Wrath of the Furies (11 page)

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.”

“Round them up?” I frowned.

“The king's decree also has the perverse effect of making something you Romans are so proud of—your distinctive form of dress—into something more like a mark of shame,” Pythion added.

“Never!” declared Gaius Cassius, clutching the folds of his toga.

Our host cleared his throat. “Ah, but we have strayed from the original question: How is Gordianus to operate freely in Ephesus? That's the really clever part. Since leaving Egypt, Gordianus has been posing not as a Roman but as a native Alexandrian, a young man of Greek descent—”

“But his accent!” protested Pythion.

“—who's lost the power of speech. The slave girl traveling with him will do all the talking, at least in public. A rather brilliant ruse, I think.”

“Provided he can maintain such a pretense,” said Gaius Cassius. “But don't you see, Posidonius, that you've just demolished your own argument for trusting this young man? First you say he's completely honest, then you tell us he's traveling under a false identity, pretending to be something he's not. Which is it? Is Gordianus a man incapable of deception, or is he a master deceiver, capable of fooling even Mithridates's minions?”

Posidonius shook his head. “You Romans
do
always insist that the answer to every question must be one thing or its opposite. Sometimes the answer lies in the middle, or elsewhere altogether. The world is rather more complicated and unpredictable than any of us thought, as we've learned in the last year or so. Can we trust Gordianus to be loyal to Rome? I think we can. Can he deceive those who wish harm to Rome? I hope he can, for all our sakes. It was you, Cassius, who suggested that Gordianus might be suitable for our purpose.”

“What purpose?” I asked. “And what did you mean a moment ago, Governor, when you said, ‘A spy is exactly what we would like him to be'?”

Gaius Cassius looked at me sternly. “If you possess even half your father's talents, I think you might serve Rome very well indeed.”

“You know my father?” I felt a stab of homesickness.

“Of course I do. Everyone in Rome knows the Finder. Well, anyone who's ever had to dig up dirt on a rival, or clear himself of some trumped-up charge. I've been to your house more than once, young man, seeking your father's help. To be sure, my last visit was a number of years ago; you must have been hardly more than a child, which explains why we never met. Your father is the man who can pick any lock, yet never steals; the man who can follow anyone anywhere without being seen, yet never stabs a man in the back; the man who knows every secret, yet who never whispers a word of them. If you're made of the same stuff, I think you just might be able to pull off this masquerade of being mute, at least long enough to be of some use to us.”

“What is he talking about?” I looked at Posidonius, who answered.

“Think, Gordianus! While every other Roman is desperately attempting to get
out
of Ephesus, you're determined to get
in.
That could make you very valuable to us, especially if you manage to reach your old tutor. That would bring you into the king's court, perhaps even give you access to his inner circle. Eyes and ears are what we lack in Ephesus. Eyes to see what Mithridates is up to, ears to overhear his plans.”

“But no mouth to give yourself away,” added Gaius Cassius, with a mirthless laugh.

“You want me to be a spy for you?”

“A spy for
Rome
,” said Gaius Cassius.

I shook my head. “I have no training for that sort of thing. I don't know secret codes, or how to put on disguises. I have no military experience. How would I know which bits of information are valuable, and which bits are worthless?”

“You wouldn't need to know any of those things,” said Gaius Cassius. “You would merely be the sand-gatherer, not the sieve.”

“I don't understand.”

“You will simply report what you observe; another will determine what details are important, and relay the information back to us. Perhaps”—he smiled—“even using a secret code, as you suggest.”

“I would ‘report'? Report to whom?”

“To the agent above you, of course. The man assigned to monitor you and your activities.”

“And who would that be?” I looked from Posidonius to Gaius Cassius, then at Pythion and Pythodorus, and finally at the empty couch across from mine. It occurred to me that the sixth guest had yet to arrive.

At that moment a large, shadowy figure came bustling across the garden, his features obscured by the gathering shadows of nightfall.

“Apologies, Posidonius, for being late,” he called out. I gave a start, for his voice was familiar. As he emerged into the artificial twilight of the dining room, I recognized Samson, the Alexandrian Jew from the
Phoenix
.

 

VIII

“Samson!” I exclaimed.

The newly arrived dinner guest went about settling his oversized physique on a dining couch that was too small for him. “So you
can
speak,” he said.

I turned to Posidonius. “What is Samson doing here?”

My host laughed. “Samson? Is that the name he's traveling under? Appropriate, I suppose, if not very original. At least it will be easy to remember.”

The big Jew shrugged. “I didn't choose the name. This young Roman's slave calls me that.” He smiled. “She's a bit of a flirt.”

I didn't like the sound of that, but I bit my tongue.

“It seems rather impertinent, for a slave to be assigning nicknames,” said Gaius Cassius. He was clearly one of those Romans who believed the world would be a better place if only everyone would stop coddling their slaves.

Samson grinned. “As far as I'm concerned, Governor, that lovely girl can call me anything she likes—as long as she doesn't try to play barber.”

The others laughed, apparently at some joke that went over my head.

“‘Samson' let it be, then,” said Posidonius. “We shall call you nothing else, at least not until you return from Ephesus.”

The man called Samson nodded. He appeared to already know and be known to everyone present, since he addressed them by name. “Is it true, Pythion, what they're saying down at the waterfront—that Mithridates has put a bounty on your head?”

Pythion choked on the wine he was drinking. “A bounty?”

“Proclamations have gone out far and wide. Some refugees who just arrived from Caunus were talking about it.”

“What sort of proclamations?”

“You're a wanted man, dead or alive. So is Pythodorus, and your father, too.”

“How much is the king offering?” asked Pythion.

“Mithridates will pay forty talents for each of you, if brought to him alive. Only twenty talents if it's just your head.”

While the two brothers impulsively touched their throats, Gaius Cassius whistled. “How in Hades can Mithridates offer such extravagant rewards?”

“When he captured the island of Cos, he opened the foreign treasuries kept there and seized all the contents,” said Posidonius. “Added to all his other recent acquisitions, that must make him the richest man in the world. The king has more money than he knows what to do with. Money for troops, for weapons, for bounties.”

“He had no right to plunder the treasuries at Cos,” said Samson. All trace of amusement vanished from his face. “Those riches belonged to neutral parties, to men and nations with whom Mithridates has no quarrel.”

“You speak of Egypt,” I said, remembering that the loss of the Egyptian treasury on the island of Cos had done much to turn the Egyptian people against the deposed king. Along with the tangible assets in the Egyptian treasury, Mithridates had taken into his custody the son of King Ptolemy as well. The young prince had been sent to the faraway island to keep him safe from the palace intrigues of Alexandria, only to fall into Mithridates's hands. Protective custody, Mithridates called it. Kidnapping, said others.

“Yes, there was an Egyptian treasury on Cos,” said Samson. “And also, among others, a treasury belonging to the Jews of Alexandria. Mithridates had no right to take those riches. The man is no better than a common thief. He should have both hands cut off!”