Wrath of the Furies

III

“You’ll need a pseudonym.” Kettel stood in the doorway of the little room I shared with Bethesda and watched me pack. His bulk filled the passageway, making it hard for him to move his arms freely, so that as he nibbled at a handful of dates his fleshy elbows repeatedly struck the doorframe.

“When he traveled into the Delta, looking for the Cuckoo’s Gang, the Master called himself Marcus Pecunius,” said Bethesda. She was helping me look through my small wardrobe of well-worn tunics to see which ones needed mending, if I were to be presentable on my journey.

“But that’s a Roman name,” noted Kettel. “Unsuitable for this occasion. Nor should you take a native Egyptian name, I think, for you haven’t the proper complexion. You have the nose of a Roman, that’s for sure, but still, with your dark, curly hair and olive skin you could easily pass for a young man of Greek descent.”

“It needs to be a simple name-either that, or something very unusual,” I said. “Either way, a name that’s easy for me to remember, even if I’m half-awake or caught by surprise. And a credible name-something that won’t arouse suspicion or disbelief.”

“How do you know so much about assuming a false identity?” asked Berynus, who was so thin that he somehow managed to slide past Kettel to enter the room.

“I learned from my father, back in Rome,” I said. “He knows everything there is to know about using disguises and false names, not to mention poisons and antidotes, and how to pick any lock, or follow someone without being seen, or tell if someone is lying to you.” I sighed, suddenly missing my father very much and feeling homesick for Rome.

“Ah, yes, your father, who calls himself the Finder.” Kettel nodded. “You seem to have learned a great deal from the man, Gordianus.”

“Yet I never knew how much, until I was out in the world on my own and needed all those lessons. How would he choose a name for this occasion?” I glanced about the room, until my eyes fell on a scroll from my hosts’ library that I was reading at my leisure, an old play called in Greek Anthos, or “The Flower.” A copy had been among the few scrolls my father owned-the gift of a wealthy, satisfied client when he learned that the Finder’s son was studying Greek. Antipater had taught me to quote long passages from the play, to my father’s delight. The copy now at my bedside was owned by the eunuchs; during their years of royal service, they had acquired a great many scrolls, laying claim to damaged or redundant copies no longer needed in the great Library of Alexandria.

“Agathon,” I said. “I shall call myself Agathon, like the playwright of old Athens who wrote ‘The Flower.’”

Berynus glimpsed the scroll at my bedside and clapped his long, narrow hands. “An excellent choice! The name is neither too common nor too uncommon nowadays in Alexandria-we’ve all met an Agathon or two. And the name in Greek means ‘good fellow,’ which you certainly are.”

“And as I recall,” said Kettel, nibbling at a date, “‘The Flower’ was especially praised by Aristotle for giving pleasure, despite the fact that everything and everybody in the drama is completely made up-invented wholly from the author’s imagination. As shall be this identity under which you’ll be traveling, Gordianus-or rather, Agathon.”

“In this drama, our Agathon is going in search of Antipater,” said Berynus. “A playwright seeks a poet-there you have a mnemonic device that makes it easy to remember.”

I nodded, and did not explain that I should hardly forget the connection, since Antipater himself had drilled me in reciting Agathon.

“You’ll be needing travel documents, too,” noted Berynus.

“Yes, I was just thinking about that.” I had traveled widely with Antipater, but always as myself, Gordianus, citizen of Rome, and never using a false name. “Everyone entering Ephesus by ship is questioned, perhaps more closely now than ever. My old documents-the ones I’ve carried ever since I left Rome-won’t do. But I’ve crossed paths with a forger or two since I came to Egypt. I suppose, for a reasonable sum…”

“Nonsense!” said Kettel. “You needn’t hire a forger to produce suitable documents for this so-called Agathon of Alexandria. We can take care of that for you. Can’t we, Berynus?”

The thin eunuch squeezed his lips together to make a sour expression of displeasure, or so I thought at first; then I realized that his wizened features had compressed into a sly smile. The face of Berynus was not as easy to read as that of Kettel. Behind his tightly shut lips he was silently laughing.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “One does not spend a lifetime in the service of the royal palace without learning how to cut a corner here and there, or grant a special favor to a friend-or forge an official document, so expertly that not even the king himself could detect the counterfeit. Kettel and I can whip up documents for you that will fool the port authorities at Ephesus, never fear.”

