More priests awaited him at the summit of the rock, where a green canopy had been pitched. The crowded priests leaned into the stiff wind. Those holding the poles of the canopy were sorely pressed to prevent it from blowing away altogether. Their white robes and the green flaps of the canopy snapped and fluttered. Standing among the priests was Apollonides, his mane of silver hair tossed by the wind and his light blue cape wrapped tightly around him.
Beyond the rock and the wall, mottled patches of shadow and sunlight played across the sea. The wind whipped the green waves into foaming whitecaps.
Hieronymus took his time. He climbed slowly, methodically, almost as if he were savoring the event. Or was he beginning to have second thoughts?
At last he reached the summit. Hieronymus in his green robes stood out, but there was such a crowd of priests beneath the canopy that I had trouble seeing clearly. Tears obscured my vision.
Atop the Sacrifice Rock there was more chanting and a great deal more incense. The capricious wind seemed to play with the smoke, and instead of dispersing it, caused it to whirl about the summit, enveloping the canopy. Priests coughed and waved their hands. They could hardly be expected to control the wind-but surely the scuffle I saw was not a part of the ceremony…
"Davus, I can't see clearly. Tears in my eyes-from the wind. Is Hieronymus-is he struggling against them?"
Davus squinted. "He must be! They've all surrounded him-restraining him-pitching back and forth. He's putting up quite a fight. And now-Apollonides-!"
Davus had no need to finish. Blinking away tears, my jaw agape, I saw the final moment clearly. Or did I?
Like Cydimache, Hieronymus must have changed his mind at the last moment. How else to explain the fact that the priests suddenly swarmed around him, restraining him? It was Apollonides who stepped decisively forward and seized the struggling green chrysalis in a fierce embrace. The two of them spun about and rocked back and forth. The priests scrambled back. Apollonides's silver mane whipped in the wind. His cape billowed and wrapped itself around them, until the two figures seemed to meld into a single, writhing creature shrouded in pale blue and chrysalis green.
Together, they staggered toward the precipice. I held my breath. For a brief moment they seemed to be frozen on the very edge of the rock. An instant later, still locked together, they vanished.
Davus gasped. "Apollonides! Hieronymus took Apollonides with him!"
I shook my head, stunned. "Or was it Apollonides who jumped and took Hieronymus along with him?"
XXV
The wind continued to rise. The sky turned black. Thunder boomed and lightning ripped the clouds. Davus and I hurried back to the house of Apollonides. Just as we reached the outer courtyard, rain began to pour down.
We found the house of the First Timouchos as we had left it, with the doors wide open and the slaves in a panic. The wing where I had last seen Meto was still guarded by soldiers, who barred our way and refused to listen to any pleas or threats I could think of.
Where was Meto? What arrangements-for the surrender of the city, for his own survival-had he made with Apollonides, and did those arrangements still mean anything now that Apollonides was gone? If Apollonides had intentionally thrown himself from the Sacrifice Rock, had he first taken revenge on his enemies? Once again I found myself desperately worried about my son.
If he were still alive and well, why did Meto not seek me out? Of course, I could guess the answer to that: Meto was too busy. With Apollonides gone, others among the Timouchoi would have to negotiate the surrender. In these final hours of Massilia's independence, all Meto's schemes were coming to fruition. Those schemes were his only priority, and in them his father played no part.
Davus, always practical, declared his intention to go scavenging for food. I was light-headed from hunger, but I had no appetite. Bone-weary, I made my way to the rooms that briefly had served as Hieronymus's quarters. In the bedchamber, I collapsed amid the plush cushions where I had slept the previous night. I had no fear of being disturbed. What Massilian would dare to venture into the scapegoat's chambers in the first hours after his death, while his restless lemur might yet stalk the earth?
Rain lashed the house. Amid the crashing of thunder and the howling of the wind arose another noise: wails of lamentation. News of their master's death had reached the slaves who still cowered in the house. One by one they joined in keening for the dead leader of a dying city.
Despite all this, I slept; and for better or worse, Hypnos sent me no dreams.
I awoke with the sensation that someone had been watching me while I slept and had just left the room. The sensation was so powerful that I bolted upright, instantly awake. The room was empty. It must have been Meto, I thought. But why had he not awakened me? Perhaps I had only been dreaming, after all…
A moment later, Davus stepped into the room. "Finally, you're awake! You'll want to hurry out of bed. Something's happening down at the city gates. Something big!"
I rubbed my eyes. "Davus, were you just in this room… watching me?"
"No."
"Was someone else just in this room?"
He frowned and put his hands on his hips. "I don't know. I was over in the next room, out on the balcony, watching all the people heading down toward the city gates. Someone might have come in here from the anteroom and the hallway outside, and I wouldn't have seen them…"
I blinked. "Is it still raining?"
"No. The storm lasted all night, but now it's over. There's a blue sky and bright sunshine. But what's this?" He let out a cry of delight and rushed to a little tripod table in the corner. "Figs! A whole pile of figs! I couldn't find a scrap of food anywhere last night. I hardly slept at all, I was so hungry. But look at these! They're beautiful. So dark and plump. And the smell! Here, have one. Then we'll head down to the gates."
Davus bit into a fig and laughed with delight. Until I ventured to take a small bite, I hadn't realized just how hungry I was. The sheer pleasure of it overwhelmed me. It was the best fig I had ever tasted.
No starving slave could have been trusted to leave that pile of figs for a sleeping man; the slave would have devoured them. Meto himself must have left them for us, I decided. But why had he not awakened me? Why had he left without a word?
A great crowd had gathered at the city gates. A cordon of soldiers with upright spears held back the throng and kept clear a wide passage from the gates to the center of the market square.
The people around us looked weary, hungry and miserable, but their eyes gleamed with anticipation. For months they had waited, dreaded, hoped. Now, at last, in the next few moments, something would happen. Would they be forgiven and fed by their new master-or cruelly slaughtered? They seemed hardly to care which fate awaited them as long as something put an end to their suspense.
Every crowd makes its own peculiar noise. This one sounded like the a field of tall grass on a breezy day, swaying and hissing in the wind. People spoke constantly, nervously, but never above a whisper. Like fickle winds, hushed rumors of imminent doom and deliverance flitted this way and that through the crowd.
Like everyone else, I found myself staring fixedly at the gates. The great bronze doors stood intact, as did the flanking towers, but only a few steps away gaped the huge breach in the wall, with great piles of rubble strewn about, including the remains of a bastion tower lying on its side. The breach had the strange effect of making the gates look as if they were merely a prop. A theatrical facade may have doors and windows and balconies, but only masquerades as a house or a temple. Just so, the gates of Massilia did not seem really to be gates at all, but only a convincing imitation. What function does a gate possess when the wall nearby has a gap in it large enough to admit a stampeding herd of elephants?