Steven Saylor - Wrath of the Furies

Oh, how I miss that youth! How clearly I can picture him in my mind. Of course, months and years have passed, and Gordianus is not quite so young now as he was when I last saw him. He is at that age when a youth truly matures into a man. He will look older now. He will have learned a great deal, living by his wits in Alexandria-if indeed he’s still there, and hasn’t returned to his father in Rome. Or could some terrible fate have befallen him? One hears about the civil war in Egypt, and dreadful riots in the capital. People die in such circumstances, even fleet-footed, quick-witted young fellows like Gordianus. Especially such a fellow, if he makes the mistake of poking his nose where it doesn’t belong!

But my thoughts are rambling. It’s because I miss him, I suppose. Because I wish we could have parted on better terms, in happier circumstances-

I have just now checked to see that my letter to Gordianus is still where it should be, and, thank Artemis, it is. At least no one has taken that!

(Or letter-in-progress, I suppose I should call it, since I can’t seem to finish it and send it to him. I write one draft of the letter, then read it the next day and decide to burn it-but before doing so, I carefully copy the name and the street of the banking house where Gordianus arranged to receive letters in Alexandria, then I start the letter again. Even if I were to finish it and post it, I have no idea whether Gordianus would receive it or not. Is he still in Alexandria? Does the banking house still exist? For all I know, it might have been burned to the ground as the result of some riot.)

So much uncertainty surrounds every thought. It seems to me the world is like an ocean arrayed with endless whirlpools; escape the pull of one, and you’ll only find yourself sucked into another. Over our destinies we have no control whatsoever. But if the Fates control every decision made by every mortal everywhere, then what difference does it make whether Rome rules the world or Mithridates does so? Or rather, what difference does it make whether I think that one is good and the other bad?

Now that is most definitely a treasonous statement.

(Another reason I have never finished or sent that letter to Gordianus: it would surely get me into trouble with either the Romans or Mithridates or with both, should someone intercept it.)

But now I will write what I want, for I have taken all my pieces of parchment and my writing tools and what few of my personal belongings I could carry, and I have departed from the house of Eutropius. I think I managed to do so without either of the two treacherous “servants” taking notice-the wily Zoticus is not out of tricks yet!-so I have successfully escaped to the house of another old friend and associate, whose name I shall not mention, lest I get him into trouble should this document fall into the wrong hands. This place is a more humble abode, not as comfortable as the house of Eutropius, but here I feel free of the constant possibility of discovery and exposure. Here, perhaps I can finish my letter to Gordianus, and be done with this rambling confession, if in fact that is what I am writing.

The massacre of the Romans is imminent. A few days ago, the king paid a call on Eutropius, and I overheard His Majesty pronounce the date for the event. (Was I spying on them? This vile habit of skulking and eavesdropping has become second nature to me.) The thing has been very long in the planning-imagine the logistics of killing every one of them all on the same day, in every city under his control. I think it is his wish that the murdering should be done not by soldiers or city guardsmen, or rather not only by them, but mostly by the ordinary people. A deliberate campaign of deriding and belittling the Romans has been going on, making them not only objects of fear and loathing, but also of ridicule. They have been set apart, not only by having been driven from their homes and forced to seek sanctuary, but by such measures as the decree that they must wear the toga-ostensibly so that decent folk can see these thieves and rapists coming and protect themselves.

To set the slaughter in motion everywhere at once, there must be a chain of command running all the way from the king down to important men in each city, like Eutropius, and then down to neighborhood ringleaders and rabble-rousers who can be relied upon, at the appointed hour, to incite everyone around them to pick up stones and cudgels and knives and set about the bloody work.

My blood runs cold at the thought of it. How I dread the coming of that day!

But first, the king must placate the Furies. If that ritual is to take place before the massacre, it must be very soon-

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

“We should go back now. Especially if you want to get any sleep tonight.”

Sleep was far from my thoughts, though as soon as Samson mentioned it I felt a great weariness descend on me. It was not the weariness of spent muscles but of spent emotions. I had been made to feel more than enough for one day-beginning with the sight of that poor Roman begging for food and being driven from the city, to the sacrifice to Artemis, through my long day inside the temple, to my reunion with Amestris-which by itself would have unsettled my emotions quite enough-and then to the terrible moment when we all watched, helpless, as lovely little Freny was led away, destined for slaughter.

After the queen’s departure, Amestris and her mistress rejoined me in Anthea’s room upstairs. The two women were so distraught they could hardly speak. I would have held Amestris had she indicated any inclination to allow it, but the two women seemed entirely occupied in hugging and comforting each other, so I stood by and watched them, as mute as the man I pretended to be, unable to think of anything I could do or say that would bring consolation.

There was a knock at the door. It was Samson. I let him in and told the women what I had told the doorkeeper, that he was my hired bodyguard. It seemed simpler than explaining the complicated truth.

“How did you find your way to this room?” I asked him.

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t seen by the queen and her party-I kept well out of sight. But once they departed I decided to find you as quickly as possible. A small bribe to the doorkeeper brought me here.”

Anthea looked up from her huddled embrace with Amestris. “A bribe?” she said, stifling her sobs.

“By the prophets, I’ve spoken out of turn,” said Samson, looking sincerely abashed. “Now I’ve gotten the fellow into trouble.”

“Why do you care?” I said, and rather harshly, venting my frustrations on him.

“It’s a kind of betrayal,” he said. “A bribe is a bond that works both ways, and unthinkingly I broke that bond just now. Do you not see that, Gordianus?” He shook his head. “You do indeed have much to learn about being a-”

“You are about to speak out of turn again … bodyguard!”

He shut his mouth and cast a glance at the women, looking even more abashed. The long day was beginning to wear on him, too, making him careless.

“But Samson is right about one thing,” I said. “I have to leave now.” How I had rather stay, and spend the night with you, Amestris!, I thought, but the Fates, or Artemis, or some other force-the dreaded Furies?-had decided that such a reunion was not to be.

“But Gordianus, where are you staying?” said Anthea. “You belong here, with us. You haven’t even seen Father yet-”

“Nor should I, I think. Please don’t tell him I was here.” Even as I said the words, I realized how presumptuous they were. What right had I to ask Anthea to conceal something from her father? “I came seeking Antipater, and Antipater isn’t here. So on that count, I’ve failed.”