Arms of Nemesis

VII

Dinner began at the twelfth hour of the day, just after sundown, in a modestly appointed room in the southeast corner of the upper floor. Windows opened onto views of Puteoli to the east and Vesuvius farther south. A coterie of slaves unobtrusively hurried about the room and the adjoining hallways, lighting braziers against the slight chill in the air and illuminating the richly coloured walls with an array of hanging lamps. The air was windless, empty of bird song or the noise of any other living thing; the only sound from the World outside was the vague murmur of the sea, like a distant sighing. Looking out of the southern window, I saw a single star glimmering above Vesuvius in a sky of darkest blue. A sensation of hushed luxury descended upon the villa, that special feeling of comfort and sumptuous privilege peculiar to the homes of the rich at twilight.

Gelina, already reclining on her divan, welcomed her guests as they arrived separately or in pairs, all dressed in sombre dark blue or black. There were places for eleven people in all, an awkward number for a dinner, but Gelina managed it by placing the company in a square with three divans on each of three sides and two on the last, one for herself and another reserved for Crassus. The small tables before each divan were already set with cups of honeyed wine, white and black olives, and an appetizer of sea urchins in a cumin sauce.

The painter Iaia and her protegee Olympias, along with the polymath Dionysius, sat opposite Gelina; Marcus Mummius, Faustus Fabius, and Sergius Orata sat to her right; Eco and I were to her left, along with the actor Metrobius. Gelina introduced us simply as Gordianus of Rome and his son, with no further explanation. From their expressions, I gathered that Gelina's guests already had some idea of my purpose in being there. In their eyes I saw varying degrees of scepticism, suspicion, and disinterest.

Iaia, striking in her jet-black stola, silver jewellery, and voluminously coiffed magenta hair (surely dyed), had clearly been a great beauty in her day; now she exuded that mellow, self-confident appeal of women who have lost their youth but kept their charm. Her high cheekbones were generously rouged, her eyebrows shaved and pencilled.

While Iaia gave me cool glances, her young protegee, a dazzling blonde, stared.at me brazenly as if my presence were some sort of affront. Olympias could afford to be careless with her beauty; her undressed hair was like a mane of spun gold and silver in the lamplight, her eyes an almost purple shade of blue that would have made the least trace of makeup, had she bothered to use it, look pale and tawdry on her perfect flesh. Her sleeveless, dark blue stola was absolutely plain, even plainer than the tunics Eco and I wore, having no embroidery or border. She wore no jewellery. I noticed traces of pigment on her fingers, and a few dabs of paint near the bottom hem of her gown.

Dionysius, a gaunt greybeard with a supercilious expression, gave me shifty-eyed glances between dabbing at his olives with the fingers of his left hand. He was almost silent during the first part of the evening, as if holding his words in reserve for later use. He looked to me like a man with a secret, but perhaps that was only due to the appearance of smug sagacity which he affected, like so many other philosophers.

Dionysius's reserved, sour countenance offered a striking contrast to that of the local businessman and engineer, Orata, who shared the polymath's corner. Almost bald except for a fringe of orange hair like a victory wreath, Orata had the portly build of a man grown fat on his successes. His plump, bemused face seemed out of place amid the general gloom. When he happened to look my way, I could not tell whether he liked me at first sight or was craftily smiling to conceal some other reaction. For the most part he seemed to take little notice of me at all as he busily ordered the table slaves assigned to his divan to slice the pits from his olives and fetch more cumin sauce.

The elderly actor Metrobius, who reclined at my right, gave me a nod as I was introduced and then immediately turned his attention to Gelina. He reclined on his right side, she on her left, so that their heads were together. They spoke to each other in hushed voices, and occasionally Metrobius would reach out and clasp her hand reassuringly. His long, flowing robe covered him from head to foot; the finely spun linen appeared funereal black at first glance, but upon closer inspection I saw it was actually a very dark purple. He wore gold around his neck and wrists, and a great jewel-encrusted ring on his left hand, which flashed in the light whenever he lifted his cup. Metrobius had been Sulla's great love, it was said, the dictator's companion and friend throughout his life, outlasting all of Sulla's many marriages and liaisons. Whatever physical allure he had possessed in youth was long gone, but there was an assertive dignity in his great mane of white hair and a kind of robust beauty in the weathered wrinkles of his face. I recalled the night ten years ago when I had seen him perform for Sulla, and remembered the spell cast by his presence. Even with his attentions directed toward Gelina, I could feel the charismatic power he exuded, as palpable as the smell of myrrh and roses that spiced his clothing. His every movement was accomplished with an unstudied grace, and the low, calm murmur of his voice had a soothing quality like the drumming of rain on a summer night or the soughing of wind in treetops.

