Steven Saylor - Wrath of the Furies

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.

[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.

“Surely a man must be with Mithridates and against Rome, or vice versa.”

He turned so that the light revealed his face. He looked neither calculating nor exasperated, but only rather weary. “In the first place, Gordianus, the war perpetrated by Manius Aquillius was illegal and without the authorization of the Roman Senate. A true patriot would oppose such a war; had I been in Rome, I would have spoken out against it. But once hostilities commenced, as a Roman, even a Roman in exile, I could not favor the king’s cause over Rome. I did not take up arms or involve myself in espionage for either side. Then I found myself in territory captured by Mithridates. I hoped the king would overlook me, that I would be of no interest to him. But no, the king knew exactly who and where I was, and summoned me to his presence. Perhaps, Gordianus, you’ve heard about the punishment inflicted by the king on Manius Aquillius, another Roman of consular rank? Yes, by your face I see you have. I feared that a similar fate awaited me. As a Stoic, I prepared myself for death-and a most unseemly death at that.