The king’s name was inscribed on the pedestal. Bethesda could not read it, of course, but somehow she knew whom the statue portrayed.
“King Mithridates?” she asked, standing beside me and peering up.
I nodded.
“So this is the fellow who’s causing so much trouble for Rome,” she said quietly.
As if to give action to her thoughts, a rotten piece of fruit hurtled through the air and struck the statue’s face. Bethesda and I jumped back as the person who had thrown the fruit rushed up to the statue. It was a woman with gray hair, dressed in a matronly Roman stola that badly needed mending. She glared up at the statue and shook her fist.
“Murderer!” she screamed. “Liar! Traitor! Fiend!”
Others rushed toward the statue, and more objects were hurled at it: fruit, vegetables, horse dung, small stones, and bits of broken tile.
Soldiers appeared, brandishing spears and swords to drive the crowd back. They formed a cordon around the statue.
“Every blasted day!” I heard one of the soldiers mutter. “Why don’t they just take the statue down? Or else let these poor people pull it down themselves?”
“It’s not for Romans to decide which statues stand in the agora of Rhodes,” one of his companions reminded him. “We’re not at war with the king. Not yet.”
Bethesda and I moved on. With the streets so crowded, it took a long time to cross the heart of the city. As I began to walk up the hill, into one of the better residential districts, I intentionally took a circuitous route and occasionally doubled back to make sure that no one was following us. I communicated with Bethesda using nods and hand signals, and did not speak a word, in case someone from the Phoenix should happen to cross our path.
The long summer day was almost done when we finally arrived at Posidonius’s house. A handsome young slave answered the door. Before I could speak, I had to cough and clear my throat. My own voice sounded a bit odd to me as I uttered the first words I had spoken aloud in days, stating my name and asking to see the master of the house.
We were admitted into the very crowded vestibule and told to wait. Here I saw no people in rags, but I did see a number of men in togas, and overheard snatches of Latin, mingled with the elevated Greek spoken by well-educated Romans.
“One keeps hearing rumors of warships spotted on the horizon-”
“They say Mithridates could invade any day now-”
“Certainly before the end of the sailing season, so perhaps we still have some time to get ready-”
“If anyone will know the truth of the situation, it’s Posidonius. The man’s been a marvel, rallying the Rhodians, taking in us Romans-”
“I hear that Gaius Cassius is staying here-you know, the Roman governor. They say he’s afraid to sail back to Rome, for fear of the thrashing he’ll get from the Senate for losing Asia-”
“At least Gaius Cassius is still alive. Quintus Oppius was captured, they say-”
“Nothing compared to what was done to Manius Aquillius! What, you’ve not heard the news? Horrible, horrible…”
I pricked up my ears, but at that moment the slave returned. I half-expected him to turn me away; the house of Posidonius was obviously full to bursting with guests, and who was I to expect hospitality from a man of such importance, at such a crucial time? True, I had once been his houseguest for a whole winter, sitting out the stormy months when no ships would sail, but that had been four years ago, and as traveling companion to his old friend Antipater. Posidonius would certainly remember me, but would he be happy to see me?
Apparently he was, for when the slave led us across the garden-as crowded with togas as the vestibule-and up a flight of stairs, Posidonius greeted me on the landing with open arms and an affectionate hug.
“Gordianus! Truly, you are the last person I expected to see today. Yet here you are, looking quite fit and well, I must say. Did you and Antipater manage to see all seven of the Wonders, as you intended?”
“We did.”
“Marvelous! Is he with you?”
“Not any longer.”
Posidonius frowned. “Oh, dear, the old fellow isn’t…?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Then where is he? Ah, but you shall tell me everything over a cup of wine.” He raised an eyebrow. “And who is this?”
“This is my slave, Bethesda. If you wish, she can stay in the vestibule-”
“And have all those old lechers in togas gawking at her? Much better to have such a beautiful creature ornament my private study while you and I catch up.”
Posidonius ran his fingers through his thick locks, which showed a bit more gray than when I had last been a guest in his house, then led us down a short hallway to a room of which I had fond memories. The study of Posidonius was filled with scrolls and scientific instruments and curious souvenirs from his many travels.
While Bethesda withdrew to a corner, Posidonius and I sat facing each other in elegant chairs carved from ebony with inlays of ivory. A slave appeared and poured us each a cup of wine, then quickly vanished.
“How long have you been in Rhodes?” said Posidonius.
“I’ve only just arrived, by ship from Alexandria.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I was hoping…”
“I see. Oh, yes, you must stay here, of course. At least, I think there’s a spare room left. How long do you intend to stay?” He made a face and clucked his tongue. “That’s a very rude question for a host to ask, I know, but with things as they are-”
“No need to apologize,” I said. “I’m very grateful for your hospitality, Posidonius. I’ll only stay the night. Tomorrow we sail on to Ephesus.”
He looked at me, aghast. “Ephesus? Are you out of your mind?”
“I think I still had my wits about me, the last time I checked for them.”
“Gordianus, this is no joke. Sail for Ephesus, tomorrow? Oh, no, you must think again. Reconsider, I beg you!”
“But I-”
“On your way here from the waterfront, Gordianus, did you not see all the Romans who’ve fled from Ephesus, as well as from Pergamon and Mytilene and so many other cities? Not just Romans, but friends of Rome-Rome-lovers, Mithridates calls them, all fleeing as far and as fast as they can.”
“See them?” I said. “I could barely squeeze past them! They’re all along the waterfront, and fill the main square and all the streets around it for blocks. A great many seem to be camped out in that big sporting complex just down the hill from here-”
“It’s called a gymnasium,” said Posidonius, in that weary tone that even friendly Greeks often adopt when speaking to us uncouth Romans.
“Yes, well, it’s full of refugees. The track of the foot-racing stadium is crowded with tents. The viewing stands have been covered with canvas and turned into shelters. The people all look miserable.”
Posidonius cocked an eyebrow. “Miserable, no doubt, but also sensible. You do understand that all those people are fleeing from the storm-not rushing straight into it?”
“From what some passengers on the ship are saying, the storm you speak of is likely to follow those refugees and come crashing into Rhodes.”
“And if it does, we shall be ready for it!” Posidonius was not just a scientist and scholar and world traveler, but also one of the city fathers of Rhodes. From the proud confidence in his voice, I assumed he played some role in organizing the defense of the city.
I had managed so far to avoid telling him my purpose for traveling to Ephesus, wanting first to get some sense of where his loyalty lay. To all appearances Posidonius was firmly allied with Rome, along with his fellow Rhodians, yet I knew him to be a close friend of Antipater, and Antipater had turned out to be a spy for Mithridates. During our long stay on Rhodes, had Antipater sought to recruit Posidonius in the anti-Roman fold-and might he have succeeded?