“For such a favor, I would be very grateful,” I said. “How long does the journey take, if a ship sails directly from Alexandria to Ephesus?”

“Five days, more or less, depending on the weather and the winds,” said Berynus.

“How easy will it be for me to book passage on such a ship?”

“I don’t think you should have any trouble. With the new king on the throne, and the new king’s soldiers manning the docks and operating the Pharos Lighthouse, the shipping traffic in Alexandria appears to be back to its normal summer pace.”

“Yes, but for how long?” said Kettel. “The civil war here in Egypt may not be over. Shipping could be disrupted at any moment by some unforeseen event. If you must go, Gordianus, it will be best to book passage right away.”

I nodded, then frowned. “But when I arrive, along with examining my documents, the gatekeepers are sure to ask about the purpose of my visit. What pretext could a mute from Alexandria have for visiting Ephesus?”

“Why, to be cured of his muteness, of course!” said Kettel. “Perhaps you weren’t born mute. The affliction came upon you suddenly, as the result of some illness or because you offended some god. You’ve consulted every physician in Egypt, to no avail, and visited all the temples, seeking the help of any god or goddess willing to listen-”

“But again, to no avail.” I nodded, seeing where this tale was leading. “And some omen or oracle here in Egypt has directed me to go to Ephesus in search of a cure. Only the Artemis worshipped in Ephesus can grant me the favor I seek.”

Berynus clapped his thin hands. “A splendid excuse, and completely credible! Why do so many pilgrims visit Ephesus, except to seek the blessing of the goddess Artemis in the great temple revered as one of the Seven Wonders? That shall be your reason, Gordianus. Oh, what a clever pair of liars are living in my house!” He clucked his tongue and cast sidelong glances at Kettel and at me. His pursed lips expressed mock-disapproval, but his eyes glimmered with affection.

“And what if some sympathetic Ephesian snatches me up and takes me straight to the temple, and the priests make a great fuss, and a crowd gathers, and there in front of everyone the goddess ‘cures’ me? As soon as I open my mouth…”

“Artemis will have lifted your affliction-but given you a Roman accent!” Kettel laughed heartily, causing various parts of his body to jiggle. “The jests of the gods can be strange indeed!”

“I suppose I’ll deal with the problem of being ‘cured’ when and if it should happen,” I said. “Very well, I now have a name, Agathon, and a city of origin, Alexandria. I have an excuse not to speak-the affliction of muteness. And I have a reason for visiting Ephesus-to worship at the Temple of Artemis, seeking to regain the power of speech. And I have someone to speak for me-my faithful slave and traveling companion, Bethesda.”

She and I looked at each other and smiled. The eunuchs nodded.

Just how wildly impractical-and dangerous-such a scheme would turn out to be I could not then have imagined. It was the sort of harebrained idea that could only have been concocted by a young wanderer with delusions of invincibility and two sexless courtiers who knew a great deal about palace intrigue but very little about the challenges of traveling from one city to another in a time of chaos and confusion. But, having come up with a plan, I was determined to return to Ephesus.

[From the secret diary of Antipater of Sidon:]

This morning, in a cold sweat, I woke from a nightmare-the nightmare, I should say, for I have been afflicted by this nocturnal terror almost every night since I witnessed the horrible end of Manius Aquillius.

I suppose I should finally write down what I saw that day. Perhaps, by recounting the incident, I can rid myself of this curse of revisiting it over and over in my dreams.

Some say it was Manius Aquillius who started the war. Others say it was Mithridates. Historians will no doubt argue the question for centuries to come. I am no historian, but rather a poet, so I will say that it must have been the meddlesome gods who started this war, looking down on us foolish mortals just as they looked down so long ago on the doomed heroes of Greece and Troy. But the men of this age are lesser men than their ancestors, even as the wars they make are bloodier and more far-flung than Achilles or Hector could ever have imagined.

It hardly matters who started the war. The conflict was inevitable. For years the Romans pushed their empire eastward, subduing one region after another, suborning this or that petty king with gold, taking other cities by armed force. Meanwhile, Mithridates ascended to the throne of Pontus, and he, too, began to increase his kingdom by seizing smaller, weaker kingdoms around him.

