Wrath of the Furies (24 page)

I was
not
alone in that room.

Was it the presence of Artemis I felt? I thought not. Was it the presence of Zeuxidemus, now snoring more loudly than before? No.

Someone else was in the room.

The room was shaped like the pediment, with a high, pointed ceiling that tilted down to either side and ended in dark shadows. Stare as I might, I could see no one, but I became convinced that someone stood in the darkness at the far side of the room. In other circumstances I would have called out and told the other to show himself. But I dared not speak. I could only watch and wait. I held my breath, the better to listen. A hubbub came from the window, the sounds of the sleepless crowd outside—children crying, mothers shushing, men grumbling.

The torch in the sconce was burning low. It would not be long before it went out, and the room would be almost entirely dark, lit only in places by the faint starlight that came from the window. In such darkness, I would be at a great disadvantage—slightly drunk, unable to see, unsure just who or how many were in the room with me, afraid even to cry out. The wisest thing might be to grab the torch by the doorway and run down the steps, hoping that whoever stood in the shadows would not catch up with me, and that I would not trip and break my neck.

I drew a deep breath, stiffened my shoulders, and was about to bolt when a voice spoke from the shadows.

 

XX

“That was clever of you, to switch the cups. Adroitly done. But you're lucky the priest is so young and unsuspecting, or else he might have spotted the change, and switched them back.”

From the shadows, a figure stepped forward. The two of us stood staring at each other, until Samson laughed.

“Go ahead and speak, Gordianus. We're perfectly alone up here—except for your friend Zeuxidemus, who's won't stop snoring until daybreak.”

I had to cough and clear my throat before I could speak. Even so, I sounded hoarse. “Then I was right, that he put something into my cup?”

“From where I was standing, I saw him do it. He produced a small bottle from his sleeve and poured the contents into the cup intended for you. But you shouldn't take it personally. His intention was pious. He meant you no harm.”

“No harm? He tried to drug me!”

“It's not a poison, merely a sleeping potion. So far as I've been able to determine, every pilgrim who's privileged to sleep in this room, at the feet of that statue, is given the same potion. It produces a long, deep sleep—and dreams. There! Do you see how Zeuxidemus kicks his feet and whimpers? For all we know, he's seeing Artemis at this very moment. If you'd drunk the potion, it would be you in dreamland, Gordianus, while the priest sat here sipping wine and watching over you. From the way he keeps whimpering, do you think he's come upon Artemis naked, and she's set the hounds of Actaeon after him?”

“You seem to take this very lightly,” I said. “You might wish to adopt a more respectful tone.”

“Respectful?”

“Of the goddess.” I glanced up at the statue and lowered my voice. “She's standing right here!”

“I am a Jew, Gordianus. I don't worship Artemis.”

This struck me as a foolhardy thing to say, standing as we were in the heart of the goddess's sanctuary, in plain sight of the most revered image of Artemis in the world. “Do you think this statue is only a piece of wood, and no such goddess exists?”

“I didn't say that. But whether Artemis exists or not, my god does not allow me to worship her. Nor would I wish to.”

I shook my head. “What a peculiar religion, that instructs its adherent to
not
worship a goddess.”

“You don't know much about the Jews, do you, Gordianus?”

“There aren't very many of them in Rome.”

“But you've been living in Alexandria. There are an awful lot of us there.”

“Perhaps so, but for whatever reason, I've had few dealings with your people. Your ways are mysterious to me.”

“But isn't that slave of yours Jewish?”

“Now how could you know
that?
”

“I make it my business to know things that aren't my business.”

“Yes, Bethesda's mother was a Jew, but she died young. Bethesda was born a slave, and not in a Jewish household. She does remember some of the stories her mother told her when she was little.”

“Like the one about Samson the strongman?”

I frowned. “But what are you doing here, Samson?”

“Doesn't every visitor to Ephesus come to the Temple of Artemis?”

“I suspect that very few visitors find their way to this chamber.”

