Last Seen in Massilia

II

"Says his name is Gordianus. Claims to be a Roman citizen. Calls the imperator 'Gaius Julius,' as if he knows him. Says he won't say more, except to Trebonius himself. What do you think, sir?"

The soldier had passed me on to his centurion; the centurion had passed me on to his cohort commander; the cohort commander was now conferring with the next officer above him. It was suppertime in the camp. From where I stood, just inside the officer's tent, I could peer out the flap to see a line of men queued up with metal bowls in their hands, shuffling forward at a steady rate. A torch was mounted on a pole at the nearest intersection in the grid of pathways between tents; the light shone on weary, smiling faces of men happy to have reached the end of the day, though some were practically asleep on their feet. Many were smudged with dirt, and some looked as if they had been rolling in mud. Soldiering during a siege means endless digging: trenches, latrines, tunnels beneath the enemy's walls.

From somewhere toward the far end of the queue I heard the dull, repetitious knocking of a wooden spoon against metal bowls. I caught whiffs of a stew of some sort. Did I smell pork? Davus and I had eaten only a handful of bread since we'd left the tavern that morning. Beside me, I heard Davus's stomach growl.

From his folding chair, the officer perused us grudgingly. We were keeping him from his own supper in the officers' mess. "Really, cohort commander, couldn't this have waited until morning?"

"But, sir, what shall I do with these two in the meantime? Treat them like honored guests? Or prisoners? Or release them and send them out of camp? Granted, the older one looks pretty harmless, but the big one he calls his son-in-law-"

"You must be as stupid as you look, cohort commander, though that hardly seems possible, if you're going to base your treatment of loiterers and trespassers on the basis of how they look. That's a sure way of getting a knife in the back from some Massilian spy."

"I'm not a Massilian spy," I said. My stomach growled to punctuate the assertion.

"Of course not," snapped the officer. "You're a Roman citizen named Gordianus-or so you say. Why were you loitering at the Temple of Artemis?"

"We were headed for Massilia. We lost our way."

"Why did you leave the road?"

"The tavernkeeper told us that brigands rule that stretch of road. We attempted a shortcut."

"Why were you headed for Massilia in the first place? Do you have family there, or business connections? Or is it someone in the camp you're seeking?"

I bowed my head.

The cohort commander threw up his hands. "This is where he clams up, sir. He's hiding something, clearly."

The officer cocked his head. "Wait a moment. Guardians-

I've heard the name before. Cohort commander, you're dismissed."

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Go. Now, before the cooks spoon all the good bits out of that swill they're slopping tonight."

The cohort commander saluted and left, casting a last, suspicious look at me.

The officer rose from his folding chair. "I don't know about you two, but I'm starving. Follow me."

"Where are we going?" I said.

"You said you wanted to speak to Caesar himself, didn't you? And failing that, to the officer in charge of the siege? Come along, then. Gaius Trebonius never misses supper in his tent." He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "If I'm lucky, he'll invite me to join him."

The officer was not lucky. No sooner had he announced who I was and stated the circumstances than Trebonius, who sat chewing on a shank of pork, summarily dismissed him. The officer cast a last lingering glance not at me, but at the pork shank.

Like Marc Antony, Trebonius was part of that younger generation who had attached themselves to the comet tail of Caesar's career early on, and were now determined to ride it to glory or disaster. In the political arena, Trebonius had carried water for Caesar when he was a tribune, helping to extend Caesar's command in Gaul beyond constitutional limits. In the military arena, he had served as one of Caesar's lieutenants in Gaul, helping to crush the natives. Now that civil war had begun, he had once again cast his lot with Caesar. If his appetite was anything to judge by, he suffered no nagging regrets; the pork shank in his fist was gnawed to the bone.

I recognized him in a vague way from having glimpsed him on the rare instances when I had visited my son Meto in Caesar's camps. I suddenly remembered an occasion in Ravenna when Meto told me in passing that Trebonius kept a dossier of Cicero's witticisms, which he published for his friends. Trebonius had a sense of humor, then; or at least he appreciated irony.

He peered at me curiously. There was no reason he should have recognized my face, but he did know my name. "You're Meto's father," he said, pulling a string of pork from his teeth. "Yes."

