F&SF July/August 2011

by Fantasy; Science Fiction

  He took a deep breath. "I saw it as boy. My father was appointed by the elders of Sidon to consult the oracle at Delphi, and he took me along on the trip. We crossed the isthmus coming and going, and each time we spent a couple of nights here in Corinth. But my memories are a child's memories, vague and dim. It's impossible to know what I actually remember and what I only imagine, and there's nothing here to confirm my recollections. Nothing at all! And yet...."

  He began to wander again, with a more purposeful look on his face.

  "Are you looking for something in particular?" I said.

  "I'll know the right spot when I come to it," he muttered

  I followed him for an hour or more, walking up and down the streets of a city that no longer existed. A warm wind began to blow, whistling amid the ruins and causing the dry grass to shiver.

  At last he came to a halt. He sighed, closed his eyes, and bowed his head. We were in the midst of what once had been a grand house, to judge by the layout of the many rooms and the traces of a garden with a fountain at the center. Antipater threw back his head. With his eyes still shut, he declaimed in Greek:

  "I was Rhodope, the rosy-cheeked, and my mother was Boisca.

  We did not die of sickness. Nor did we die by the sword.

  wondered what acnotorInstead, when dreadful Ares brought destruction to the city,

  My mother seized a slaughtering knife and a cord.

  With a prayer, she slew me like a lamb upon the altar.

  Then she slew herself, with a noose around her throat.

  Thus died two women of Corinth, untouched and free,

  Bravely facing their end, cursing any who gloat."

  Utter silence followed his recitation, broken only by the sighing of the wind in the grass. Suddenly I heard someone clapping, then a whole group applauding.

  With a start, I spun about. Did I expect to see the ghosts of Corinth? The truth was more prosaic: Titus Tullius and his party had joined us.

  "A most excellent recitation!" declared Tullius. He turned to his companions. "Gentlemen, what you've just heard is a fictitious epitaph for a dead mother and daughter of Corinth, composed by the late Antipater of Sidon. I was planning to recite it for you myself, but good Zoticus here, with his native Greek, has done a far better job than I could have. That was excellent, Zoticus!"

  The party responded with another round of applause. Antipater's poems were as famous as his image was unknown. None of the traveling Romans had any idea that it was Antipater of Sidon himself who stood before them.

  Usually Antipater was delighted to hear his poems praised, but if looks could kill, Tullius would have fallen dead on the spot. Oblivious of Antipater's scowl, Tullius recommenced with what appeared to be an ongoing lecture for the edification of his companions.

  "So, gentlemen, is this really the spot where the distraught Boisca slew her daughter Rhodope and then committed suicide? Probably not, since both women are most likely fictional creations. The poet's intent was not to memorialize two actual women, but to remind us of the pathos and terror that must have attended that final day here in Corinth, when the Roman legionnaires under Lucius Mummius pulled down the walls and, under orders from the Senate itself, proceeded to raze the city to the ground, slaying the men and enslaving the women and children. Any questions?"

  "Other Greek cities joined Corinth in the insurgency against Roman rule," said one of the men, "and yet those cities weren't destroyed. Why Corinth?"

  "An excellent question! First of all, it was Corinth who turned on her peaceable neighbors, who were perfectly content under Roman rule, and incited others to revolt. Also, the Senate never forgot a rather nasty incident that occurred in Corinth before the insurrection, when Roman ambassadors, passing by a private house, had feces and urine poured upon them. Sooner or later, there is a price to be paid for such disrespect! And, finally, it was decided that any future insurrections in Greece could best be forestalled by making a strict example of Corinth. As you will recall, in the very same year, Rome's ancient rival Carthage was utterly destroyed and her people enslaved. As Carthage was annihilated to the west, so Corinth was annihilated to the east. The result: almost sixty years later, all the cities of Greece remain firmly under Rome's control—and greatly to their benefit, I might add, since Rome put an end to centuries of bloody squabbling among them. Sometimes, as terrible as the consequences may be, an example must be made."

  The men around Tullius nodded thoughtfully and grunted in agreement.

  "What utter nonsense!" muttered Antipater.

