clever to dig that inner moat and fill it with water,” I said. “He anticipated that Trebonius would attempt to tunnel beneath the section of wall nearest the city gate, and the moat was his solution. It worked, as you and I know all too well. When the sappers broke through, the tunnel was flooded and the men sent to take the gate were horribly drowned. But Apollonides never expected this to happen.”
Davus and I had found a spot a little away from the crowd of spectators who thronged the main market square of Massilia. We were only a few steps from the very spot where we had pulled ourselves out of the water, where I had been abused by the old man Calamitos, and where Hieronymus had come to our rescue. That all seemed very long ago.
The day had begun to wane. The sun was lowering in the cloudless sky, casting long shadows.
Some of the spectators wailed and tore their hair. Some hung their heads and wept. Some stood in stony silence. Some simply stared at this latest, most terrible catastrophe to overtake their city, their eyes wide and their jaws open in disbelief.
A cordon of soldiers kept the crowd away from the frantically working engineers. A path was kept clear for the troops of archers and the teams of laborers who kept arriving from all parts of the city. By the hundreds they converged at this spot. The laborers were dispatched to take orders from the engineers. The archers were sent to the nearest bastion towers, where they scurried up the stairwells to take up posts at the already crowded battlements.
Nothing remained of the moat but a great morass of mud and muck, in which the engineers and their workers stamped about, shouting orders and forming lines to pass broken timbers and bits of rubble toward the gaping breach in the wall.
The breach was narrowest at the top, widest at the bottom. Where the battlement platform had fallen in, a man with long legs might, with luck, be able to jump across. Immediately below that point, the breach widened dramatically and continued to widen until it reached the base of the wall. The pile of debris formed by the collapsing blocks of limestone was considerable, but much too small to contain all the stones that had fallen.
One did not have to be Vitruvius to see what had happened. Over time, the flooded tunnel beneath the wall had created a sinkhole. In a single moment, the sinkhole had given way and had swallowed up the foundation, causing a considerable section of the wall above to collapse. The gaping sinkhole had swallowed much of the resulting debris, so that only a pile of rubble, hardly taller than a man, remained to be seen.
A breach—any breach, no matter how small—in the walls of a city under siege is a disaster. Once a breach is made, it can always be widened. When it becomes wide enough, it can no longer be defended. If the besieger’s forces are numerous enough—and those of Trebonius seemed to me more than sufficient—a besieged city with a breached wall must ultimately capitulate.
The great irony was that this breach had not been caused by the besiegers. Trebonius had dug the tunnel, to be sure, but the tunnel itself was much too small to undermine the wall; nor was that its purpose. It was Apollonides who had caused the wall to collapse by flooding the tunnel beneath the foundation. Even so, if after the flooding he had drained the moat and filled the mouth of the tunnel with debris, the sinkhole might have been prevented. But Apollonides had left the moat in place, and in fact had refilled it day by day as the water level continually dropped. He and his engineers had created the sinkhole themselves, and the collapsed foundation was the result.
Apollonides’s response was to fill in as much of the breach as he could, as quickly as possible. While the engineers and their workers gathered the scattered debris, archers on the wall stood ready to protect them should Trebonius mount an assault. So far, no assault had materialized, possibly because Apollonides had f
lown a white flag from the battlements above the breach, a signal that he was willing to parley.
Davus tugged at my elbow and pointed. Two figures had emerged from the mass of soldiers gathered around the breach and were walking toward us. It was the First Timouchos himself with his son-in-law following behind. Both were in full battle armor. Both were covered with mud from the waist down, and from the waist up with white, chalky dust. Apollonides apparently wished to view the breach from a greater distance and walked all the way to the cordon of soldiers, only a few feet away from us, before he stopped and turned back to have a look. Zeno followed after him, badgering him.
“We’ll never be able to fill the gap sufficiently,” Zeno said, “not with material strong enough to keep out a battering ram. It can’t be done. If Trebonius mounts a full-scale assault—”
“He won’t!” snapped Apollonides. “Not as long as we fly the white flag. He’s held back so far.”
