The Seven Wonders: A Novel of the Ancient World (Novels of Ancient Rome) (12 page)

Antipater’s indigestion lingered for several days, but he gradually recuperated. He was at last feeling fit again on the day when Bitto was to hold one of her parties.

“Have you had a change of heart, cousin?” she asked, in between ordering her slaves to get this and that ready for her guests. “Will Zoticus of Zeugma be attending as an honored guest?”

“Alas, Bitto, your food does not agree with me, and I fear that your guests and their conversation would give me indigestion as well. I shall spend the evening with Herodotus, if you don’t mind.”

“And what about you, Gordianus?”

Both of them looked at me, and both raised an eyebrow.

“I think I
will
attend the party, if I may.”

Antipater pursed his lips but said nothing. Bitto looked pleased.

*   *   *

The first guests to arrive that evening were the other hetaerae. There were five of them. As each arrived, Bitto introduced me. Three were of foreign birth, with exotic accents. The other two were widows. They were all younger than Bitto but there was not a tittering girl among them; these were women of the world, poised and self-assured. Physically, each filled a particular niche; one was a voluptuous blond, another a slender redhead, and so on. Their gowns were tucked and belted to accentuate their assets, but were not unduly revealing. Bitto’s garment was the most daring; this was the first time I had ever seen the sheer fabric called the silk of Cos. Its green matched her eyes; its translucent shimmer gave the illusion that she was clothed in nothing but a rippling sheet of water that somehow clung to her flesh.

As the hetaerae settled themselves and the serving slaves made final preparations, Bitto drew me aside. “The men will be arriving soon,” she said. “Before they get here, perhaps you’d like to choose your partner for the evening.”

“My partner?”

“For later.”

“Ah,” I said softly.

“Is there one you like more than the others? Have another look.”

I didn’t even glance at the others, but gazed steadily into Bitto’s green eyes. “I think you know my choice,” I said.

She smiled and gave me a kiss so delicate I hardly felt it, like a warm breeze brushing my lips.

The five men whom Bitto entertained that night were impeccably groomed and well-dressed, wearing colorful Roman-style tunics and expensive-looking shoes. They were all well spoken, and there were a couple whom even Antipater would have considered witty. The conversation ranged from politics (cautious observations on the looming conflict between Rome and King Mithridates of Pontus), to business (the effect such a war would have on trade), to art (the revival of Euripides’
Phaëton
at a recent festival, which all agreed had been a triumph). The food was excellent. The wine flowed steadily but was mixed with water, so that no one became too quickly inebriated.

After the meal, there was entertainment. One of the girls played the lyre while another sang. Both were accomplished performers. Then, while the other women shook rattles and tambourines, Bitto danced.

Watching her, I thought of one of Antipater’s poems, about a famous courtesan of Corinth who moved to Rome to ply her trade:

Melting eyes cast glances softer than sleep.

Arms undulate like water from the deep.

Her body when she dances seems boneless,

As soft and pliant as cream cheese.

Now she crosses to Italy, where the Romans she will tease

To lay down arms, their warlike ways to cease.

Bitto was certainly capable of making
this
Roman lay down his arms, I thought, unable to take my eyes off her.

When the dance was over, Bitto joined me on my dining couch. She was flushed from the exertion; I felt the radiant warmth of her body next to mine. Errant thoughts distracted me, and only gradually did I realize the conversation had drifted to the subject of Bitto’s neighbors.

“We saw them just a few days ago, out on their balcony,” Bitto was saying. “Tryphosa was reading aloud to her daughter-in-law—”

“This scandal has gone on long enough!” declared one of the men, who was younger and more hotheaded than the others.

“But what can be done?” said another, whose few remaining strands of hair were carefully arranged and plastered down on his bald crown. “We all know what must have happened in that house—the poor young man was strangled in his sleep, or more likely poisoned—but we have no evidence.”

“Even so, something should be done,” declared the hothead. “Indeed, I make a pledge here and now that I
shall
do something about it.”

“But what?” said Bitto.