  "Of course," Tullius went on, "when any city meets its end, there are deeper causes at work. Some contend that divine will engineered the destruction of Corinth, but others argue that her own reckless leadership was quite capable of causing the city's downfall without any intervention from the gods. That the Corinthians had grown corrupt and decadent, no one can deny. There is a theory that proximity to the sea, while it may bring commerce and riches to a city, may also bring the vices of luxury and exotic temptations. Men are distracted from the virtues of discipline and brav an unusual number of shouldorckorery and spurred to compete instead in extravagant shows of wealth. The same decay afflicted Carthage, another maritime city, where the love of commerce and foreign goods made the people soft. Corinth was perhaps doubly at risk in this regard, having not one but two ports on either side of the isthmus, only a few miles apart." He nodded thoughtfully. "I am reminded of another of Antipater of Sidon's laments for Corinth, which alludes to the city's special relationship with the sea. In that poem, the beautiful Nereids, daughters of Ocean, bemoan the city's fate."

  Tullius paused and cleared his throat. "I shall quote the poem now—that is, if Zoticus here does not object?" He smiled, but this rhetorical flourish was strictly for the amusement of his listeners; he did not even glance in Antipater's direction. "Well, then—

  "Where, O Corinth, is your fabled beauty now?

  Where the battlements and ramparts—"

  "Oh, really, this is too much to bear!" said Antipater, who turned about and stalked off. I followed him. The laughter and the quips of the Romans ("Silly old Greek!") rang in my ears.

  "Teacher!" I cried, but rather than halting, Antipater quickened his stride. We reached the ruined walls of the city at the foot of Acrocorinth, and still he hurried on. We appeared to be following the course of what had once been a well-maintained road that skirted the steep face of the mountain and circled around to its far side, where the ascent was much more gradual. The road became little more than a poorly kept footpath, switching back and forth as it wound its way up the slope. I began to think Antipater would reach the top without stopping, but eventually he paused for breath. Whether from exertion or anger at the Romans, his face was bright red.

  At length he caught his breath. "Do you know the tale of Sisyphus?" he asked me.

  "The name is familiar—"

  He shook his head, dismayed yet again at my ignorance.

  "Sisyphus was the founder of Corinth, the city's first king. Somehow he offended Zeus—the tales vary—and he was given a terrible punishment, forced to roll a boulder up a hill only to see it slip away and roll back down again, so that he had to repeat the pointless task over and over again. Some believe this was the very hill where Sisyphus carried out the impossible labor Zeus set for him. That is why this is called the Slope of Sisyphus."

  I looked down the rocky incline, then looked upward. We were about halfway to the top. Antipater resumed the ascent.

  We passed the ruined walls of what must have been a fortress, and at length we arrived at the summit. With the rock-strewn Slope of Sisyphus at our backs, we stood atop the sheer cliff that towered above the remains of Corinth. To the north lay the sea. The wharves at Lechaeum were tiny in the distance, with tiny Roman galleys moored alongside them; the walls of the waterfront garrison were manned by Roman soldiers almost too small to be seen. Below us, at the foot of the cliff, I could clearly discern the course of the old walls and the l
ayout of Corinth.

  The sun was directly overhead. The harsh light and the lack of shadows made everything look stark and slightly unreal, drained of color and parched by the warm, dry wind. From the ruins below I imagined I could hear a sound like many voices whispering and moaning. The ruins themselves appeared to shimmer, an illusion caused by the rising heat and the undulation of high grass amid the stones. I shivered, and felt dizzy from the heat.

  "What really happened here, Antipater?"

  He sighed. "According to our friend Tullius, the Corinthians brought about their own destruction. Typical Roman reasoning: blame the victims!

  "When the Corinthians and their allies in the Achaean League revolted, they lashed out against the Spartans, who remained loyal to Rome. The Romans used that incident as a pretext to mount a full-scale invasion of the Peloponnese—they claimed they were merely coming to the defense of an ally. shouldorckor There were several battles. The Achaean League was crushed, and its leaders were either killed or committed suicide. The climax occurred here, at Corinth. The city opened its gates in surrender, but Lucius Mummius had been given orders by the Senate to make an example of Corinth. His soldiers poured into the city and utterly destroyed it.

