"Aren't all slaves bastards by definition?"
"One might say the same about Roman politicians."
His eyes flashed. I glanced nervously at the band of surly gladiators and swallowed dryly, wondering if I had pushed him too far. But in the next instant Domitius barked out a laugh. "Like father, like son, even if yours is adopted. What audacity you Gordianii have! I might almost wish you were on our side."
"What makes you think I'm on Caesar's side?"
"Aren't you?"
I didn't answer. I looked at the carts piled high with trunks. "I suppose you've kept a ship in the harbor?"
"Three ships, actually. Apollonides wanted to conscript them for battle, but I told him I'd have none of that." He wet a finger and held it to the breeze. "The wind's shifted from yesterday; we shall have good sailing. The ship I'll be taking is a long, low beauty, swift as a dolphin."
"She'll have to be, to get past the blockade." I glanced toward the north, where the sky was turning dark. "It look as if Aeolus might be bringing us storm clouds."
"Blockade or no blockade, storm or no storm, nothing shall stop me from getting out of this Hades-on-earth!"
"Caesar will be disappointed. I'm sure he looks forward to your reunion."
"As do I! But not here, not now. Another day, on another battlefield!"
"What about Milo? I don't see him in your retinue."
"Milo is staying right here, where he belongs. If he's lucky, when all this madness is over, Pompey will grant him a generous pardon and invite him back to Rome, where he can grow old and fat fishing on the banks of the Tiber. Until then, Milo must make do with Massilian mullets. No more talk, Gordianus! You've delayed me long enough."
And with that he was off again, barking an order at his gladiators to quicken their pace.
Dark clouds obscured the sun. Sharp winds blew through the narrow streets of Massilia, carrying the scent of rain. Despite the looming storm, Davus suggested we go to a high place, where we might be able to see the breached section of the wall and scrutinize the activities of Trebonius's army outside.
As we trudged uphill, looking for a good vantage point, we encountered a large crowd gathered outside a temple. Some of the people chanted solemnly with their eyes shut. Some shrieked and spun about madly while others looked on, appalled. I located a spectator who looked reasonably calm and sober and asked him what was happening.
"The scapegoat," he said. "The priests of Artemis are making ready to conduct him to the Sacrifice Rock."
I pushed into the crowd. Davus helped clear the way. At last we came to the steps of the temple, where a black funeral bier lay upon a familiar green-canopied litter. A group of priests were just stepping out of the temple. Their white robes whipped in the wind. Wavering streamers and vortices of smoke rose from their bowls of smoldering incense. Flanked by the priests, a tall figure in green emerged from the temple. His face was hidden behind a green veil, so that from head to toe he was covered in green, like a chrysalis. I tried to step toward him, but a cordon of soldiers barred the way.
I called out his name. Hieronymus turned his head in my direction. He whispered to one of the priests, who frowned but nevertheless approached the soldiers and told them to let me through. I rushed up the steps.
"Hieronymus!" I tried to keep my voice low. "What is this? What's happening?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
"Hieronymus, I can't see your face. That veil-"
"The scapegoat wears a veil on his final day. The gods are watching. The sight of the scapegoat's accursed face could only offend them."
I lowered my voice to a hoarse whisper. "Hieronymus, you mustn't go through with this! If you can postpone the ceremony for only a little while-Caesar is on his way. It may be only hours-minutes-"
"Postpone the ceremony? But why?"
"There's no need for it. The siege is all but over. Your death will change nothing. You can't possibly save the city."
"Not from conquest; but perhaps the city may yet be saved from utter destruction. Who knows what Caesar intends? The sacrifice of the scapegoat may tip the scales and cause Caesar to be merciful."
"Caesar will as do he pleases, no matter what happens to you!"
"Shhh! Don't tell the priests that, or the people of Massilia! For months they've pampered and pleasured me, preparing me to take on all their sins at once. Now they want to see the ceremony carried through to the end."
"But, Hieronymus-"
"Quiet, Gordianus! I'm at peace. Last night Apollonides called me to his private chambers. He told me everything."
"Everything?"
He nodded. "I know that your son Meto is alive. I'm happy for you, Gordianus! Apollonides also confessed to me that it was his father who ruined my father. I had long suspected as much. And… he told me about Cydimache. My father jumped from the Sacrifice Rock. Apollonides's daughter was pushed. His line has come to an end. The shades of my parents are appeased."
"And you, Hieronymus?"
"Me?" The wind pressed the veil against his face so that I clearly saw his expression-his lips slightly pursed, one eyebrow sardonically raised. "I'm a Massilian, Gordianus, and above all else, a Massilian respects a contract. When I became the scapegoat, I entered into an agreement with the priests of Artemis and the people of Massilia. I did so with my eyes open. They honored their side of the contract. Now it's my turn. My obligation is to willingly face my sacrifice. Not all scapegoats do so in the end; some have to be drugged, or bound, or even knocked unconscious. Not me! I shall stand tall and meet my destiny proudly."
My voice caught in my throat. I tried to think of words to persuade him, of something I could do to stop the farce. He laid his hand on my forearm and seized it with a powerful grip. "Gordianus, I know that you don't take this ceremony seriously, that you don't believe it actually works."
"Do you?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. My personal belief hardly matters. But it may be that a scapegoat can take on the sins of others and can carry them with him to oblivion, allowing those who survive to start afresh. Since I first met you, Gordianus, I've sensed that you carry a burden of guilt. Some wickedness-some crime you committed-perhaps in trying to save that beloved son of yours? Am I right?"
I made no answer.
"Never mind. I absolve you!" He suddenly released my arm. "There. Whatever burden of sin you may carry has gone out of you and come into me. Do you know, I believe I actually felt something. Truly!"
There was such a thickness in my throat that I could hardly speak. "Hieronymus…"
"Now go, Gordianus. This is my moment!"
Two priests of Artemis grabbed my arms, pulled me down the steps, and thrust me back into the crowd beyond the line of soldiers. I looked on helplessly as Hieronymus mounted wooden steps up to the litter and reclined upon the funeral bier, shutting his eyes and crossing his arms as if he were a corpse. The crowd around me surged and wailed. Some screamed curses at the scapegoat. Others shouted blessings. They began to throw objects at the funeral bier, and I started in alarm; but the objects were not rocks and stones but dried flowers and bits of crumpled parchment with names written on them. The priests of Artemis took the green litter onto their shoulders and began to carry it through the street, protected by the cordon of soldiers. Before them and behind them, a retinue of priests clapped hands, chanted, and wafted incense. Shreds of smoke, dried flower petals, and scraps of parchment blew this way and that.
Davus and I followed the procession for a while. We stopped at a point where the street descended sharply and a small clearing on a crest afforded a view of the Sacrifice Rock. In the strange, false twilight that precedes a rainstorm, we watched the procession wind down the hill, gathering more and more spectators. The roar of the crowd, with its mingled curses and blessings, rang out and echoed though the city.
The procession came to a halt at the foot of the Sacrifice Rock. Ringed by the cordon of soldiers, Hieronymus stepped from the funeral bier and began, alone, to climb the rock. The crowd cried out and pelted him with dried flowers and bits of parchment.