'Apollonides doesn't hide her away. She rarely goes out, but she dines with his guests. She hides her face with veils and rarely speaks. When she does, her voice is slurred, on account of her harelip I suppose. I did get a glimpse of her face once. I was crossing the garden of Apollonides's house. Cydimache had paused at a rose bush. She'd pulled aside her veils to smell a bloom, and I surprised her. Her face was a sight to stop a man's heart.'
'Or break it, I should think.'
'No, Finder. Beauty breaks a man's heart, not ugliness!' Domitius laughed. 'I'll tell you this: The face of Cydimache is not a sight I ever care to see again. I don't know which of us was more unnerved. The girl fled, and so did I.' He shook his head. 'Who'd have thought such a creature would ever find a husband?'
'She's married?'
'The wedding took place just before I arrived in Massilia. The young man's name is Zeno. Quite a contrast to his wife; damned good-looking, in fact. Not that my taste runs to boys-although
faced with a choice of Zeno or Cydimache…!' He laughed. 'Some people claim it was a love match, but I think that's just these Massilians' sense of humor. Zeno comes from a modest but respectable family; he married her for money and position, of course. This is his means to become a Timouchos-if he can manage to get Cydimache with child.'
'Apollonides was satisfied with the match?'
'I don't suppose many young men with prospects were lining up to woo the monster, not even to become the son-in-law of the First Timouchos.' Domitius shrugged. 'The match seems to have worked. Zeno and Cydimache sit at Apollonides's right hand every night at dinner. The young man treats her with great deference. Sometimes they talk in low voices and laugh quietly among themselves. If you didn't know what was under the veils'-he made a face and shuddered-'you might think they were as love-struck as any other pair of newlyweds.'
A Gaulish slave girl with braided blond hair answered the door at Milo's house. She was scantily clad even for such a warm night. Her Greek was poor and atrociously accented, but it was obvious she had not been purchased for her language skills. She giggled incessantly as she invited Domitius, Davus, and myself into the foyer. The only light was the lamp she held in her hand; outside the scapegoat's house, fuel, like food, was severely rationed in Massilia. The oil was of low quality. The rancid-smelling smoke at least helped to cover the odor of unwashed humanity that permeated the house. Instead of running to fetch her master, the girl simply turned and yelled for him.
'I'd have expected a bodyguard to answer the door,' I muttered to Domitius under my breath. 'I seem to recall that Milo took a large party of gladiators with him when he went into exile.'
Domitius nodded. 'He's hired his gladiators out to the Massilians as mercenaries. Most of them, anyway; I suppose he kept one or two for bodyguards. They must be somewhere about, probably as drunk as their master. I'm afraid dear Milo has rather let himself go. It might have been different if Fausta had accompanied him into exile.' He referred to Milo's wife, the daughter of the long-deceased dictator Sulla. 'She would have insisted on keeping up social appearances at least. But Milo, on his own-'
Domitius was interrupted by the appearance of the man himself, who shuffled into the foyer carrying a lamp in one hand and clutching a silver wine cup in the other, barefoot and wearing nothing but a loincloth.
It had been three years since I had last seen Titus Annius Milo, during his trial in Rome for the murder of the rival gang-leader Clodius. Against Cicero's advice, Milo had refused to observe the time-honored tradition that an accused man should appear unkempt and in tags before the court. His pride mattered more to Milo than pandering for sympathy. Defiant to the end, infuriating his enemies, he had appeared at his own trial meticulously groomed.
His appearance had changed considerably since then. His hair and beard were grayer than I remembered and badly needed trimming. His eyes were bloodshot and his face bloated. He was even more scantily clad than the slave girl-his haphazardly arranged loincloth looked as if it might come undone at any moment-but not nearly as pretty to look at. His burly wrestler's physique had lost its shape, like a clay sculpture gone soft from the heat. He needed a bath.
