Wrath of the Furies (6 page)

Some wit among the captors got the idea that their prisoner should introduce himself not as Manius Aquillius, but as “Maniac” Aquillius, making a Greek pun out of his Latin name. Surely Aquillius resisted—to make an ugly joke of his own name, the name he inherited from countless forefathers, is as low as any Roman could sink—but soon enough Aquillius was babbling on command: “I am Maniac Aquillius, son of Maniac Aquillius! I am a filthy Roman, and like my father I am a murderer and a liar and a thief!”

Those who gathered to watch the captive pass by were invited, indeed encouraged, to spit on him and to throw rotten food at him, but no one was allowed to strike him or throw stones, for fear that Aquillius might be killed before the procession reached Pergamon, where King Mithridates was waiting to receive his captive.

Thus Manius Aquillius entered the city from which his father had once ruled the Roman province of Asia, not in a chariot but chained to a donkey. Covered with bruises and lacerations, and coated with every imaginable kind of filth, he looked hardly human, and emitted such a stench that his captors could hardly stand to be near him. Deprived of food, water, and sleep, he was so dizzy and weak he could hardly hold his head up. His voice was so hoarse that the sounds from his throat were like the croaking of some animal as he was prodded to shout again and again: “I am Maniac Aquillius! I am Maniac Aquillius!”

I was in Pergamon on the day Aquillius arrived. I had only just joined the court of Mithridates. I had been debriefed by various underlings, but had not yet been granted an audience with the king himself. Nevertheless, I was allowed to join the royal entourage on the day the king's victories were to be celebrated with a great spectacle in the Theater of Dionysus, perched on a steep hillside. I happened to be given a spot in the procession not too far behind the king and his new bride, Queen Monime. They rode in a chariot while the rest of us followed on foot. I saw little of them except the back of their heads, and their upraised arms as they waved to the cheering crowds on either side.

As we filed into the theater, I was given a seat in the front row, near the center, and was quite pleased at this stroke of apparent good fortune. Mithridates and Monime were seated on a dais on the stage of the theater, directly in front of me, so that finally, as ten thousand spectators took their seats behind me, I had my first good look at the man whom I had been serving in secret for so many months.

Mithridates looked exactly as I had pictured him from seeing his image on coins, and from a statue I had seen in Rhodes. He wore his hair long, like that of Alexander the Great, and was quite handsome and clean-shaven, in the way that Alexander was handsome, with strong, regular features and bright eyes. Alexander had never reached his late forties as Mithridates had, but this was how he might have appeared, still trim and fit and strongly muscled. Like Alexander, Mithridates wore only a simple diadem, a purple and white fillet of twined wool tied around his head; the head of Monime was likewise adorned with such a fillet.

While other kings often mimicked the extravagance of Persian royal costume, that of Mithridates was relatively simple and recalled that of Alexander, who likewise mixed clothing that was both Greek and Persian. His white tunic, dazzling in the sunlight, was trimmed with purple embroidery and belted with a jewel-encrusted sash. At his hip, fitted to this sash, was the golden scabbard of the dagger he was said to carry always on his person. His legs were covered by Persian-style trousers. On his feet were intricately tooled leather boots with the toes turned up.

Draped over his shoulders, despite the warm weather, was a cape-like cloak, purple with gold embroidery, but faded and worn in places, as if it might be very old. A hand-me-down from the king's forebears, worn for sentimental reasons, I thought. Then, with a gasp, I realized what this garment must be—the purple cloak of Alexander himself! This fabled cloak was said to be among the vast inventory of items seized by Mithridates when he took the island of Cos, a place where a number of kings and nations kept treasuries remote from themselves and therefore thought to be safe, for Cos had long been sacrosanct; even the Romans had never dared to loot any of the treasuries there. But Mithridates had done so, and among the booty had been the treasury of Egypt, which contained not only fabulous jewels and stores of precious metals, but the most sacred heirlooms of the Ptolemy family, including the cloak worn in life by Alexander, which no one since had dared to wear. Now it adorned the shoulders of Mithridates.

