"With everything in such a muddle, you might think that Pompey would be ready to take me back, eager to make amends. But, no! A message comes from Pompey." He launched into an uncanny impersonation of the Great One at his most pompous: " `Stay in Massilia, good Milo. Stay right where you are! The verdict against you stands, and the law must be respected. Your choice remains the same: exile or death. It's Caesar and his ilk who advocate allowing political exiles to return to Rome; I cannot possibly do the same, even for a friend such as you-especially for a friend such as you. In spite of the current crisis-indeed, because of the crisis-there can be absolutely no exceptions to the severe majesty of Roman law.' In other words: `Stay put in Massilia, Milo, and rot!' "
By the dim lamplight, I saw the sparkle of tears in his eyes. Please, gods, I prayed, spare me the spectacle of Milo weeping. He drew a deep breath and went on. "What I needed, you see, was some way to get back into Pompey's good graces, to impress him-to put him in my debt if I could. But how, stuck here in Massilia with only a handful of gladiators, and those already hired to the Massilians as mercenaries? Then it occurred to me: What if I were to expose a dangerous spy? And not just any spy, but a spy planted in our ranks by Caesar's own hand, a spy Pompey himself had instructed us to trust? That would be no small thing. Step one in the rehabilitation of Milo!
"First, I had to get Meto to trust me. That was the easy part. Look at me! I'm not blind to my own condition. I know how far I've fallen. I go naked all day. I live in a house that stinks of urine. I'm a Roman exiled from Rome, a man without prospects, without even dignity-bitter, desperate, the ideal candidate for recruitment in a dangerous game. Oh, yes, Meto came to me; he searched me out at once. He thought he was being subtle, I'm sure, but I could read his thoughts as if he spoke them aloud. Poor old Milo, abandoned by all; he should be easy to lure over to Caesar's cause, ripe and ready to stab his old friend Pompey in the back. I simply went along; I let Meto seduce me. Slowly, surely, he wormed his way into my confidence. I made a great deal of it, the day I was finally ready to show him that message from Pompey telling me to stay put. I wept real tears when I read it to him; that wasn't acting.
"After that it was only a matter of time. I could sense the day approaching. Even before it happened, I knew the very hour Meto would make his move, the way a farmer can smell rain on the wind. It happened in this room. I was ready for him. The trap was laid. Do you see that wooden screen in the corner? Redbeard here was concealed behind that screen. Come on, Redbeard, why don't you show our visitors how you hid and listened? We can reenact the moment."
"Get on with it!" snapped Domitius.
"It's a beautiful screen, isn't it? Carved from terebinth in Libya, I think. That's gold leaf along the border. Fausta's father owned it; imagine the uses wily old Sulla must have found for such a screen to hide behind! I brought it with me when I left Rome. Fausta wanted to keep it, but I smuggled it out from under her nose. I wonder if she ever missed it?"
"Tell the story, Milo!" I whispered hoarsely.
He lowered his eyes. "You won't like the ending."
"Tell me!"
"Very well. You have to realize, Redbeard here thought I was deluded. Said my mind was addled from too much bad Massilian wine. `You're wrong about Meto,' he told me. `The man can be trusted; Pompey himself says so. What Meto knows about Caesar and the way his mind works could fill a book. His value to us is immeasurable.' Ha! Don't glare at me like that, Redbeard. You're the one who insisted on bringing Gordianus into my house. If I needle you a bit, you'll just have to bear it.
"So there was Redbeard listening behind the screen, and in that storage room beyond he managed to stuff ten or so hand-picked soldiers-probably the same bodyguards escorting him tonight. Meto didn't suspect a thing. At some point Redbeard made a shuffling noise. Meto glanced at the screen. I told him it was a rat. And so it was!" Milo laughed. Domitius stared at him coldly.
"Meto and I talked around and around each other. The little dove fetched wine, and I pretended to be drunk-well, perhaps I wasn't entirely pretending. Drunk or not, I turned in a performance worthy of Roscius the actor. My part was the diver who's stepped to the precipice and needs just a puff of air at his back to take the plunge; the coward who's mustered his last scrap of courage and needs only one more turn of the screw to reach the sticking point; the lover bursting with emotion who can't quite bring himself to be the first to say, `I love you.' Around and around we talked, your son and I, with Redbeard fidgeting behind that screen, about to sneeze at any moment, for all I knew. The suspense was terrible. I imagine it made my performance all the more convincing.
"Finally, Meto made his play. `Milo,' he said, `you're trapped in Massilia. Domitius treats you like a slave. You have no hope of reconciliation with Pompey. Desperate times demand desperate actions. Perhaps you should consider a radical move.'
" `But where else is there for me to go?' I asked. `After Massilia, the next port of call is Hades.'
"Meto shook his head. `There's another choice.'
"'Caesar, you mean? But Caesar would never have me. He relies too much on the good will of the Clodians. That rabble would turn on him in an instant if he took me in.'
"'Caesar is beyond needing the Clodians,' said Meto. `He's bigger than the Clodians now. Bigger than Rome. He can ally himself with whomever he chooses.'
" 'But you've turned your back on Caesar,' I said. "Meto looked at me squarely. 'Perhaps not,' he said.
"I told him, `I can't deny that I've thought about it. It seems to me that it's the only choice I have left. But I'd need a go-between, someone to help me cross to the other side. Tell me, Meto, are you that man?'
"Meto nodded. Why, at that precise moment, Redbeard felt it was necessary to make such a show of knocking the screen down, I don't know. My heart almost flew out of my mouth. Meto was on his feet with his dagger drawn in an instant. He saw Redbeard, saw the look on my face, saw the first of the soldiers burst out of the storage room. It should have all been over in an instant. Instead… Milo stopped and took another drink.
"Tell me!"
"No need to shout, Gordianus. Let Redbeard tell you. It's his story from here on."
Domitius looked at me coldly. "I'd given my men instructions to capture Meto, not to kill him if they could help it. They were too cautious."
"Too clumsy!" interjected Milo.
"It happened very quickly," Domitius went on. "Meto was out of the room before my men could catch him. I had more men posted at the front door, but Meto surprised us by running into the garden and climbing onto the roof. He jumped down into a side alley and ran to the back of the house. I had more men posted there, but he got past them. They chased after him. He was a fast runner. He might have eluded them entirely, but one of my men threw a spear and managed to graze his hip. That slowed him down. Still, he managed to reach the city wall, down where it runs along the sea. He climbed the stairs up to the battlements, not far from the Sacrifice Rock-"
"The Sacrifice Rock!" I whispered, remembering vividly what I had seen there at twilight.
"He wasn't mad enough to leap from the rock," said Domitius. "The surf and the rocks below would kill any man. Instead, he ran farther on, to a bend where the sheer wall drops to deep water. Perhaps that was his goal all along; he may have scouted out the place in advance, planning for just such an emergency. I suppose it's barely possible that a man could dive from the wall and swim all the way out to the islands where Caesar's ships are moored. Meto might have made a clean escape…"