"Not a bad fellow, for a Greek," said Domitius under his breath.

"Where are your soldiers, Proconsul?" asked Hieronymus suspiciously.

"My bodyguards are outside the house," said Domitius. "Apollonides wouldn't let me bring them in. He's that pious, at least-no foreigners bearing arms in the scapegoat's house. Don't worry. They'll stay where they are until I tell them otherwise. By Hercules, I'm hungry! I don't suppose, to show a bit of hospitality…

Hieronymus stared back at him glumly for a long moment, then clapped his hands and instructed a slave to bring food. Hieronymus then withdrew, sulking, into the house.

"I'll eat far better here than I would at Apollonides's house," Domitius confided. "This fellow gets all the best cuts. There's a priest of Artemis who sees to it. The city's facing serious shortages, but you'd never know it from the way they stuff this goose."

Lamps were brought onto the terrace, then trays of food, along with little tripod tables. Seeing the feast made me dizzy from hunger. There were steaming slices of pork glazed with honey and aniseed, a pate of sweetbreads and soft cheese, a gingery fava bean puree, a barley soup flavored with dill and whole onions, and little must cakes speckled with raisins:

Domitius ate like a starving man, popping fingers into his mouth and sucking them clean. Davus, seeing such manners, made no pretense to refinement and did likewise. I was tormented by hunger but hardly able to eat, my stomach seized by sudden anxiety about Meto. What did Domitius know? I tried a few times to raise the subject, but Domitius refused to respond until he had eaten his fill. What was he playing at?

At last he sat back, took a long swallow of wine, and let out a burp. "The best meal I've had in months!" he declared. "Almost worth the trip to this godforsaken city, don't you think?"

"I came here-"

"Yes, I know. Not for the food! You came to look for your son."

"Do you know Meto?" I asked quietly.

"Oh, yes." Domitius stroked his red beard and was silent for a long time, content to observe my discomfort. Why did he look so smug? "Why have you come here looking for him, Gordianus?"

"I received a message in Rome, sent anonymously, claiming to come from Massilia." I touched the pouch that hung from my belt, felt the small wooden cylinder inside, and wondered if the parchment it contained had survived the flood. "The message said that Meto… was dead. That he'd died in Massilia."

"An anonymous message? Curious."

"Please, Proconsul. What do you know about my son?"

He sipped his wine. "Meto arrived here several days before Caesar's army did. He said he'd had enough of Caesar; said he wanted to join our side. I was skeptical, of course, but I took him in. I confined him to quarters and gave him light duties-nothing sensitive or secretive, mind you. I kept an eye on him. Then a ship from Pompey arrived, the very last ship in before Caesar launched his little navy to blockade the harbor. Pompey sent word on various subjects-his hairbreadth escape from Caesar at Brundisium, his position in Dyrrhachium, the morale of the senators in exile from Rome. And he specifically mentioned your son. Pompey said that `incontrovertible evidence'-his phrase-had come into his hands that Meto was indeed a traitor to Caesar and should be trusted.* That seemed to settle the matter; the last time I ignored Pompey's advice I had cause to regret it-though there was plenty of blame to go around." He referred to his humiliation by Caesar in Italy when Pompey had urged Domitius to withdraw before Caesar's advance and join forces, but Domitius had insisted instead on making a stand at Corfinium; Domitius had been captured, attempted suicide (and failed), then was pardoned by Caesar and released, whereupon he fled to Massilia with a ragtag band of gladiators and a fortune of six million sesterces.

"But despite Pompey's message," he went on, "I still had my

* See Rubicon (St. Martin's Press, 1999).

suspicions about your oh-so-clever son. Milo warned me. You must remember Titus Annius Milo, exiled a few years back for murdering Clodius on the Appian Way?"

"Of course. I investigated the matter for Pompey."

"So you did! I'd forgotten that. Did you somehow… offend… Milo?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"No? Well, for whatever reason, I'm afraid Milo wasn't fond of your son. Suspected him right off. `The boy's no good,' he told me. I might have paid Milo no mind-when was Milo ever known for sound judgment?-but he echoed my own instincts. I continued to watch your son very closely. Even so, I could never quite catch him at anything. Until…"

Domitius turned his head and gazed at the view, sipping his wine in silence for so long that he seemed to have forgotten his thought.

"Until what?" I finally said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Do you know-I think Milo himself should tell you. Yes, I believe that would be best. We'll go and see him right now. We can gloat about what a fine meal we've just had, while Milo dines on stale bread and the last of the fish-pickle sauce he brought from Rome."

When I first met him at Cicero's house months ago, I had decided that Domitius was a pompous, vain creature. Now I saw that he was also petty and spiteful. He seemed to relish my distress.

We bade the scapegoat farewell. Hieronymus invited Davus and I to return later to sleep under his roof that night. Even as I promised that we would, I wondered if I lied. Just because I had escaped death twice already that day, there was no reason to think it might not come for me yet.

Had death come already for Meto? Domitius had so far refused to tell me, but I kept thinking of his words: Milo wasn't fond of your son. Why he had spoken in the past tense?

IX

The way to Milo's house took us through a district of large, fine houses. More than a few, I was surprised to see, had thatched roofs-a reminder that we were not in Rome, where even the poor sleep with clay tiles over their heads.

The moon was so bright that we made our way without torches. The only sound was the tramping of Domitius's bodyguards on the paving stones. The narrow streets of Massilia, almost empty by daylight, were even more deserted after dark. "Martial law," Domitius explained. "A strict curfew. Only those on state business can be abroad after nightfall. Anyone else is presumed to be up to no good."

"Spies?" I said.

He snorted. "Thieves and black marketeers, more likely. Apollonides's greatest fear now isn't Trebonius with his tunnels and battering-rams; it's famine and disease. We're already feeling the shortages. As long as the blockade holds, the situation can only get worse. If the people become hungry enough, they're likely

to break into the public granaries. Then they'll discover just how bad the situation really is. The Timouchoi fear an uprising."

"The authorities didn't stockpile enough grain for a siege?"

"Oh, quantity isn't the problem. There's a full store of grain-but half of it is ruined with mold. Emergency stores have to be replaced every so often; once every three years is the rule in most cities. Apollonides can't even tell me when the stores were last replenished. The Council of Fifteen thought it was a wasteful expense. Now their niggardliness has gotten the better of them, and my men are reduced to half rations."

Domitius had left Italy with six million sesterces, I recalled; money enough to sail to Massilia and hire an army of Gaulish mercenaries once he arrived, with plenty left over. But no amount of riches could feed an army if there was no food to be purchased.

"Don't misunderstand me," he continued. "Apollonides is a good man, and he's not a bad general. He knows everything there is to know about ships and war machines. But like all Massilians, he's a merchant at heart, forever calculating and looking for a profit. These Greeks are clever, but they have a narrow view of things. They're not like us Romans. There's a fire they lack, a bigger way of looking at the world. They'll never be more than minor players in the great game."