Wrath of the Furies (31 page)

“Who can say? But I tell you, the emeralds and rubies alone must be worth a fortune! That was the biggest prize, but I also left with some very nice pieces of silver. Still, compared to the entire treasure as listed in the ledger, I walked out with a mere pittance, only the feeblest gesture of goodwill from the looter to the looted.”

“And the cloak you're wearing? That came from the treasury, too?”

“Ah, yes!” He looked down and touched a bit of the frayed hem to one side of his broad chest. “Well, there it was, lying amid some other pieces of cloth—elaborate wall hangings with golden threads and such—and I said, ‘May I take this, as well, so as to have something to wrap around the cup and the other items?' The assessor hardly glanced at it, and when I held it closer, so that he could take a better look, he turned up his nose.”

“It has a smell, Samson. Like something from an old person's house.”

“Does it? Well, at any rate, he let me take this cloak as well. It worked nicely as a sort of sack to carry the other items.”

I nodded. “So you've achieved one of your main objectives. The Jews of Alexandria sent you here to assess whatever remained of their stolen treasure, to negotiate for its return, and, failing that, to retrieve whatever token restitution Mithridates might offer.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Congratulations, Samson. But I, too, came here with an objective.”

“Ah, yes. To see your old tutor again.”

“I could have run after him earlier this evening, when I saw him in the dining hall—”

“And take him by surprise? Have him call out your real name, and then wait for you to answer? Cause any passersby to wonder how the two of you might know each other? No, Gordianus, that would never do. You realize that.”

I took a deep breath. “Yes. But when—”

“So you don't think the cloak flatters me?”

“No!” I said, raising my voice, then biting my tongue.

“Is it too small for me? Perhaps it would look better on you.” He began to pull it off. “If I were to offer it as a gift—”

“Samson, no more talk about this old cloak! Will I see Antipater tonight?”

He looked at me shrewdly. “Antipater, you say?”

“I mean … Zot—” I stammered awkwardly on the Z. “Zoticus—of course.”

“Of course. Zoticus, Antipater—well, we all seem to have more than one name, don't we? Except for that beauty.” He smiled at Bethesda, who slept on her side with her hands folded beneath her head, too exhausted to be awakened by our hushed conversation.

I looked at her peaceful face and shook my head. “I should never have brought her here. What a situation I've landed us in! I should have thought of some other way, or simply stayed in Alexandria. But I was selfish. I wanted to come, and I wanted her with me. I didn't want to be parted from her…” I was saying more than I should. I had already let slip Antipater's true name. “Please, Samson. No more jesting. I want to see Zoticus. If he's here in the palace, I want to see him now.”

Samson saw that my patience was exhausted. The smile vanished from his face. He nodded, and seemed about to speak when we heard a gentle rapping at the door. Bethesda turned in her sleep, but did not wake.

Samson cracked the door to peer out with one eye, then opened it just enough for the visitor to slip inside. It was not Antipater. The man was much younger, and slender, with chestnut hair. With a start, I realized it was Zeuxidemus, dressed not in his yellow robes but in a plain tunic and with his hair neatly combed.

I was so surprised I almost spoke, but caught myself. Samson saw my consternation. He smiled. “It's all right, Agathon—Agathon, I say, because it will be simpler if we can all stick to one name, though we no longer have anything to hide from Zeuxidemus. You can speak, Agathon.”

Never had I trusted Samson less, and never had I needed to trust him more. A priest of Artemis was in the room, and Samson seemed ready to give me away, if he had not done so already. At last I found my tongue. “What does this mean? Why have you let this man into the room?”

“Things are moving very fast now,” said Samson. “Almost too fast for even me to keep up. As of yesterday, you had every reason to keep your secrets from Zeuxidemus. But today, all that has changed. Zeuxidemus has been vouched for, at the very highest level.”

“The highest level of what?”

“I understand your confusion, Agathon. But everything will soon be made clear to you—what is being asked of you, and what is being offered.”

