“It was in the house of Eutropius … I’ve been staying there … instead of the palace-but the king would visit … talk of the killings to come … and Eutropius was given a part to play, you see, whether he liked it or not … one of the few men in all of Ephesus to be told … and now this awful news about that poor slave girl from his house! How many times did Freny wait upon me, and how many times did I look at her beaming young face and take heart, despite my troubles? But never mind that-yes, I know the date, for I happened to overhear it-oh! I have hardly been able to sleep since then…”
Rutilius shuddered with frustration. “Who is this jabbering fellow?”
“To the royal court,” said Samson, “he was introduced as Zoticus of Zeugma, a little-known poet and retired tutor.”
“Yes, yes,” said the consul, “I’ve seen him across the room at royal banquets, but who is he, and why is he here?” Zeuxidemus and Kysanias also looked interested in hearing the answer.
Samson looked to me and cocked an eyebrow.
I cleared my throat. “This man … this man was my tutor when I was a boy, back in Rome. I was very lucky to receive instruction from him. My father could never have afforded to pay his usual fees. There was some bond of friendship between the two of them … and a bond also grew between us, between pupil and teacher. So strong a bond that when he did a most unusual thing, and pretended to be dead-being so bold as to attend his own funeral!-I went along with the deception, and so did my father. That is how he came to take the name Zoticus of Zeugma.”
“So this is the man with whom you saw the Seven Wonders?” asked Rutilius.
“Yes. We traveled many miles, across seas and forests and deserts, and saw many things. We met many people. But while I was distracted by beauty and pleasure, Zoticus … Zoticus was up to something else. He was acting as a messenger and spy for King Mithridates. And I never knew-until we parted ways in Alexandria. That was three years ago. Not a word did I hear from him, or about him, after that-no letter, no news. Until just a few days ago, when a document arrived in Alexandria addressed to me. A piece of parchment taken from some larger document-an excerpt from a sort of diary, perhaps.…”
Antipater made a fist and put it to his mouth. “The missing page!” he said. “It was sent to you! But by whom? And how did they know where to reach you? Oh, dear-the letter I kept writing and never sending, addressed to you. They must have copied your name and the banker’s address from that.” He seemed on the verge of tears.
“We have strayed from the purpose of this meeting,” said Kysanias. “And we have very little time. Tell us at once, young Roman: Who is this man?”
I drew back my shoulders. I stood with my chin up and my arms bent in a particular way, assuming the posture learned by every young Roman when he becomes a man. I felt almost as if I wore a toga, for the weight and the folds of the garment become second nature to those who are taught to take the stance of a dignified Roman citizen. “This man, whom I was proud to call my tutor and traveling companion, is better known to most of the world-the parts of the world that speak Greek, anyway-as the greatest of all living poets. Surely you know his name, Consul.”
Rutilius looked confounded. “But … no!” He shook his head and stared at Antipater, who seemed to shrink under such intense scrutiny. “I knew the man by reputation, of course, but I never met him. When he died, I was too busy preparing for my trial to attend the funeral, though everyone else did. You can’t mean to say…”
Zeuxidemus stood back a bit from Antipater, gazing at him with a mixture of curiosity and wonder. “Do you mean to say that in our midst, all this time, without anyone knowing-”
“The king knows who I am,” said Antipater. “So does the queen-or she knows my name, anyway. About poetry I suspect she knows very little.”
“Yes,” I said, answering Zeuxidemus. “This man is Antipater of Sidon.”
Though they had already guessed, still I heard small gasps from the consul and the two priests. Such is the power of fame. Antipater seemed to grow a bit-especially when, under his breath, Zeuxidemus recited the famous line, “‘But the house of Artemis at Ephesus, of all the Wonders Seven.…’”
“What an unlikely group this is,” said Kysanias. “A Roman consul in exile … a Jewish envoy from Alexandria … a young Roman pretending to be a mute Egyptian … two priests of Artemis … and-of all people, living or dead!-Antipater of Sidon. But I take it we are all desirous of the same end: to somehow avert the mass slaughter of the Romans. Agreed?”
Kysanias looked at each of us in turn. Each of us nodded, and said aloud, “Agreed.”
I added, “And I would prevent the death of Freny-if I could.…”
“As would I,” said Kysanias, very quietly. “To stop the massacre, once it commences, will be impossible. So many people are already so eager to do away with the Romans, it will take very little to set them into action, and once that’s done, there will be no stopping them.”
“What are we to do?” I asked.
“The slaughter must be stopped before it can begin,” said Kysanias. “The sacrifice in the Grove of the Furies must go awry. If the sacrifice is spoiled-if the Furies have not been appeased-then Mithridates may yet be turned from this course.”
Kysanias paused for a long moment, so that we could all appreciate the gravity of what he had just said. The highest priest of the world’s greatest temple to Artemis was suggesting that we-himself included-should deliberately pervert a sacred ritual calling upon the most dangerous and terrifying forces known to mankind.
“If we do such a thing…” Rutilius seemed hesitant to speak the thought aloud. “Might we not turn the wrath of the Furies on ourselves?”
“We must weigh that possibility against the appalling magnitude of the act we are trying to avert,” said Kysanias. “If in the end the Furies and all of Olympus are on the side of Mithridates, if this massacre is sanctioned by the gods, then any attempt to avert it will fail, and we must suffer for our hubris. But who here, in his heart of hearts, does not believe the slaughter is uncalled for-terrible in itself, and a blight upon the cause of Mithridates? People given sanctuary in the Temple of Artemis will be dragged out and killed. Blood will be shed on sacred ground, not only in Ephesus, but in cities and temples all over the kingdom. I cannot believe such a thing accords with the will of Artemis.
“I believe that each of us here is an instrument of the Fates, for how else did we all arrive from distant points to come together at this very time and place? You, Gordianus-do you not feel that you were guided here for a purpose greater than you imagined? Pretending for your own reasons to be mute, you became the mute witness whose presence was required for the sacrifice.”
“But … as you say, my muteness is a pretense. I meant to fool mortals, not gods! And certainly not … the Furies. At every moment I feel I’m hanging by a thread-”
“Exactly so-a thread woven by the Fates!” Kysanias nodded, his eyes wide with excitement. “The ritual requires a mute witness, and none was found until you, yet you are not genuine. So when the ritual takes place, it will already be compromised, by your presence in place of a genuine mute witness. Surely that is a sign that the ritual is intended to fail. The sacrifice will go awry, and Mithridates will be put off, afraid to proceed with the massacre.”
Rutilius looked doubtful. “It’s hard to imagine the king being afraid of anything.”
“Mithridates is a mortal like any other,” insisted Kysanias. “In the Grove of the Furies, he will sense a power greater than himself. He can be made to feel fear.”
“Your Eminence,” I said, “I understand what you say about the twisted path that led me here. But Samson says we’re all to play a role in the sacrifice.” I looked at Rutilius. “What is your role, Consul?”
He shrugged. “Mithridates wants a Roman to witness the sacrifice, preferably a Roman of high rank, to see that the massacre has been divinely sanctioned. I will be that Roman.”