I looked at the queen, who appeared hardly older than a child. Indeed, at first glance I thought she might be one of Mithridates's daughters. But the intimate looks and touches they exchanged soon enough dispelled that notion. I suppose the queen is beautiful (clearly the king thinks so), but my first impression was formed by the look in her eyes—the restless, rapacious eyes of some predatory beast, more dangerous than beautiful.

Joining the king on the stage and seated to his right and left were the closest members of the royal circle, including childhood friends who now served as the king's generals, and the most influential stargazers, shamans, seers, and philosophers of the court. The Grand Magus and many lesser Magi were present. There was even a Scythian snake charmer—with a snake around his neck! In search of reliable prophecy and divination, the king reaches to the farthest corners of his kingdom.

How I longed to be a part of that inner circle! The next time such an assembly gathered, surely Antipater of Sidon, the world's most renowned poet and a loyal servant of the king, would be seated among the other luminaries of the court.

At some point I turned and looked behind me, craning my neck to gaze up to the highest tier of seats. The great amphitheater at Pergamon is said to have the steepest seating of any theater in the world, and to accommodate more than ten thousand spectators. On this occasion it was filled to capacity. What wonders and marvels had Mithridates devised to entertain such a huge audience?

At first we were treated to some trifling amusements—parades of jugglers and acrobats, dancing boys, female contortionists, men who swallowed coals and belched out flames, and so on. These entertainers were the finest of their sort, but they only served to warm up the crowd.

The main attraction commenced with a crier who read out the names of the cities that Mithridates had liberated from Roman oppression. Banners representing each city were paraded on the stage before us—Ephesus, Tralles, Adramyttion, Caunus, and many more. The list ended with Pergamon. When a statue of the city's patron goddess, Athena, was wheeled across the stage, ten thousand people rose to their feet, cheering wildly—everyone except the queen and Mithridates, who remained seated on his throne but raised both arms to acknowledge the accolades of the crowd.

There followed a parade of spoils taken in battle from the Romans, including not only weapons and armor, but also catapults and spear-launchers. The crier shouted the details of where each of the spoils had been taken, recounting the number of Roman dead or captured at each battle.

There was also a parade of chariots from Mithridates's own army, notable for the long, sickle-shaped blades that projected from the axles. The scythed chariot was a weapon of legend, invented by Cyrus the Great but not seen for generations. Mithridates had surprised the Romans with his own version of this terrible weapon, which mowed through their lines like a scythe mowing grass.

There followed a parade of captives. This included many notorious collaborators, Greeks who had aided and abetted the Romans. These scoundrels had grown rich, profiting from the misery of their fellow citizens. They were rich no longer, but reduced to rags and bare feet as they trudged before the people of Pergamon, who jeered and shouted curses.

At the end of this parade appeared one of the most striking duos I have ever seen.

The first was a man dressed as a Roman general—an actor, I thought at first—with a plumed helmet and a red cape and a full kit of armor, including a brightly polished breastplate with an image of Medusa and matching greaves with more Gorgon images to cover his shins. I was struck by the man's proud bearing, for he walked with his shoulders back and his chin up.

In fact, the man was no actor but an actual Roman general: Quintus Oppius, captured at Laodicea. And he held his shoulders back and chin up not from pride but because he could not do otherwise. The posture was imposed on him by the fact that his hands were chained together behind his back, and a thick iron collar was snugly fitted around his neck. Bolted to this collar was a thick chain; its further end was clutched in the fist of the largest mortal I have ever seen, a veritable Colossus dressed in animal skins and wearing a necklace made of bones and fangs. He was a grim, hulking figure with straw-colored hair and gaunt features. The barbarian's real name was unpronounceable; Mithridates called him Bastarna, which was the name of his race, the Bastarnae, a tribe on the northern shore of the Euxine Sea who had sworn loyalty to Mithridates.