"Don't look like him. Ah, but Meto was adopted, wasn't he?" I nodded.

"And this one?"

"My son-in-law."

"Looks big enough."

"I feel safer when I travel with him."

"Tell him to step outside the tent."

I nodded. Davus frowned. "But, father-in-law-"

"Perhaps these men could accompany Davus to the officers' mess," I suggested, referring to the soldiers who sat and stood about the tent, eating their supper. "That way we won't have to listen to his stomach growling outside the tent."

"A good idea," said Trebonius. "Everybody out!"

No one questioned the order. A few moments later, Trebonius and I were alone.

"I had hoped to find Caesar still here," I said.

Trebonius shook his head. "Left months ago. Has more important things to do than sit here and starve out a bunch of Greeks. Didn't you get the news in Rome?"

"The gossip in the Forum isn't always reliable."

"Caesar was here at the outset, yes. He politely asked the Massilians to open their gates. They hemmed and hawed. Caesar demanded they open the gates. They refused. Caesar laid the groundwork for the siege-conferred with engineers on a strategy for bringing down the walls, oversaw the shipbuilding, instructed the officers, addressed the ranks. Then he hurried on. Urgent business in Spain." Trebonius smiled grimly. "But as soon as he disposes of Pompey's legions there, he'll be back-and I shall have the privilege of presenting Massilia to him, cracked open like an egg."

"Back in Rome I heard that the Massilians simply wanted to remain neutral."

"A lie. When Pompey sailed east toward Greece, his confederate, Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, sailed here. Domitius arrived before Caesar did. He convinced the Massilians to side with Pompey and close their gates to Caesar. They were fools to listen to him."

I raised an eyebrow. "Summer has come and almost gone. The gates of Massilia are still shut and the walls, I presume, are still standing."

Trebonius ground his jaw. "Not for much longer. But you haven't come all this way to ask about military operations. You'd like to see Caesar, would you? So would we all. You'll have to settle for me in his stead. What do you want, Gordianus?"

The tent was empty. There was no one but Trebonius to hear. "My son, Meto."

His face stiffened. "Your son betrayed Caesar. He plotted to kill him even before Caesar crossed the Rubicon with his troops. It all came out after Pompey fled Italy and Caesar took Rome. That's the last we've seen of him. If your son came to Massilia, he came on his own. If he's inside the city, you can't possibly reach him until the walls come down. And when that happens, if we find Meto, he shall be arrested, to be dealt with by Caesar himself."

Did he believe what he was saying? Did he not know the truth of the matter? Even I had been fooled for a while into believing that Meto had betrayed Caesar-Meto, who fought for Caesar in Gaul, transcribed the great man's memoirs, and shared his tent. But the truth was far more complicated. Meto's betrayal had been an elaborately constructed sham, a ruse meant to trick Caesar's opponents into trusting Meto and taking him into their ranks. Meto had not betrayed Caesar; Meto was Caesar's spy.

That was why I had hoped to find Caesar. Caesar himself had concocted the scheme to fake Meto's betrayal. With Caesar alone I could have spoken freely. But how much did Trebonius know? If Caesar had kept him in ignorance, then I would never be able to convince him of the truth. Indeed, it might be dangerous to do so-dangerous to Meto, if he still lived…

Trebonius's flat tone and the steely look in his eyes betrayed no double meaning. As far as I could tell, when he spoke of Meto's betrayal, he spoke what he believed to be the truth. But was he only doing so because he thought I was ignorant of the facts? Were we playing a game of shadow puppets, each aware of the truth but wary of revealing it to the other?

I tried to draw him out. "Trebonius, before Meto left Rome, I saw him, spoke to him. Despite appearances, I don't believe he's a traitor to Caesar. I know he's not. And surely, knowing Meto as you do-knowing Caesar-you must know that as well. Don't you?"

He shook his head curtly. His expression grew sterner. "Listen, Gordianus, your son was my friend. His defection was a knife, not just in Caesar's back, but in mine-and in the back of every man who's fought with Caesar. Even so, strangely enough, I can't say I bear a grudge against him. These are terrible times. Families are torn apart-brother against brother, husband against wife, even son against father. It's a wretched business. Meto made a choice-the wrong choice-but for all I know, there was honor behind it. He's my enemy now, but I don't hate him. As for you, I don't blame you for what your son has done. You're free to go. But if you've come here to collude with Meto against Caesar, I'll deal with you as harshly as I would with any traitor. I'll see you crucified."