Except for Eco and myself, it seemed a typical dinnertime gathering for a Baian villa – a military man and a patrician, a painter and her protegee, a polymath and a builder, an actor, and their hostess. The host was missing – or more precisely, laid to rest on an ivory bier down in the atrium – but to take his place we would have the richest man in Rome. So far, however, Marcus Crassus had not deigned to appear.

Given such a sparkling gathering, the conversation was surprisingly desultory. Mummius and Faustus quiedy discussed the day's business and the provisions for Crassus's camp on Lake Lucrinus; Iaia and Olympias exchanged inaudible whispers; the philosopher brooded over his food while the businessman relished each bite; Gelina and Metrobius seemed oblivious of everything but each other. At length the slave boy Meto entered and whispered in Gelina's ear. She nodded and sent him off. 'I fear that Marcus Crassus will not be joining us tonight,' she announced. I had thought that the vague tension in the room was due to my presence, or to the air of death in the house, but in that instant the gathered household seemed to give a collective sigh of relief.

'Detained by his business in Puteoli, is he?' asked Mummius through a mouthful of sea urchin.

'Yes. He sends word that he will make provision for his own supper and ride back afterwards. So we need not wait any longer.' She signalled to the slaves, who cleared away the appetizers and served the main dishes – a sweet citron ragout of ham and apples, seafood dumplings spiced with lovage and pepper, and fish fillets with leeks and coriander, all served on silver platters, along with a barley soup with cabbage and lentils that we sipped from tiny clay pots.

As the meal progressed the conversation grew more animated. The principal subject was food. Death and impending disaster, political ambition and the threat of Spartacus were ignored in favour of the relative merits of hare and pork. Beef was debated, and roundly declared inedible. Faustus Fabius declared that cattle were useless except for their hides, but the philosopher Dionysius, who spoke in a lecturing tone, claimed that the barbarians of the North actually preferred the milk of cows to that of goats.

Sergius Orata seemed to be something of an expert on trading spices and other delicacies with the East. Once he had travelled as far as Parthia investigating the potentials of the market, and on the Euphrates had been induced by good manners to drink a local beverage made of fermented barley, which the Parthians preferred to wine. 'It was the exact colour of urine,' he laughed, 'and tasted like it!'

'But how would you know? Are you in the habit of drinking urine?' asked Olympias, who demurely lowered her face so that a strand of blonde hair fell over one eye. Iaia looked at her sidelong, suppressing a smile. Orata's bald pate blushed pink. Mummius laughed raucously.

'Better urine than beans!' exclaimed Dionysius. 'You know the advice of Plato: one must set forth for the realm of dreams each night with a pure spirit.'

'And what does that have to do with beans?' asked Fabius.

'Surely you know the opinion of the Pythagoreans? Beans produce great flatulence, which induces a condition at war with a soul in search of truth.'

'Really, as if it were the soul and not the belly that gets filled with wind!' exclaimed Metrobius, who leaned towards me and lowered his voice. 'These philosophers – no idea is too absurd for them. This one is certainly a windbag, but I think it all comes out his mouth and not the other end!'

Gelina seemed immune to both wit and crudity and ate in silence, picking restlessly at her food and calling for fresh wine in her cup more often than any of her guests.

Metrobius began to enlighten me about the differences between Roman and Baian cuisine. 'There is a greater variety of fresh seafood in the markets here, of course, and many maritime specialities unknown in Rome, but the distinctions are more subtle than that. For instance, any cook will tell you that the best cooking pots are made from a special clay found only in the vicinity of Cumae. In Rome such pots are precious and hard to replace, but here even the lowliest fisherman owns one, and so we have all sorts of peasant dishes that are as sublime as they are simple – this barley soup, for instance. Then there are the famous Baian green beans, more tender and sweet than those grown anywhere else. Gelina's cook makes a dish with green beans, coriander, and chopped chives, fit for a Bacchanalia. Ah, but the slaves have begun to clear away the main dishes, which means the second course must be on its way.'

Slaves entered bearing silver trays that flashed in the lamplight, bringing baked pears stuffed with cinnamon, roasted chestnuts, and cheese seasoned in fermented berry juice. Outside, the sky darkened from deep blue to black spangled with bright stars. Gelina shivered and ordered the braziers to be brought nearer.