“True. I happened to know it was here from a previous visit, and also what it's used for—this rigmarole of seeking a dream-cure at the foot of the statue. I'm a bit of a snoop.”

“How is it that you found your way here today?”

“I didn't come here intending to see you, Gordianus. I arrived only an hour ago, on other business. But I was told about this morning's sacrifice, and when I saw you wandering about with the young priest, I figured you'd end up in this room come nightfall. So I snuck up here ahead of you and waited in the shadows.”

“But why?”

“Partly from curiosity. I've heard of this dream-cure and the sleeping potion used to bring it about, but I've never actually seen it done. I wondered if my informants were correct. And so they were. Now you're free to do whatever you wish until daybreak.”

“Zeuxidemus will sleep that long?”

“If my informants are correct.”

“And where would I go?”

“Didn't you come to Ephesus for a specific purpose? If Mithridates plans on holding you in the palace, under careful watch of the chamberlains, this may be your best chance—perhaps your only chance—to go look for that old tutor of yours. Shall we pay a visit to the house of Eutropius?”

My heart leaped. “But the city gates will have been closed at nightfall. How would we get in?”

“There are ways. But before we go, there's someone I want you to meet.”

“Here in the temple?”

“Yes. But once we leave this room, you're Agathon of Alexandria again, and mute. It's very likely there are spies planted among the refugees, so keep your mouth shut. Now follow me. I think this torch may last us just long enough to get down the stairs.”

I took a close look at Zeuxidemus, to make sure he slept. He no longer whimpered, but instead was smiling blissfully.

As Samson had predicted, the torch lasted just long enough to see us down the stairs, then burned to nothing. We emerged from the shadows of the hidden doorway into the grand interior, which was now dimly lit by a multitude of lamps hung from ornamental stands or set into the wall. The temple was even more crowded than before, for many of the sanctuary-seekers had come inside to sleep. Picking his way between the slumbering bodies on the floor, Samson led me across the temple to the Roman statue of Diana.

A man stood up as we approached. He was not young, to judge by the groans he made at unbending his limbs. He wore a filthy toga too big for his slender frame.

Without speaking, Samson led us to the narrow, secluded space between the statue's pedestal and the wall behind. “This is the young man I was telling you about,” said Samson, introducing me to the old man.

“And this,” he said, lowering his voice, “is Chaeremon of Nysa.”

So this was the father of the two brothers who were houseguests of Posidonius on Rhodes, the man who had stayed loyal to the Romans and as a result had been outlawed and hunted by Mithridates, with a bounty of forty talents for his capture. I wondered for a moment why he wore a toga, since he wasn't a Roman, then realized it must be a sort of disguise, making him indistinguishable from all the Romans around him. Even in this crowd there might be some who would turn him in for the reward. What an irony, I thought—that anyone in Ephesus should put on a toga to save himself.

“Here, both of you, step into the light, so that you can see each other's faces,” said Samson. “I'll do what I can to help you, Chaeremon, but if you shouldn't see me again, Agathon can be trusted.”

“Who did you say he was?” Chaeremon sounded weak and exhausted, and more than a little confused. Seeing his face more clearly, I realized that he was not so very old—perhaps no older than my father—but his graying hair and beard were unkempt and his face was lined with worry.

“He's called Agathon of Alexandria,” said Samson. “A mute who's come to the temple—”

“What good will a mute be to me?”

“This is ridiculous!” I whispered. Samson looked about uneasily, but seeing no one within earshot, he let me go on. “I'm not mute. My name is Gordianus. I'm Roman. And yes, if Samson isn't able to help, I'll do what I can for you,” I said, though I couldn't imagine what that would be.

“My sons, Pythion and Pythodorus—you saw them on Rhodes? They're well?”

“Yes. But they worry for you.”

“I think Agathon has said enough.” Samson gave me a sharp look. “I only wanted the two of you to meet and take a good look at each other. Now that's done, Agathon and I should be off.”

