Wrath of the Furies

VII

As it turned out, Posidonius was not dead.

He had simply stood up too fast while blood was rushing to his head, suffered a dizzy spell, and lost his balance. He must have been unconscious for a moment, for he lay there as motionless as a stone while I stared blankly at Bethesda, who stared back blankly at me. By the time a pair of slaves came running into the room, their master was groaning and shuddering and on his way to all-fours. As they helped him up and pushed the chair beneath him, I realized that I was feeling rather light-headed myself, from the scare he had given me.

Posidonius called for more wine, and insisted that I match him cup for cup while he interrogated me with a long series of questions. Where exactly had Antipater and I traveled before and after our stay on Rhodes? With whom had we stayed, and for how long? What side trips had we taken? How and why had Antipater confessed the truth to me before we parted ways in Alexandria? How, once in Ephesus, did I intend to hide the fact that I was Roman?

Posidonius insisted that I produce the scrap of parchment that had set me on my journey to Ephesus, and he sat poring over it for a long time, not merely reading the words but examining the papyrus from various angles, holding it up to the light and sniffing at the ink, as if it might contain some secret message.

Eventually he handed the document back to me and sat for a long moment with his hands folded on his lap, staring at nothing.

At last he slapped his knees and stood. “But what sort of host must you think me, Gordianus, that I’ve not yet shown you to your room, or offered you a chance to wash your face and hands? Here, follow me. I think the little room at the southwest corner is still unoccupied. The door’s too narrow and the bed’s too hard for most of those big-bellied Roman merchants downstairs-it’s just a storage pantry really, that’s had the shelves taken out and a bed put in. Yes, here it is. Room enough for both you and your slave, I suspect.” He raised an eyebrow and smiled at Bethesda; he clearly took it for granted that we would both sleep in the bed, for there was no room on the floor for a person to lie down. “That little window up there doesn’t give you a view, but it should let in a bit of fresh air. There’s a basin of water and a cloth in that little niche there. Freshen up a bit, and I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Dinner?” I had hardly expected to merit the honor of dining with my host, with so many other and surely more distinguished guests in the house.

“Yes. There are some people staying here that I think you should meet. And I’m sure they’ll want to meet you, Gordianus.”

With that, he left the narrow room and closed the door behind him. I heard a curious clicking noise and reflexively reached for the doorknob.

Posidonius had locked us inside.

I looked up at the little window he had mentioned. I could reach it if I stood on the bed, but it was too small for a grown man to climb through. With the door locked, I was now the guest of Posidonius whether I wished to be or not. Had it been a mistake to tell him of Antipater’s duplicity? At least I had determined that Posidonius was not in league with Antipater. His shock at the news had been genuine. A good actor can fake a fainting spell, but no man can will his ears to turn purple.

I sighed at my predicament, then decided to do as my host suggested, and splash a bit of water on my face. With two people in such a small, narrow room, maneuvering proved to be a challenge-a comical challenge, for soon Bethesda and I were both laughing at the contortions we were forced into when stepping past each other. As I brushed against her, various parts of our bodies made contact, and I became aroused. On the crowded ship, sleeping alongside other passengers, we had never had a private moment. This was the first time in days that I had been truly alone with her, and not only alone, but with a bed that proved to be not nearly as uncomfortable as my host had suggested.

Bethesda appeared to be as eager as I was, for she made quick work of pulling my tunic over my head, then undoing the loincloth from my hips. The happy task of removing her clothes she left to me.

The room was warm. Soon we were both covered with a sheen of sweat; our bodies slid against each other as if we had been oiled like athletes. But every now and then the high window admitted a breeze from the sea, and the occasional drafts of cool air raised delicious goose bumps on my back and buttocks, causing me to grin and shout with laughter even as I was gripped by the most sublime ecstasy.

As we lay curled together on the bed, dozing, our limbs entangled, the light from the high window slowly faded. I found myself staring up at the simple clay lamp suspended from a chain in the ceiling; as yet, no slave had come to light it. Had Posidonius forgotten about me? Even as this thought crossed my mind, I heard a noise at the door-a metallic clanking as the door was unlocked, then a voice calling through the wood.

“The master invites you to dinner, at your earliest convenience.”

Bethesda was soundly asleep, and remained so, her lips slightly parted and her breasts gently rising and falling, as I extricated myself from her and pulled on my clothes. I covered her with the thin sheet, then opened the door as little as I could, stepped into the hallway, and closed the door behind me, thinking to shield her from the gaze of the slave who had made the summons and was waiting to escort me to his master’s dining room. But in a house as well regulated as that of Posidonius, the servants were trained to be circumspect. The slave, a man perhaps twice my age, stood some distance from the door and made no attempt to peek inside.

Over one arm he held a folded garment of white wool.

“A toga?” I said. “Is that for me?”

The slave nodded.

