“Do you see, Agathon? The goddess greets you. She welcomes you to her sacred chamber. She invites you to sleep at her feet. Do you see?” He gestured to the base of the statue’s pedestal, where pillows and coverlets had been strewn on the floor. “I will sleep nearby. Shall we have a cup of wine, to help us sleep?”

  Zeuxidemus fitted his torch into a sconce by the doorway. He removed his headdress and placed it on a table next to the statue’s pedestal. I had to smile at the state of his chestnut-colored hair, all mussed and tangled and sweaty—“headdress hair,” my father had once called it, noting that the authority imbued on its wearer by an ornamental helmet or headdress was inversely proportional to the look of dishevelment revealed when the headdress comes off. Such was the case with Zeuxidemus.

  On the same table where he placed his headdress sat a silver pitcher and two silver cups. With his back to me, he poured a cup of wine for each of us, then stepped to one side and invited me to join him.

  I was not so unnerved by the presence of the goddess, nor so amused by the state of the young Megabyzoi’s hair, that I forgot something else my father had said: When you are offered one cup, take the other. This may seem the stuff of Roman comedy—the poisoned cup and the switching thereof—but the lesson holds, nonetheless. Proof of its wisdom came in that high room, with the goddess looking on.

  When I joined him at the small table, Zeuxidemus handed me one of the cups. Pretending to hear some alarming noise from outside, I put the cup down and stepped toward the round window. Just as I had intended, the young priest followed me. We stood beside the goddess for a moment, staying back from the opening so that we should not be easily seen, standing on tiptoes to peer out at the restless crowd that continued to mill about the altar, even though darkness had fallen.

  “What did you hear?” asked Zeuxidemus.

  I bit my lip and feigned concern, then finally shrugged and shook my head. I returned to the table. Zeuxidemus did not follow at once, but lingered for a moment at the window, peering out and wondering what I might have heard. When he joined me at the table, the pitcher and the cups were just where we had left them—or so it appeared. I picked up the nearest cup—presumably the one I had recently put down—and politely waited for my host to pick up the other. As he did so, the faintest shadow of doubt creased his forehead. He scrutinized me for a moment, detected no guile on my face, and raised his cup.

  “May Artemis bring you the gift you most desire. Happy dreams, Agathon of Alexandria.”

  I nodded to acknowledge his blessing, and brought the cup to my lips. Zeuxidemus did likewise. We drank.

  I had switched the cups, and Zeuxidemus was none the wiser. My pantomime had been flawless, and the switching of the cups had been executed quickly and without a sound. My father would have been proud of me.

  The wine was much finer than the cheap stuff I was used to. The Megabyzoi owned their own vineyards—yet another source of revenue for the Temple of Artemis—and they reserved the very finest of their vintages for those who most deserved such pleasure, including themselves. After all the many smells I had endured that day, the bouquet of that wine was the best possible tonic. I would have been satisfied just to swirl it in the cup and relish the smell. But even finer than the bouquet was the taste, very refined and complex, quite unlike any other wine I had ever tasted. After I swallowed, almost at once I felt a sweet sense of euphoria. Had I been drugged, after all? No, it was only that I had eaten nothing for hours. My empty, growling stomach eagerly absorbed the wine, and almost at once I felt the glow of inebriation.

  So did Zeuxidemus, apparently, for his cheeks turned red and the smile on his face was quite giddy. I decided he must be even younger than me, so boyish did he look with his hopelessly unruly hair. He put down his empty cup and reached for the pitcher.

  “Shall we drink the rest? A pity I have no food to offer you. The wine is risky enough. If those Romans knew we had it, they’d break down the door and run up those stairs to take it.”

  As he spoke, his speech became more and more slurred, until I could hardly understand him. He swayed a bit as he poured the wine, then offered the brimming cup to me.

  I showed him that I already had a cup.

  “But Agathon, you haven’t even finished yours! You must. Drink up! It’s very, very good for dreaming. They all say so … the next morning.”

  He put down the brimming cup and staggered toward the pile of pillows at the feet of the goddess.

