“The master invites you to dinner, at your earliest convenience.”
Bethesda was soundly asleep, and remained so, her lips slightly parted and her breasts gently rising and falling, as I extricated myself from her and pulled on my clothes. I covered her with the thin sheet, then opened the door as little as I could, stepped into the hallway, and closed the door behind me, thinking to shield her from the gaze of the slave who had made the summons and was waiting to escort me to his master’s dining room. But in a house as well regulated as that of Posidonius, the servants were trained to be circumspect. The slave, a man perhaps twice my age, stood some distance from the door and made no attempt to peek inside.
Over one arm he held a folded garment of white wool.
“A toga?” I said. “Is that for me?”
The slave nodded.
I laughed. “I haven’t worn a toga in ages. I’m not sure I can remember how to put it on. And if you expect me to do it myself, in that tiny room-”
“Oh, no, the master sent me especially to help you. We may do so in the master’s study. If you’ll follow me.…”
The slave proved to be an expert in the art of donning the toga. He put to shame old Damon, my father’s slave, who had assisted me in putting on my first toga when I turned seventeen. In no time, with a bit of tugging here and a bit of gathering there, the toga lay just as it should, falling in proper folds from my shoulders and forearms.
Smiling with prim satisfaction at his handiwork, the slave led me down the hall to a different stairway from the one I had ascended earlier. For a moment I felt lost in that rambling house, despite the months I had spent there with Antipater, then I found my bearings again as the slave led me to Posidonius’s elegant dining room, which was brightly lit. There were lamps set in sconces in the wall, lamps on bronze stands with griffin heads, and more lamps hanging from the ceiling. One side of the room was open to a garden from which radiated the last faint light of day. The three walls of the room were painted with flowers and trees and butterflies, so that the room seemed a natural continuation of the garden, but while the real garden grew dim, here the soft glow of twilight lingered.
There were six couches, with two set against each wall. The two closest to the garden, and farthest from our host, were unoccupied; it appeared I was the last but one to arrive. The slave indicated which of these was for me. Next to Posidonius, in the place of honor, was another guest in a toga, a stout Roman with a grim expression. The two other guests, dressed like our host in more colorful, loose-fitting garments, were not much older than me and alike enough to be brothers, which in fact they were.
From the way the four of them looked at me, I knew that Posidonius had already explained who I was. As I settled myself on my couch, a slave placed a cup of wine in my hand, and Posidonius introduced them to me.
“Gordianus, this is Gaius Cassius, the governor of Asia.”
Deposed governor, I thought. The stout Roman gave me a nod.
Posidonius gestured to his left and right. “This is Pythion of Nysa. Across from him, his brother, Pythodorus.”
“Nysa,” I said, “where the hero Lycurgus ‘drove the nursing mothers of wine-crazed Dionysus over the sacred mountains.’” Greeks are always impressed if you can quote an appropriate bit of Homer.
Pythion-whom I took to be the older brother, since he did most of the talking-gave me a piercing look. “Was it your treacherous tutor who taught you that-this Zoticus of Zeugma?”
I glanced at Posidonius. Clearly he had told them something of my situation, but for reasons of his own he had decided not to reveal Antipater’s true identity. It occurred to me that Posidonius would prefer his guests to think he had been duped by a nobody-the obscure Zoticus-rather than let it be known that his old friend, the famous poet Antipater of Sidon, had operated as spy for Mithridates under this very roof.
I cleared my throat. “As a matter of fact-yes, it was my old tutor who taught me those lines of Homer. He’s … something of a poet himself.”
“Is he?” said Gaius Cassius. “Can’t have been much good, if I’ve never heard of him.”
“You have a fondness for Greek poetry, Governor?” I said.
“I put up with it.” Cassius’s voice was as flat and dry as parchment. “But there’s not a living poet, Greek or Latin, who can compare with Ennius. He was the only true heir to Homer.” His voice, so lifeless speaking Greek, took on an orator’s lilt as he recited the Latin:
“In sleep, blind Homer appeared at my side.
‘Wake now, poet, and sing!’ he cried.”
Pythion trained his gaze on me. “Perhaps Gordianus could recite something by this Zoticus.”
“Yes, let’s hear something by Mithridates’s spy,” said his brother, his voice dripping with malice.
My mind went blank for a moment. I didn’t dare to quote anything by Antipater, for they might recognize it. Then I recalled something Antipater had come up with after we left Rome. I tried to speak with perfect Greek diction:
“Two widows of Halicarnassus lived under the same roof,
One beautiful, young, and shy, the other stern and aloof.”
Pythion pursed his lips. “That’s not bad, actually. How does the rest of it go?”
“I … I’m not sure. I don’t think … Zoticus … ever actually finished that poem.”
“Perhaps he’s working on it right now, while he dines in Ephesus with his master, Mithridates,” said Gaius Cassius, reverting to lifeless Greek.
“You must be wondering, Gordianus, exactly what I’ve told these others about you,” said Posidonius. “I’ve explained that you arrived by ship from Alexandria today, and intend to sail on to Ephesus tomorrow; that a few years back you spent a winter under this roof, along with … Zoticus … whom I knew from my time in Rome; and it turns out that all along, without your knowledge or mine, Zoticus was traveling as a spy for Mithridates, and now seems to be in Ephesus, along with the king’s court; and that, having received information that Zoticus is in danger, you intend to go to him and offer your assistance-despite that fact that he duped you as well as me, and many others.”
Pythion raised an eyebrow. “Unless, of course, Gordianus is himself a spy for Mithridates.”
Posidonius sighed. “Putting aside my lapse of judgment in the case of Zoticus, I still think I’m a good judge of character, and I can’t believe that Gordianus is a traitor to Rome. This young man values truth and honesty above all other virtues. He’s not the stuff that spies are made of.”
“And yet,” said Gaius Cassius, “a spy is exactly what we would like him to be.” Before I could ask what this meant, he went on. “Tell me, Gordianus, how do you intend to operate in Ephesus, as a Roman among so many Roman-hating Greeks? What makes you think they’ll even let you off the ship?”
“Or that you won’t be torn limb from limb the moment you set foot on Ephesian soil?” said Pythion.
“Whatever happens, you’d better be wearing a toga when you step off the ship,” added his brother.
“A toga?” I managed a small laugh. “Until this evening, I hadn’t worn a toga in years. Posidonius kindly provided this one. I don’t even own one.”
“Then you’d better ask Posidonius if you can take that one with you,” said Pythion. “According to reports from the latest refugees, signs were posted overnight in every village and city under Mithridates’s control. The signs are in both Latin and Greek: ‘By decree of the king and on pain of death, all Romans must wear the toga at all times.’”
“But why?” I asked. The toga was worn when conducting business or religious rituals, or-as on this occasion-when dining in a rich man’s house, but even senators didn’t wear a toga all the time.
“So that they can be recognized, of course,” said Pythion. “If all the Romans are in togas, it will be easier to shun them. Easier to drive them off-or round them up.”