So much for trying to draw him out. If Trebonius knew the truth, he was not going to reveal himself to me.

He attacked the few scraps of flesh that still remained on the pork shank, then went on. "My advice to you, Gordianus, is to get a good night's sleep, then turn around and head straight back to Rome. If you hear from Meto, tell him that Caesar will have his head. If you hear nothing, wait for news. The waiting is hard, I know, but you'll learn of Meto's fate sooner or later. You know the Etruscan saying: `Once grieving starts it never ends, so there's no point in grieving an hour earlier than you must.' "

I cleared my throat. "That's the problem, you see. The day before I left Rome I received a message from someone inside Massilia. The message said… that Meto had been killed. That's why I've come all this way, to find out-whether my son is still alive… or not."

Trebonius sat back. "Who sent you this message?"

"It was unsigned."

"How did it come to you?"

"It was left on the doorstep of my house on the Palatine."

"Did you bring it with you?"

"Yes." I reached into the pouch that hung from my belt and pulled out a small wooden cylinder. With my little finger I extracted a rolled scrap of parchment. Trebonius snatched it from me as he might a dispatch from a messenger.

He read aloud. " `Gordianus: I send you sad news from Massilia. Your son Meto is dead. Forgive my bluntness. I write in haste. Know that Meto died loyal to his cause, in the service of Rome. His was a hero's death. He was a brave young man, and, though not in battle, he died bravely here in Massilia.' " Trebonius handed the message back to me. "This arrived anonymously, you say?"

"Yes."

"Then you don't even know that it came from Massilia. It might be a hoax perpetrated on you by someone in Rome."

"Perhaps. But is it possible that the message could have come from Massilia?"

"Could a Massilian ship have slipped through our blockade, you mean? Officially, no."

"But in reality?"

"There may have been a few… occurrences… especially at night. The Massilians are expert sailors, and the local winds favor sailing out of the harbor by night. Caesar's ships are moored behind the big islands just outside the harbor, but a small ship might have slipped by them in the dark. But what of it? What if the message did come from Massilia? Why is it unsigned if the writer tells the truth?"

"I don't know. Since the day Caesar crossed the Rubicon, everyone wears a mask. Intrigues and deceptions… secrecy for secrecy's sake…"

"If Meto is dead, the writer should have sent you some tangible memento-Meto's citizen's ring, at least."

"Perhaps Meto drowned and his body was lost. Perhaps he died by-" In my imagination I pictured flames and blanched at the thought. "Don't you think I've gone over this a thousand times in my own mind, Trebonius? It's the first thing I think of when I wake, the last thing I think of before I sleep. Who sent this message, why, from where, and is it true or not? What's become of my son?" I stared at Trebonius, letting the misery show on my face. Surely, if he knew whether Meto was alive or dead, he would tell me at least that much to alleviate a father's suffering. But his grim countenance was as changeless as a statue's.

"I see your dilemma," he said. "A nasty business-uncertainty. I sympathize. But I can't help you. On the one hand, if Meto is alive and in Massilia, he's cast his lot with Domitius and become a traitor to Caesar. You can't get into the city to see him, and I wouldn't allow it if you could. You'll have to wait until the Massilians surrender, or until we pull the walls down. Then, if we find Meto… do you really want to be here when that happens, to witness his fate as a traitor? On the other hand, if Meto is already dead, there's still no way you can get into Massilia and find out how it happened or who sent that message. Look, I'll promise you this: When we take Massilia, if there's news of Meto, I'll let you know what I find out. If Meto himself is taken, I'll let you know what Caesar decides to do with him. I can promise no more than that. There, your task is accomplished. You can go back to Rome now, knowing that you've done all that any father could. I'll see that you have a place to sleep tonight. You'll leave in the morning." These last words had the unmistakable ring of an order.

He studied the fleshless bone in his fist. "But where are my manners? You must be starving, Gordianus. Go, join your son-in-law in the officers' mess. The stew's not as bad as it looks, really."

I left the tent and followed my nose to the mess. Despite the growling in my belly, I had lost my appetite.