The leaping flames were reflected in the silver platters, so that the delicacies on each table seemed to float upon pools of fire.

'A pity Marcus Crassus is not here to enjoy such a feast,' said Metrobius, picking up a stuffed pear and breathing in its aroma. 'Of course, with Crassus here, the discussion would have turned on nothing but politics, politics, politics.'

Mummius glowered at him. 'About which some people know less than nothing. A good political discussion might keep certain people quiet for a change.' He popped a chestnut into his mouth and smacked his lips.

'The table manners of a barbarian,' Metrobius muttered to me under his breath.

'What did you say?' Mummius bolted forward.

'I said you have the able manner of an agrarian. Your family still farms, do they not?'

Mummius sat back slowly, looking sceptical.

'Perhaps we should discuss something we all have in common,' suggested Metrobius. 'What about art? Iaia and Olympias create it, Dionysius contemplates it, Orata buys it. Is it true, Sergius, that you've contracted to. construct and decorate a new fish pond for one of the Cornelii down in Misenum?'

'True,' said Sergius Orata.

'Ah, these villa owners on the Cup and their love of a decorative fish pond. How they cherish each and every bearded mullet! I've heard of senators who give each fish a name and feed them by hand from infancy, and when the mullets are grown they cannot bear to eat them.'

Gelina finally smiled. 'Oh, stop, Metrobius. No one is that silly.'

'Oh, yes, they are. I hear the Cornelii insist on surrounding then-new pond with all sorts of pretty statues – not for the enjoyment of their human guests, but for the edification of their fish.'

'Nonsense!' Gelina giggled and drained her cup, then held it up for a slave to refill it.

Metrobius looked utterly serious. 'Of course, the problem is that the mullets – well, I hate to pass on such vicious gossip – but they say that the mullets of the Cornelii are so stupid that they can't even tell the difference between a Polyclitus and a Polydorus. You could switch the head of Juno and Venus and they wouldn't know. Imagine that!' Amid the general laughter Metrobius wagged his finger at Orata. 'So be careful, Sergius, what kind of statuary you bring over for the Cornelii's new pond! No need to spend a fortune on a Mad Mullet who won't appreciate the difference.'

Orata blushed amiably. Mummius looked apoplectic. Faustus Fabius, I noticed, had one restraining hand on Mummius's thigh, clutching hard enough to whiten his knuckles, while with his left hand he raised his cup to his Lips to hide his smile.

Gelina was suddenly talkative. 'If you wish to discuss art, we should talk about Iaia's project downstairs, in the anteroom to the women's baths. It's delightful! From the floor to the ceiling on all four walls, octopi and squid and dolphins all cavorting beneath the skylight. It makes me feel so serene and protected, as if I were at the bottom of the sea. Such shades of blue – dark blue and pale azure and blue-green seaweed. I love blue, don't you?' she said tipsily, smiling at Olympias. 'Such a lovely blue colour you're wearing tonight, so lovely with your lovely blonde hair. What talent you both have!'

Iaia pursed her lips. 'Thank you, Gelina, but I think everyone here has already seen the work in progress.'

'No!' Gelina said. 'Gordianus hasn't, nor has his charming boy, Eco. They must be shown everything. Do you understand? We must conceal nothing from them, nothing at all. That's why they're here. To see, to observe. He has a sharp eye, they say. Not the eye of a connoisseur, I mean, but the eye of a hunter. Or a Finder, that's what you call yourself, isn't it? Perhaps tomorrow, Iaia, you can show him your work, and let him contemplate the wonder of your flying fish and terrible squids. Yes, I don't see why not, as long as there are no women in the women's baths, no women bathing, that is. Why not? I'm sure Gordianus appreciates art as much as any of us.'

Olympias cocked one eyebrow and looked at me coolly, then at Eco, who fidgeted under her gaze. Iaia, imperturbable, smiled and nodded. 'Certainly, Gelina, I'll be happy to give Gordianus a look at our work. Perhaps in the morning, when the light is at its best. But as long as we're speaking of art, I know that

Dionysius has a new play in progress, and we've hardly heard a thing about it.'

"That because Crassus always shuts him up,' Metrobius whispered in my ear.

'Actually, I've set aside my comedy for the time being.' Dionysius's thin Lips compressed into a smile. 'The events of the last few months, and especially of the last few days, have turned my thoughts to more serious matters. I am engrossed in a new work, a treatise with a timely subject – an examination of previous slave revolts, with some observations on how best to avoid such disruptions in the future.'

