Last Seen in Massilia (4 page)

We talked about the famous Roman exiles who had taken up residence in Massilia over the years. Gaius Verres was the most notorious; as governor of Sicily his rapaciousness had reached such extremes that Cicero had successfully prosecuted him for malfeasance and sent Verres packing for Massilia, taking a fortune in plunder with him. The reactionary gang-leader Milo had fled to Massilia after being found guilty of murdering the radical gang-leader Clodius; what would be his fate if Caesar took the city? There were scores of such exiles in Massilia, including men who had been convicted of various political crimes under Pompey’s campaign to “clean up” the Senate; some were no doubt as crooked as crone’s teeth, but others had simply made the mistake of crossing Pompey and the anti-Caesarians who had ruled the Senate in recent years. Inside the walls of Massilia, there must even be some old followers of Catilina, rebels who had chosen flight and exile over falling in battle beside their leader.

I stared at the walls of Massilia and the dark, hulking behemoth of the city beyond and wondered if Verres and Milo and all the rest were sleeping. What was it like to be a Roman exile in Massilia with Rome’s new master knocking at the gates? Some must be quivering with dread, others with jubilation.

Vitruvius told me more about the siege. The first major engagement had been a sea battle. A surprisingly small Massilian navy of seventeen ships had ventured out of the harbor. Caesar’s twelve ships sailed from behind the islands to meet them. Massilians watched from the city walls, while Romans watched from the hill upon which we sat. “Not much of a navy,” said Vitruvius, disparaging his own side. “Ships hastily thrown together with green wood, heavy in the water, manned by soldiers who’d never sailed before in their lives. They didn’t even bother to try to outmaneuver the Massilians; they just rammed straight ahead, caught the enemy ships with grappling hooks, rushed on board, and fought hand-to-hand across the decks, as if they were attacking on
dry land. The sea turned red with blood. You could see great patches of red from up here, bright crimson against the blue of the sea.”

That battle went badly for the Massilians. Nine of their seventeen ships were sunk or captured; the rest fled back to the harbor. Only the powerful offshore wind, for which the southern coast of Gaul is famous, kept Caesar’s ships from pursuing; with the wind against them, only experienced Massilian sailors were able to maneuver through the straits and into the harbor. But the battle confirmed the blockade. Massilia was cut off by both land and sea.

There might yet be another sea battle if Pompey managed to send naval reinforcements to the Massilians. But Vitruvius remained convinced that the conflict would be settled on land, not water, and sooner, not later. “Tomorrow,” he whispered, as I drifted off to an uneasy slumber beneath my blanket, too weary despite my worries to stay awake a moment longer.

In the hour before sunrise, I gradually woke. Night and sleep receded in imperceptible stages. A hazy, dreamlike vision infiltrated the waking world. Out of the grayness, the arena of battle described by Vitruvius emerged before me.

Huddled in my folding chair with the blanket wrapped around me and over my head like a cowl, I saw the milky white walls of Massilia tinged with a faint pink blush by the growing predawn light. The black behemoth beyond acquired depth and definition, became a ridge of hills with houses crowded close together along the slopes and temples and citadels crowning the hilltops. The sea beyond turned from black obsidian to blue lead. The islands outside the harbor acquired solidity and dimension.

In the valley below me, the contravallation that circled Massilia cut like a scar across the trampled earth. The embankment that Vitruvius had described rose like a great dam across the valley, and the movable siege tower loomed below us. I saw no sign of the tunnels Vitruvius had talked about, but toward my left, at a corner where the landward wall bent sharply back to run along the harbor, I saw the massive towers that flanked the main gate into Massilia. Somewhere in that vicinity, Caesar’s men intended to dig their way to daylight.

Slowly but surely—as slowly and surely as these images manifested out of darkness—I came to a decision.

It seemed to me that in my younger days I had always been methodical and cautious, slow to take any step that might be irrevocable,
fearful of making a mistake that might lead to the worst possible outcome. How ironic that in my years of hard-earned wisdom I should become a creature of impulse, a taker of wild risks. Perhaps it was wisdom after all for a man to turn his back on fear and doubt and trust to the gods to keep him alive.

“Vitruvius?” I said.

He stirred in his chair, blinked, and cleared his throat. “Yes, Gordianus?”

“Where does the tunnel begin—the one that’s to break through inside the city today?”

He cleared his throat again. He yawned. “Over to the left. Do you see that stand of oak trees down there, tucked in a hollow that curves into the hillside? Actually, you can just barely see the treetops. That’s where the entrance of the tunnel is, almost directly across from the main gate but still hidden from the city walls. The sappers are probably down there already, relaying digging equipment, rechecking measurements. The soldiers who’ll take part in the attack will start gathering in about an hour.”

I nodded. “How will they be equipped?”

“Short swords, helmets, light armor. Nothing too heavy. They’ve got to stay light on their feet, as unencumbered as possible. We don’t want them tripping or stabbing each other as they scramble through the tunnel, or weighed down with too much equipment when they need to climb out.”