“Why should he hurry? He can mount his assault tomorrow or the next day. That breach isn’t going away.”
“It’s a breach, yes, but only a narrow one; narrow enough to be…defensible.” Apollonides spoke through gritted teeth and kept his eyes on the activity by the wall, refusing to look at Zeno. “Even if Trebonius lined up his entire army to rush the breach, he’d never push enough men through to take the gate. Our archers would pick them off one by one until Roman corpses filled the gap. Any of them who did get through the breach and over the hurdle of debris would be trapped in that lake of mud, like flies in honey, made into even easier targets for our archers.”
“And if the breach becomes wider?”
“It won’t!”
“Why not? Some of those overhanging blocks on either side look ready to fall at any moment.”
“The engineers will shore up the damage. They know what they’re doing.”
“Just as they knew what they were doing when they filled the moat?”
Apollonides gritted his teeth and made no answer.
Zeno pressed him. “And what happens if Trebonius brings up a battering-ram? The broken edges of the walls on either side will crumble like chalk.”
“He won’t. I won’t let him!”
Zeno laughed derisively. “And how do you intend to stop him?”
Apollonides at last turned to meet his gaze. “You’ll see, son-in-law.”
“What do you mean?”
Apollonides smiled. He licked a finger and held it aloft. “There’s a stiff wind rising—from the south, thank Artemis! We shall use it to our advantage.”
“How?”
“Wind carries fire. Fire burns wood. And what are the Romans’ ramparts and siege towers and battering-rams made of, but wood?”
Zeno gasped. “What are you planning?”
“Why should I tell you, son-in-law? If it was up to you, we’d have surrendered and thrown the gates open hours ago. I half suspect you of being a spy for the Romans, the way you’re always advising me to give up the city to Caesar.”
“How dare you! I’ve fought the Romans as bravely as any Massilian. From the battlements, on the sea—”
“And yet you did manage to come back alive yesterday, when so many did not.”
Zeno turned livid with rage. I thought he might strike his fatherin-law, but he kept his fists clenched tightly at his sides. “We’re flying a white flag of parley. Trebonius has respected it; he’s held back from assaulting the breach. As long as you fly that flag, you can’t send out men to burn the Romans’ siegeworks. Caesar will never forgive such treachery.”
Beside me, Davus huffed and whispered, “He’s got some nerve, to talk about treachery!”
“Why do you think I’ve called up every archer to man the battlements?” said Apollonides. “To protect the engineers repairing the breach from a Roman attack, of course; but they’ll also provide covering fire to our soldiers when they make their foray against the siegeworks.”
“This is madness, fatherin-law! The wall is breached. The siege is over. Caesar himself will arrive any day now—”
I pricked up my ears. This was new information.
“We don’t know that for a fact,” said Apollonides. “A mere rumor—”
“It was Lucius Nasidius who told me so, aboard his ship yesterday. The commander of the Pompeian fleet—”
“A fleet that sailed away without sustaining a single casualty! A fleet of cowards, with a coward for commander!”
“Even so, Nasidius told me that Caesar is said to be already on his way back from Spain. He heard the news from our own soldiers manning the garrison at Taurois, where the Pompeian ships had anchored for the night. Caesar has defeated Pompey’s legions in Spain and taken the survivors into his own army. He’s heading back to Massilia at great speed with a huge force of men. He may arrive any day now—tomorrow, even! We can’t possibly resist him. It’s over, fatherin-law.”
“Shut up! Do you want the common rabble to overhear you and go spreading these mad rumors?” Apollonides looked over his shoulder, past the cordon of soldiers. His eyes, scanning the crowd, fell on me. For a moment his face went blank, then he yelled at the soldiers nearest to him and pointed at us. “Bring me those two men!”
Davus and I were roughly seized, dragged inside the cordon, and thrust before Apollonides.
“Gordianus! What are you doing, loitering there? Eavesdropping? You are a spy, aren’t you? In league with my spying son-in-law, no doubt.”
Zeno shook with fury.
“An eavesdropper perhaps, First Timouchos, but not a spy,” I said, rearranging my tunic where the soldiers had gripped me.