'Previous revolts?' Gelina said. 'You mean such things happened before Spartacus?'

'Oh, yes. The first that we know of was about a hundred and twenty years ago, after the war with Hannibal. Rome's victory resulted in a great capture of Carthaginians, who were held as hostages and prisoners of war. The slaves of these Carthaginians were captured as well, and were sold as booty. It happened that a large number of these hostages and. slaves came to be concentrated in the town of Setia, near Rome. The hostages contrived a plot to free themselves, and in this enterprise they embroiled their former slaves, promising them their freedom if they should rise up against their new Roman masters and help their former masters return to Carthage. Gladiator games were to be held in a few days' time at Setia; the plan was to rise up then and to slaughter the unsuspecting populace. Fortunately, two of the slaves betrayed the conspiracy to the praetor in Rome, who gathered a force of two thousand men and rushed to Setia. The leaders of the conspiracy were arrested, but there was a great flight of slaves from the town. Eventually they were all recaptured or slaughtered, but not before spreading terror through the vicinity. The two slaves who had wisely informed on their fellows were rewarded with twenty-five thousand pieces of bronze and given their freedom.'

'Ah!' Gelina, who had been listening, wide-eyed, nodded approvingly. 'I like a story with a happy ending.'

'The only thing more boring than politics is history,' said Metrobius with a yawn. 'In times of great crisis, such as we live in now, it seems to me that Dionysius would be doing the world a far greater service by producing a decent comedy instead of rehashing the dead past.'

'What on earth did a man like Sulla ever find to talk about with a man like you?' muttered Mummius.

Metrobius looked at him balefully. 'I might ask the same question about you and your-'

'Please, no unpleasantness after the meal,' insisted Gelina. 'It disturbs the digestion. Dionysius, do go on. How did you ever discover such a fascinating tale?'

'I have often given thanks to Minerva and to the shade of Herodotus for the magnificent library so assiduously collected by your late husband,' said Dionysius delicately. 'For a man such as myself, to reside in a house full of knowledge is almost as great an inspiration as to reside in a house full of beauty. Here in this villa, happily, I have never had to choose between the two.'

Gelina smiled, and there was a general murmur of approval at such a pretty compliment.

'But to continue: the aborted uprising at Setia was the first instance I can find of a general revolt or attempted escape by a large, organized body of slaves. There followed a few other, similar occurrences over the years, in Italy and elsewhere, but I can find only scanty documentation of them. And they are of no account compared to the two Sicilian slave wars, the first of which began about sixty years ago – in the year of my birth, in fact. I often heard tales of it when I was growing up.

'It seems that in those days the landowners of Sicily first began to accumulate great wealth and to amass vast numbers of slaves. Their wealth made the Sicilians arrogant; the constant influx of slaves from captured provinces in Africa and the East made them treat their slaves with little regard, for a slave crippled by overwork or malnutrition was easily replaced. Indeed, many landowners would send out slaves to work as shepherds without proper clothing or even food. When those slaves complained of their nakedness and hunger, their masters would tell them to steal clothes and food from travellers on the road! For all its wealth, Sicily degenerated into a lawless and desperate place.

'There was one landowner, Antigenes by name, who was known to everyone for his excessive cruelty. He was the first man on the island to brand his slaves for identification, and the practice soon spread all over Sicily. Slaves who came to him begging for food or clothing were beaten, chained, and put on humiliating display before being sent back to their tasks, as naked and hungry as before.

'This Antigenes did have a favourite slave whom he delighted in both coddling and humiliating, a Syrian called Eunus, who fancied himself a wizard and wonder-worker. This Eunus would tell of dreams in which the gods had spoken to him. People always like to hear such stories, even from a slave. Soon Eunus began to see the gods, or pretend that he did, in broad daylight, and to converse with them in strange tongues while others looked on in wonder. He could also spit fire from his mouth.'

'Fire?' Gelina was aghast.

'An old theatrical trick,' Metrobius explained. 'You bore holes into either end of a walnut or something similar, stuff it with fuel, light it and pop it into your mouth, then blow flames and sparks. Any conjurer in the Subura can do it.'