“Are they all from a particular cohort?”

“No. They’re special duty volunteers culled from several cohorts. Not every man’s fit for such a mission. You can’t effectively train a man not to be afraid of the dark or not to panic in a tight, enclosed space. Put some men in a tunnel and it doesn’t matter how brave they are, they wet themselves the instant they lose sight of daylight around the first bend. You don’t want to be standing next to such a fellow in a crisis. Sappers thrive in tunnels, of course, but sappers are diggers, not fighters. So you’ve got to have fighting men who aren’t afraid to step on a few earthworms. The volunteers who’ll make the attack have been doing tunnel drills over the last few days. How to carry a lighted taper
so it doesn’t go out, how not to stampede your comrades if the tunnel goes black, memorizing signals to advance and retreat, and so on.”

“Sounds complicated.”

Vitruvius snorted. “Hardly. These fellows aren’t engineers. They’re simple men. They just needed a bit of drilling so they won’t trip over their own feet in a tight spot.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose any reasonably bright fellow could pick up what to do on the spot.”

“Certainly. Any fool could. And if something did go horribly wrong, he’d die just as quickly as the ones who’ve been specially trained for the mission.” He snuggled under his blanket, closed his eyes, and sighed.

A red glimmer appeared along the jagged horizon to the east. I shrugged off my blanket and told Vitruvius he would have to watch the sunrise alone. He didn’t answer. I retreated to the sound of gentle snoring.

In the officers’ tent I managed to wake Davus and pull him from his bed without rousing the others. Half-asleep and confused, he nodded as I explained to him my intention.

From Meto I knew how Caesar arranged his camps and where stores of surplus equipment might be found. The tent I was looking for was just behind that of Trebonius, and unguarded. What penalty would the commander deem appropriate for two outsiders caught stealing weapons during a siege? I tried not to think about that as we searched in the dim light among dented helmets, nicked swords, and mismatched greaves.

“This one fits perfectly, father-in-law. And I can’t find any damage at all.”

I looked up to see Davus trying on a helmet. I shook my head. “No, Davus, you misunderstood. My fault for explaining while you were still half-asleep.
I
will be going through the tunnel, not you.”

“But I’m coming with you, of course.”

“There’s no need. If Vitruvius is correct, the city will be open in a matter of hours. We can meet up again tomorrow, perhaps even tonight.”

“And if the engineer is wrong? You know what Meto says: Things never go exactly the way they expect in a battle.”

I ran my fingertip along a dull, rusty sword blade. “Davus, do you remember the scene the day before we left Rome? Your wife—my daughter—was very, very upset.”

“No more than your wife! Bethesda was frantic. Those curses she  uttered made my hair stand on end, and I don’t even know Egyptian.”

“Yes, Diana and Bethesda were both distraught. But the night before we left, I made my peace with Bethesda. She understood why I had to come here, why I couldn’t sit idly in Rome wondering about Meto, not knowing for certain if he was alive or dead. Diana was another matter.”

“She understood too, in the end.”

“Did she? I can hear her now: ‘Papa, what can you be thinking, taking Davus with you? Didn’t you just trek all the way to Brundisium and back to fetch him from Pompey’s clutches? Now you want to go off to yet another battlefield and put him back in harm’s way.’ She had a point.”

“Father-in-law, you couldn’t possibly have traveled here alone. A man your age—”

“And you made Diana see that. Congratulations, Davus—you wield more influence over my daughter than I ever did! But before we left, she made me promise that I wouldn’t put you in danger if I could possibly avoid it.”

“So…you’re saying that this tunnel business is dangerous.”

“Of course it is! Men were never meant to burrow through the ground like rabbits, any more than they were meant to fly, or breathe underwater. And people tend not to like it when an army appears out of a hole in the ground.”

“You could be killed, father-in-law.”

I ran my fingertip over another blade and gasped when it cut me. I sucked at the thin trickle of bright red blood. “It’s possible.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

I shook my head. “No, Davus—”

“It was agreed that I would come along to protect you. You haven’t had much need for protection until now.”

“No, Davus. I promised your wife that I’d bring you home alive.”

“And I promised
your
wife the same thing!”

We stared at each other blankly, then both laughed. “Then I suppose it’s a question of which of them we’re more afraid of,” I said. After a heartbeat, we spoke in unison: “Bethesda!”

I sighed. “Very well, Davus. I think I saw a mail shirt over there that might be big enough to fit you.”

Our outfits were convincing enough to fool the grubmaster, at least. Granted, the man hardly looked at us as we passed by, bowls extended for a helping of millet porridge. He did notice our relative sizes; Davus received a portion twice the size of mine.

We ate hastily, then set out. The camp, so quiet and still in the hour before dawn, was now bustling with excitement. Messengers ran to and fro, officers shouted, bright-eyed soldiers whispered to each other as they formed ranks. Everyone seemed to sense that this was a special day.

