Wrath of the Furies (39 page)

I have left intact, among these pages, the one I wrote two nights ago, in which I pretended to praise the king and his cause and look forward to the sacrifice. You will understand that I wrote that passage knowing it might very likely be read by one of Monime's spies, or for all I know, a spy of the king, and it was my intent to put the hounds off the scent. I state this explicitly lest you think that passage was in any way sincere, and that I might have been thinking of betraying you at the last minute.

Even as I write, the killing continues. Words have always been my servants and friends; they desert me now. There are no words to describe this horror. Zoticus of Zeugma is rendered speechless—as mute as Agathon of Alexandria.

[Here ends the secret diary of Antipater of Sidon.]

 

XXXV

Eventually, there was no one left to kill.

As darkness fell, bonfires were lit. The people of Ephesus made their way back to the city. The ring of soldiers remained in place to prevent any survivors from escaping under cover of darkness.

I woke early the next day. The black curtain had been removed from the round window. I looked out to see that a thick morning mist covered the plain. The altar was barely visible, a block of marble that seemed to float in the dense fog.

“This is our best chance,” said Samson. “The mist will hide us from the soldiers. If it extends up the river, it will also be hiding the ship that's waiting for us. And if the ship's captain agrees to cast off in this fog, we can sail downriver unseen, all the way to the sea.”

Those who were leaving with Samson included Freny, Bethesda, Antipater, and me. Anthea and Amestris would accompany us as far as the ship.

We said our farewells to Zeuxidemus and Kysanias. They were good, decent men. Ephesus would need such men, I thought, when the Romans came to exact vengeance, as sooner or later I knew they would.

We descended the stairs. The interior of the temple was deserted except for a few Megabyzoi, assisted by hierodules, who had already begun the work of purifying the sanctuary. Clouds of incense sweetened the air.

The temple steps were covered with corpses and blood. Freny trembled at the sight. Her sister guided her down the steps.

Our progress across the misty ground was a series of rude surprises, as the swirling fog parted to reveal one horrifying scene of death after another. To have watched the murders from afar was one thing; to see the staring, lifeless bodies lying twisted and broken at my feet was another. Was this the misty realm of Tartarus, where the Furies dwelled? Were they watching us even now?

Then an all-too-human voice called out, “Halt! Stay where you are.”

A small troop of soldiers appeared. Their captain looked us over. “What are you people doing here? Only men sanctioned by the king are allowed to scavenge the bodies. Did you not hear the royal decree read yesterday at the theater? It forbids anyone from looting the corpses, upon immediate penalty of death.”

“The king seems awfully fond of decrees with immediate penalties of death,” muttered Antipater. “So much for Greek notions of judges and trials and juries!”

The captain frowned. “What's the old man saying?”

It was Anthea who answered. “Can you not see by my yellow gown that I'm a hierodule from the temple? These pilgrims from faraway lands arrived yesterday to worship the goddess. They were trapped in the temple overnight. I was sent by the Great Megabyzus himself to escort them from the sacred precinct.”

The captain gave us another look. “Yes, I see. I'll escort you, then—”

“There's no need,” said Anthea. “I know the way.”

“Very well. But you should know that there's no longer a cordon around the area. If any of the Roman scum did get away from us, they'll be pretty desperate. Be careful. But if you do meet one of those filth, that fellow looks big enough to take care of you.” He indicated Samson, who responded with a nod but kept his mouth shut.

We pressed on.

I knew we had gone beyond the boundary of the sacred precinct when I saw long trenches to either side of us. Several layers of bodies had been piled into the trenches, but I saw no diggers nearby. Freny had begun to weep. Then I heard something, and shushed her.

It was a muffled cry. “Help me!”

“Where is it coming from?” I whispered.

“From the trench over there,” said Samson. “Here, help me.”

I shuddered at the thought of digging through corpses. Then Antipater, standing next to me, fell to his knees. He was clutching his chest.

I dropped to my knees beside him. “Teacher, what's wrong?”

His face was ashen. He grimaced.

