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 meto return later to sleep under his roof that night. Even as I promised that we would, I wondered if I lied. I had escaped death twice already that day; it might 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 had he 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 theirniggardliness 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
“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 meto return later to sleep under his roof that night. Even as I promised that we would, I wondered if I lied. I had escaped death twice already that day; it might 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 had he 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 theirniggardliness 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
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