“I should have you and your son-in-law beheaded on the spot, like those looters at the scapegoat’s house. Yes, and then catapult your heads over the walls to Trebonius!”
“Don’t be stupid, fatherin-law!” protested Zeno. “This man is a Roman citizen, acquainted with Caesar himself—and Caesar’s mercy is the only hope we have left! Even if this man is a spy, you’d be a fool to kill him now and flaunt his death. You’ll only offend Caesar.”
“To Hades with Caesar! Look, here comes the assault force.”
Marching into the market square, pushing back the crowd with their presence, came a large body of soldiers clad in battle gear, armed with swords and pikes, but also carrying torches and bundles of pitch. The flames of their torches snapped and whipped in the rising wind.
Zeno shook his head. “Fatherin-law, don’t do this. Not while we’re flying a flag of parley. Not before Trebonius can send an officer to negotiate—”
“There is nothing to be negotiated!” snapped Apollonides.
He stepped away from us in order to address the assault force, which now filled the market square, assembled in ranks. His voice was ringing, his presence riveting as he strode back and forth with his blue cape snapping in the wind. I could see how he had risen to make himself first among the Timouchoi.
“Brave men of Massilia! For long months we’ve endured the humiliations and deprivations of a siege unjustly laid against this proud city by a Roman upstart, a criminal renegade. Against his own people he accomplished what even Hannibal could not: He conquered the city of Rome and drove the Senate into exile. And then, compounding his crimes, he dared to replace that ancient body with his own hand-picked impostors, so that this false Senate could carry out the shoddy pretense of voting upon his actions and declaring them legal. So long as he prevails, all freedom is dead in Rome—and if he can, he will take away our freedom as well! But he will not prevail. With the true Senate of Rome and all the eastern provinces unified against him, he cannot possibly hope to win in the long run. We in Massilia merely had the misfortune to be the first victims, after the unfortunate citizens of Rome itself, to lie in the path of his insane ambitions.
“Before you, you see a breach in the walls—walls that have never been breached before, that have protected Massilia for hundreds of years. Some look upon this breach as a catastrophe. I look upon it as an opportunity. Because now we fina
lly have the chance to strike back. The breach is not an opening for our attackers but for us! We shall rush out upon them and catch them unawares. We shall burn and destroy their siegeworks. Their battering-rams shall be reduced to fire-wood. Their ramparts shall become bridges of flame. Their towers shall become bonfire beacons, a warning to their renegade leader to keep his distance!
“The archers on the walls will protect you. But more than that, the righteousness of your cause will shield you. What you do today, you do for Massilia; for your ancestors who founded this proud city over five hundred years ago; for those who kept it, generation after generation, free and strong and independent against the Gauls, against Carthage, against Rome itself; for xoanon Artemis, who descended from the heavens and crossed the seas with our forefathers, who watches all that takes place in this city. She watches you today. Her bow is slung on your behalf. Her brother Ares shields you in battle. Those who fall, she scoops up in her loving arms. Those who proudly remain standing, she showers with glory.
“Now go! Go, and do not return until every scrap of wood outside these walls is swallowed up with flames!”
The men let out a great cheer. Even the desolate crowd of spectators seemed to rally and take heart. Beside us, Zeno hung his head.
The engineers stepped back from the breach. Planks had been laid to facilitate the passage of the assault force over the morass of mud and debris. The soldiers disappeared into the breach, yelling battle cries and whipping their torches through the air.
As night fell, the sky beyond the wall became not darker but brighter. A fiery glow emanated from the burning siegeworks outside the city. From the battlements, archers fired their bows nonstop, notching arrow after arrow, pulling back their strings and letting them fly. The buzzing of their shafts mixed with the clattering din of battle from beyond the walls, and the occasional shudder and boom, followed by screams, as some burning structure collapsed upon itself.
Apollonides ascended to the battlements to watch the progress of the foray. He paced back and forth with has arms crossed. From time to time he nodded his head approvingly or pointed to something below and issued a command to a subordinate.
Last Seen in Massilia: A Novel of Ancient Rome Page 20