Even as I write, the killing continues. Words have always been my servants and friends; they desert me now. There are no words to describe this horror. Zoticus of Zeugma is rendered speechless-as mute as Agathon of Alexandria.
[Here ends the secret diary of Antipater of Sidon.]
XXXV
Eventually, there was no one left to kill.
As darkness fell, bonfires were lit. The people of Ephesus made their way back to the city. The ring of soldiers remained in place to prevent any survivors from escaping under cover of darkness.
I woke early the next day. The black curtain had been removed from the round window. I looked out to see that a thick morning mist covered the plain. The altar was barely visible, a block of marble that seemed to float in the dense fog.
“This is our best chance,” said Samson. “The mist will hide us from the soldiers. If it extends up the river, it will also be hiding the ship that’s waiting for us. And if the ship’s captain agrees to cast off in this fog, we can sail downriver unseen, all the way to the sea.”
Those who were leaving with Samson included Freny, Bethesda, Antipater, and me. Anthea and Amestris would accompany us as far as the ship.
We said our farewells to Zeuxidemus and Kysanias. They were good, decent men. Ephesus would need such men, I thought, when the Romans came to exact vengeance, as sooner or later I knew they would.
We descended the stairs. The interior of the temple was deserted except for a few Megabyzoi, assisted by hierodules, who had already begun the work of purifying the sanctuary. Clouds of incense sweetened the air.
The temple steps were covered with corpses and blood. Freny trembled at the sight. Her sister guided her down the steps.
Our progress across the misty ground was a series of rude surprises, as the swirling fog parted to reveal one horrifying scene of death after another. To have watched the murders from afar was one thing; to see the staring, lifeless bodies lying twisted and broken at my feet was another. Was this the misty realm of Tartarus, where the Furies dwelled? Were they watching us even now?
Then an all-too-human voice called out, “Halt! Stay where you are.”
A small troop of soldiers appeared. Their captain looked us over. “What are you people doing here? Only men sanctioned by the king are allowed to scavenge the bodies. Did you not hear the royal decree read yesterday at the theater? It forbids anyone from looting the corpses, upon immediate penalty of death.”
“The king seems awfully fond of decrees with immediate penalties of death,” muttered Antipater. “So much for Greek notions of judges and trials and juries!”
The captain frowned. “What’s the old man saying?”
It was Anthea who answered. “Can you not see by my yellow gown that I’m a hierodule from the temple? These pilgrims from faraway lands arrived yesterday to worship the goddess. They were trapped in the temple overnight. I was sent by the Great Megabyzus himself to escort them from the sacred precinct.”
The captain gave us another look. “Yes, I see. I’ll escort you, then-”
“There’s no need,” said Anthea. “I know the way.”
“Very well. But you should know that there’s no longer a cordon around the area. If any of the Roman scum did get away from us, they’ll be pretty desperate. Be careful. But if you do meet one of those filth, that fellow looks big enough to take care of you.” He indicated Samson, who responded with a nod but kept his mouth shut.
We pressed on.
I knew we had gone beyond the boundary of the sacred precinct when I saw long trenches to either side of us. Several layers of bodies had been piled into the trenches, but I saw no diggers nearby. Freny had begun to weep. Then I heard something, and shushed her.
It was a muffled cry. “Help me!”
“Where is it coming from?” I whispered.
“From the trench over there,” said Samson. “Here, help me.”
I shuddered at the thought of digging through corpses. Then Antipater, standing next to me, fell to his knees. He was clutching his chest.
I dropped to my knees beside him. “Teacher, what’s wrong?”
His face was ashen. He grimaced.
I heard the muffled cry again, but louder now, as Samson, working alone, uncovered the man who was calling for help. As I continued to stare at Antipater, wondering what was wrong with him, the man stumbled out of the trench. I glanced at his filthy, bloodstained toga, then saw his face.
“Chaeremon of Nysa!” I whispered.
Antipater continued to grimace and clutch his chest. He gasped. “This is the end of me!”
“No, Teacher!” I whispered.
“Give this man my tunic.”
“What are you saying, Teacher?”
“He can’t be seen wearing that toga. Give him my clothing. Cover me with his toga … and leave me here.”
“No, Teacher, you’re coming with us!” I said, with a catch in my throat.
“Do you not see, Gordianus? The Fates have given me a last chance … to do something worthwhile. Give this man my clothing … so that he may go with you safely. And take for yourself … the pages I carry with me.”
“What pages?”
He struggled to reach inside his tunic. He pulled out a leather cylinder.
“But, Teacher, I can’t leave you here.”
He fell to his side and began to gasp for breath. I wept.
“What does it matter … where my body lies?” he said, his speech slurred as if he were drunk. I put my ear to his mouth and strained to hear him. “Let them bury me here … with the Romans. Do I not already have … a funeral monument … in Rome … from the first time I died?” He made a sound that might have been a laugh, then a long sigh issued from his throat, and then there was silence.
While I stood by, trembling and fighting back tears, Samson removed Antipater’s tunic and gave it to Chaeremon. The man appeared to be unscathed, despite the bloodstains I had seen on his toga, but he was badly shaken. He removed his toga and laid it over Antipater, like a shroud.
Chaeremon had just finished putting on Antipater’s tunic when we heard footsteps approaching. Out of the mist, the troop of soldiers reappeared.
Their captain looked at us for a moment, then laughed. “You lot, again! This fog is so thick, either you’re walking in circles or we are!” He scrutinized us more closely, and his eyes came to rest on Chaeremon. Did he remember Antipater’s face, and realize that someone new had been added to our party? Or did he simply see an old man in a tunic?
At last he took his eyes off Chaeremon and waved to his men to keep walking. “Be on your way,” he said to us. “May the goddess guide you safely though this infernal fog!”
Thus did the gift of his tunic, the final act of Antipater, save the life of Chaeremon of Nysa, a loyal friend of Rome, and the only known survivor of the Ephesian massacre.
We hurried on, leaving Antipater behind.
We crossed the misty landscape. We saw no more bodies, and encountered no more soldiers. At last we came to the river, where a boat was anchored alongside a short pier.
Samson conferred with the captain, then told us there would be a brief delay while the ship was made ready to sail.
Still stunned by the death of Antipater, I sat on the pier with my legs dangling over the side, my feet not quite touching the water. A blanket of swirling fog floated a few feet above the river. The sight was strangely beautiful.
I opened the capsa Antipater had given me. The first piece of parchment I pulled out happened to be the very last he had written. Seeing my name, my eyes fell on the sentence, I give these words to you, Gordianus.
I looked through the other pieces of parchment. Some pages appeared to be missing. From my tunic I pulled out the piece that had been sent to me. I found the place where it belonged.