I laughed. “I haven’t worn a toga in ages. I’m not sure I can remember how to put it on. And if you expect me to do it myself, in that tiny room-”

“Oh, no, the master sent me especially to help you. We may do so in the master’s study. If you’ll follow me.…”

The slave proved to be an expert in the art of donning the toga. He put to shame old Damon, my father’s slave, who had assisted me in putting on my first toga when I turned seventeen. In no time, with a bit of tugging here and a bit of gathering there, the toga lay just as it should, falling in proper folds from my shoulders and forearms.

Smiling with prim satisfaction at his handiwork, the slave led me down the hall to a different stairway from the one I had ascended earlier. For a moment I felt lost in that rambling house, despite the months I had spent there with Antipater, then I found my bearings again as the slave led me to Posidonius’s elegant dining room, which was brightly lit. There were lamps set in sconces in the wall, lamps on bronze stands with griffin heads, and more lamps hanging from the ceiling. One side of the room was open to a garden from which radiated the last faint light of day. The three walls of the room were painted with flowers and trees and butterflies, so that the room seemed a natural continuation of the garden, but while the real garden grew dim, here the soft glow of twilight lingered.

There were six couches, with two set against each wall. The two closest to the garden, and farthest from our host, were unoccupied; it appeared I was the last but one to arrive. The slave indicated which of these was for me. Next to Posidonius, in the place of honor, was another guest in a toga, a stout Roman with a grim expression. The two other guests, dressed like our host in more colorful, loose-fitting garments, were not much older than me and alike enough to be brothers, which in fact they were.

From the way the four of them looked at me, I knew that Posidonius had already explained who I was. As I settled myself on my couch, a slave placed a cup of wine in my hand, and Posidonius introduced them to me.

“Gordianus, this is Gaius Cassius, the governor of Asia.”

Deposed governor, I thought. The stout Roman gave me a nod.

Posidonius gestured to his left and right. “This is Pythion of Nysa. Across from him, his brother, Pythodorus.”

“Nysa,” I said, “where the hero Lycurgus ‘drove the nursing mothers of wine-crazed Dionysus over the sacred mountains.’” Greeks are always impressed if you can quote an appropriate bit of Homer.

Pythion-whom I took to be the older brother, since he did most of the talking-gave me a piercing look. “Was it your treacherous tutor who taught you that-this Zoticus of Zeugma?”

I glanced at Posidonius. Clearly he had told them something of my situation, but for reasons of his own he had decided not to reveal Antipater’s true identity. It occurred to me that Posidonius would prefer his guests to think he had been duped by a nobody-the obscure Zoticus-rather than let it be known that his old friend, the famous poet Antipater of Sidon, had operated as spy for Mithridates under this very roof.

I cleared my throat. “As a matter of fact-yes, it was my old tutor who taught me those lines of Homer. He’s … something of a poet himself.”

“Is he?” said Gaius Cassius. “Can’t have been much good, if I’ve never heard of him.”

“You have a fondness for Greek poetry, Governor?” I said.

“I put up with it.” Cassius’s voice was as flat and dry as parchment. “But there’s not a living poet, Greek or Latin, who can compare with Ennius. He was the only true heir to Homer.” His voice, so lifeless speaking Greek, took on an orator’s lilt as he recited the Latin:

“In sleep, blind Homer appeared at my side.

‘Wake now, poet, and sing!’ he cried.”

Pythion trained his gaze on me. “Perhaps Gordianus could recite something by this Zoticus.”

“Yes, let’s hear something by Mithridates’s spy,” said his brother, his voice dripping with malice.

My mind went blank for a moment. I didn’t dare to quote anything by Antipater, for they might recognize it. Then I recalled something Antipater had come up with after we left Rome. I tried to speak with perfect Greek diction:

“Two widows of Halicarnassus lived under the same roof,

One beautiful, young, and shy, the other stern and aloof.”

Pythion pursed his lips. “That’s not bad, actually. How does the rest of it go?”

“I … I’m not sure. I don’t think … Zoticus … ever actually finished that poem.”

“Perhaps he’s working on it right now, while he dines in Ephesus with his master, Mithridates,” said Gaius Cassius, reverting to lifeless Greek.

“You must be wondering, Gordianus, exactly what I’ve told these others about you,” said Posidonius. “I’ve explained that you arrived by ship from Alexandria today, and intend to sail on to Ephesus tomorrow; that a few years back you spent a winter under this roof, along with … Zoticus … whom I knew from my time in Rome; and it turns out that all along, without your knowledge or mine, Zoticus was traveling as a spy for Mithridates, and now seems to be in Ephesus, along with the king’s court; and that, having received information that Zoticus is in danger, you intend to go to him and offer your assistance-despite that fact that he duped you as well as me, and many others.”

Pythion raised an eyebrow. “Unless, of course, Gordianus is himself a spy for Mithridates.”

Posidonius sighed. “Putting aside my lapse of judgment in the case of Zoticus, I still think I’m a good judge of character, and I can’t believe that Gordianus is a traitor to Rome. This young man values truth and honesty above all other virtues. He’s not the stuff that spies are made of.”

“And yet,” said Gaius Cassius, “a spy is exactly what we would like him to be.” Before I could ask what this meant, he went on. “Tell me, Gordianus, how do you intend to operate in Ephesus, as a Roman among so many Roman-hating Greeks? What makes you think they’ll even let you off the ship?”