I heard the muffled cry again, but louder now, as Samson, working alone, uncovered the man who was calling for help. As I continued to stare at Antipater, wondering what was wrong with him, the man stumbled out of the trench. I glanced at his filthy, bloodstained toga, then saw his face.

“Chaeremon of Nysa!” I whispered.

Antipater continued to grimace and clutch his chest. He gasped. “This is the end of me!”

“No, Teacher!” I whispered.

“Give this man my tunic.”

“What are you saying, Teacher?”

“He can't be seen wearing that toga. Give him my clothing. Cover me with his toga … and leave me here.”

“No, Teacher, you're coming with us!” I said, with a catch in my throat.

“Do you not see, Gordianus? The Fates have given me a last chance … to do something worthwhile. Give this man my clothing … so that he may go with you safely. And take for yourself … the pages I carry with me.”

“What pages?”

He struggled to reach inside his tunic. He pulled out a leather cylinder.

“But, Teacher, I can't leave you here.”

He fell to his side and began to gasp for breath. I wept.

“What does it matter … where my body lies?” he said, his speech slurred as if he were drunk. I put my ear to his mouth and strained to hear him. “Let them bury me here … with the Romans. Do I not already have … a funeral monument … in Rome … from the
first
time I died?” He made a sound that might have been a laugh, then a long sigh issued from his throat, and then there was silence.

While I stood by, trembling and fighting back tears, Samson removed Antipater's tunic and gave it to Chaeremon. The man appeared to be unscathed, despite the bloodstains I had seen on his toga, but he was badly shaken. He removed his toga and laid it over Antipater, like a shroud.

Chaeremon had just finished putting on Antipater's tunic when we heard footsteps approaching. Out of the mist, the troop of soldiers reappeared.

Their captain looked at us for a moment, then laughed. “You lot, again! This fog is so thick, either you're walking in circles or we are!” He scrutinized us more closely, and his eyes came to rest on Chaeremon. Did he remember Antipater's face, and realize that someone new had been added to our party? Or did he simply see an old man in a tunic?

At last he took his eyes off Chaeremon and waved to his men to keep walking. “Be on your way,” he said to us. “May the goddess guide you safely though this infernal fog!”

Thus did the gift of his tunic, the final act of Antipater, save the life of Chaeremon of Nysa, a loyal friend of Rome, and the only known survivor of the Ephesian massacre.

We hurried on, leaving Antipater behind.

We crossed the misty landscape. We saw no more bodies, and encountered no more soldiers. At last we came to the river, where a boat was anchored alongside a short pier.

Samson conferred with the captain, then told us there would be a brief delay while the ship was made ready to sail.

Still stunned by the death of Antipater, I sat on the pier with my legs dangling over the side, my feet not quite touching the water. A blanket of swirling fog floated a few feet above the river. The sight was strangely beautiful.

I opened the
capsa
Antipater had given me. The first piece of parchment I pulled out happened to be the very last he had written. Seeing my name, my eyes fell on the sentence,
I give these words to you, Gordianus
.

I looked through the other pieces of parchment. Some pages appeared to be missing. From my tunic I pulled out the piece that had been sent to me. I found the place where it belonged.

Blinking back tears, I read the final entry of his diary. My mind was slow, so that I had to read some sentences more than once to make sense of them. But no matter how many times I read it, his idea that Monime had sent the stolen page to me—to lure me to Ephesus as part of some plot to bring down Antipater—made no sense. Surely the queen could have done away with Antipater more easily than that, given the power she wielded in the royal household.

As I pondered the mystery—who sent the page to me, and why?—another solution occurred to me. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. Of course, I would never be able to prove it.…

And then, out of the mist—literally—came the embodiment of my conjecture. I thought I must be hallucinating, until Samson, standing nearby on the pier, gave a start.

“Who are those three?” he asked in a low voice. “And what in Hades are they doing here?”

“I know who they are,” I said, quickly rolling the pages and slipping them back into the
capsa
as I stood up. “The one in the middle, at least … because I was just thinking about him.”