  "Men were rounded up and slaughtered. Women were raped; if they survived, they were sold into slavery. The same thing was done to the children. Houses and temples were looted, then burned. The soldiers were allowed to stuff their pockets with all the jewelry and gold they could carry, but the choicest works of art were claimed by Mummius and sent back to the Senate. Rome was enriched beyond measure. Have a look inside any temple in Rome; all the best paintings and statues came from Corinth."

  Antipater paused for a long moment, lost in thought. "There's a painting by an artist named Aristeides, a stunning work. Hercules is in agony, trying to rip off the poisoned shirt given him by his wife, who thought the magical garment would merely make him faithful to her. Deianira is in the background, horrified by what she's done. The scheming centaur Nessus looks on from his hiding place in the woods, laughing. When I was a boy, my father took me to see that painting here in Corinth. How that image fascinated and terrified me! I never forgot it. Then, a few years ago, I had occasion to enter a temple in Rome, and there in the vestibule, I saw it again—not a copy or imitation, but the very painting by Aristeides! That was when my boyhood memories of Corinth came flooding back. That was when I wrote this poem."

  Antipater stepped to the very edge of the precipice. I held my breath, fearful that a gust of wind might push him over, but I didn't dare interrupt him. The words that had sounded pompous and hollow coming from Tullius sounded very different as they poured from Antipater.

  "Where, O Corinth, is your fabled beauty now?

  Where the battlements and ramparts, temples and towers?

  Where the multitudes that lived within your walls?

  Where the matrons holding vigil in your sacred bowers?

  City of Sisyphus, not a trace is left of you.

  War seizes and devours, takes some and then takes more.

  Ocean's daughters alone remain to mourn for you.

  The salt tears of the Nereids lash the lonely shore."

  I stepped beside Antipater. Together we gazed down at vanished Corinth with the moaning of the wind in our ears.

  A movement amid the ruins caught my eye. It was the party of Tullius—or so I presumed. The tiny figures were too distant to be clearly discerned, but among them I thought I recognized Tullius by his bristling red hair and beard. They were no longer standing in a group, listening to Tullius, or following him from place to place. They seemed to be poking amid the rubble and moving bits of it about, but toward what purpose I couldn't imagine. I thought of asking Antipater's opinion, but his gaze was elsewhere, and I didn't wish to agitate him by returning his attention to Tullius.

  The wind continued to rise. Antipater at last stepped back from the precipice and we headed down the slope.

  On the way down, a little off the path, I noticed some ruins that had escaped my attention on the way up. Antipater saw them, too, and we left the path to take a closer look.

  The largest of the ruins had once been a small temple or sanctuary. Drums from a fallen column lay amid the tumbled stones, and in a much-worn painting on a fragment of a wall Antipater claimed to recognize the image of Persephone, wife of Hades and queen of the Underworld.

  "Can you not see her regal headband, Gordianus, and the winnowing fan in her hands? Harvesters use such an implement to sift grain. Persephone uses it to winnow the dead as they descend to Hades, revealing some souls to be wheat and others chaff. Ceremonial winnowing fans like that are used in rituals at sacred sites all wondered what acnotor over Greece."

  "What happens at these rituals?"

  "No man knows, since the acolytes are all women. Presumably they call upon the powers of the Underworld."

  "But that's witchcraft, not worship."

  Antipater shrugged. "Who's to say where one ends and the other begins?"

  The remains of several other small buildings were nearby. Antipater speculated that these might have been used as dining halls and meeting rooms by the women who worshipped at the sanctuary of Persephone. The buildings had all collapsed except one. It was half-buried in rubble but the roof remained intact. It was hardly more than a shack with a door and a window. Antipater pushed open the door and we stepped inside.

  It was normal that the air in the room should be cool, but to me it felt unnaturally so. At first glance the dim little chamber appeared to be empty. But as my eyes adjusted, I saw a few objects scattered about the floor—clay lamps, incense burners, and some thin, flattened pieces of black metal. I picked up one of these tablets, surprised at how heavy it was, and how soft. The metal was easily bent.

