Wrath of the Furies (17 page)

“I am not! I simply have manners. It's something one acquires after ten generations of being royal. Maybe in couple of centuries,
your
descendants will have learned some manners, Moni.”

“If you call me Moni, I
will
call you Ptoly.”

“The indignities I must endure! But I
am
your prisoner, after all.”

The chamberlain cleared his throat. “If Her Majesty finds the candidate unsatisfactory—”

“Oh, no. He seems satisfactory.” The queen looked me up and down. “Quite satisfactory, in every way. Of course the Grand Magus must have a look at him, and the Great Megabyzus as well. But he appears to be whole and unblemished.
Are
you whole and unblemished, Agathon of Alexandria?”

I was not quite sure what she meant by this, but I nodded.

“Well, then, the task my dear husband set me is almost complete. We have the blind man, and the deaf man, and now the mute. Next we must acquire the proper virgin for the sacrifice.”

Prince Ptolemy gave her a sidelong glance. “I should think the king had reserved the task of selecting the virgin for himself.”

“Oh, I'm sure he would have liked that, but I insisted that he let me choose
all
the necessary participants, including the virgin.” Monime looked past me, at Bethesda. “I don't suppose
she's
a virgin?”

The queen returned her gaze to me. I'm not sure what expression crossed my face, but she found her answer.

Monime pursed her lips. “No, I suppose she's not.”

“But would a slave do, for the virgin?” said the prince.

“Of course a slave will do. It's customary, in fact, for such sacrifices. Or so I'm told. This sort of thing is more Persian than Greek. It was the Magi's idea, of course, not the Megabyzoi's, though they insist on playing a role as well.”

“We Egyptians do
not
practice human sacrifice,” said the prince, with an air of superiority. “I didn't think the Greeks did so, either, at least not any longer.”

“Oh, yes, it's still done, if rarely. Following the example of Agamemnon with Iphigenia, you know. I'm told that even the Romans practice human sacrifice from time to time, though they don't like to admit it.”

I would have liked to protest this slander, but I kept my mouth shut. Not only was I pretending to be mute, I was also pretending not to be a Roman. But what was this talk of human sacrifice, and what sort of role had I been chosen to play? It seemed a cruel joke of the gods that the pretense meant to protect me from scrutiny—my inability to speak—had somehow made me the thing I least wanted to be, an object of interest to the Roman-hating royal household.

Queen Monime gave me another appraising look, then dismissed us all with a flick of her wrist. “Well then, take the mute away. Give him lodging with the others, and arrange for the Magi and the Megabyzoi to have a look at him and give their approval.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The chamberlain gave a low bow and began to back away. I imitated the bow and did likewise, bumping into Bethesda behind me, who made a complaining grunt. If Their Majesties noticed our awkwardness, they showed no sign. They seemed too busy teasing each other.

“It's hard work, being a queen,” sighed Monime.

“Ha! You should try ruling Egypt,” said the prince. Despite his jovial tone, there was an edge in his voice; his father had been driven from the throne and he himself was a captive of some sort.

“Rule Egypt?” said Monime. “The King of Kings will have to take back all of Greece, first. But then … who knows?”

How Prince Ptolemy reacted to this suggestion I did not hear. We retreated though the veils, and then through the door, which closed behind us, leaving the chamberlain, Bethesda, and myself once more in the gilded vestibule outside the queen's reception room.

“Come along, then,” said the chamberlain, unbending his back and straightening the bejeweled turban on his head. “I'll show you to your quarters.”

 

XIII

A room of my own, in a royal palace? This was to be a new experience, I thought.

We walked down a broad corridor, passing well-dressed courtiers, pretty serving girls, and swaggering soldiers. Down a side corridor I caught a glimpse of some men dressed in wildly colorful robes and headdresses whom I took to be Magi, having seen a few on my trip to Babylon with Antipater. The Magi were engaged in a spirited debate, but I was able to catch only a few words of Persian.