Even without his cobra crown, I recognized young Prince Ptolemy. He was dressed in a common tunic, as were his two servants, but his shoes were exquisite. Each of the servants carried a heavy-looking sack slung over his shoulder. The prince smiled a bit uncertainly as he stepped onto the pier. Looking behind me, I saw that Bethesda and the others had drawn closer together, and that Samson stood before them, holding a knife in one hand.

“You may put aside that weapon,” said the prince quietly. When Samson didn't respond, his voice became stern. “I have asked you nicely. Now, as a prince of Egypt, I order you to do so. Are you not an Alexandrian, subject to the House of Ptolemy?”

Samson hesitated for a moment, then put away his knife. “What are you doing here, Your Majesty?”

“I've come to sail away with you.”

Samson cocked his head. “But how…?”

“I think I know how the prince followed us here,” I said. “These two servants are the same two who were assigned by Monime to look after Antipater. Am I right?”

“They are!” said Freny. “I recognize them both.”

“You are indeed correct … Gordianus of Rome,” said Prince Ptolemy.

“But their true loyalty is to you.”

The prince nodded.

“And despite Antipater's attempts to elude them,” I said, “one or the other of them never let Antipater out of his sight. Thus you knew where Antipater went, when he fled the house of Eutropius. And you knew that last night he was in the Temple of Artemis. And this morning, by some feat of stealth, you managed to follow Antipater and the rest of us through the mist.”

He nodded again. “And at a distance I witnessed his death. Alas! The world has lost a great poet. I had hoped your old tutor would be with us on this journey, so that he might amuse us with his verses.”

“But how is it that you're free to go where you wish?” asked Samson. “The king never allows you to leave the palace.”

“The whole city, including the palace, has been in an uproar, day and night, ever since the massacre commenced. I took advantage of all the confusion to slip quietly away. I had help to do so; these two are not the only servants in Mithridates's household who are secretly loyal to the House of Ptolemy. Still, even with my loyal minions covering for me, sooner or later the queen will realize that I've gone, so I suggest we cast off at once.”

“Taking you with us was not in my plans,” said Samson.

“If it's payment you require, that can be arranged.” The prince gestured to the sacks carried by his two servants. “I managed to bring along a few personal items—rings and bracelets and other such trinkets.”

“I wouldn't consider taking payment from you,” said Samson.

“You show wisdom. One day, I shall sit on the throne of Egypt, and when that happens, I shall not forget those who helped me in my time of tribulation.”

Without his fancy robes and ruby-eyed cobra crown, Ptolemy looked no different from any other plump-cheeked teenager. It was hard to imagine him ruling Egypt, but stranger things had happened.

“There's something I want to know,” I said. “Was it you who sent me that page from Antipater's diary?”

He nodded. “After my servants showed me the page, I told them to send it to you.”

“Why?”

“I thought it might lure you here, Gordianus of Rome. And so it did.”

“For what purpose?”

The prince sighed. “Luring you here was only one of many, many small schemes I've hatched in the days since I was captured. All the other schemes came to nothing, but this one…” He smiled. “It so happened that these two servants, assigned by Monime to spy on Antipater, were actually loyal to me—
my
spies, if you will. They secretly read his diary and reported back to me. It was clear that Antipater had lost enthusiasm for the cause of Mithridates, and that he especially disliked Monime. How might his discontent be turned to my advantage? When I discovered that Antipater had a young protégé in Egypt—a Roman no less—my interest was further piqued. What mischief might occur if I could lure that young Roman to Ephesus, and reunite him with the disgruntled poet?”

“You merely wanted to make mischief?”

“Mischief creates opportunity! When a prince finds himself without power, making mischief and sowing discord may be the best he can do, along with biding his time. Many a Ptolemy has learned that lesson over the centuries. So—how to bring Gordianus of Rome to Ephesus? I couldn't write to you myself—any such letter might be intercepted—but it occurred to me that that particular page from the diary might do the trick. And so it did. And the mischief created has borne fruit beyond my wildest expectations—for here am I, and there is the ship to take me away from this infernal place.”