I didn't like the sound of that. “Something tells me this bargain will be lopsided.”

Samson cocked his head. “Indeed, it will be. What will be asked of you is as nothing compared to what may result.”

“What is that?”

Zeuxidemus spoke. “A chance, however slim, to save the lives of many people. Tens of thousands of people.”

“I came here to save only one.”

“You may yet be able to do that, as well,” said Samson.

“Something tells me there's a risk involved.”

“Yes,” said Samson. “A terrible risk. But then again—no. None at all. If you accept what we offer, and things do
not
go precisely as we hope, then yes, you will almost certainly die. But if you don't accept the role we offer, we shall expose you as a fraud, and then you will most certainly die, without question.”

The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. What was this talk of dying? I had been thinking only of somehow helping Antipater—if indeed he needed my help—and then contriving some way to get Bethesda and myself out of Ephesus, perhaps by relying on Samson, who seemed to understand every situation and had access to money and other resources from Rome. The idea that I might be killed—indeed, would probably be killed, no matter what, as so starkly stated by Samson—had not been in my mind.

The two of them saw the look on my face. They looked at each other.

“Will they be coming here?” asked Samson.

“No. Too risky,” said Zeuxidemus. “We'll go to them.”

Samson nodded. “I see you've changed out of your yellow robes. A good idea. Less conspicuous that way.”

“Yes, but I'll also have less authority to override anyone who questions us.”

“A headdress does give one perquisites,” said Samson.

“You, on the other hand, might wish to take off that … what is that thing you're wearing over your shoulders, anyway?”

“Oh, this?” Samson touched the frayed hem of the cloak and smiled.

I gnashed my teeth at the prospect of being made to endure the same conversation again. “Let him wear the old cloak if he wants to,” I said. “If we're going somewhere, why don't we get started?”

Zeuxidemus raised an eyebrow. “He really can speak, can't he? But by Artemis, that Roman accent! I hear accents like that every day, from all those Romans at the temple, but it's a bit of a shock, hearing such a thing under this roof.”

“His accent isn't as bad as some,” said Samson in my defense.

Zeuxidemus looked dubious. “It's pretty thick. Say something else, Agathon.”

“I'll call down some curses on you in Latin, if I don't get some answers soon.”

Zeuxidemus pursed his lips. “Yes, I suppose we should go. That lamp is almost burned out. No point in the three of us standing here in the dark.”

“What about Bethesda?” I asked.

“The girl?” said Zeuxidemus. “Don't worry. She's quite safe here. Leave her sleeping.”

“Will I be back before she wakes?”

“If you come back at all,” said Samson.

 

XXVIII

[From the secret diary of Antipater of Sidon:]

To be mocked and made a fool of by that creature Sosipater! I surely can fall no lower. So here I sit, brooding and hungry and alone, unwilling to step foot in that dining hall as long as the juggler is holding court. Why am I back in the palace? What does the king want from me? Or was I brought here at the queen's behest?

I wonder sometimes what would have happened if I had not hearkened to the call to serve Mithridates, had not faked my death, had never left Rome. Would I have been happier? Probably not, for Italy was plunged into a miserable civil war shortly after I left, and with the rise of Mithridates it is hard to imagine that Greek poets (or any other Greeks) are very popular in Rome nowadays. And had I not taken the course I chose, I would not have seen the Seven Wonders, watching young Gordianus grow from a boy into a man along the way. So it must be with any fork in the road of life, that either way may lead to joy and tribulation, and both will end at the same place.

I had thought that serving the king as court poet was to be my destiny, the capstone to my career. I would be celebrated not only for my poems in honor of the king, but for the risks I had taken and the dangers I had braved. All my secrets I would proudly reveal, and Antipater of Sidon would be famous as the poet who cheated death, who traveled the world as a spy, who witnessed the rebirth of the Greek world at the side of King Mithridates. Instead I am like a Titan forced into a tiny box and barely able to move. I cannot speak my own name, much less recite my poetry. I feel no inspiration to make a new poem. I am an old man and not long for this world. Is there not one last useful, meaningful thing I can do before the end?