  “I must lie down … for just a moment,” he said, clutching the pillows and closing his eyes.

  He lay very still. His breathing grew slow and steady. He began to quietly snore.

  I took a deep breath. I experienced an odd exhilaration. At first I attributed it to the wine, then realized that it was something else. For the first time in many days, I was alone—not by myself, strictly speaking, but with the only other person present completely unconscious. Alone! How luxurious that suddenly felt—to be unseen, unheard, unwatched by anyone. I could stop pretending to be something I was not. I could even speak out loud if I wanted to, and in Latin, not Greek. What would I have said?

  I am not mute! I am not Agathon of Alexandria! I am Gordianus, a citizen of Rome, son of the Finder, pupil of Antipater of Sidon.…

  I very nearly spoke these thoughts aloud, simply to hear my own voice, but something held me back.

  I was not alone in that room.

  Was it the presence of Artemis I felt? I thought not. Was it the presence of Zeuxidemus, now snoring more loudly than before? No.

  Someone else was in the room.

  The room was shaped like the pediment, with a high, pointed ceiling that tilted down to either side and ended in dark shadows. Stare as I might, I could see no one, but I became convinced that someone stood in the darkness at the far side of the room. In other circumstances I would have called out and told the other to show himself. But I dared not speak. I could only watch and wait. I held my breath, the better to listen. A hubbub came from the window, the sounds of the sleepless crowd outside—children crying, mothers shushing, men grumbling.

  The torch in the sconce was burning low. It would not be long before it went out, and the room would be almost entirely dark, lit only in places by the faint starlight that came from the window. In such darkness, I would be at a great disadvantage—slightly drunk, unable to see, unsure just who or how many were in the room with me, afraid even to cry out. The wisest thing might be to grab the torch by the doorway and run down the steps, hoping that whoever stood in the shadows would not catch up with me, and that I would not trip and break my neck.

  I drew a deep breath, stiffened my shoulders, and was about to bolt when a voice spoke from the shadows.

  XX

  “That was clever of you, to switch the cups. Adroitly done. But you’re lucky the priest is so young and unsuspecting, or else he might have spotted the change, and switched them back.”

  From the shadows, a figure stepped forward. The two of us stood staring at each other, until Samson laughed.

  “Go ahead and speak, Gordianus. We’re perfectly alone up here—except for your friend Zeuxidemus, who’s won’t stop snoring until daybreak.”

  I had to cough and clear my throat before I could speak. Even so, I sounded hoarse. “Then I was right, that he put something into my cup?”

  “From where I was standing, I saw him do it. He produced a small bottle from his sleeve and poured the contents into the cup intended for you. But you shouldn’t take it personally. His intention was pious. He meant you no harm.”

  “No harm? He tried to drug me!”

  “It’s not a poison, merely a sleeping potion. So far as I’ve been able to determine, every pilgrim who’s privileged to sleep in this room, at the feet of that statue, is given the same potion. It produces a long, deep sleep—and dreams. There! Do you see how Zeuxidemus kicks his feet and whimpers? For all we know, he’s seeing Artemis at this very moment. If you’d drunk the potion, it would be you in dreamland, Gordianus, while the priest sat here sipping wine and watching over you. From the way he keeps whimpering, do you think he’s come upon Artemis naked, and she’s set the hounds of Actaeon after him?”

  “You seem to take this very lightly,” I said. “You might wish to adopt a more respectful tone.”

  “Respectful?”

  “Of the goddess.” I glanced up at the statue and lowered my voice. “She’s standing right here!”

  “I am a Jew, Gordianus. I don’t worship Artemis.”

  This struck me as a foolhardy thing to say, standing as we were in the heart of the goddess’s sanctuary, in plain sight of the most revered image of Artemis in the world. “Do you think this statue is only a piece of wood, and no such goddess exists?”

  “I didn’t say that. But whether Artemis exists or not, my god does not allow me to worship her. Nor would I wish to.”

  I shook my head. “What a peculiar religion, that instructs its adherent to not worship a goddess.”

  “You don’t know much about the Jews, do you, Gordianus?”

