I shivered at the thought, and hoped never to encounter Ismene again.
VI
“Mark my words, Gordianus, that young fellow is destined to become one of the shining intellects of the age, a beacon of wisdom and learning.”
This was quite a compliment, coming from Antipater. He was speaking of our host in Rhodes, a man named Posidonius. Considering the flecks of gray at his temples, I wouldn’t have called Posidonius a “young fellow,” but then, I was only eighteen. To my old tutor, I suppose Posidonius seemed quite youthful. He was certainly energetic, constantly jumping up from his chair to fetch a scroll to elucidate some point, or pacing to and fro across the garden and gesticulating as he recounted some tale about his travels in Gaul, from which he had only recently returned.
Posidonius was not just a scholar and a scientist; he was an intrepid explorer whose quest for knowledge had taken him to many lands. His travels had begun with a stop in Rome several years ago; that was when he first met Antipater, and so impressed the poet that the two exchanged many letters as Posidonius traveled to Africa and Spain, and then to Gaul, where he spent a number of years living among the natives and observing their strange customs. Posidonius had at last returned to Rhodes, just in time for Antipater and me to take advantage of his hospitality.
“Here, this is an example of what I was talking about,” said Posidonius, returning to the garden. He carried a long knife, holding it forth on his palms so that we could observe the silver hilt decorated with elaborate whorls and weird animal faces. “This is a ceremonial knife that was actually used by a Gallic Druid in a blood ritual to predict the future. I witnessed the sacrifice with my own eyes. The victim was a captured warrior from another tribe. The poor fellow was made to stand with his hands bound behind his back while two strong men held him fast, then the chief Druid used this very knife to stab him, just above the diaphragm. As the victim convulsed, they released him and carefully observed in what direction he fell, how many times he kicked out his legs, and what sort of pattern his spurting blood made on the ground-and from those observations, the Druids were able to conclude that their chieftain’s infant son would be free of the fever afflicting him within three days.”
“And did the child recover?” asked Antipater.
“Yes, he did. Of course, most fevers, unless they kill the patient, are over within three days, but the chieftain was nonetheless much comforted by the prediction, and generously rewarded the Druids when it came true.”
“Predicting the future from blood spatters-it seems rather far-fetched,” I ventured to say.
Posidonius raised an eyebrow. “If a Roman augur may presume to read the will of the gods by watching a chicken peck at some scattered grain, why should a Druid not be able to do so by studying a pattern of blood?” From his blank expression, I couldn’t tell whether he was being serious or sardonic.
Since leaving Rome on my travels with Antipater, moving among Greeks in the Greek-speaking part of Rome’s empire, I had learned that it was not uncommon for a young Roman to be subjected to subtle ridicule, practical jokes, and even, on occasion, outright displays of hostility. The city of Rhodes and the island of the same name were not yet part of Rome’s empire, having maintained independence even as neighboring islands and much of the mainland of Asia were subjected to Roman rule, and in Rhodes I had not encountered quite as much anti-Roman sentiment as elsewhere. Still, I was not sure what to make of the tone Posidonius often took when addressing me, as if he were making a joke that I was too dull to perceive. Perhaps he simply spoke to me the way he spoke to the students who attended his academy.
It had been ten days since Antipater and I arrived in Rhodes. The ship carrying us had entered the harbor at dusk-and had been one of the last ships to do so, for winter was coming on, and with it the unpredictable gales and storms that put an end to the sailing season.
As we sailed past a long mole that projected into the water, I eagerly looked to see what every newcomer to Rhodes is curious to see: the remains of the fallen bronze Colossus, deemed one of the Seven Wonders of the World despite its ruined state. By the uncertain light I had caught glimpses of the huge and grotesquely disconnected remains that lay scattered on the mole-two feet still firmly connected to a high pedestal, a forearm that lay half-submerged amid the lapping waves, and most disconcerting, because one enormous eye seemed to be staring straight back at me, a gigantic head that lay on its side. Where the other eye should have been there was a gaping hole in the bronze. Perhaps it had been damaged when the giant statue tumbled to the ground, felled by an earthquake 135 years ago.
By the time the ship docked and the harbor officials boarded to inspect our travel documents, it had been too late to take a closer look at the Colossus. Instead, Antipater and I headed directly to the house of Posidonius, which was located in the city’s acropolis district, a considerable distance from the harbor.
It was Antipater’s plan that we would spend the winter in Rhodes. The large, luxuriously appointed house of Posidonius certainly seemed a comfortable place to do so. Weary of traveling, Antipater seemed content to venture no farther each day than the garden, where he liked to sit and bask whenever a bit of weak sunshine broke through the clouds, or to converse with our host, who joined us whenever a break in his teaching schedule allowed. When Posidonius was absent, Antipater perused our host’s large collection of scrolls and travel memorabilia. In the evenings we dined with Posidonius in a charming room that opened onto the garden, usually joined by one or two of his more promising students, or by some person of note in the city. Rhodes was known not just for scholars, but for its athletes, merchants, and artists.
Under normal circumstances, Antipater would no doubt have been asked to address the students at the academy, but Posidonius understood that the poet was traveling incognito. Posidonius told us that he himself had occasionally assumed false identities during his travels, and he accepted Antipater’s need for discretion without question. Antipater was always introduced not as a famous poet, but as the humble tutor Zoticus of Zeugma, traveling companion of young Gordianus of Rome.
Antipater had settled happily into this housebound routine, but I was growing restless. From the first morning, I had been eager to return to the harbor and take a closer look at the remains of the Colossus, but Antipater, who had been to Rhodes before and had seen the remains of the statue already, pointed out that there was no hurry, since we would be on the island for months. Whenever I mentioned my curiosity about the Colossus to Posidonius, he responded with a blank expression and told me to be patient. Did he consider me just another empty-headed Roman tourist, determined to check an item off a must-see list?
In fact, Posidonius had a reason to hold off showing me the Colossus, but I did not know that yet.
Just as Antipater and I leaned forward to take a closer look at the ritual Druid blade held forth by our host, a voice boomed out, speaking Greek with one of the strangest accents I had ever heard:
“What are you doing with my knife?”
All three of us gave a start. The knife seemed to jump from Posidonius’s hands. He fumbled to keep from dropping it, and cut one of his fingers. The wound was slight, but a few drops of blood fell onto the paving stone at his feet.
The newcomer strode into the garden. His appearance was as startling as his voice. He was very tall and wore a long, belted robe covered with complex embroidery; the whorls and other patterns reminded me of the decorations on the knife. His sandals, adorned with silver bosses and beaded leather tassels, looked like no shoes I had ever seen before, and left his toes bare. The hood of his robe was pushed back to reveal a great mass of fiery red hair, shot with gray and elaborately pleated. His cheeks were shaven, but the hair on his upper lip had been allowed to grow until it practically concealed his mouth, and hung down in knotted braids all the way to his chest. This was the first time I had ever seen a moustache, and it was a memorable specimen.