Free Last Seen in Massilia by Steven Saylor

I’veknown wealth and poverty, joy and bitterness. Mostly poverty and mostly bitterness, to be honest. But now, in her final hour, my city forgives me and I forgive her. We exchange the only things we have to give, her final bounty for my final days.”
    “Are you a philosopher?” asked Davus, frowning.
    The man laughed. It was like the sound of a scythe cutting thick grass. “My name is Hieronymus,” he said, as if to change the subject. “And yours?”
    “Gordianus,” I said.
    “Ah, a Roman, as the old men suspected.”
    “And this is Davus.”
    “A slave’s name?”
    “A freedman; my son-in-law. Where are you taking us?”
    “To my tomb.”
    “Your tomb?” I asked, thinking I had misunderstood his Greek.
    “Did I say that? I meant to say my home, of course. Now lie quietly and rest. You’re safe with me.”
     
    From time to time I stole a glance between the curtains that sealed the box. At first we kept to a wide, main road. Not a shop was open and the street was empty, allowing the bearers to make good time. Then we turned off the main way into a maze of lesser roads, each more narrow than the last. We began to ascend, gradually at first, then more sharply. The bearers did a good job of keeping the box level, but nothing could disguise the sharp turns as they went around switchbacks, taking us higher and higher.
    Finally the litter lurched to a halt. “Home!” declared Hieronymus. He folded his limbs and exited the box with the slow grace of an overfed stick insect. “Do you need assistance?” he called to me over his shoulder.
    “No,” I said, stepping out of the box onto wobbly legs. Davus stepped out after me and laid a hand on my shoulder to steady us both.
    “However you came to be inside the city, it was clearly an ordeal for you both,” said Hieronymus, looking us up and down. “What would comfort you? Food? Wine? Ah, from the look on your faces, I see it’sthe latter. Come, we shall drink together. And none of the local swill. We’ll drink what they drink in Rome. I think I still have some of the good Falernian left.”
    The house had been built along Roman lines, with a small foyer and an atrium that opened onto the rest of the dwelling. It was a rich man’s house, with sumptuously painted walls and a fine mosaic of Neptune (or, since we were in a Greek city, Poseidon) in the atrium pool. Beyond a formal dining room, at the heart of the house, I glimpsed a garden surrounded by a peristyle of red and blue columns.
    “Shall we take our wine in the garden?” said Hieronymus. “No, on the rooftop, I think. I love to show off the view.”
    We followed him up a flight of stairs to a rooftop terrace. Tall trees on either side of the house provided shade and seclusion, but the view toward the sea was clear. The house had been built on the crest of the ridge that ran through the city. Below us the ridge dropped off sharply, so that we looked down on rooftops that descended in steps toward the city walls. Beyond the walls, the sea extended to a horizon of scudding blue clouds. Off to the left, I could see a bit of the harbor and the rugged coastline beyond. Opposite the mouth of the harbor were the islands behind which Caesar’s warships lay moored. Shielding my eyes against the lowering sun, I could see one of the ships peeking around the bend of the farthest island. The ship was tiny at such a distance, but the air was so clear I could make out long-shadowed sailors moving about the deck.
    Hieronymus followed my gaze. “Yes, there it is, Caesar’s navy. They think they’re hiding around the bend, but we can see them, can’t we? Peek-a-boo!” He fluttered his fingers in a simpering wave and laughed at his own absurdity, as if aware that such childishness was at odds with the lines of ancient suffering that creased his face.
    “Were you hereabouts to witness the little naval battle we had a while back? No? It was something to see, I’ll tell you. People lined the walls down there to