  “There aren’t very many of them in Rome.”

  “But you’ve been living in Alexandria. There are an awful lot of us there.”

  “Perhaps so, but for whatever reason, I’ve had few dealings with your people. Your ways are mysterious to me.”

  “But isn’t that slave of yours Jewish?”

  “Now how could you know that?”

  “I make it my business to know things that aren’t my business.”

  “Yes, Bethesda’s mother was a Jew, but she died young. Bethesda was born a slave, and not in a Jewish household. She does remember some of the stories her mother told her when she was little.”

  “Like the one about Samson the strongman?”

  I frowned. “But what are you doing here, Samson?”

  “Doesn’t every visitor to Ephesus come to the Temple of Artemis?”

  “I suspect that very few visitors find their way to this chamber.”

  “True. I happened to know it was here from a previous visit, and also what it’s used for—this rigmarole of seeking a dream-cure at the foot of the statue. I’m a bit of a snoop.”

  “How is it that you found your way here today?”

  “I didn’t come here intending to see you, Gordianus. I arrived only an hour ago, on other business. But I was told about this morning’s sacrifice, and when I saw you wandering about with the young priest, I figured you’d end up in this room come nightfall. So I snuck up here ahead of you and waited in the shadows.”

  “But why?”

  “Partly from curiosity. I’ve heard of this dream-cure and the sleeping potion used to bring it about, but I’ve never actually seen it done. I wondered if my informants were correct. And so they were. Now you’re free to do whatever you wish until daybreak.”

  “Zeuxidemus will sleep that long?”

  “If my informants are correct.”

  “And where would I go?”

  “Didn’t you come to Ephesus for a specific purpose? If Mithridates plans on holding you in the palace, under careful watch of the chamberlains, this may be your best chance—perhaps your only chance—to go look for that old tutor of yours. Shall we pay a visit to the house of Eutropius?”

  My heart leaped. “But the city gates will have been closed at nightfall. How would we get in?”

  “There are ways. But before we go, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “Here in the temple?”

  “Yes. But once we leave this room, you’re Agathon of Alexandria again, and mute. It’s very likely there are spies planted among the refugees, so keep your mouth shut. Now follow me. I think this torch may last us just long enough to get down the stairs.”

  I took a close look at Zeuxidemus, to make sure he slept. He no longer whimpered, but instead was smiling blissfully.

  As Samson had predicted, the torch lasted just long enough to see us down the stairs, then burned to nothing. We emerged from the shadows of the hidden doorway into the grand interior, which was now dimly lit by a multitude of lamps hung from ornamental stands or set into the wall. The temple was even more crowded than before, for many of the sanctuary-seekers had come inside to sleep. Picking his way between the slumbering bodies on the floor, Samson led me across the temple to the Roman statue of Diana.

  A man stood up as we approached. He was not young, to judge by the groans he made at unbending his limbs. He wore a filthy toga too big for his slender frame.

  Without speaking, Samson led us to the narrow, secluded space between the statue’s pedestal and the wall behind. “This is the young man I was telling you about,” said Samson, introducing me to the old man.

  “And this,” he said, lowering his voice, “is Chaeremon of Nysa.”

  So this was the father of the two brothers who were houseguests of Posidonius on Rhodes, the man who had stayed loyal to the Romans and as a result had been outlawed and hunted by Mithridates, with a bounty of forty talents for his capture. I wondered for a moment why he wore a toga, since he wasn’t a Roman, then realized it must be a sort of disguise, making him indistinguishable from all the Romans around him. Even in this crowd there might be some who would turn him in for the reward. What an irony, I thought—that anyone in Ephesus should put on a toga to save himself.

  “Here, both of you, step into the light, so that you can see each other’s faces,” said Samson. “I’ll do what I can to help you, Chaeremon, but if you shouldn’t see me again, Agathon can be trusted.”

  “Who did you say he was?” Chaeremon sounded weak and exhausted, and more than a little confused. Seeing his face more clearly, I realized that he was not so very old—perhaps no older than my father—but his graying hair and beard were unkempt and his face was lined with worry.

