Steven Saylor - Wrath of the Furies

I woke with a start.

The sun was up. Bethesda sat in a chair across the room, dressed in the yellow tunic I had worn the day before. The color flattered her smooth, dark skin and long black hair. She was gnawing at a piece of bread.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. “This morning they brought us food.” She gestured to the small table beside her, where a tray was heaped with bread, fruits, and nuts. “You’re not to leave the room. There’s a man outside to make sure you don’t. He says they’ll bring more food later, though it seems to me there’s plenty here already. Then, in the late afternoon, they’ll come for you. To take part in this ritual, I gather. They won’t let me go with you. I’ll have to stay here.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but she put a finger to her lips, then gestured to the door, indicating that the guard might overhear. She rose from the chair and came to the bed, then put her ear to my lips.

In a whisper, I told her what had happened the night before, and what I hoped would happen that night. She didn’t interrupt me, but occasionally she pulled back and gave me a skeptical look, or made some scoffing noise. Were our plans really so full of holes that an Alexandrian slave girl could see through them? It occurred to me that the six of us crammed together in that stifling storage room had descended into a kind of mutual madness, and the scheme we had concocted was not just deranged but doomed.

By the harsh light of day, were the others all coming to the same conclusion? But there was no way we could meet again before the time for the sacrifice arrived. There could be no more revising or rehearsing. I saw no choice but to go through with what we had planned. Either that, or let the sacrifice take place as Mithridates intended, watch Freny die, and leave the Romans of Ephesus to their fate.

“Once it’s all over,” I whispered, “and as soon as it’s safe to do so, Samson will bring you to me.” That was the plan. But what if everything went wrong? “If that’s not possible … for some reason … then you’re to go with Samson anyway. He promises to keep you safe.”

“I’m to be his slave?” Her voice rose sharply. She caught herself, looked toward the door, and clamped her mouth shut.

“Absolutely not!” I whispered. The idea made my face hot. “But you may have to pretend to be his slave, or his wife, or whatever, in order to get away from Ephesus. Once you’re back in Alexandria, he’s to take you to Berynus and Kettel. They’ll know what to do.”

“Then I’m to be the slave of the two eunuchs?” Her voice rose again.

In fact, as I had told Berynus and Kettel before I set out, with the banker who handled my money and my mail I had left a document with instructions that Bethesda was to be manumitted after my death, and to inherit whatever money I had stored up. Could she make a life for herself as a free woman in Alexandria, without resorting to crime or prostitution? Perhaps, especially if she could find the right man to marry her. I didn’t like to think about that, and I saw no need for her to do so, either. I wasn’t going to die, was I?

I whispered the words aloud to her. “I’m not going to die, am I? So you need not worry about becoming someone else’s slave. I’m only saying that if … if Samson is not able to bring you to me … then you’re to go with him, and do as he says.”

“You trust Samson, then?”

“Yes. I think so,” I whispered, thought it still seemed that more about Samson had been kept hidden from me than had been revealed.

She sighed, and with a faraway look on her face she muttered, “I suppose there could be worse men to become my new master.…”

Did she like the idea of becoming Samson’s slave? My face grew hot again. No, she was only teasing me. Yes, that must be it, I told myself.

[From the secret diary of Antipater of Sidon:]

What a relief it is, to be back in the palace, staying with the royal household. No sooner had I stepped foot inside than I felt a great weight drop away from me. I was like a lost sheep returned to the fold - yes, exactly so, and if I am a sheep, then Mithridates is the shepherd. Of all the mortals of his generation, what better shepherd has appeared to lead mankind? (Note: remember this metaphor as material for a possible poem-the king as shepherd, the poet as wandering lamb.)

I admit that I have been torn by doubts since joining the royal household. I was shocked by the execution of Manius Aquillius. I chafed against the king’s insistence that I remain Zoticus of Zeugma. I was suspicious and fearful of his beautiful queen. But now I see the light of his wisdom. Like a lighthouse, the King of Kings towers above the rest of us, not only illuminating our way, but also able to see much farther than the rest of us. We must learn to trust his wisdom, even when we are too shortsighted to discern the path he sees ahead. (Yet another metaphor worthy to be worked up in verse! “How like the Pharos is the King of Kings, towering high above us.…”)

How I look forward to taking part in tonight’s ritual! What an honor it was for me to have been chosen by the king! And after that, very soon, we shall see the last of the Romans in our midst. Then the king will be free to carry the war to the enemy …

But now I must rest, and ready myself to play my part in tonight’s events.

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

I spent much of that day sleeping. I badly needed the rest, having had so little the night before.

Late in the afternoon, the chamberlain came for me. “Wear whatever you like,” he said. “You’ll be properly dressed for the ritual after the bath.”

“Bath?” asked Bethesda, reading the quizzical look on my face.

“Of course you must be cleansed before the ritual. There are boys who will bathe you. Unless your slave usually bathes you? In that case, you may bring her along. But she can’t wear that yellow tunic. It wouldn’t be proper.”

The two of us dressed in the clothes in which we had arrived, then followed the chamberlain to a small, beautifully tiled room, all in shades of dark green and blue. If I had been expecting a proper Roman-style bath-something I had not had in days, and had begun to crave-I was to be disappointed. Here there were no pools in which a man could submerge himself, but instead only a simple drain in the floor, tiled benches along the walls, strigils of various shapes, flasks of aromatic oils, several pitchers of water of various temperatures, and cloths for drying myself. After we were left alone, I stripped, allowed Bethesda to apply the oils to every part of me, then stood while she scraped the oil off using whichever strigil had a blade best shaped for that part of my body.

Since we had been left alone, and there was plenty of oil and water, I did the same for Bethesda. I realized I had never bathed her in such a way, paying such close attention to every part of her. The act was erotic, to be sure, but also strangely calming, and somehow somber, since this might be the act that marked our final moments together. If so, the Fates were kind to allow this last act to be so intimate, and of mutual service to each other. I dared not speak, lest someone overhear, but no words were needed. I had never felt closer to her.

Once cleansed, we rinsed each other first with warm water, then with cold. Enough of the oil clung to the skin to leave us supple and gleaming and lightly perfumed. As I gazed at Bethesda, who stood before me wearing nothing, I wondered how I could ever have confused her in my dreams with Amestris, or with any other woman, since Bethesda was the most beautiful of all. I should have liked to simply stand there, staring at her, but she quickly dressed, not wanting the chamberlain to come upon her while she was naked.