I found a place to stand atop an elevated platform amidship. All around us in the darkness loomed the big transport ships. Some were sailing for the harbor entrance while others hung back. Such a coordinated operation, without benefit of lights or other signals, meant they were following a precise order of evacuation determined beforehand.
The acoustics on the harbor were baffling. I heard indistinct shouts and the faraway clatter of battle, but couldn't tell which noises came from the city and which echoed across the water from the harbor entrance.
Ship after ship sailed past the breakwaters and into the open sea. I thought I could see exchanges of arrows and missiles between the ships and the men on the breakwaters, but the darkness and the distance made it impossible to discern any details.
As Pompey's ship drew nearer to the harbor entrance, queuing up to run the gauntlet, the incendiary assault began. From both breakwaters, catapults hurled flaming missiles toward the ship passing between. By their illumination, I saw a bizarre sight: Caesar's men were frantically dismantling their own defenses on the breakwaters, tearing down the towers and mantlets and casting the debris into the water.
The missiles fell short. More incendiary missiles were fired. These, too, fell short, but the terrific splashes created great explosions of steam. At the same time, some of the debris cast into the waves caught fire, dotting the harbor entrance with points of flame.
The wrack of smoke and steam posed a hazard to the ship ahead of us, obscuring the captain's sightlines. He sailed off course, veering sharply toward the northern breakwater. I heard a loud curse behind me and looked over my shoulder. Pompey was only a few paces away. He seemed not to notice me. All his attention was on the battle.
The ship ahead of us veered farther off course, bedeviled now by a sudden change in the wind. It sailed directly toward the tip of the northern breakwater until, from our perspective, a collision appeared imminent. I heard Pompey suck in a breath.
But there was no collision. The ship skimmed past. For a moment, because of the confusion of the smoke, the ship appeared to have sailed safely outside the breakwater, on the seaward side. Then I heard a groan from Pompey, and realized the truth. The ship was still inside the harbor, sailing close alongside the breakwater, barely managing to avoid a scraping collision and apparently unable to pull back into the open harbor. It came to a standstill, held in place by the change in the wind, trapped against the breakwater, easily within range of arrows and missiles from Caesar's men, who let out a cheer that echoed across the water.
The vulnerable ship easily might have been deluged with incendiary missiles, but the enemy apparently preferred to take it intact. As we discovered in the next moment, they had the means to do so.
The officer Scribonius came running to Pompey. "Imperator, look behind us, back toward the city!"
The last of the transport ships had set sail, which meant that the last of Pompey's covering guard had safely withdrawn from the city walls and taken flight. But that also meant that the city was now completely open to Caesar's men. Given the barricades and traps in the streets, it was reasonable to assume that they should still be making their way through the city, yet the quays behind us glittered with torchlight. Not only had Caesar's men already taken the port, but some had manned fishing vessels and were boldly sailing toward the breakwater, evidently planning to board the trapped transport ship.
Scribonius gripped Pompey's arm. "Imperator, shall we turn about and engage them? We might fend them off and buy more time for the ship trapped against the breakwater."
"No! We can't risk running afoul of the breakwater ourselves. That ship is lost to us now. There's no saving it. If I could, I'd set fire to it myself, to keep Caesar from having it. Sail straight on!"
Scribonius withdrew.
"How can he do it?" Pompey pounded his fist against the mast. "How can he move so fast? What sort of pact has Caesar made with the gods? It isn't humanly possible! Even if the damned townspeople showed his soldiers safely past every barricade and trap, how can so many of them already be at the port? And what madness impels them to set out after us in those small ships? Caesar himself must be there, urging them on."
I gazed back at the port and imagined Caesar standing at the end of the quay, in the very spot where Pompey had stood only moments before, his red cape fluttering in the breeze, gazing out at Pompey's ship as we vanished into the clouds of smoke and vapor at the harbor entrance. I shut my eyes and prayed that Meto was there with Caesar, safe and whole, and that Davus was there as well, regretting not too bitterly that he had done as I told him. I imagined my son and my son-in-law together and safe on the quay, and clung to that image.