At the sight of Quintus Oppius, the jeering rose to a deafening pitch. I covered my ears, the din was so great. I glanced up to see that Queen Monime was staring at me with any icy look in her eyes. My face grew hot and I quickly uncovered my ears.

As the roar of the crowd subsided, the crier with great relish detailed the humiliating defeats suffered by Quintus Oppius and the details of his capture. Oppius was led to one side of the stage, where Bastarna handed the chain to another barbarian. The giant then crossed the stage and disappeared in the wings, apparently on his way to bring out another captive.

The crowd grew quiet with anticipation.

It was at this moment that I first smelled smoke. It was not the homey, comforting smell that comes from an oil lamp or a hearth flame. It was the sharper, more disquieting smell that comes from a red-hot oven or kiln. I looked about, slightly alarmed. Behind me I heard an uneasy rustling in the crowd.

The sight that suddenly bolted onto the stage was so unexpected and so bizarre that many in the audience gasped. Others shrieked with laughter. Then all other sounds were surpassed by the loud braying of the donkey that bounded onto the stage, as if goaded by a sharp and sudden poke.

On the donkey's back was the most wretched excuse for a human being I had ever seen. Following the donkey and rider was Bastarna, who carried a switch in one hand and a spear in the other. To drive the donkey, he alternately beat it with the switch and poked it with the spear. He did the same to the rider, who barely responded to this mistreatment.

King Mithridates rose to his feet. He put his hands on his hips and made a show of looking perplexed. He spoke at an orator's pitch, so that everyone in the theater could hear him. “Bastarna, what is this sorry sight you've brought to show us? Who rides on the back of this braying donkey?”

“He can tell you his name, Your Majesty.” Bastarna spoke with a thick barbarian accent.

“Can he? Speak up, then, wretch. Who are you? What is your name? Surely even a creature like you has a name!”

Bastarna planted his spear in the stage. He grabbed the prisoner's hair and jerked up head up. “Speak!” he commanded. “Answer the King of Kings!”

The man on the donkey emitted a weak, unintelligible series of croaks. The crowd laughed uproariously.

“Speak louder!” commanded Bastarna, pulling the man's hair and striking him with the switch.

“I am Maniac … Maniac Aquillius, son of Maniac Aquillius!”

“Did you hear that?” shouted the crier. “He calls himself
Maniac
!” There were screams of laughter.

“What else are you?” said Bastarna.

“I am a filthy Roman!” the man croaked.

“Have you ever seen anyone filthier?” asked the crier. The crowd roared.

“What else are you?” demanded Bastarna.

“I am a murderer! And a liar! And a thief!”

“And so was your father?” Bastarna prompted. The switch whistled through the air and struck flesh.

“And so was my father!” The words emerged in such a hoarse, plaintive wail, it was hard to imagine that another word could be forced from that distended throat.

The crier stepped forth and began a long recitation of the crimes committed by both father and son.

Meanwhile, Bastarna removed the shackles of Manius Aquillius and pulled him from the donkey. Too weak to stand, Aquillius collapsed at the giant's feet. Bastarna pulled the chain taut, forcing Aquillius to hold up his head.

At the same time, from the wings at either side, slaves wearing only loincloths wheeled two curious contraptions onto the stage. One of these devices was a rack for securing a prisoner, made of iron bars with manacles attached. The other was a sort of furnace on wheels, its iron bottom filled with coals. Nestled in the coals, mounted so that it could be tilted, was a red-hot crucible. The slaves who pushed this infernal conveyance onto the stage were sweating profusely. Sitting in the front row, I could feel the heat that radiated from the crucible on my face, so hot was the thing. Then another conveyance was wheeled onto the stage, a small pushcart containing a heap of golden coins.

The crier reached the end of his recitation of the crimes of the Aquillii, but by this time I was no longer listening. My attention was focused entirely on the red-hot crucible, the rack, and the heap of gold. What in the name of Hades was about to take place on that stage?