Rome and their puppet kings came to rule much of Asia, while Mithridates and his puppets ruled the rest. On the seas, Roman galleys patrolled the Aegean and its countless islands, while the ships of Mithridates dominated the vast Euxine Sea. Like crowded men knocking shoulders, one side had to give way, or else the two must come to blows.

The hostilities began with a puppet war. The Roman general Manius Aquillius pressured a Roman ally, King Nicomedes of Bithynia, to make war on some neighboring port cities ruled by Mithridates. Nicomedes was so deeply in debt to Rome that he could hardly refuse; when he expressed his fear that Mithridates might retaliate, Manius Aquillius assured him that Roman arms would protect Bithynia.

What was Manius Aquillius thinking? Did he imagine that Mithridates would be so intimidated by the prospect of war with Rome that the king would allow his cities to be raped without responding, and become yet another Roman puppet? Or was Aquillius so shortsighted and so greedy for the spoils from those raids that he prodded Nicomedes on with no thought for the consequences? Or-and this is what I think-did Aquillius deliberately hope to provoke a war with Mithridates, in the expectation that Roman arms could subdue Pontus in short order so that he, Manius Aquillius, could return to Rome to celebrate a triumph as conqueror of a new province, riding in a golden chariot to the accolades of the Roman mob while the vanquished Mithridates trudged behind him in chains?

If such was the plan of Aquillius, he was in for a rude surprise.

After Nicomedes attacked the coastal cities, Mithridates struck back, decisively and with far greater force than Aquillius expected. The theater of the war rapidly expanded. In battle after battle, the Romans and their allies were routed. While the panicked Roman generals fled, Mithridates advanced from city to city, at each stop gaining more wealth and prestige, and adding fighting men as well, as thousands of Greek-speaking soldiers deserted the Roman armies.

In the liberated cities, Roman bankers and merchants who once had ruled the roost were stripped of their property and thrown out of their elegant houses. Some of the most hated Romans were hunted down and killed by angry mobs. Other Romans went into hiding, or cowered inside their barricaded homes. Those natives who had been Roman sympathizers were also exposed to the wrath of the Rome-haters. Some followed the retreating Roman armies into exile. Some committed suicide in the hope that their families would be spared from retribution.

Those were joyous days for the Greek-speakers of the world. At last, someone was standing up to the Romans-and not just standing up to them, but pushing them back and putting them in their place. The name of Mithridates, long spoken in whispers, was now shouted in acclamation. Our savior had come at last, and he was unstoppable. Roman rule in Asia had abruptly come to an end.

Having lost his kingdom, the Roman puppet Nicomedes fled by ship to Rome. Gaius Cassius, governor of the Roman province of Asia, abandoned his capitol at Pergamon and made a headlong rush for the island of Rhodes, which remains allied with Rome. One of the Roman generals, Quintus Oppius, took refuge in the city of Laodicea, but the Laodiceans promptly expelled his ragged, half-starved army and handed Oppius over to Mithridates.

But what of Manius Aquillius, who started all this trouble by prodding Nicomedes into a puppet war?

Even before this man appeared on the scene, the name Aquillius was hated by the Greeks. In the previous generation the father of Aquillius was a provincial governor notorious for the harshness of his rule, and in particular for his suppression of the so-called “Citizens of the Sun,” a group of Greek rebels who went so far as to preach the abolition of slavery. Tired of besieging their strongholds, the elder Aquillius poisoned their water supplies, causing the deaths of an untold number of women and children along with the men on the barricades. After stamping out all resistance, the elder Aquillius ruthlessly taxed his subjects. Roman bankers defrauded the natives and confiscated family estates. Roman soldiers raped virgin daughters. When the natives sued for redress, the elder Aquillius ordered them to be fined and beaten and thrown into the street. Romans such as this sowed the seeds of further resistance, and drove a man like myself to become a spy.

To be sure, on his return to Rome, the elder Aquillius was accused of maladministration by a fellow Roman senator. Aquillius was even made to stand trial, but he avoided conviction by bribing the judges. So much for Roman justice.