"Damn you, Finder!"
I opened my eyes to see Pompey glaring at me. Flames from burning flotsam in the water all around us pierced the smoke and lit up his eyes.
"You're Caesar's man, aren't you?"
I shook my head, not understanding.
Pompey scowled. "That slave you adopted, your precious son, Meto— he's been Caesar's cozy tentmate for years. And you're one of Caesar's spies. He's always had your loyalty. Admit it! Not even Caesar could have gotten so many men through the city so quickly, without spies to help him. How long have you been in contact with the townspeople? How well did you know those street rats who almost killed me? Was it you who put them up to it? No wonder you begged for their lives!"
"Great One, you're mistaken. What you're suggesting is impossible. Ask Tiro. He came with me all the way from Rome—"
"Yes, you managed to leech onto Tiro, and fool even him. Davus! He must have been your inside man, spying on me all this time! And I thought he was an idiot."
"Great One, this is madness."
Firelight danced across Pompey's face. I would not have recognized him. He seemed to be possessed by something not human— a god or a demon, I couldn't tell which. Hackles rose on the back of my neck.
Ahead of us loomed more smoke and flames. I heard shouting from either side, taunts and curses from the men on the breakwaters. I heard the creak and snap of catapults and ballistic engines. Fireballs hurtled toward us, shrieking like harpies. Scribonius screamed orders: "Catapults, return fire! Archers, return fire!"
Pompey stared at me, oblivious to the battle commencing around us.
"Great One, I haven't deceived you. There's no plot. I'm not Caesar's man."
He clutched my throat. In his grip I felt all the fury that must have been growing in him day by day ever since he fled Rome. My vision dimmed. His face swam before my eyes. Above the pounding blood in my ears the screams and shouts around us seemed hardly more than whispers.
A fireball landed so close that we were doused with cold water, followed by steaming mist. Soldiers cried out, broke ranks, and hastily reformed. Pompey's grip never loosened. I struggled to pry his fingers from my throat.
"If you're not Caesar's spy, then tell me what you came to tell me! Who murdered Numerius?"
All along, I had known it would come to this.
In my mind, especially on sleepless nights, I had rehearsed this moment many times. I had come almost to look forward to it. The secret was heavy. I wanted to lay it down. The shame was bitter, like wormwood on the tongue. I wanted to be cleansed of it. But in my imagination the time and place of my confession had always been quiet and dignified, in some private council chamber with all ears pricked to hear me out, like Oedipus on the stage— never like this, in the heat of battle with death and darkness all around, and Pompey already furious and ready to strangle me.
I was barely able to force the words past the hands around my throat. "I ... killed ... him."
What happened was the opposite of what I expected. Pompey abruptly released his grip and drew back.
"Why do you say such a thing, Finder? Why do you lie? Do you know who killed Numerius or not?"
"I killed him," I whispered.
I swallowed hard and rubbed the bruises on my throat. How peculiar, I thought: why bother to soothe the little irritations of a body that has no future beyond the next few moments?
I had known when I stepped aboard Pompey's ship that I would die there, though I hadn't expected the end to come so quickly. I had known when I set out from Rome that I would never come back. From the start I had hoped somehow to trade myself for Davus, and so gain some value from my death beyond an end to my own shame.
Scribonius ran the length of the ship, waving a sword over his head. "Starboard catapults, fire at will! All archers, fire to starboard!" We had sailed perilously close to the southern breakwater— so close that a fireball overshot and flew screaming over our heads, trailing streamers of smoke and a shower of sparks.
"Why?" said Pompey, his madness turning to confusion. "If you did such a thing, why confess?"
In the veils of smoke around us, I saw Numerius's bulging eyes and bloated, lifeless face. Above the roar of the battle, I heard his mother's tremulous voice and the sobs of Aemilia weeping for a child never to be born. "To be rid of the regret," I said. "The remorse. The guilt."
Pompey shook his head skeptically, as if he had heard of such emotions but had no firsthand knowledge of them. "But why would
you
kill Numerius?" The question contained another, unspoken: had he overlooked something obvious, been made a fool of?