'Ah, but it was Eunus who first brought the trick from Syria,' said Dionysius. 'His master Antigenes would display him at dinner parties, where Eunus would fall into his trance, spit fire, and afterwards reveal the future. The more outlandish the tale, the better it was received. For instance, he told Antigenes and his guests that a Syrian goddess had appeared to him promising that he, a slave, would become king of all Sicily, but that they should not fear him, for he would have a very tolerant policy toward the slave owners. Antigenes' guests found this highly amusing and rewarded Eunus with delicacies from the table, telling him to remember their kindness when he became king. Little did they realize the dark course of the future.

'It came about that the slaves of Antigenes decided to revolt against their master, but first they consulted Eunus, asking him if the gods would favour their enterprise. Eunus told them that their revolt would be successful, but only if they struck brutally and without hesitation. The slaves, about four hundred of them, held a ceremony in an open field that night, exchanging oaths and perforrning rites and sacrifices as Eunus instructed. They worked themselves into a murderous frenzy and then broke into the city, killing free men, raping women, even slaughtering babies. Antigenes was captured, stripped, beaten, and beheaded. The slaves dressed Eunus in rich garments and a crown of gold leaf and proclaimed him their king.

'News of their rebellion spread like wildfire across the island, inciting other slaves to revolt. Rival groups of rebel slaves rose up, and it was hoped they would turn against one another. Instead, they banded together, taking into their army all sorts of bandits and outlaws. Word of their success spread beyond Sicily and encouraged widespread unrest – a hundred and fifty slaves conspired to revolt in Rome, more than a thousand rose up in Athens, and there were similar disturbances all over Italy and Greece. All these were quickly suppressed, but the situation in Sicily deteriorated into utter chaos.

'Sicily was overwhelmed by rebelling slaves, all proclaiming Eunus their king. The common folk, in an access of hatred against the rich, actually sided with the slaves. For all its madness, the revolt was conducted with a certain intelligence, for while many a landowner was tortured and killed, the slaves took thought for the future and avoided destroying harvests and property that would be useful to them.'

'How did it end?' asked Gelina.

'Armies were sent from Rome. There was a series of battles all over Sicily, and for a time it seemed that the slaves were invincible, until at last the Roman governor, Publius Rupilius, managed to trap them in the city of Tauromenium. The siege continued until the insurgents were reduced to conditions of unspeakable hunger, and finally cannibalism. They began by eating their children, then their women, and at last each other.'

'Oh! And the wizard?' Gelina whispered.

'He escaped from Tauromenium and hid himself in a cave, until at last Rupilius flushed him out. Just as the slaves had consumed one another, so the king of the slaves was discovered half-eaten by worms – yes, just such worms as were said to have plagued the great Sulla in his last years here on the Cup, before his death from apoplexy, which demonstrates that these devouring worms, like the lower grade of humans, will take sustenance from any leader, high or low. Eunus was dragged from his cave, screaming and clawing at his own flesh, and put in a dungeon at Morgantina. The wizard continued to see visions, which became more and more horrible; at the end he was raving. At last the worms consumed him, and so the first of the great slave revolts came to its miserable end.'

There was a deep silence. The faces of Gelina's guests were impassive, except for Eco, who sat wide-eyed, and young Olympias, who seemed to have a tear in her eye. Mummius fidgeted on his couch. The silence was broken by the soft shuffling footsteps of a slave retreating towards the kitchens with an empty platter. I looked about the room at the faces of the table slaves, who stood rigidly at their posts behind the guests. None of them would meet my eyes, nor would they look at one another; instead they stared at the floor.

'You see,' said Metrobius, his voice sounding unnaturally loud after the stillness, 'you have all the elements for a divine comedy right at your fingertips, Dionysius! Call it "Eunus of Sicily" and let me direct it for you!'

'Metrobius, really!' protested Gelina.

'I'm serious. All you need to do is cast it with the standard roles. Let me see: a bumbling Sicilian landowner and his son, who of course will be love-struck by a neighbour's daughter; add to that the son's tutor, a good slave who will be tempted to join in this slave revolt but will choose virtue instead and save his young master from the mob. We can bring this Eunus onto the stage for a few grotesque comedy turns, spitting fire and babbling nonsense. Introduce the general Rupilius as a bombastic braggart; he mistakes the good slave, the tutor, for Eunus, and wants to crucify him; at the last instant the young master saves his tutor from death and thus repays him for saving his own life. The revolt is suppressed offstage, and all ends with a happy song! Really, Plautus himself never came up with a better plot.'

'I believe you're half-serious,' said Iaia shrewdly.

'It all sounds a bit distasteful,' complained Orata, 'considering current circumstances.'

