Free Last Seen in Massilia by Steven Saylor Page A

watch, but I had the perfect vantage point right here. Catapults hurling missiles! Fire sweeping the decks! Blood on the water! Nine of our ships lost. Nine out of seventeen—a catastrophe! Some sunk, some captured by Caesar. What a humiliating day for Massilia that was. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed it.” He stared grimly at the now placid spot where the battle had taken place, then turned to me and brightened. “But I promised you wine! Here, sit. These chairs are made of imported terebinth. I’m told they shouldn’t be left out of doors, but what do I care?”
    We sat in the full sunshine. A slave brought wine. I praised the vintage, which was unmistakably Falernian. Hieronymus insisted I drink more. Against my better judgment I did. After his second cup, Davus fell asleep in his chair.
    “The poor fellow must be exhausted,” said Hieronymus.
    “We very nearly died today.”
    “A good thing you didn’t, or else I’d be drinking alone.”
    I looked at him keenly, or as keenly as I could after a third cup of Falernian. So far he had asked not a single question about us—who we were, how we had entered the city, what we had come for. His lack of curiosity was puzzling. Perhaps, I thought, he was merely being patient, biding his time, allowing me to recover my wits.
    “Why did you come to our rescue?” I asked.
    “Mainly to spite those old men who hang about the market square, the ones who were kicking you and discussing you like a fish that needed gutting.”
    “Do you know them?”
    He smiled ruefully. “Oh, yes, I’ve known them all my life. When I was a boy, they were men in their prime, very sure of themselves, full of their own importance. Now I’m a man and they’re old, with nothing better to do than hang about the square all day, spreading slanders and commenting on everyone’s business. The square is shut down now—there’s nothing left to buy in the shops—but there they still go, day after day, haunting the place.” He smiled. “I like to drop by in the litter every now and then just to taunt them.”
    “Taunt them?”
    “They used to treat me rather badly, you see. The market square was where I used to spend my days, too…when I didn’t have a roof over my head. That old coot Calamitos was the worst. He’s gotten evencrankier since the food shortages began. What a joy to see him so flustered he broke his cane! When I think of the times he struck me with it….”
    “I don’t understand. Who are you? I heard them call you ‘Scapegoat.’ And the old man said he’d report you to the Timouchoi. Who are they?”
    He stared grimly at the sea for a long moment, then clapped his hands. “Slave! If I’m to tell the story, and if my new friend Gordianus is to hear it, we shall both require more wine.”

VII
    “What do you know about Massilia?” asked Hieronymus.
    “It’s far, far from Rome,” I said, feeling a stab of homesickness, thinking of Bethesda and Diana and my house on the Palatine Hill.
    “Not far enough!” said Hieronymus. “Caesar and Pompey have a brawl, and Massilia is close enough to take a blow. No, what I mean is, what do you know about the city itself—how it’s organized, who runs it?”
    “Nothing, really. It’s an old Greek colony, isn’t it? A city-state. Here since the days of Hannibal.”
    “Since long before that! Massilia was a bustling seaport when Romulus was living in a hut on the Tiber.”
    “Ancient history.” I shrugged. “I do know that Massilia sided with Rome against Carthage, and the two cities have been allies ever since.” I frowned. “I know you don’t have a king. I suppose the city’s run by some sort of elected body. You Greeks invented democracy, didn’t you?”
    “Invented it, yes, and quickly discarded it, for the most part. Massilia is run by a timocracy. Do you know what that means?”
    “Government by the wealthy.” My Greek was coming back to me.
    “By, for, and of the wealthy. An aristocracy of money,