When Manius Aquillius, the son of Aquillius, was posted to command a Roman army, his very appearance on the scene seemed a provocation, a deliberate snub by the Roman Senate against those who had suffered for so many years under Roman rule. Even before Aquillius began his manipulation of Nicomedes and set in train the machinations that would lead to his own destruction, the Greek-speakers of Asia were ready to hate him.

Defeated by Mithridates, Manius Aquillius fled for his life. With a small company of soldiers he reached the coast and commandeered a boat to take him to the island of Lesbos, which was still loyal to Rome-or so Aquillius thought. No sooner had Aquillius taken refuge in the home of a local physician than an angry mob appeared. They broke down the doors of the house, seized Aquillius, and put him in chains. He was thrown in a boat, rowed back to the mainland, and handed over to Mithridates’s men.

The soldiers treated him roughly, but not so roughly that he might die, for they knew their master wanted Aquillius alive. This I did not witness, but according to hearsay the various parts of his military garb, including his cape and his greaves and breastplate and other armor, were stripped from his body and claimed by the more aggressive soldiers as souvenirs. Then the soldiers slapped Aquillius about. With his hands chained behind him, Aquillius was helpless to resist. Repeatedly his captors knocked him down, then kicked him, then forced him to stand and be slapped about again. Ripped to shreds, his undergarments hung in tatters from his chained hands and feet. While Aquillius crawled in the dirt, the soldiers stood in a circle and altogether they urinated on him, making a game of it. Some even defecated on him.

Naked and covered with filth, Aquillius was put on a donkey. His fetters were refastened around the neck and belly of the beast so that he could not dismount. Switches were used to drive the donkey forward. As often as not, the whips struck Aquillius instead of the donkey.

The donkey and its rider were driven from town to town. At each stop, crowds gathered, curious to know what sort of criminal had earned such a humiliating punishment. “Say your name!” his captors would shout at Aquillius. “Tell the people who you are, and what you did to deserve this!” I imagine, for a while, Aquillius managed to maintain a stoic silence, as one might expect of a Roman general, but soon enough, with prompting from the switches, he shrieked his name whenever he was ordered to, and admitted his crimes.

Some wit among the captors got the idea that their prisoner should introduce himself not as Manius Aquillius, but as “Maniac” Aquillius, making a Greek pun out of his Latin name. Surely Aquillius resisted-to make an ugly joke of his own name, the name he inherited from countless forefathers, is as low as any Roman could sink-but soon enough Aquillius was babbling on command: “I am Maniac Aquillius, son of Maniac Aquillius! I am a filthy Roman, and like my father I am a murderer and a liar and a thief!”

Those who gathered to watch the captive pass by were invited, indeed encouraged, to spit on him and to throw rotten food at him, but no one was allowed to strike him or throw stones, for fear that Aquillius might be killed before the procession reached Pergamon, where King Mithridates was waiting to receive his captive.

Thus Manius Aquillius entered the city from which his father had once ruled the Roman province of Asia, not in a chariot but chained to a donkey. Covered with bruises and lacerations, and coated with every imaginable kind of filth, he looked hardly human, and emitted such a stench that his captors could hardly stand to be near him. Deprived of food, water, and sleep, he was so dizzy and weak he could hardly hold his head up. His voice was so hoarse that the sounds from his throat were like the croaking of some animal as he was prodded to shout again and again: “I am Maniac Aquillius! I am Maniac Aquillius!”

I was in Pergamon on the day Aquillius arrived. I had only just joined the court of Mithridates. I had been debriefed by various underlings, but had not yet been granted an audience with the king himself. Nevertheless, I was allowed to join the royal entourage on the day the king’s victories were to be celebrated with a great spectacle in the Theater of Dionysus, perched on a steep hillside. I happened to be given a spot in the procession not too far behind the king and his new bride, Queen Monime. They rode in a chariot while the rest of us followed on foot. I saw little of them except the back of their heads, and their upraised arms as they waved to the cheering crowds on either side.

As we filed into the theater, I was given a seat in the front row, near the center, and was quite pleased at this stroke of apparent good fortune. Mithridates and Monime were seated on a dais on the stage of the theater, directly in front of me, so that finally, as ten thousand spectators took their seats behind me, I had my first good look at the man whom I had been serving in secret for so many months.

