Steven Saylor: Wrath of the Furies

So it was entirely possible that my father had written any number of letters to me in recent months, but for one reason or another none of them had reached me. But there was another possibility. It might be that no letters had come from my father because my father was no longer among the living.

The little news that had arrived from Italy was grim. For rebelling against Rome, entire cities have been massacred, and the Roman Senate itself had descended into a kind of civil war. Growing up in Rome, I had observed that my father was always careful to tread a middle path, allying himself with no particular family or faction. This independence allowed him to work for any man who sought out his services. But could even my father remain neutral-and safe-amid the chaos in Italy?

In reality, just how neutral was my father? And how loyal was he to Rome? He had seen trouble coming in Italy-that was one of the reasons he sent me off with my old tutor Antipater on our journey to see the Seven Wonders, to get me far from Rome and away from the looming danger. I had been more naive than a young Roman of eighteen should be. I had thought our trip was merely for pleasure. Even Antipater’s faked death and assumption of a false identity-Zoticus of Zeugma-had not alerted my suspicion. I accepted at face value Antipater’s explanation that he simply wanted a fresh start, a last chance for an old man to see the world through new eyes.

But there was much more to Antipater’s deceit than that. As I learned only at the end of our journey, Antipater had been a spy for King Mithridates all along-and thus an enemy of Rome. Our trip to the Wonders had been a grand reconnaissance mission for him, as he carried messages for the king’s agents from Olympia to Babylon and to many cities between. No sooner did I discover Antipater’s deception than he vanished from Alexandria, before I could get any sort of explanation from him.

What role had I played in his scheme? Had I simply been a traveling companion, sent along by my father to get me out of harm’s way? And what role had my father played? He helped Antipater fake his death; had he done so knowing the old poet’s true purpose? Could it be that my father was himself an agent of Mithridates?

Such a possibility was unthinkable. Or so I would have said once upon a time, when I was naive and untraveled and knew little about the ways of men. But now, in a world turned upside down by treachery and war, anything seemed possible-even that my father could be a traitor to Rome.

What if he was? Where, then, should my own loyalties lie? With Rome? With my father? With neither?

Before I could answer that question, I needed to discover the truth about my father, but that was not possible. “Are you a traitor to Rome, Father?” Such a dangerous question could never be posed in a letter, which might be read by anyone who opened it. Perhaps Antipater could have told me the truth, but I had no idea where the old poet went after he left Alexandria. I might have solved the problem by going back to Rome, to confront my father face-to-face-provided that he was still alive-but that journey I had put off time and again, either because of the danger, or the expense, or the impossibility of doing so as the seas were emptied of passenger ships by the threat of war from all sides.

But there was another reason that kept me from returning home, eclipsing all others: I simply had no taste for the journey. Was it any wonder that I preferred to dawdle in Egypt, basking in the warm sunshine of the rooftop terrace, feasting on fish and pomegranates and dates at the eunuchs’ expense, taking long walks on the beach with Bethesda to find secluded places where we might lie together on a blanket between heat-shimmering dunes?

I had all a young man needed to be content. Yet, in my heart of hearts, what I wanted more than anything was to pay a visit to the banker in Alexandria who received correspondence for me and to find that a letter had arrived from Rome, a letter from my father telling me that he was alive and well.

“Well then, by all means, you must take a trip into the city to see if there are any letters for you,” said Berynus, as if he had read my thoughts. This apparent ability to read minds was a trait I had noticed in both of the eunuchs. No doubt it was one of the attributes that had kept them alive through treacherous times, and had made them such well-rewarded servants in the royal bureaucracy.

“And take the girl with you,” said Kettel, chewing with his mouth open, then swallowing the last of his fish with an audible gulp. “You’ll want to do a bit of shopping, I imagine-if the shops are open again-and the slave can carry your purchases.”

I nodded, thinking that any money I spent would more likely be on Bethesda than on myself, and that she would probably wear any such purchase rather than carry it. As she re-emerged on the rooftop bearing a tray of fresh delicacies, I noticed, not for the first time, how even the smallest adornments to her beauty gave pleasure to my eyes-the ivory pin in her lustrous black hair, the simple wooden bracelet on her wrist, and the copper brooch that decorated her green dress, a garment I had recently bought for her to celebrate my twenty-second birthday.

“Very well, then,” I said. “Tomorrow, first thing, I’ll head into Alexandria, and take Bethesda with me.”

She raised her eyebrows at this information, then looked over her shoulder, toward the city, turning her body in such a way that the sinuous line running over one hip and up to her breast took my breath away. The eunuchs paid her no attention at all.

* * *

In the end it was decided that I should drive a donkey cart into the city, since the eunuchs kept thinking of various provisions they wanted me to buy, provided that such were available, “and not too outrageously expensive!” as Berynus cautioned. The eunuchs had retired with considerable wealth, but wartime prices threatened to make beggars even of rich men. How wise it seemed in retrospect that they had retired to the fishing village. For food, one could practically pluck fish from the sea. For entertainment, the setting sun and the sound of waves lapping the shore provided a spectacle that cost nothing, and that never grew stale.

There was no way of knowing what we might encounter in the city, so it seemed a good idea to make ourselves as inconspicuous as possible. I wore a faded tunic with a few tears that needed mending. Bethesda wore a modest, loose-fitting garment that did more to hide her beauty than to show it off.

The coast road was much traveled and well maintained. The two donkeys made good time, and we arrived at the city’s western gate well before noon. The document attesting our affiliation with the eunuchs got us through the gates with no problem-the seals of Kettel and Berynus still carried weight, despite the fact that they had served under the deposed king. Inside the walls, the city was more orderly than I had expected. The new king’s men were out in force, patrolling the streets with swords sheathed but with wooden cudgels in hand, and no one seemed in a mood to challenge them.

We headed down the broad avenue that runs the whole length of the city from west to east, lined with palm trees and decorated with statues and obelisks. In some areas I saw the results of riots and street fights-damaged buildings with broken doors and shutters hanging askew, dry fountains littered with rubbish and debris, and even whole blocks that had been gutted by fire-but many of the neighborhoods seemed to have returned to normal, with open storefronts and street merchants hawking their wares.

At one of the grand intersections along the way we turned left, toward the waterfront, and took the quickest and most direct route to the offices of the banker who sometimes held money for me and also received any letters that arrived in Alexandria addressed to me.