I tried to get a good look at every face we passed. Was it possible that Antipater might not be at the house of Eutropius, but here in the royal palace, summoned for a dinner or some other function? And would I know him if I saw him? During our journey he had several times donned disguises, putting on putty noses, stuffing his cheeks, and wearing wigs. Might he be incognito even here, in the court of the man whom he had served, and perhaps still served, as a spy?

I saw a number of gray heads and stooped elders and tried to get a good look a them, but none appeared to be Antipater.

We descended to a lower level. The floor beneath our feet changed as we went down, from marble on the upper landing to plain wood on the last flight of steps—highly polished wood, to be sure, but no match for the marble upstairs. Here the hallways were narrower, the decorations sparser, and the people less elegantly dressed. I was no longer sure who was a household slave and who was not—except that no slave, even in the most common household, would dare to spit on the floor, as I saw one man do. He leaned against a wall cleaning his teeth with a silver pick, dressed in a sleeveless tunic and wearing a great deal of jewelry. His bearded face registered no emotion as we passed, but I saw him wink at Bethesda. Then he spat again.

The chamberlain wrinkled his nose. “The things that fellow gets away with,” he muttered. “And only because he can throw things in the air!”

I glanced back over my shoulder. This was my first look at Sosipater, whom I would later learn was not only the world's greatest juggler, but also one of King Mithridates's favorite dinner companions. His muscular arms were adorned by many bands of silver and gold—bands he had juggled for the king's amusement, as I would later learn, and with which the king had rewarded him, letting Sosipater keep as many bands as he could keep in the air at once. How many bands was that? There were certainly more of them glittering around his arms than I could count at a glance.

A troupe of giggling, scantily dressed girls swept past us. Normally they would have set my head spinning, but after gazing at Queen Monime I found them plain and uninteresting. Walking beside me, Bethesda noticed my apathetic response and raised an eyebrow, pleased that I showed no reaction, displeased because she probably guessed the reason.

“Dancers!” mumbled the chamberlain. He made it sound as if dancing were the only thing more distasteful than juggling.

We rounded a corner and ahead of us I heard the sound of a flute being played, and not too well. As the shrill music grew louder, I had a sinking feeling. Sure enough, the chamberlain led me to the doorway of the room from which the music was coming.

“Your quarters,” he said.

I had been imagining a spacious chamber that opened onto one of those balconies or terraces I had seen from outside. The room I peered into was dark and dingy. A high window admitted the last faint glow of the long summer day, but afforded no view. The furnishings were sparse. A flickering lamp was set atop a small table, and next to that was a single chair. A rug that had seen better days covered most of the plain wooden floor.

Placed longwise against each of three walls were three narrow beds. On the bed to my left sat the man who was murdering the flute. On the bed to my right sat another man, who gave me a keen look as I stepped inside, then looked at Bethesda as she followed me. The music suddenly stopped. The man on my left lowered the flute and cocked his head. He stared at me with vacant, cloudy eyes.

The two men were neither young nor old, neither handsome nor ugly. Neither had the figure of a dancer or an acrobat. I doubted that either could juggle, and the blind man with the flute was certainly not a musician. Who were they, then, and what were they doing here? I remembered what Monime had said, quoting the Grand Magus: the ritual—whatever that was—must be heard by one who cannot see, seen by one who cannot hear, witnessed by one who cannot speak.

Apparently I was to be the witness who could not speak. The man looking at us so keenly had to be the one who could not hear—how else could he put up with that terrible music?—and the flute player was the one who could not see.

I turned to the chamberlain. I gestured to the room, then looked at Bethesda.

“My master is to sleep here?” she asked.

“Is that a girl I hear?” said the flute player, with a smile that looked at once innocent and lecherous, situated as it was beneath those vacant eyes.

The deaf man had leaned forward on his narrow bed and was staring intently at his blind companion across the room. Apparently he was able to read lips, for he knocked on the wall behind him twice, which, from the blind man's nod, I took to be a code meaning
yes
.

“Is she pretty?” asked the blind man.

The deaf man again knocked twice on the wall, with a bit more enthusiasm than I would have liked, though I saw Bethesda smile.

The chamberlain ignored them. “For the time being, this will be your master's room,” he answered.

“For how long?” said Bethesda.