'Oh, dear, you might be right,' admitted Metrobius. 'Perhaps I've been away from the stage too long. Go on, then, Dionysius.

I only hope your next account of past atrocities will be as amusing as that last one.'

The philosopher cleared his throat. 'I fear you will be disappointed, Metrobius. Since Eunus there have been a number of slave revolts in Sicily; something about the island seems to encourage depravity among the rich and insurrection among the slaves. The last and greatest of these revolts was centred in Syracuse, in the days when Marius was consul, thirty-five years ago. Its scale was as great as the first uprising under Eunus, but I fear that the story is not nearly as colourful.'

'No fire-breathing wizards?' said Metrobius.

'No,' said Dionysius. 'Only thousands of dangerous slaves rampaging across the countryside, raping and pillaging, crowning false kings and defying the power of Rome, and in the end a general comes to crucify the ringleaders and put the rest in chains, and law and order are restored.'

'So it shall always be,' said Faustus Fabius darkly, 'as long as slaves are foolish enough to upset the natural order.' At either side of him, Orata and Mummius nodded sagely in agreement.

'Enough of this gloominess,' said Gelina abruptly. 'Let's move to another subject. I think it's time we had an amusement. Metrobius, a recitation?' The actor shook his white head. Gelina did not press him. 'Then perhaps a song. Yes, a song is what we need to lift everyone's spirits. Meto… Meto! Meto, fetch that boy who sings so divinely, you know the one. Yes, the handsome Greek with the sweet smile and the black curls.'

I saw a strange expression cross Mummius's face. While we awaited the slave's arrival, Gelina drank a fresh cup of wine and insisted that we all follow her example. Only Dionysius declined; instead, a slave brought him a frothy green concoction in a silver cup.

'What in Hercules' name is that?' I asked.

Olympia laughed. 'Dionysius drinks it twice a day, before his midday meal and after his dinner, and he's tried to convince the rest of us to do likewise. An awful-looking potion, isn't it? But of course, if Orata can drink urine…'

'It wasn't urine, it was fermented barley. I only said it looked like urine.'

Dionysius laughed. 'This contains nothing as exotic – or should I say as common? – as urine.' He drank from the cup and then lowered it, revealing green-stained lips. 'Nor is it a potion; there's nothing magical about it. It's a simple puree of watercress and grape leaves, together with my own blend of medicinal herbs – rue for sharp eyes, silphium for strong lungs, garlic for stamina…'

'Which explains,' said Faustus Fabius affably, 'how Dionysius can read for hours, talk for days, and never feel faint – even if his audience does!'

There was a round of laughter, and then the young Greek arrived carrying a lyre. It was Apollonius, the slave who had attended Marcus Mummius in the baths. I glanced at Mummius. He yawned and showed little interest, but his yawn seemed too elaborate and his vacant gaze was uneasy. The lamps were lowered, casting the room in shadow. Gelina requested a song with a Greek name – 'a happy song,' she assured us – and the boy began to play.

Apollonius sang in a Greek dialect, of which I could apprehend only scattered words and phrases. Perhaps it was a shepherd's song, for I heard him sing of green fields and great mountains of fleecy clouds, or perhaps it was a legend, for I heard his golden voice shape the name of Apollo and sing of sunlight on the shimmering waters of the Cyclades – 'like pebbles of lapis in a sea of gold,' he sang, 'like the eyes of the goddess in the face of the moon.' Perhaps it was a love song, for I heard him sing of jet-black hair and a glance that pierced like arrows. Perhaps it was a song of loss, for in each refrain he sang, 'Never again, never again, never again.'

Whatever else it was, I would not have called it a happy song. Perhaps it was not the song that Gelina had expected. She listened with a sober intensity, and slowly her expression became as despondent as when I had met her that afternoon. There were no smiles among the guests; even Metrobius listened with a kind of reverence, his eyes half-shut. Strangely, for so sad a tune so soulfully sung, there was only one tear in the room. I watched it descend the grizzled cheek of Marcus Mummius, a glistening track of crystal in the lamplight that quickly disappeared into his beard and was as quickly followed by another.

I looked at Apollonius, at his trembling lips parted to sing a perfect note full of all the heartbreak and hopelessness of the world. I shivered; my skin prickled and turned to goose-flesh, not from the pathos of his song or from the sudden chill breath of the sea that blew into the room. I realized that in three days he would be dead along with all the other slaves, never to sing again.

Across from me, hidden by shadows, Mummius covered his face and silently wept.