Mithridates looked exactly as I had pictured him from seeing his image on coins, and from a statue I had seen in Rhodes. He wore his hair long, like that of Alexander the Great, and was quite handsome and clean-shaven, in the way that Alexander was handsome, with strong, regular features and bright eyes. Alexander had never reached his late forties as Mithridates had, but this was how he might have appeared, still trim and fit and strongly muscled. Like Alexander, Mithridates wore only a simple diadem, a purple and white fillet of twined wool tied around his head; the head of Monime was likewise adorned with such a fillet.

While other kings often mimicked the extravagance of Persian royal costume, that of Mithridates was relatively simple and recalled that of Alexander, who likewise mixed clothing that was both Greek and Persian. His white tunic, dazzling in the sunlight, was trimmed with purple embroidery and belted with a jewel-encrusted sash. At his hip, fitted to this sash, was the golden scabbard of the dagger he was said to carry always on his person. His legs were covered by Persian-style trousers. On his feet were intricately tooled leather boots with the toes turned up.

Draped over his shoulders, despite the warm weather, was a cape-like cloak, purple with gold embroidery, but faded and worn in places, as if it might be very old. A hand-me-down from the king’s forebears, worn for sentimental reasons, I thought. Then, with a gasp, I realized what this garment must be-the purple cloak of Alexander himself! This fabled cloak was said to be among the vast inventory of items seized by Mithridates when he took the island of Cos, a place where a number of kings and nations kept treasuries remote from themselves and therefore thought to be safe, for Cos had long been sacrosanct; even the Romans had never dared to loot any of the treasuries there. But Mithridates had done so, and among the booty had been the treasury of Egypt, which contained not only fabulous jewels and stores of precious metals, but the most sacred heirlooms of the Ptolemy family, including the cloak worn in life by Alexander, which no one since had dared to wear. Now it adorned the shoulders of Mithridates.

I looked at the queen, who appeared hardly older than a child. Indeed, at first glance I thought she might be one of Mithridates’s daughters. But the intimate looks and touches they exchanged soon enough dispelled that notion. I suppose the queen is beautiful (clearly the king thinks so), but my first impression was formed by the look in her eyes-the restless, rapacious eyes of some predatory beast, more dangerous than beautiful.

Joining the king on the stage and seated to his right and left were the closest members of the royal circle, including childhood friends who now served as the king’s generals, and the most influential stargazers, shamans, seers, and philosophers of the court. The Grand Magus and many lesser Magi were present. There was even a Scythian snake charmer-with a snake around his neck! In search of reliable prophecy and divination, the king reaches to the farthest corners of his kingdom.

How I longed to be a part of that inner circle! The next time such an assembly gathered, surely Antipater of Sidon, the world’s most renowned poet and a loyal servant of the king, would be seated among the other luminaries of the court.

At some point I turned and looked behind me, craning my neck to gaze up to the highest tier of seats. The great amphitheater at Pergamon is said to have the steepest seating of any theater in the world, and to accommodate more than ten thousand spectators. On this occasion it was filled to capacity. What wonders and marvels had Mithridates devised to entertain such a huge audience?

At first we were treated to some trifling amusements-parades of jugglers and acrobats, dancing boys, female contortionists, men who swallowed coals and belched out flames, and so on. These entertainers were the finest of their sort, but they only served to warm up the crowd.

The main attraction commenced with a crier who read out the names of the cities that Mithridates had liberated from Roman oppression. Banners representing each city were paraded on the stage before us-Ephesus, Tralles, Adramyttion, Caunus, and many more. The list ended with Pergamon. When a statue of the city’s patron goddess, Athena, was wheeled across the stage, ten thousand people rose to their feet, cheering wildly-everyone except the queen and Mithridates, who remained seated on his throne but raised both arms to acknowledge the accolades of the crowd.

There followed a parade of spoils taken in battle from the Romans, including not only weapons and armor, but also catapults and spear-launchers. The crier shouted the details of where each of the spoils had been taken, recounting the number of Roman dead or captured at each battle.

There was also a parade of chariots from Mithridates’s own army, notable for the long, sickle-shaped blades that projected from the axles. The scythed chariot was a weapon of legend, invented by Cyrus the Great but not seen for generations. Mithridates had surprised the Romans with his own version of this terrible weapon, which mowed through their lines like a scythe mowing grass.

