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 pâté ofsweetbreads 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’—hisphrase—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 suspicions about your oh-so-clever son. Milo warned
“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 pâté ofsweetbreads 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’—hisphrase—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 suspicions about your oh-so-clever son. Milo warned
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