We descended the hill, keeping the city wall and the contravallation to our right. Ahead and below, hidden from the watchers on the city walls, I spotted a curving fold in the hillside shaded by oak trees, just as Vitruvius had described it. The little hollow was already densely packed with men, their helmets visible through the leaves as we descended.

A well-worn path led down into the hollow. Men stepped aside, jostling each other to make room for us. A glance at their equipment showed that I had not been far off the mark in choosing our own gear. We were inconspicuous, in that regard at least.

The men talked in low voices. Behind me I heard someone say, “How old is that one? You don’t see many gray-beards on special missions.”

Another soldier shushed him. “What are you thinking, courting hubris on this of all days? Or don’t you care to live long enough to have your own gray beard?”

“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” said the first soldier.

“Then keep your mouth shut. If a fellow can live that long fighting in Caesar’s army, he must have the gods on his side.”

The first soldier grunted. “What about the big one with him? I don’t remember ever seeing him at training drills. I thought the call for this mission was strictly for short fellows like us. That big ox is liable to stop up the tunnel like a cork in a bottle!”

“Shut up! Here comes the man himself. This is it!”

Flanked by officers, Trebonius appeared on the hillside above us. He was dressed in full regalia, wearing a crested helmet and a sculpted chest plate that caught flashes of morning sunlight through the shimmering oak canopy. I tugged at Davus’s elbow. “Lower your face. And hunker down, as best you can.”

Trebonius pitched his orator’s voice just loud enough to fill the hollow. “Soldiers! The auspices are favorable. The augurs have declared this a good day for battle—more than good, a propitious day for Caesar and Caesar’s men. Today, if the gods see fit, the gates of Massilia will be opened, thanks to your efforts. You will greatly please Caesar, and Caesar will duly reward you. But let me repeat what I have said from the beginning of this siege: When Massilia falls, Caesar, and Caesar only, shall decide her fate. There will be no looting, no rape, no arson. You all understand this, I know. Remember your training. Follow the orders of your mission commander. Now the operation begins. No cheering! Silence! Save your voices for later, when you can let out a victory cry from the walls of Massilia.”

Trebonius saluted us. As a body, we saluted back.

“Fall in!” an officer shouted. Around us, everyone began to move, but toward what I couldn’t tell. Davus stayed close beside me, hunkering down. We followed the flow like grains of sand in an hourglass. The hollow became noticeably less crowded. Men were disappearing as if the earth itself had swallowed them. There seemed to be no precise order; each man simply moved into the queue as quickly and efficiently as he could. I shuffled forward.

Suddenly, the mouth of the tunnel was before me. Stout timbers outlined a black hole in the hillside. For an instant I froze. What sort
of madness had brought me to such a moment? But there was no backing out. Trebonius was watching. Davus jostled me from behind.

“Take it!” said the same voice that had ordered us to fall in. I held out my hand and a lighted taper was pressed into it. “Remember your training,” said the officer. “Don’t let it go out!”

I moved forward, lowering my head and holding the taper as steadily as I could; my hand shook. I entered the mouth of the tunnel. Behind me I heard a clank and a grunt—the noise of Davus’s helmet striking the lintel.

We proceeded at a steady pace. The tunnel was level at first, then began gradually to descend. A framework of timbers supported the walls and the roof. In most places the tunnel was barely wide enough for two men to pass each other. At a few points, where it threaded a course between two rock faces, it constricted even more. The roof was never quite high enough for me to stand fully upright. I had to walk slightly stooped. Poor Davus practically had to bend himself in two.

The tunnel stopped descending and became level again. The pace slackened. Occasionally we came to an abrupt standstill. Men bumped into each other. Tapers were dropped or blown out, then quickly relit from another. Without them the darkness would have been absolute.

We stopped, then shuffled forward; stopped again, then shuffled forward. The atmosphere was humid and stale. Smoke from the tapers burned my eyes. A cold clamminess settled over me. I breathed dank air into my lungs.

The tunnel began almost imperceptibly to ascend. We came to another standstill. Time passed. No one spoke.

At last, in the absence of orders or movement, some of the men began to whisper. The sound was like hissing heard through a trumpet. Occasionally, from the vaguely lit stretches before me or behind, I heard grim laughter. What sort of gruesome banter were the men passing back and forth? Meto’s sense of humor had changed much in the years since he became a soldier; it had grown more vulgar and cruel, more mocking of god and man alike. Laughing in the face of Mars, he called it; whistling past Hades. Sometimes, Meto said, with certain death looming ahead—his own death or his enemy’s—a man had no
choice but to scream or laugh. What would happen if a single man in the tunnel began to scream and panic? I thought about that and was thankful for the release of an occasional burst of harsh laughter.

A chain of whispers came from the head of the line. The young soldier in front of me turned and said, “This is where we wait while the sappers dig out the last bit of earth. Pass it on.” I relayed the message to Davus. When I turned back, the young soldier ahead was still looking at me. His voice had been familiar; I suddenly realized that he was the one who had been talking about me behind my back out in the hollow. By the flickering light of his taper, he looked hardly older than a child.