There followed a parade of captives. This included many notorious collaborators, Greeks who had aided and abetted the Romans. These scoundrels had grown rich, profiting from the misery of their fellow citizens. They were rich no longer, but reduced to rags and bare feet as they trudged before the people of Pergamon, who jeered and shouted curses.

At the end of this parade appeared one of the most striking duos I have ever seen.

The first was a man dressed as a Roman general-an actor, I thought at first-with a plumed helmet and a red cape and a full kit of armor, including a brightly polished breastplate with an image of Medusa and matching greaves with more Gorgon images to cover his shins. I was struck by the man’s proud bearing, for he walked with his shoulders back and his chin up.

In fact, the man was no actor but an actual Roman general: Quintus Oppius, captured at Laodicea. And he held his shoulders back and chin up not from pride but because he could not do otherwise. The posture was imposed on him by the fact that his hands were chained together behind his back, and a thick iron collar was snugly fitted around his neck. Bolted to this collar was a thick chain; its further end was clutched in the fist of the largest mortal I have ever seen, a veritable Colossus dressed in animal skins and wearing a necklace made of bones and fangs. He was a grim, hulking figure with straw-colored hair and gaunt features. The barbarian’s real name was unpronounceable; Mithridates called him Bastarna, which was the name of his race, the Bastarnae, a tribe on the northern shore of the Euxine Sea who had sworn loyalty to Mithridates.

At the sight of Quintus Oppius, the jeering rose to a deafening pitch. I covered my ears, the din was so great. I glanced up to see that Queen Monime was staring at me with any icy look in her eyes. My face grew hot and I quickly uncovered my ears.

As the roar of the crowd subsided, the crier with great relish detailed the humiliating defeats suffered by Quintus Oppius and the details of his capture. Oppius was led to one side of the stage, where Bastarna handed the chain to another barbarian. The giant then crossed the stage and disappeared in the wings, apparently on his way to bring out another captive.

The crowd grew quiet with anticipation.

It was at this moment that I first smelled smoke. It was not the homey, comforting smell that comes from an oil lamp or a hearth flame. It was the sharper, more disquieting smell that comes from a red-hot oven or kiln. I looked about, slightly alarmed. Behind me I heard an uneasy rustling in the crowd.

The sight that suddenly bolted onto the stage was so unexpected and so bizarre that many in the audience gasped. Others shrieked with laughter. Then all other sounds were surpassed by the loud braying of the donkey that bounded onto the stage, as if goaded by a sharp and sudden poke.

On the donkey’s back was the most wretched excuse for a human being I had ever seen. Following the donkey and rider was Bastarna, who carried a switch in one hand and a spear in the other. To drive the donkey, he alternately beat it with the switch and poked it with the spear. He did the same to the rider, who barely responded to this mistreatment.

King Mithridates rose to his feet. He put his hands on his hips and made a show of looking perplexed. He spoke at an orator’s pitch, so that everyone in the theater could hear him. “Bastarna, what is this sorry sight you’ve brought to show us? Who rides on the back of this braying donkey?”

“He can tell you his name, Your Majesty.” Bastarna spoke with a thick barbarian accent.

“Can he? Speak up, then, wretch. Who are you? What is your name? Surely even a creature like you has a name!”

Bastarna planted his spear in the stage. He grabbed the prisoner’s hair and jerked up head up. “Speak!” he commanded. “Answer the King of Kings!”

The man on the donkey emitted a weak, unintelligible series of croaks. The crowd laughed uproariously.

“Speak louder!” commanded Bastarna, pulling the man’s hair and striking him with the switch.

“I am Maniac … Maniac Aquillius, son of Maniac Aquillius!”

“Did you hear that?” shouted the crier. “He calls himself Maniac!” There were screams of laughter.

“What else are you?” said Bastarna.

“I am a filthy Roman!” the man croaked.

“Have you ever seen anyone filthier?” asked the crier. The crowd roared.

“What else are you?” demanded Bastarna.

“I am a murderer! And a liar! And a thief!”

“And so was your father?” Bastarna prompted. The switch whistled through the air and struck flesh.

“And so was my father!” The words emerged in such a hoarse, plaintive wail, it was hard to imagine that another word could be forced from that distended throat.

The crier stepped forth and began a long recitation of the crimes committed by both father and son.