“Your master is to be the guest of His Majesty until his presence is no longer required.”

“Days? Months?”

“A few days only, from what I've heard.”

“And what have you heard?”

I pursed my lips and gave Bethesda a sidelong glance. She was asking exactly the questions on my mind.

“What I have heard…” The chamberlain lowered his voice, smiled, and gestured for Bethesda to lean closer. “What I have heard … is that I should keep my mouth shut! That advice applies to your master, as well—and to you, slave.”

“Ha! You'll get nothing useful out of that fellow,” said the blind man. “But who exactly is joining us, and why is the girl speaking for him? No, let me guess! The fellow is mute, and the slave girl serves as his voice.”

The deaf man slapped the wall two times.

“Oh, dear, how are we going to communicate?” said the blind man. “I can't see, you can't hear, this one can't speak. And where is his slave to sleep? There are only three beds, and none is wide enough for two.” Again he flashed that lecherous, or perhaps innocent, smile.

“There is a rug on the floor,” said the chamberlain.

I put a finger to Bethesda's lips before she could say something rash, and gave the chamberlain a plaintive look.

“I suppose I can have an extra blanket delivered to the room,” he said.

I smiled to show my gratitude, then caught a glimpse of a figure passing in the hallway outside—a man of many years, his long white hair and beard illuminated by lamplight.

Could it be—?

At the very instant I moved toward the door, the blind man decided to spring from his bed. I might have avoided colliding with him, but the chamberlain also got in the way. Somehow Bethesda became entangled as well.

The deaf man stayed clear of the jumble, sitting on his bed. He made a strange braying sound, slapped his thigh, and pointed at us. An Alexandrian mime troupe could not have staged a more farcical collision.

When I at last broke free and hurried to the door, there was no one in the hall outside. The passage was lit by lamps set in niches along each wall. I walked to the end of the hall and stuck my head around the corner. No one was in sight, except the bevy of dancing girls, heading back the way they had come, now accompanied by a dwarf who seemed to be on very familiar terms, to judge from the way he kept raising their sheer skirts and peeking under them. The girls giggled and shrieked with laughter.

Had I seen Antipater? I'd had only the briefest glimpse of the man's profile, but I was certain … almost certain … that it was him.

But how could that be? Surely the world's greatest poet should be upstairs, in the company of other poets, and philosophers and playwrights and sages. What would Antipater be doing below stairs with the dancing girls and acrobats and other riffraff?

The chamberlain came huffing and puffing after me. “You mustn't run off like that,” he said. “Not without permission, or someone to look after you. Have you any idea what would happen to me if one of you three went missing before…” His voice trailed off. “Come back and let me properly introduce you to the others.”

I shrugged and followed him back to the dingy little room.

*   *   *

“And the food is rather good, and there's plenty of it,” said the blind man, whose name was Gnossipus. He came from a nearby village and had been able to see until a few years ago, when an illness made him blind. His livelihood as a wagon driver ruined, he had come to Ephesus to beg outside the Temple of Artemis, where he made a better living than before. It was outside the temple that the Great Megabyzus had approached him a few days ago and then brought him to the royal palace.

My stomach growled. Darkness had fallen and we had not yet been fed. I was beginning to wonder if I was expected to fall asleep on an empty stomach. Why did Gnossipus insist on talking about food?

“And at this time of year,” he went on, “there are plenty of fruits and vegetables. Oh! The other day, we actually had cherries. Have you ever eaten cherries, Agathon?”

I shook my head, then realized I would need to use the code. I shifted a bit on my narrow bed and knocked once on the wall behind me.

“No? I suppose they're even rarer in Alexandria than they are here. Cherries come from somewhere up north, on the shores of the Euxine Sea. King Mithridates grew up eating them—‘Summer isn't summer without cherries,' he says—and a few days ago a wagonload arrived here in Ephesus. All for the royal court, of course, but there were so many that even we nobodies got some. Oh, how delightful! Small and sweet and juicy, and I am told they have the most beautiful red color, the color of blood. I remember red.…” He sighed. “Do I exaggerate, Damianus? About the cherries?”