Steven Saylor - Wrath of the Furies

“Perhaps I should speak,” said Samson, “since it was I who brought us all together. And I’m the only one here who knows the true name of everyone in the room.”

The six of us stood roughly in a circle. I looked from face to face, beginning with Samson to my left hand, and then to Zeuxidemus, who stood closest to the door, then to the newcomers Antipater and the Great Megabyzus, and finally to Rutilius.

The Great Megabyzus flashed a wry smile. “Even I have a name. I suppose, in these circumstance, I might as well use it. When I take off my robes and headdress, my family and friends call me Kysanias.”

Samson gave Kysanias a respectful nod. “Except for me, every man here, in one role or another, will take part in the sacrifice at the Grove of the Furies-yes, let’s use their true name, and no more talk of ‘Kindly Ones.’ This long-delayed sacrifice will take place…?”

“Tomorrow night, an hour after sundown,” said Kysanias.

Samson nodded. “If the sacrifice goes well, then the massacre of the Romans will follow very soon thereafter. We assume that the date for the massacre has already been set, since such a thing must necessarily require a great deal of planning. No one in this room knows the exact date-not even Kysanias-but we know it must be very soon. Therefore-”

Antipater cleared his throat. In a thin, rasping voice, he said, “I believe that I know the date.”

I was so pleased to hear him speak that I hardly heard what he said. The sound of his voice made me smile. Antipater possessed a highly trained voice, as skilled as that of any orator or actor, capable of many inflections, for a great poet must be able to speak in the voice of a young girl or an old crone or a heroic warrior, or even a god, and no poet was a more versatile reciter than Antipater. Yet, ironically, his own voice, his normal speaking voice, was rather high and not entirely pleasing to the ear. Still, just to hear it made my heart beat faster. No matter how strange the circumstances, I was at last gazing at Antipater in the flesh and could see that he was indeed alive, if not looking as well as I had hoped. Was it the harsh light of the lamps, casting shadows across his furrowed face, that made him look so haggard?

It was only from the startled reactions of all the others that I realized what Antipater had just said. I stared at him as I spoke. “Teacher, is this true? You know the date of the massacre?”

He stared back at me. Surrounded by the others, we could hardly react to the sight of each other in a normal way, and certainly could not say all that needed to be said. When Antipater spoke, I felt like laughing and crying at once, for here was the eloquent poet, never at a loss for words, seeming to stumble over every sentence.

“It was in the house of Eutropius … I’ve been staying there … instead of the palace-but the king would visit … talk of the killings to come … and Eutropius was given a part to play, you see, whether he liked it or not … one of the few men in all of Ephesus to be told … and now this awful news about that poor slave girl from his house! How many times did Freny wait upon me, and how many times did I look at her beaming young face and take heart, despite my troubles? But never mind that-yes, I know the date, for I happened to overhear it-oh! I have hardly been able to sleep since then…”

Rutilius shuddered with frustration. “Who is this jabbering fellow?”

“To the royal court,” said Samson, “he was introduced as Zoticus of Zeugma, a little-known poet and retired tutor.”

“Yes, yes,” said the consul, “I’ve seen him across the room at royal banquets, but who is he, and why is he here?” Zeuxidemus and Kysanias also looked interested in hearing the answer.

Samson looked to me and cocked an eyebrow.

I cleared my throat. “This man … this man was my tutor when I was a boy, back in Rome. I was very lucky to receive instruction from him. My father could never have afforded to pay his usual fees. There was some bond of friendship between the two of them … and a bond also grew between us, between pupil and teacher. So strong a bond that when he did a most unusual thing, and pretended to be dead-being so bold as to attend his own funeral!-I went along with the deception, and so did my father. That is how he came to take the name Zoticus of Zeugma.”

“So this is the man with whom you saw the Seven Wonders?” asked Rutilius.

“Yes. We traveled many miles, across seas and forests and deserts, and saw many things. We met many people. But while I was distracted by beauty and pleasure, Zoticus … Zoticus was up to something else. He was acting as a messenger and spy for King Mithridates. And I never knew-until we parted ways in Alexandria. That was three years ago. Not a word did I hear from him, or about him, after that-no letter, no news. Until just a few days ago, when a document arrived in Alexandria addressed to me. A piece of parchment taken from some larger document-an excerpt from a sort of diary, perhaps.…”

Antipater made a fist and put it to his mouth. “The missing page!” he said. “It was sent to you! But by whom? And how did they know where to reach you? Oh, dear-the letter I kept writing and never sending, addressed to you. They must have copied your name and the banker’s address from that.” He seemed on the verge of tears.

“We have strayed from the purpose of this meeting,” said Kysanias. “And we have very little time. Tell us at once, young Roman: Who is this man?”

I drew back my shoulders. I stood with my chin up and my arms bent in a particular way, assuming the posture learned by every young Roman when he becomes a man. I felt almost as if I wore a toga, for the weight and the folds of the garment become second nature to those who are taught to take the stance of a dignified Roman citizen. “This man, whom I was proud to call my tutor and traveling companion, is better known to most of the world-the parts of the world that speak Greek, anyway-as the greatest of all living poets. Surely you know his name, Consul.”

Rutilius looked confounded. “But … no!” He shook his head and stared at Antipater, who seemed to shrink under such intense scrutiny. “I knew the man by reputation, of course, but I never met him. When he died, I was too busy preparing for my trial to attend the funeral, though everyone else did. You can’t mean to say…”

Zeuxidemus stood back a bit from Antipater, gazing at him with a mixture of curiosity and wonder. “Do you mean to say that in our midst, all this time, without anyone knowing-”

“The king knows who I am,” said Antipater. “So does the queen-or she knows my name, anyway. About poetry I suspect she knows very little.”

“Yes,” I said, answering Zeuxidemus. “This man is Antipater of Sidon.”

Though they had already guessed, still I heard small gasps from the consul and the two priests. Such is the power of fame. Antipater seemed to grow a bit-especially when, under his breath, Zeuxidemus recited the famous line, “‘But the house of Artemis at Ephesus, of all the Wonders Seven.…’”

“What an unlikely group this is,” said Kysanias. “A Roman consul in exile … a Jewish envoy from Alexandria … a young Roman pretending to be a mute Egyptian … two priests of Artemis … and-of all people, living or dead!-Antipater of Sidon. But I take it we are all desirous of the same end: to somehow avert the mass slaughter of the Romans. Agreed?”

Kysanias looked at each of us in turn. Each of us nodded, and said aloud, “Agreed.”

I added, “And I would prevent the death of Freny-if I could.…”

“As would I,” said Kysanias, very quietly. “To stop the massacre, once it commences, will be impossible. So many people are already so eager to do away with the Romans, it will take very little to set them into action, and once that’s done, there will be no stopping them.”