“Surely a male relative can be found somewhere—if not in Halicarnassus, then abroad—to lay claim to the estate and put these dangerous women in their place. And if not, then the city magistrates need to take action. If an accusation is officially registered, the magistrates can seize and interrogate the household slaves. Slaves always know the dirt.”

The bald man shook his head. “But slaves can be very loyal—”

“Not when questioned under torture. Give me an hour with those slaves and I’ll get at least one of them to confess what he knows about the crimes of his mistresses. And once one slave confesses, the others will follow suit, and then we can bring down the wrath of the law on these deadly widows!”

Alarmed by the man’s vitriol, I glanced at Bitto, who flashed an indulgent smile and deftly redirected the conversation to a less volatile subject. Probably the fellow was all hot air and no flame, I thought, but the idea of slaves being tortured and the young widow from Commagene becoming the target of so much hostility made me uneasy. I found myself wishing that Antipater were present; Antipater would have put the hothead in his place. But if Antipater had been in the room, I would not have had the courage to press my thigh alongside that of Bitto, who gently pressed back.

I drank more wine, and soon had difficulty remembering what had made me uneasy, especially when Bitto whispered in my ear that the time had come for the two of us to retire to a private room.

*   *   *

Life at Bitto’s house was rather like a dream. The spring weather could not have been more perfect. Antipater seemed quite content to immerse himself day and night in the volumes of the library. As for Bitto and myself, we, too, found ways to amuse ourselves. Indeed, I was surprised that so many ways existed, and that Bitto seemed to know them all.

One evening, as night fell, the three of us—Antipater, Bitto, and I—made ready to head out across the city to have a look at the Temple of Aphrodite and Hermes, and to attend the annual ritual at the spring of Salmacis.

Just before we left, I stepped onto the balcony, and for only the second time since our arrival, I caught a glimpse of the young widow from Commagene. Veiled and dressed in black, Corinna sat on her balcony and gazed at the sunset. She must have felt my eyes on her, for suddenly she looked up at me. Again I saw her bright blue eyes, and again I wondered if I detected something strange in them, or if that idea had been planted in my mind by Bitto’s suspicions.

A team of bearers carried us in a single large litter across the city. While Antipater gazed at the Mausoleum, which was in shadow on one side and ablaze with the glow of sunset on the other, I turned to Bitto. “Do you think that fellow at your party was serious about making an official accusation against your neighbors?”

“What fellow?”

“The hothead.”

“Ah, Straton! He often blusters like that. But he’s not afraid to take legal action. He’s always dragging others into court. A very litigious fellow! I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he makes good on his promise, if only to impress me.”

“And would you be impressed, if he succeeds in punishing the widows?”

Bitto frowned. “I’m not sure. If only we knew the truth about those two, and what happened to Timon.”

Antipater, who had not been listening, suddenly spoke up. “The spring of Salmacis! I haven’t been there since my first visit to Halicarnassus, many years ago—you were only a child then, Bitto. But one never forgets the story of the nymph Salmacis. Do you know it, Gordianus?”

“No. Tell me, please.”

“Ah, what a poem it would make! Once upon a time, long before there was a city here, the nymph Salmacis dwelled in the grotto that contains the sacred spring that bears her name. One day, a beautiful youth happened by. Since it was a hot day, he stripped off his clothing and made ready to take a dip in the spring. Salmacis, gazing up at him from the bottom of the pool, was overcome with desire—for the youth was no mere mortal, but the child of two gods, Hermes and Aphrodite. His name combined those of his parents: Hermaphroditus.

“Salmacis suddenly emerged from the water, giving the boy a start. She at once began speaking words of love, and reached out to caress him. But Hermaphroditus was only fifteen, and not ready for love, and he found the frantic, wet kisses of the nymph repellent. He dove into the water to escape her, not realizing that in the spring lay her power. She dove in after him. Making herself as supple as seaweed, she wrapped herself around him, entangling his limbs with hers. Try as he might, there was no escape.”

“She drowned him?” I said.

