Free Last Seen in Massilia by Steven Saylor Page B

not birth. Just what you might expect from a city founded by merchants.”
    “Not a good place to be a poor man,” I said.
    “No,” said Hieronymus darkly. He stared intently into his wine cup. “Massilia is run by the Timouchoi, a body of six hundred memberswho hold office for life. Openings occur as members die; the Timouchoi themselves nominate and vote on replacement candidates.”
    “Self-perpetuating.” I nodded. “Very insular.”
    “Oh, yes, within the Timouchoi the attitude is very much ‘us’ and ‘them,’ those on the inside and those on the outside. You see, a man must be wealthy to join the Timouchoi, but it takes more than just money. His family must have held Massilian citizenship for three generations, and he himself must have fathered children. Roots in the past, a stake in the future, and here in the present, a great deal of money.”
    “Very conservative,” I said. “No wonder the Massilian system is so famously admired by Cicero. But is there no people’s assembly, as in Rome, where the commoners can make themselves heard? No way for ordinary folk to at least vent their frustrations?”
    Hieronymus shook his head. “Massilia is ruled by the Timouchoi alone. Of the six hundred, a rotating Council of Fifteen deal with general administration. Of those fifteen, three are responsible for the day-to-day running of the city. Of those three, one is selected First Timouchos, the closest thing we have to what you Romans call a ‘consul,’ chief executive in times of peace and supreme military commander in times of war. The Timouchoi make the laws, keep order, organize the markets, regulate the banks, run the courts, hire mercenaries, equip the navy. Their grip on the city is absolute.” As if to demonstrate, he tightened his fingers around the cup in his hand until his knuckles turned white. The look in his eyes made me shift uneasily.
    “And what is your place in this scheme of things?” I asked quietly.
    “A man like me has no place at all,” he said dully. “Oh, now I do. I’m the scapegoat.” He smiled, but his voice was bitter.
    Hieronymus called for more wine. More Falernian was brought. Such largesse in a city under siege seemed nothing less than profligate.
    “Let me explain,” he said. “My father was one of the Timouchoi—the first of my family to rise so high. He was made a member just after my birth. A few years later, he was elevated to the Council of Fifteen, one of the youngest men ever elected to that body. He must have been a man of great ambition to rise so high, so fast, leapfrogging past men from richer, older families than ours. As you might imagine, there werethose among the Timouchoi who were jealous of him, who believed that he had stolen honors properly due to them.
    “I was his only child. He raised me in a house not unlike this one, up here on the crest of the ridge where the old money lives. The view from our rooftop was even more spectacular than this; or perhaps my nostalgia embellishes it. We could see all Massilia below, the harbor filled with ships, the blue sea stretching on and on to the horizon. ‘All this will be yours,’ he told me once. I must have been quite small because I remember that he picked me up, put me on his shoulders, and turned slowly around. ‘All this will be yours….’”
    “Where did his money come from?” I asked.
    “From the trade.”
    “The trade?”
    “All wealth in Massilia comes from the slave and wine trade. The Gauls ship slaves down the Rhodanus River for sale to Italy; the Italians ship wine from Ostia and Neapolis to sell to the Gauls. Slaves for wine, wine for slaves, with Massilia in the middle, providing ships and taking her cut. That’s the foundation of all wealth in Massilia. My great-grandfather began our fortune. My grandfather increased it. My father increased it more. He owned many ships.
    “Then the bad times came. I was still quite young—too young to know the details of my father’s business.