  “He’s called Agathon of Alexandria,” said Samson. “A mute who’s come to the temple—”

  “What good will a mute be to me?”

  “This is ridiculous!” I whispered. Samson looked about uneasily, but seeing no one within earshot, he let me go on. “I’m not mute. My name is Gordianus. I’m Roman. And yes, if Samson isn’t able to help, I’ll do what I can for you,” I said, though I couldn’t imagine what that would be.

  “My sons, Pythion and Pythodorus—you saw them on Rhodes? They’re well?”

  “Yes. But they worry for you.”

  “I think Agathon has said enough.” Samson gave me a sharp look. “I only wanted the two of you to meet and take a good look at each other. Now that’s done, Agathon and I should be off.”

  Samson took my arm and led me quickly away from the statue of Diana. “You have a great deal to learn, Agathon, about this business of spycraft. No, don’t say a word!” he added, seeing the exasperation on my face.

  I never wished to be a spy, I wanted to say. I only wanted to see Antipater again. I kept my mouth shut and allowed him to lead me out of the temple and down the broad steps, threading our way between huddled bodies.

  “We’ll stay off the Sacred Way for as long as we can,” he said, and proceeded to cut a path across the open temple grounds. Here, too, there were many people about, standing or lying down, some in crudely made shelters and tents. The ground was mostly flat, but in some places uneven, so that we had to go slowly to avoid tripping.

  Passing by one tent, I heard a commotion from inside.

  “What’s this? You have some bread! Where have you been hiding this?”

  “Shut up! Do you want everyone—”

  “He has bread! Do you hear? This good-for-nothing has been holding out on the rest of us!”

  We hurried on. Eventually, the crowd grew thinner. At one point I almost stepped into a trench, but Samson caught my arm. I looked down at the long, black gash in the earth. At first I thought this must be the trench I had seen from the altar, then realized that it couldn’t be, since that trench lay in the opposite direction. There seemed to have been a great deal of digging going on in the open fields surrounding the temple grounds.

  We drew near the city walls, and finally stepped onto the paved surface of the Sacred Way. The gates were closed, as I had feared, but a small door, set into one of the massive ones and just large enough to admit a single traveler on foot, stood open, with a guard blocking the way. As we drew closer he ordered us to halt, then to step slowly into the circle of light cast by the lamp hung beside him.

  “Just keep your mouth shut,” whispered Samson. “Stay behind, and follow when I tell you to.”

  He exchanged a few words with the guard. I couldn’t hear what they said. The guard stepped to one side. Samson gestured for me to follow him. As I passed through the doorway, the guard studiously looked the other way. I found myself in the square where I had earlier witnessed the incident of the begging Roman. The shops were all closed and the streets were deserted.

  “You’ll be wondering how I managed that,” said Samson. “I’ll only tell you that it wasn’t cheap. You can thank Gaius Cassius for providing us a generous allowance for such expenses.”

  I would have been hard-pressed to find the house of Eutropius on my own, but Samson seemed to know the way, taking narrow, winding backstreets. At last I began to recognize landmarks from my previous visit, and then we stood before the house.

  Samson stepped into the shadows and peered up and down the street. There was no one about. “This Eutropius,” he whispered, “is he likely to recognize you?”

  “I should think so. I saved his daughter’s life.”

  “You exaggerate?”

  “Almost never. In this case not at all.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Perhaps another time.”

  “Who else in the household will know you? Eutropius’s wife?”

  “Eutropius is a widower. Anthea is his only child.”

  “And the servants?”

  “At least one of them should remember me. Ah, sweet Amestris…”

  “A Persian girl?”

  “Handmaiden to Anthea, the daughter of Eutropius.”

  “Whose life you saved?”

  “Amestris played a part, as well.”

  “You really must tell me the whole story sometime. But now to the business at hand. The kind of slave assigned to answer a wealthy man’s door at night can sometimes be a bit difficult, unless he knows you, or you can convince him you have pressing business. If you were to speak, you’d be recognized at once as a Roman, and that might cause a stir.”

 

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