  "Put that down!" said Antipater.

  His tone was so urgent that I did so at once. "What is it?"

  "A sheet of lead, for writing on. Don't you realize where we are? We've stumbled into a witch's den!"

  I looked about the room. "Are you sure? We're in the middle of nowhere. Why would anyone—"

  "The Romans demolished her sanctuary, but this spot is still sacred to Persephone. The women of Corinth must have practiced magic here for centuries. Ever since Jason brought the witch Medea back from Colchis and made her his queen, there have been witches in Corinth."

  "But Corinth no longer exists."

  "Yet the witches do. These things have been used recently. See the ash in the incense burners? See the dark spots on the ceiling made by the smoke of the lamps? They meet here at night. Someone is casting spells. While chanting incantations to the forces of darkness, they use the point of a blade to scratch curses on lead tablets, which are then placed near the person whom they wish to destroy."

  "But all these tablets are blank—except for this one."

  I picked up a tablet that was lying apart from the others. The crabbed letters were difficult to read, especially by the dim light, but the Greek was simple. "'I call upon Ananke. I call upon Moira. I call upon Egyptian Ufer of the Mighty Name. Destroy my enemy Eudocia! Destroy her utterly, from the hair on her head to the nails of her toes. Fill her mouth with sawdust. Fill her womb with sand. Fill her veins with black puss and vinegar. Make her—' And then it ends, just like that."

  "Put that thing down, Gordianus!"

  "But why is it still here?"

  "Who knows? Perhaps the curse was interrupted, or the spell went awry, or the person cursing Eudocia changed her mind. Now put it back where you found it, and let's get out of here at once."

  I would have stayed longer, curious to see if there was yet more evidence of magic to be found, but Antipater insisted I follow him. Emerging from the chill and darkness, I was dazzled by the harsh sunlight. Stifling waves of heat rose from the rock-strewn hillside.

  "When is the driver returning for us?" said Antipater. "I've seen enough of Corinth."

  The sun was still high in the sky when we reached the place where we wer
e to await the driver. Antipater found a shady spot under an olive tree and took a nap. I sat against the trunk and listened to the chirring of cicadas in the grass.

  At one point, a Roman soldier came by on horseback. His helmet kept me from recognizing him, until he gave me a mock-salute and spoke. "Hot enough for you?"

  I realized it was Marcus, the soldier at the tavern who had made fun of his comrade for being so fearful of witches. "What are you doing out here?" I said, keeping my voice low so as not to wake Antipater.

  "Just making the rounds." Marcus gave his mount a gentle kick and ambl how things are goingoo—, —ed on. Horse and rider soon disappeared beyond a low hill.

  Every now and again I imagined I heard sounds coming from the ruins—men talking, and a clatter like metal implements being struck against stones. Was it possible that Tullius and his party were still nosing about the ruins? If so, what could they be up to? I thought about going to look for them, but decided it would be irresponsible to leave Antipater alone. It also occurred to me that perhaps the sounds I heard were not being made by the Romans at all, but by the ghosts of vanished Corinth. A foolish idea, I had no doubt; but I stayed where I was.

  Like Antipater, I had seen enough of that desolate, melancholy place. I was glad when the wagon finally arrived to carry us back to the inn at Lechaeum.

  ANTIPATER AND I ate an early dinner. Before we headed to bed, we made arrangements to be taken the next morning to the port of Chenchrea on the opposite side of the isthmus, where the wagon driver was sure we could hire a small vessel to take us as far as Piraeus, the port of Athens. Just as I laid my head on the pillow, I heard Tullius's party arrive downstairs, talking loudly and laughing. I feared their carousing would keep me up, but as soon as I shut my eyes I fell asleep.

  I woke at dawn. Nightmares clung to me like a shroud. What had I been dreaming about? Witches and curses, no doubt, but my head was such a muddle I couldn't remember. I regretted having consumed so much wine the night before—then remembered that I had drunk only a single cup of watered wine with my dinner. Nearby, Antipater continued to snore.