Steven Saylor - Wrath of the Furies

Zeuxidemus fitted his torch into a sconce by the doorway. He removed his headdress and placed it on a table next to the statue’s pedestal. I had to smile at the state of his chestnut-colored hair, all mussed and tangled and sweaty-“headdress hair,” my father had once called it, noting that the authority imbued on its wearer by an ornamental helmet or headdress was inversely proportional to the look of dishevelment revealed when the headdress comes off. Such was the case with Zeuxidemus.

On the same table where he placed his headdress sat a silver pitcher and two silver cups. With his back to me, he poured a cup of wine for each of us, then stepped to one side and invited me to join him.

I was not so unnerved by the presence of the goddess, nor so amused by the state of the young Megabyzoi’s hair, that I forgot something else my father had said: When you are offered one cup, take the other. This may seem the stuff of Roman comedy-the poisoned cup and the switching thereof-but the lesson holds, nonetheless. Proof of its wisdom came in that high room, with the goddess looking on.

When I joined him at the small table, Zeuxidemus handed me one of the cups. Pretending to hear some alarming noise from outside, I put the cup down and stepped toward the round window. Just as I had intended, the young priest followed me. We stood beside the goddess for a moment, staying back from the opening so that we should not be easily seen, standing on tiptoes to peer out at the restless crowd that continued to mill about the altar, even though darkness had fallen.

“What did you hear?” asked Zeuxidemus.

I bit my lip and feigned concern, then finally shrugged and shook my head. I returned to the table. Zeuxidemus did not follow at once, but lingered for a moment at the window, peering out and wondering what I might have heard. When he joined me at the table, the pitcher and the cups were just where we had left them-or so it appeared. I picked up the nearest cup-presumably the one I had recently put down-and politely waited for my host to pick up the other. As he did so, the faintest shadow of doubt creased his forehead. He scrutinized me for a moment, detected no guile on my face, and raised his cup.

“May Artemis bring you the gift you most desire. Happy dreams, Agathon of Alexandria.”

I nodded to acknowledge his blessing, and brought the cup to my lips. Zeuxidemus did likewise. We drank.

I had switched the cups, and Zeuxidemus was none the wiser. My pantomime had been flawless, and the switching of the cups had been executed quickly and without a sound. My father would have been proud of me.

The wine was much finer than the cheap stuff I was used to. The Megabyzoi owned their own vineyards-yet another source of revenue for the Temple of Artemis-and they reserved the very finest of their vintages for those who most deserved such pleasure, including themselves. After all the many smells I had endured that day, the bouquet of that wine was the best possible tonic. I would have been satisfied just to swirl it in the cup and relish the smell. But even finer than the bouquet was the taste, very refined and complex, quite unlike any other wine I had ever tasted. After I swallowed, almost at once I felt a sweet sense of euphoria. Had I been drugged, after all? No, it was only that I had eaten nothing for hours. My empty, growling stomach eagerly absorbed the wine, and almost at once I felt the glow of inebriation.

So did Zeuxidemus, apparently, for his cheeks turned red and the smile on his face was quite giddy. I decided he must be even younger than me, so boyish did he look with his hopelessly unruly hair. He put down his empty cup and reached for the pitcher.

“Shall we drink the rest? A pity I have no food to offer you. The wine is risky enough. If those Romans knew we had it, they’d break down the door and run up those stairs to take it.”

As he spoke, his speech became more and more slurred, until I could hardly understand him. He swayed a bit as he poured the wine, then offered the brimming cup to me.

I showed him that I already had a cup.

“But Agathon, you haven’t even finished yours! You must. Drink up! It’s very, very good for dreaming. They all say so … the next morning.”

He put down the brimming cup and staggered toward the pile of pillows at the feet of the goddess.

“I must lie down … for just a moment,” he said, clutching the pillows and closing his eyes.

He lay very still. His breathing grew slow and steady. He began to quietly snore.

I took a deep breath. I experienced an odd exhilaration. At first I attributed it to the wine, then realized that it was something else. For the first time in many days, I was alone -not by myself, strictly speaking, but with the only other person present completely unconscious. Alone! How luxurious that suddenly felt-to be unseen, unheard, unwatched by anyone. I could stop pretending to be something I was not. I could even speak out loud if I wanted to, and in Latin, not Greek. What would I have said?

I am not mute! I am not Agathon of Alexandria! I am Gordianus, a citizen of Rome, son of the Finder, pupil of Antipater of Sidon.…

I very nearly spoke these thoughts aloud, simply to hear my own voice, but something held me back.

I was not alone in that room.

Was it the presence of Artemis I felt? I thought not. Was it the presence of Zeuxidemus, now snoring more loudly than before? No.

Someone else was in the room.

The room was shaped like the pediment, with a high, pointed ceiling that tilted down to either side and ended in dark shadows. Stare as I might, I could see no one, but I became convinced that someone stood in the darkness at the far side of the room. In other circumstances I would have called out and told the other to show himself. But I dared not speak. I could only watch and wait. I held my breath, the better to listen. A hubbub came from the window, the sounds of the sleepless crowd outside-children crying, mothers shushing, men grumbling.

The torch in the sconce was burning low. It would not be long before it went out, and the room would be almost entirely dark, lit only in places by the faint starlight that came from the window. In such darkness, I would be at a great disadvantage-slightly drunk, unable to see, unsure just who or how many were in the room with me, afraid even to cry out. The wisest thing might be to grab the torch by the doorway and run down the steps, hoping that whoever stood in the shadows would not catch up with me, and that I would not trip and break my neck.

I drew a deep breath, stiffened my shoulders, and was about to bolt when a voice spoke from the shadows.

“That was clever of you, to switch the cups. Adroitly done. But you’re lucky the priest is so young and unsuspecting, or else he might have spotted the change, and switched them back.”

From the shadows, a figure stepped forward. The two of us stood staring at each other, until Samson laughed.

“Go ahead and speak, Gordianus. We’re perfectly alone up here-except for your friend Zeuxidemus, who’s won’t stop snoring until daybreak.”

I had to cough and clear my throat before I could speak. Even so, I sounded hoarse. “Then I was right, that he put something into my cup?”

“From where I was standing, I saw him do it. He produced a small bottle from his sleeve and poured the contents into the cup intended for you. But you shouldn’t take it personally. His intention was pious. He meant you no harm.”

“No harm? He tried to drug me!”

“It’s not a poison, merely a sleeping potion. So far as I’ve been able to determine, every pilgrim who’s privileged to sleep in this room, at the feet of that statue, is given the same potion. It produces a long, deep sleep-and dreams. There! Do you see how Zeuxidemus kicks his feet and whimpers? For all we know, he’s seeing Artemis at this very moment. If you’d drunk the potion, it would be you in dreamland, Gordianus, while the priest sat here sipping wine and watching over you. From the way he keeps whimpering, do you think he’s come upon Artemis naked, and she’s set the hounds of Actaeon after him?”