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 chest. "So you want to know what's become of your son." Milo sighed and averted his eyes. "I suppose there's no reason why I shouldn't tell you the whole wretched story…
X
"Tell me, Gordianus, do you have any idea what your son was really up to these past few months?" Milo used his tunic to wipe a speck of vomit from his chin.
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Were you in on his little game or not? This mime show he attempted, passing himself off as a traitor to Caesar."
I looked him squarely in the eye. Outright lying has never come easily to me, but there are subtler ways of skirting the truth. "I know that Meto and Caesar parted ways when both of them were last in Rome. That was in the month of Aprilis, after Caesar ran Pompey out of Italy and Domitius was on his way here to Massilia. There was talk of a plot against Caesar, devised by some of his closest officers. Meto was said to be part of that plot. Supposedly the scheme was discovered and Meto had no choice but to flee."
Milo nodded. "That's what your son wanted us all to believe. Perhaps he even made you believe it." He raised a shrewd eyebrow. As his intoxication receded, a more familiar Milo came to the fore-the rabble-rousing gang-leader, the politician unafraid of violence, the blustering, unapologetic victim of a legal system as ruthless as himself. Despite his squalid circumstances and his physical decline, Milo was still a very dangerous man. He no longer averted his eyes. "Did you believe your son was a traitor, Gordianus?"
I spoke carefully, feeling Domitius's gaze on me. "At first it seemed impossible that Meto could turn against Caesar. There had always been a bond between them, a closeness-"
"We've all heard those rumors, as well!" Milo interjected. A barely stifled belch reminded me that he was still more drunk than sober.
I ignored his insinuation and pressed on. "But don't you see, that very closeness was what swayed me to accept that Meto had betrayed Caesar. Closeness can breed contempt. Familiarity can turn love to hate. Who might be more likely to be repelled by Caesar's ruthless ambition, his carelessness in destroying the Republic, than a man who shared the same tent with Caesar day after day, who helped him write his memoirs, who came to see exactly how his mind worked?" Indeed, such had been my reasoning when, for a while, I myself believed that Meto had turned traitor.
Milo shook his head. "If you don't know the truth, then truly I feel sorry for you. Redbeard here was taken in as well," he said, shrugging at Domitius. "So was Pompey, apparently. But not me. Not for a moment!"
"At last the braggart overtakes the drunkard," said Domitius dryly. They exchanged a chilly glance.
Milo went on. "All that talk of Meto changing sides was nonsense. I'm a shrewd judge of character. Don't forget, for years I ran the streets in Rome. It was my gang that did Pompey's dirty work so that he could keep his own hands clean. A friendly candidate needed a good turnout for a speech? My gang was there in full force. Clodius's rabble was hectoring a senator in the Forum? My gang could be there in minutes to clear the place out. An election needed to be postponed? My gang was ready to crack a few heads down at the voting stalls. All at the snap of my fingers." He tried to demonstrate, but his fingers fumbled and made no noise.