“If only she had!” said Antipater. “Since he would not yield to her, and since she could not stand to be parted from him, she cried out to the gods to join his body with hers, to graft them together as two branches may be grafted, merging two living things into one. The gods answered her prayer. When the son of Hermes and Aphrodite emerged from the pool of Salmacis he was no longer a young man, but a creature of both sexes. And from that day forward, the pool of Salmacis has this special property: any man who drinks from it or swims in it becomes partly female.”

“If that’s true, surely no man goes near the spring!” I said, laughing a bit nervously at the very thought.

“You might be surprised,” said Bitto. “There are some who would like to change their sex. They come to the spring of Salmacis seeking such a favor from the gods. Do you disbelieve the story, Gordianus?”

“Well…”

“Wait until you’ve seen the ritual.”

Night had fallen by the time we joined a gathering of a hundred or so people in the Temple of Aphrodite and Hermes. Incense was burned on altars. Prayers were chanted to the god and goddess and also to their son. Then the worshippers, most of them women, filed out of the temple.

We followed a winding path through a grove of ancient trees and entered a cavernous recess. Water seeped from the mossy walls that encircled a pool perhaps twenty feet wide and twice that long. The shadowy space was dimly lit by lamps hung from hooks driven into the grotto walls. Points of flame danced on the water. The only sounds were the hushed murmur of the crowd and the quiet splash of water dripping into the pool.

The priests stepped to the edge of the pool. With them was a boy with shoulder-length black hair who wore only a loose robe. While the priests chanted, the boy shrugged the robe from his shoulders and slowly turned about, so that everyone could see him naked. He was still a child and did not yet have a man’s hair on his body.

The boy stepped into the pool. The chanting grew louder as the priests called upon Salmacis to show her power. As the boy strode forward, his back to us, the water rose to his knees, then to his hips, then to his chest. He never broke stride, but kept walking until the water closed over his head. For a long moment there was no sign of him, not even bubbles on the surface of the water, and then he suddenly reemerged, continuing to stride away from us. First we saw his black hair, shimmering and wet, then his shoulders and back, then his buttocks and legs. He emerged from the pool at the far side, and slowly turned to face the crowd.

Some gasped. Other cried out with joy. By the flickering light of the lamps, we saw the power of Salmacis made manifest. The naked boy who entered the pool had emerged from it as a girl.

“Impossible!” I whispered, but beside me Bitto joined the others in singing what I took to be a traditional song performed every year at the ritual, praising the awesome power of the gods to change the unchangeable.

I looked over my shoulder at the crowd. Lamplight flickered across their joyous faces. For a moment, I thought I saw the young widow from Commagene, but the light was uncertain, and the ritual had left me afraid to trust my own eyes.

The priests announced that any who wished to drink from the spring or enter the pool should remain, but that all others must leave. I was not sorry to leave that dark, dank, mysterious place.

*   *   *

“Twins!” I said to Antipater, as we sat on the balcony the next day. “They do it using twins!”

Antipater frowned. “Are you still going on about the ritual? What we witnessed was a divine transformation, Gordianus, not a mime show. It’s a wonder to be marveled at, not a puzzle to be figured out.”

I rose from my chair and began to pace. “The grotto has all sorts of recesses and fissures; there must be a chamber under the water, large enough to contain the girl, with enough air for her to breath. One twin enters the pool, takes the place of his sister in the underwater cave, and the other twin emerges.”

“Gordianus, do you really imagine there’s such an abundance of twins that the priests can come up with a new pair every year, never before seen by the worshippers? Besides, boy and girl twins are never identical.”

I frowned. “I suppose they don’t have to be twins. They merely have to look alike—the same size, the same hair. It’s awfully dim in that cave, and the firelight plays tricks with your eyes, and the far side of the pool isn’t that close—”

“Do be quiet, Gordianus. I’m trying to compose a poem.” Antipater closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun.

“What makes the females of Halicarnassus so possessive?

To drink a husband’s ashes is surely obsessive.

To emasculate a god, as did Salmacis,

Joining her sex with his … joining her sex … with his…”