Meanwhile, Bastarna removed the shackles of Manius Aquillius and pulled him from the donkey. Too weak to stand, Aquillius collapsed at the giant’s feet. Bastarna pulled the chain taut, forcing Aquillius to hold up his head.

At the same time, from the wings at either side, slaves wearing only loincloths wheeled two curious contraptions onto the stage. One of these devices was a rack for securing a prisoner, made of iron bars with manacles attached. The other was a sort of furnace on wheels, its iron bottom filled with coals. Nestled in the coals, mounted so that it could be tilted, was a red-hot crucible. The slaves who pushed this infernal conveyance onto the stage were sweating profusely. Sitting in the front row, I could feel the heat that radiated from the crucible on my face, so hot was the thing. Then another conveyance was wheeled onto the stage, a small pushcart containing a heap of golden coins.

The crier reached the end of his recitation of the crimes of the Aquillii, but by this time I was no longer listening. My attention was focused entirely on the red-hot crucible, the rack, and the heap of gold. What in the name of Hades was about to take place on that stage?

The slaves used a long-handled shovel to scoop up the coins and pour them into the crucible. At the same time, Bastarna dragged Aquillius to the rack and bound him to it in such a way that the Roman was made to kneel with his arms outstretched and his head bent back, his eyes staring upward. Into his gaping mouth Bastarna inserted a hollow bit. Into this cavity Bastarna inserted a large funnel.

It now became evident to everyone what was about to happen, including Aquillius, who began to scream, or at least to scream as best he could with the bit and the funnel shoved into his mouth. The sound that came out sounded strained and distant, like the squeak of a mouse. From the side of the stage his fellow Roman, Quintus Oppius, stared in wide-eyed horror. Mithridates smiled. Queen Monime leaned forward to get a better view.

A strange noise arose from the many-tiered seats behind me. It was like the roar of the sea heard inside a shell-all those screams and jeers and laughs and gasps melded into a sort of sigh, like an intake of breath, or the hissing of wind in tall grass. It was not so loud that the voice of Mithridates could not be heard above it as he rose from his throne and began to speak.

“People of Pergamon, you are the witnesses to this act of justice. As he has lived by greed-committed crimes, killed the innocent, corrupted all those around him for the sake of greed-let this Roman die by greed. Look at him there, with his mouth gaping open. Even now, he hungers for gold! Shall we satisfy his craving? Shall we feed him the gold?”

The crowd of ten thousand roared their assent.

With three slaves managing the long handle, the scoop was inserted into the tilted crucible, and then withdrawn, brimming with molten gold. Bastarna strode forth and took hold of the long handle, waving the others aside. He carried the scoop to the rack and positioned the molten contents directly above the funnel fitted into Aquillius’s gaping mouth. Aquillius’s staring eyes were so wide I thought they might pop from their sockets. His mouse-squeal of a scream rose even higher. He clenched and unclenched his bound fists, and wriggled his body as much as he could within the constraints of his bondage.

Bastarna held the scoop in place, but it was Mithridates who took hold of the end of the handle and gave it a turn, so that the contents were emptied into the funnel.

What happened then-

It is this moment that haunts my nightmares. I feel the heat of the crucible on my face. I smell the burning flesh and the sizzling blood. I hear the popping and exploding of the vital organs inside Aquillius. Behind me I hear the din of the crowd, a bellowing roar filled with hate.

Every part of Aquillius convulses in agony. Unable to bear the sight, I turn about, only to confront ten thousand faces contorted with fury and derision.

In my nightmare, I look from face to face, but they are all the same. Not one shows the slightest hint of pity or revulsion. Are these the people whom I dreamed of saving from the Romans?

I turn back, and on the stage I see Mithridates with his arms raised and a smug smile on his face. He has put on a show for the people, and the people love it. Their roar of hatred for Rome gradually turns to cheering, becoming a roar of adoration for their Shahansha, their King of Kings. Is this the man for whom I became a liar and a spy, for whom I sacrificed everything, even my name?

I lower my face and cover my ears, unable to bear the sights and sounds around me. When I dare to look up again, I see Queen Monime staring back at me, her pretty mouth misshapen by a scowl of contempt.

[Here ends this fragment from the secret diary of Antipater of Sidon.]