But there, I hear someone knocking at my door. This cannot be good. But I suppose I cannot ignore it …

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

Zeuxidemus led us by a circuitous route that took us upstairs, then kept to the shadows of a square portico that surrounded a courtyard open to the sky, then headed down a long hallway and up another flight of stairs. Few people were abroad at this hour. Guards stood outside some of the doorways, but we saw them only at a distance.

I was hopelessly turned around by the time we halted at a door where Zeuxidemus made a peculiar knock, apparently using some sort of code, for this was followed by a rapping from inside the room, at which Zeuxidemus knocked again, and then the door swung open.

We stepped into what appeared to be a storage room. Even palaces must have places to put the mops and buckets and spare furniture. Several lamps illuminated the room, but the stacked crates and other contents were so jumbled that much of the space was in deep shadow, including the face of the man who must have opened the door, for he appeared to be the only person present.

The light did illuminate his feet, however, and I could see that his Corinthian-style slippers were made of very finely tooled leather. “Look at a man's feet if you want to determine his station in life,” my father had taught me. Even in disguise, a rich man will seldom forego the luxury of wearing fine shoes, and these looked quite expensive. His tunic was plain, but well-made. Though his face was in shadow, by his silver hair and his spotted, gnarled hands I judged him to be in his seventies.

“This is the fellow?” he asked, indicating me. He spoke Greek almost like a native, but not quite. His accent, and the way he held himself, made me sure he was a Roman, even though he was not wearing a toga. But then, neither was I.

“This is the fellow,” said Samson. “If I introduce him as Agathon of Alexandria, you'll laugh when he opens his mouth, so we might as well call him Gordianus.”

The man nodded. “I knew your father, young man, back in Rome. Not well, mind you, but my path and that of the Finder crossed from time to time, over the years.” His Latin accent became more pronounced as soon as he said the word
Rome.
“I am Publius Rutilius Rufus.”

“The consul?” I asked.

“Why, yes, though that seems a lifetime ago. You were no more than a child the year I was elected.”

“I was five,” I said. “That was the year my father made me memorize all the consuls of Rome, beginning with Brutus and Collatinus. The list ended with you and your co-consul, Gnaeus Mallius Maximus.”

“Ah, well, the world has taken many a turn since then, and most of them for the worse. I understand you're quite well traveled for a fellow your age.”

“I've been to Babylon and back.”

“And seen all the Seven Wonders. Yes, Samson told me a few things about you. You live in Alexandria.”

“For the last few years, yes.”

“Perhaps that makes you a bit of an outsider in this struggle between Rome and Mithridates, since Egypt has thus far stayed out of it.”

“Agathon of Alexandria is an Egyptian, but I'm not,” I said. “I was born a Roman citizen and I remain one, no matter where I may live. I'm every bit as much a Roman as you, Consul.”

“More than I, some would say. The conviction that resulted from my trial imposed only a fine. My enemies didn't manage to strip me of my citizenship and exile me from Rome, as they would have liked. But I left Rome anyway, in disgust, and I'll never go back. I'm in voluntary exile. My enemies say that I've renounced my citizenship.”

“Have you, Consul?”

“Absolutely not! I may regret but I'll never renounce being Roman. Like you, young man, I was born and will always be a Roman, no matter that I can no longer bear to be in Rome.”

“You find Ephesus more bearable?”

“For the moment.”

“Does King Mithridates know that you're here?” I asked.

Rutilius laughed. “Do you think I snuck into the palace? No, the king brought me here.”

“As prisoner or guest?”

“With a king, I suppose a man can never be entirely sure until he tries to leave; but I'm being treated as a guest. I am even, about certain matters, the king's advisor.”

“His advisor? Then you've turned against Rome and thrown in your lot with Mithridates.” Why had Samson brought me to this traitor? What purpose could the consul and I have in common?

“It's not quite that simple, young man,” said Rutilius.