"Numerius came to my house that morning to blackmail me."
"Never! Numerius was mine. He worked only for me."
"Numerius worked for himself! He was a schemer, a blackmailer. He had a document— evidence of a plot to kill Caesar, a pact signed by the conspirators. My son's was the first signature. The document was written in Meto's own hand. Even the grammar was his." I lowered my eyes.
"Your son? Caesar's favorite?"
"When and why Meto turned against Caesar, I don't know. Numerius said he had other incriminating documents, hidden somewhere. He demanded money, far more than I could pay. He refused to lower his price. He said he was about to leave Rome. Unless I paid, he would send the documents at once to Caesar. Caesar knows Meto's handwriting as well as I do! It would have been the end of him. I had only a moment to decide."
Pompey curled his upper lip. "The garrote around his neck ..."
"A souvenir from a past investigation. Numerius waited in the garden. I went to fetch money from my study. But I brought back the garrote instead. He was standing at the foot of Minerva with his back to me, whistling at the sky. So arrogant! He was young, strong. I doubted my strength— but it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be."
Another fireball shrieked above our heads, so close I flinched. By its lurid glare I saw the growing rage on Pompey's face. "What happened to the document he showed you?"
"I took it to my study. I burned it in the brazier. That was when Davus came into the garden and found the body."
"Then Davus knew the truth? All along?"
"No! I told him nothing of the blackmail, or the murder. I told no one, not even my wife or daughter. To protect them. If they'd known, and you suspected ... but that wasn't the real reason. It was shame ... guilt ..."
I had come full circle. How could I expect a man like Pompey to understand? To slaughter hundreds or thousands in battle was a glorious thing, pleasing to the gods. To kill a single man was murder, a crime against heaven.
I had killed men before, but only in desperate self-defense, when the choice was no choice at all, my life or another's. Never from behind. Never in cold blood. When I killed Numerius, something in me died.
I had always secretly imagined myself to be better than other men. Men like Pompey or Caesar or Cicero would doubtless look down at me and laugh at such a conceit, but I had always taken pride and comfort from knowing that while others might be richer or stronger or higher-born, still I was
better.
Gordianus freed slaves and adopted them. Gordianus stood aloof to the greed and grubby passions that drove "respectable" Romans into the law courts, where they tore at one another like vicious beasts. Gordianus did not cheat or steal, and seldom lied. Gordianus knew right from wrong by some infallible internal moral sense, yet had compassion for those who struggled with shades of gray. Gordianus would never murder. As Pompey had said, killing people was not his style.
Yet Gordianus had done just that, strangling the life out of another man in his own garden.
In doing so, I had forfeited the thing which set me apart from other men. I had lost the favor of the gods. I felt it the instant Numerius Pompeius crumpled lifeless at my feet. The sun withdrew behind a cloud. The world became colder and darker.
That moment had brought me directly, inevitably, to this moment. I was prepared for whatever happened next. I resigned myself to the Fates.
Davus was rescued. I had seen Meto alive and well. Bethesda and Diana and Eco and their children were all safe, or as safe as anyone could be in a broken world. If it was true that Numerius had other documents that compromised Meto hidden away somewhere, my only regret was that I had not been able to find them and destroy them, for Meto's sake.
In my mind, along with my confession, I had also pictured what would follow. I had imagined Pompey summoning henchmen to dispose of me, out of his sight. I had never imagined him leaping on me like a wild beast, his hands tearing at my face. I covered my eyes. He seized me by the hair and knocked my head against the mast. My ears rang. I tasted blood in my mouth. He threw me to the deck. He screamed and kicked me wildly.
I somehow scrambled to my feet. I ran blindly, stumbling and tripping over coils of rope, colliding with cold armor, cutting my cheeks and arms and shoulders on arrows and spears. Amid the smoke and sea spray, faces looked back at me aghast. They were frightened, not of me but of the madman behind me. Every man on the ship teetered on the sword's edge of Mars, poised between life and death. The sight of their commander reduced to an insane rage unnerved them.