'Caesar's orders were to take the city and hold it for him until he returns. He intends to dictate terms to the Massilians himself.'
'So there'll be no massacre?'
'No. Unless the Massilians are mad enough to fight to the death. Unlikely-they're merchants at heart-but you never know. Or unless…'
'Yes?'
'Unless our men get out of control.' From the way his voice dropped, I knew he had seen such occurrences before. Meto had told me of Gaulish cities sacked and pillaged by Roman soldiers run amok. It seemed unthinkable that such a thing could be done to the people of Massilia, Rome's ally for centuries. But this was war.
Vitruvius smiled. 'So now you see why I can't sleep, waiting for tomorrow.'
I nodded glumly. 'I thought a walk and some fresh air might help, but now-I don't think I'll be able to sleep either.' Tomorrow, if Vitruvius was right, Massilia would be opened. Why, then, did Trebonius insist on sending me away? What did he know about Meto that I did not? Was he sparing me the sight of my son's execution? Or sparing me from discovering some even more horrible fate that had already overtaken Meto? My weary imagination spun out of control.
'I'll tell you what,' said Vitruvius brightly. 'I saw a couple of folding chairs over by Trebonius's tent. I'll fetch them. We can sit here together and wait for the sun to come up. Reminisce about the siege of Brundisium, or whatever. You must have fresh news from Rome. I can't imagine what it's like there now, with Caesar's friend Marc Antony left in charge. One big orgy, I should think. Stay here.'
He went off to fetch the chairs and quickly returned, with a couple of blankets as well.
We talked about Caesar's chances of putting a quick end to his enemies in Spain; about Pompey's prospects of raising a formidable force in the East to challenge Caesar; about Antony's reputation for drunken carousing. Sober or not, Antony had maintained strict order. The mood in Rome, I assured Vitruvius, was far from orgiastic. Stunned by the tumult of the last few months and fearful of the future, the city held its breath and walked on tiptoes with round eyes, like a virgin in the wildwoods.
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.
IV
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.'