'Lucius Domitius-dear old Redbeard himself! What an honor.' The wine on Milo's breath overpowered even the rank smell of his body. He handed his lamp to the slave girl and slapped her on the rump. She giggled. 'Hope you haven't come around sniffing for supper. We finished our day's rations before noon. We're having to drink our supper, aren't we, my dove?'
The girl giggled madly. 'But who are these fellows you've brought with you, Redbeard? I'm sure I don't know the big one; handsome brute. But this graybeard-great Jupiter!' His eyes sparkled, and I saw a hint of the old, wily Milo. 'It's that hound who used to hunt for Cicero-when he wasn't snapping at Cicero's fingers. Gordianus the Finder! What in Hades are you doing in this godforsaken place?'
'Gordianus has come in search of his son,' Domitius explained, his voice flat. 'I told him that you were the man to talk to.'
'His son? Oh, yes, you mean'-Milo hiccupped violently-'Meto.'
'Yes. It appears that Gordianus received an anonymous communication, claiming to come from Massilia, informing him of Meto's demise. He's come all this way, even managed to get inside the city walls at great peril, because he wants to know the truth of the matter.'
'The truth,' Milo said blearily. 'The truth never did me a bit of good.'
'About my son,' I asked impatiently, 'what can you tell me?'
'Meto. Yes, well…' Milo refused to meet my gaze. 'A sad story. Very sad.'
I was utterly exhausted, confused and disoriented, far from home. I had come to Massilia for one reason only, to discover Meto's fate. Domitius had teased me, coyly. indicating that Milo knew the answer; now Milo seemed unable to complete a sentence. 'Proconsul,' I said to Domitius through gritted teeth, 'why can't you tell me yourself what's become of Meto?'
Domitius shrugged. 'I thought Milo would want the privilege of telling you himself. He's usually such a braggart-'
'Damn you!' Milo threw his cup against the wall. Davus dodged the splashes. The slave girl emitted a noise between a shriek and a giggle. 'This is indecent, Redbeard. Indecent! To bring the man's father into my house, to taunt us both like this!'
Domitius was unperturbed. 'Tell him, Milo. Or else I will.' Milo blanched. His face turned pale. A sheen of sweat covered his naked flesh. His shoulders heaved. He clutched his throat. 'Little dove! Bring me my ewer. Quickly!'
Maniacally giggling, the blond slave girl put down the lamps, skittered across the room, disappeared for a moment, and then hurried back bearing a tall clay vessel with a wide mouth. Milo dropped to his knees, seized the arms of the ewer, and loudly vomited into it.
'For pity's sake, Milo!' Domitius wrinkled his nose in disgust. Davus seemed hardly to notice; his attention was riveted instead on the slave girl, who, leaning over to assist her master, was inadvertently revealing heretofore unseen portions of her lower anatomy. Plautus himself never staged a more absurd tableau, I thought. I wanted to scream from frustration.
Gradually, with the slave girl wiping his chin, Milo staggered back to his feet. He seemed considerably less drunk, if not exactly sober. He looked utterly wretched.
I couldn't resist. 'A pity the judges at your trial never saw you in such a state. You might never have had to leave Rome.'
'What?' Milo blinked and looked about, dazed.
'Meto,' I said wearily. 'Tell me about Meto.'
His shoulders slumped. 'Very well. Come, we'll sit in the study. Little dove, hand me one of those lamps.'
The house was a cluttered mess. Clothes were strewn about the floor and festooned over statues, dirty bowls and cups and platters were stacked everywhere, unfurled scrolls overflowed from tables onto the floor. In the corner of one room a recumbent figure, presumably a bodyguard, lay noisily snoring.
Milo's study was the most cluttered room of all. There were chairs for all four of us, but first Milo had to clear away scraps of parchment, piles of clothing (including an expensive-looking but badly wine-stained toga), and a yowling cat. He dumped them all on the floor. Hissing, the cat fled the room.
'Sit,' Milo offered. He pulled a wrinkled tunic over his head, sparing us the sight of his sweaty, corpulent
