“You trust Samson, then?”
“Yes. I think so,” I whispered, thought it still seemed that more about Samson had been kept hidden from me than had been revealed.
She sighed, and with a faraway look on her face she muttered, “I suppose there could be worse men to become my new master.…”
Did she like the idea of becoming Samson’s slave? My face grew hot again. No, she was only teasing me. Yes, that must be it, I told myself.
[From the secret diary of Antipater of Sidon:]
What a relief it is, to be back in the palace, staying with the royal household. No sooner had I stepped foot inside than I felt a great weight drop away from me. I was like a lost sheep returned to the fold-yes, exactly so, and if I am a sheep, then Mithridates is the shepherd. Of all the mortals of his generation, what better shepherd has appeared to lead mankind? (Note: remember this metaphor as material for a possible poem-the king as shepherd, the poet as wandering lamb.)
I admit that I have been torn by doubts since joining the royal household. I was shocked by the execution of Manius Aquillius. I chafed against the king’s insistence that I remain Zoticus of Zeugma. I was suspicious and fearful of his beautiful queen. But now I see the light of his wisdom. Like a lighthouse, the King of Kings towers above the rest of us, not only illuminating our way, but also able to see much farther than the rest of us. We must learn to trust his wisdom, even when we are too shortsighted to discern the path he sees ahead. (Yet another metaphor worthy to be worked up in verse! “How like the Pharos is the King of Kings, towering high above us.…”)
How I look forward to taking part in tonight’s ritual! What an honor it was for me to have been chosen by the king! And after that, very soon, we shall see the last of the Romans in our midst. Then the king will be free to carry the war to the enemy …
But now I must rest, and ready myself to play my part in tonight’s events.
[Here ends this fragment from the secret diary of Antipater of Sidon.]
XXXI
I spent much of that day sleeping. I badly needed the rest, having had so little the night before.
Late in the afternoon, the chamberlain came for me. “Wear whatever you like,” he said. “You’ll be properly dressed for the ritual after the bath.”
“Bath?” asked Bethesda, reading the quizzical look on my face.
“Of course you must be cleansed before the ritual. There are boys who will bathe you. Unless your slave usually bathes you? In that case, you may bring her along. But she can’t wear that yellow tunic. It wouldn’t be proper.”
The two of us dressed in the clothes in which we had arrived, then followed the chamberlain to a small, beautifully tiled room, all in shades of dark green and blue. If I had been expecting a proper Roman-style bath-something I had not had in days, and had begun to crave-I was to be disappointed. Here there were no pools in which a man could submerge himself, but instead only a simple drain in the floor, tiled benches along the walls, strigils of various shapes, flasks of aromatic oils, several pitchers of water of various temperatures, and cloths for drying myself. After we were left alone, I stripped, allowed Bethesda to apply the oils to every part of me, then stood while she scraped the oil off using whichever strigil had a blade best shaped for that part of my body.
Since we had been left alone, and there was plenty of oil and water, I did the same for Bethesda. I realized I had never bathed her in such a way, paying such close attention to every part of her. The act was erotic, to be sure, but also strangely calming, and somehow somber, since this might be the act that marked our final moments together. If so, the Fates were kind to allow this last act to be so intimate, and of mutual service to each other. I dared not speak, lest someone overhear, but no words were needed. I had never felt closer to her.
Once cleansed, we rinsed each other first with warm water, then with cold. Enough of the oil clung to the skin to leave us supple and gleaming and lightly perfumed. As I gazed at Bethesda, who stood before me wearing nothing, I wondered how I could ever have confused her in my dreams with Amestris, or with any other woman, since Bethesda was the most beautiful of all. I should have liked to simply stand there, staring at her, but she quickly dressed, not wanting the chamberlain to come upon her while she was naked.
When the chamberlain returned, he brought me a dark tunic that reached below my knees and covered most of my arms. He insisted on dressing me himself. I think this was so that he could check to see that I had been sufficiently cleaned. “Your slave did an excellent job. She seems to have bathed herself as well,” he noted, not realizing that it was I who bathed her. “She’ll be taken back to your room now, and you will follow me.”
Another chamberlain was waiting at the door. He nodded to Bethesda, then led her away. She gave me a last glance over her shoulder. How I longed to speak her name!
The chamberlain led me in another direction. It was the hour of dusk, when preparations are made to light the lamps. Servants were kindling fires, carrying torches, and pouring oil into vessels. The hours of daylight were done. The hours of darkness had begun.
I was led to a large courtyard where several litters were waiting, all shrouded with black curtains. The chamberlain indicated that I should step into one of these, and I found myself once more in the company of Gnossipus and Damianus. Like me, they wore dark tunics. They sat side by side, while I sat across from them.
The deaf man gave me a grunt of welcome. Gnossipus raised an eyebrow. “Is that you, Agathon?”
The interior was so plush with pillows and cushions that I had to search to find a hard wooden surface on which to rap my knuckles. I did so twice.
“Ah, so it is you, Agathon. Often I can recognize people by their smell, but we’ve all been scrubbed clean and perfumed with the same scented oil, so we all smell alike. Here we are, the three of us, off to do whatever it is the king requires. I find it rather exciting, don’t you?”
I rapped my knuckles twice. More exciting than you know, I thought. As the litter was lifted from the blocks, my heart began to race.
All night Antipater and I had practiced what we planned to do. But would I have the nerve? Would Antipater? We were to act on a signal from Kysanias. Would the priest carry through with our plans, or would his courage fail him?
The curtains remained closed as we set off. I could see nothing outside the litter. As the last light of day receded, the interior of the litter became so dark that I was almost as blind as Gnossipus.
“I wonder where we’re headed?” he said. “I mean to say, I know we’re off to the Grove of the … Kindly Ones … but I don’t where that is. Do you?”
I knocked once. With so much else to discuss and rehearse the night before, I hadn’t thought to ask Kysanias the location of the grove. With the curtains closed and darkness all around, I had no idea in what direction we were headed. At some point, from the sounds outside, I was certain we passed through a city gate, but Ephesus had several gates, all leading in different directions.
Gnossipus began to hum tunelessly. “They wouldn’t let me bring my flute,” he said morosely.
Damianus began to shift nervously in his seat. Unable to hear and with only darkness around him, it was no wonder he began to feel unsettled. I realized that I was shifting about uneasily, too, and grinding my teeth.
The journey seemed to last a long time.
At last we came to a halt. I felt the litter settle onto blocks. The curtains were drawn back. A figure holding aloft a torch silently beckoned for us to step out. The light of the flames revealed the face of Zeuxidemus, though he was dressed not in yellow but in a dark tunic not unlike the one I was wearing. So were all the men around him. Among them I recognized some of the Megabyzoi and Magi who had examined me naked, including the Grand Magus and Kysanias. Their clothing was so dark that it was hard to tell one from another, but that was intentional. A man does not approach the Furies dressed in such a way as to call attention to himself.