“Or that you won’t be torn limb from limb the moment you set foot on Ephesian soil?” said Pythion.

“Whatever happens, you’d better be wearing a toga when you step off the ship,” added his brother.

“A toga?” I managed a small laugh. “Until this evening, I hadn’t worn a toga in years. Posidonius kindly provided this one. I don’t even own one.”

“Then you’d better ask Posidonius if you can take that one with you,” said Pythion. “According to reports from the latest refugees, signs were posted overnight in every village and city under Mithridates’s control. The signs are in both Latin and Greek: ‘By decree of the king and on pain of death, all Romans must wear the toga at all times.’”

“But why?” I asked. The toga was worn when conducting business or religious rituals, or-as on this occasion-when dining in a rich man’s house, but even senators didn’t wear a toga all the time.

“So that they can be recognized, of course,” said Pythion. “If all the Romans are in togas, it will be easier to shun them. Easier to drive them off-or round them up.”

“Round them up?” I frowned.

“The king’s decree also has the perverse effect of making something you Romans are so proud of-your distinctive form of dress-into something more like a mark of shame,” Pythion added.

“Never!” declared Gaius Cassius, clutching the folds of his toga.

Our host cleared his throat. “Ah, but we have strayed from the original question: How is Gordianus to operate freely in Ephesus? That’s the really clever part. Since leaving Egypt, Gordianus has been posing not as a Roman but as a native Alexandrian, a young man of Greek descent-”

“But his accent!” protested Pythion.

“-who’s lost the power of speech. The slave girl traveling with him will do all the talking, at least in public. A rather brilliant ruse, I think.”

“Provided he can maintain such a pretense,” said Gaius Cassius. “But don’t you see, Posidonius, that you’ve just demolished your own argument for trusting this young man? First you say he’s completely honest, then you tell us he’s traveling under a false identity, pretending to be something he’s not. Which is it? Is Gordianus a man incapable of deception, or is he a master deceiver, capable of fooling even Mithridates’s minions?”

Posidonius shook his head. “You Romans do always insist that the answer to every question must be one thing or its opposite. Sometimes the answer lies in the middle, or elsewhere altogether. The world is rather more complicated and unpredictable than any of us thought, as we’ve learned in the last year or so. Can we trust Gordianus to be loyal to Rome? I think we can. Can he deceive those who wish harm to Rome? I hope he can, for all our sakes. It was you, Cassius, who suggested that Gordianus might be suitable for our purpose.”

“What purpose?” I asked. “And what did you mean a moment ago, Governor, when you said, ‘A spy is exactly what we would like him to be’?”

Gaius Cassius looked at me sternly. “If you possess even half your father’s talents, I think you might serve Rome very well indeed.”

“You know my father?” I felt a stab of homesickness.

“Of course I do. Everyone in Rome knows the Finder. Well, anyone who’s ever had to dig up dirt on a rival, or clear himself of some trumped-up charge. I’ve been to your house more than once, young man, seeking your father’s help. To be sure, my last visit was a number of years ago; you must have been hardly more than a child, which explains why we never met. Your father is the man who can pick any lock, yet never steals; the man who can follow anyone anywhere without being seen, yet never stabs a man in the back; the man who knows every secret, yet who never whispers a word of them. If you’re made of the same stuff, I think you just might be able to pull off this masquerade of being mute, at least long enough to be of some use to us.”

“What is he talking about?” I looked at Posidonius, who answered.

“Think, Gordianus! While every other Roman is desperately attempting to get out of Ephesus, you’re determined to get in. That could make you very valuable to us, especially if you manage to reach your old tutor. That would bring you into the king’s court, perhaps even give you access to his inner circle. Eyes and ears are what we lack in Ephesus. Eyes to see what Mithridates is up to, ears to overhear his plans.”

“But no mouth to give yourself away,” added Gaius Cassius, with a mirthless laugh.

“You want me to be a spy for you?”

“A spy for Rome,” said Gaius Cassius.

I shook my head. “I have no training for that sort of thing. I don’t know secret codes, or how to put on disguises. I have no military experience. How would I know which bits of information are valuable, and which bits are worthless?”

“You wouldn’t need to know any of those things,” said Gaius Cassius. “You would merely be the sand-gatherer, not the sieve.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will simply report what you observe; another will determine what details are important, and relay the information back to us. Perhaps”-he smiled-“even using a secret code, as you suggest.”

“I would ‘report’? Report to whom?”

“To the agent above you, of course. The man assigned to monitor you and your activities.”

“And who would that be?” I looked from Posidonius to Gaius Cassius, then at Pythion and Pythodorus, and finally at the empty couch across from mine. It occurred to me that the sixth guest had yet to arrive.

At that moment a large, shadowy figure came bustling across the garden, his features obscured by the gathering shadows of nightfall.

“Apologies, Posidonius, for being late,” he called out. I gave a start, for his voice was familiar. As he emerged into the artificial twilight of the dining room, I recognized Samson, the Alexandrian Jew from the Phoenix.