Samson took my arm and led me quickly away from the statue of Diana. “You have a great deal to learn, Agathon, about this business of spycraft. No, don't say a word!” he added, seeing the exasperation on my face.

I never wished to be a spy,
I wanted to say.
I only wanted to see Antipater again.
I kept my mouth shut and allowed him to lead me out of the temple and down the broad steps, threading our way between huddled bodies.

“We'll stay off the Sacred Way for as long as we can,” he said, and proceeded to cut a path across the open temple grounds. Here, too, there were many people about, standing or lying down, some in crudely made shelters and tents. The ground was mostly flat, but in some places uneven, so that we had to go slowly to avoid tripping.

Passing by one tent, I heard a commotion from inside.

“What's this? You have some bread! Where have you been hiding this?”

“Shut up! Do you want everyone—”

“He has bread! Do you hear? This good-for-nothing has been holding out on the rest of us!”

We hurried on. Eventually, the crowd grew thinner. At one point I almost stepped into a trench, but Samson caught my arm. I looked down at the long, black gash in the earth. At first I thought this must be the trench I had seen from the altar, then realized that it couldn't be, since that trench lay in the opposite direction. There seemed to have been a great deal of digging going on in the open fields surrounding the temple grounds.

We drew near the city walls, and finally stepped onto the paved surface of the Sacred Way. The gates were closed, as I had feared, but a small door, set into one of the massive ones and just large enough to admit a single traveler on foot, stood open, with a guard blocking the way. As we drew closer he ordered us to halt, then to step slowly into the circle of light cast by the lamp hung beside him.

“Just keep your mouth shut,” whispered Samson. “Stay behind, and follow when I tell you to.”

He exchanged a few words with the guard. I couldn't hear what they said. The guard stepped to one side. Samson gestured for me to follow him. As I passed through the doorway, the guard studiously looked the other way. I found myself in the square where I had earlier witnessed the incident of the begging Roman. The shops were all closed and the streets were deserted.

“You'll be wondering how I managed that,” said Samson. “I'll only tell you that it wasn't cheap. You can thank Gaius Cassius for providing us a generous allowance for such expenses.”

I would have been hard-pressed to find the house of Eutropius on my own, but Samson seemed to know the way, taking narrow, winding backstreets. At last I began to recognize landmarks from my previous visit, and then we stood before the house.

Samson stepped into the shadows and peered up and down the street. There was no one about. “This Eutropius,” he whispered, “is he likely to recognize you?”

“I should think so. I saved his daughter's life.”

“You exaggerate?”

“Almost never. In this case not at all.”

“Tell me more.”

“Perhaps another time.”

“Who else in the household will know you? Eutropius's wife?”

“Eutropius is a widower. Anthea is his only child.”

“And the servants?”

“At least one of them should remember me. Ah, sweet Amestris…”

“A Persian girl?”

“Handmaiden to Anthea, the daughter of Eutropius.”

“Whose life you saved?”

“Amestris played a part, as well.”

“You really must tell me the whole story sometime. But now to the business at hand. The kind of slave assigned to answer a wealthy man's door at night can sometimes be a bit difficult, unless he knows you, or you can convince him you have pressing business. If you were to speak, you'd be recognized at once as a Roman, and that might cause a stir.”

“Then I'll let you speak for me. You'll say that an old pupil has come to see Zoticus of Zeugma, a houseguest of his master.”

Samson nodded. “If pressed for details, we'll pretend I'm your bodyguard, and traveled with you from Alexandria. The last part is true.”

“But not the first.”

“Do I not look the part?” Samson flexed his biceps. Like most men with large arms, Samson enjoyed showing them off.

There was an iron knocker on the door, shaped like a fish. Samson let it drop a couple of times, and in short order a peephole slid open. It was too dark to see the eyes that must have peered out, but the voice was that of a grown man.

“State your business.”

“An old pupil of Zoticus of Zeugma has come to see him.”

“Has he indeed?”

“Zoticus
is
staying here, isn't he, as a guest of your master?”