Furies

by D. L. Johnstone

  “Yet consider the consequences. If our true reality is within the void, not in our day-to-day experience of reality, then whatever we do on this earth to bring us closer to the Godhead must therefore be virtuous.”

  “So that lends credence to our actions against others? Even immoral actions?”

  “You speak of morals, as though they are akin to rules of nature guiding heavenly bodies,” Zeanthes said with a strained smile.

  “Morals at least provide a set of rules for man, for civilization such that we might live in some degree of mutual content.”

  “So you espouse not divination but determinism, such that man’s only way forward is driven by the result of previous causes?”

  “Determinism is a just approach,” Epiphaneus said.

  “But there is a higher reality. If we act of free will, by definition we act with virtue, for it is that part of ourselves that is divine.”

  “I repeat my original question: even if the actions we take are wicked?”

  “Come, Epiphaneus. The wickedness of one man does no harm to another. Man’s soul is eternal. Aristotle himself said whatever steps we must take along the path to reach the end do not matter, only the end itself.”

  “Yes? Well as far as I’m concerned the end is a decidedly loathsome place and hardly worth the bother,” the other sophist said bitterly.

  “But the end is the nature of the thing.”

  “Do you mock me now?”

  “I meant no offense,” Zeanthes said.

  Epiphaneus considered him for a moment, then turned away. The platform was empty now save for the two men, their silhouettes aglow in the light of Pharos, the silence between them bridged by the rhythmic crash of the waves below.

  Zeanthes laid his hand on the other man’s shoulder, squeezed it gently. “Epiphaneus, something clearly troubles you. You asked me to meet with you for a reason. How can I help you, my friend?”

  Epiphaneus sighed. “The Chief Librarian has decided not to extend my patronage.”

  The other sophist looked at him in surprise. “But why?”

  “Why else? To make room for younger, lesser minds. After twenty-three years in this place, I’ve now been relegated as redundant.”

  “But that’s appalling! Whatever will you do?”

  “I’ve struggled with that same question for some time. Then I realized the answer was obvious. I will simply speak with him about you.”

  “About me?” Zeanthes asked, caught off guard.

  “Yes. I will speak to him about how well noble Zeanthes espouses in such dulcet tones the words of Pythagoras, Anaximander, even Aristotle as his own, while he seems so blissfully unaware of his own. I’m sure he will find it quite illuminating.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Epiphaneus reached into his satchel and took out a soft vellum case. He opened it, and from it slid a scroll. “Do you recognize this?”

  Zeanthes took the scroll from the other man and scanned it. He smiled and shook his head. “So this is what you wanted to speak to me about in such secrecy.”

  “Would you have preferred I’d raised the question on the square porch in front of an audience of our peers?”

  “Where did you find this?”

  “It matters not. It’s your work and in your own handwriting, is it not? A rare and unusual document for that and other reasons. Not the least being that you make within it a quite eloquent argument that man must trust reality, and that all else is subservient. You come across as a true and well-considered Stoic, in fact.”

  “A youthful exercise in thought,” Zeanthes said with a shrug, though his gaze never left the other sophist.

  “Youthful? It was written but five years ago. It should be noted, however, that no copy of it exists in the Library. Which brings me to another interesting observation. The Library holds original copies of virtually every book known to man, as has been its purpose from the beginning. Yet original copies of your works are not to be found, much to the surprise of the Librarians themselves, for they claim they used to have a complete collection. All of them are now gone, it seems. This scroll, however, was taken from a Persian merchant ship just this week.”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Epiphaneus, but my views have changed since that was written,” Zeanthes said dismissively.

  “Such things happen of course. A ship may change course with the winds. A rider may change a tired horse. But tell me please, how does a well-spoken Stoic develop into a muddle-headed Skeptic like yourself? And even if I could grudgingly accept such a thing, what am I to make of the fact that when I compare your work to other documents I recently obtained from the desk in your room, it is apparent that your handwriting has changed as markedly as your philosophy.”

  “So we have at last arrived at the root of the matter then,” Zeanthes said, watching the seagulls kite through the dimming sky.

  “I suppose we have,” Epiphaneus said, smiling in triumph. “You admit you are not Zeanthes of Araethyrea?”

  “What does it matter now?”

  “What does it matter?” the sophist asked, dumbfounded. “It matters a great deal!”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have lived my life, done my work, advanced the field of human knowledge and understanding, yet I am ridiculed, despised, called redundant. You, meanwhile, have somehow latched onto your acclaimed career like a parasite, plastering over it with muddled lies. You should be despised and scourged as a fraud but instead you are respected and honoured.”

  “I’m sorry, Epiphaneus,” Zeanthes sighed.

  “You’re sorry?” Epiphaneus spat, pulling his himation tight around himself against the cold wind off the sea. “Well, it’s far too late for half-hearted apologies, Zeanthes, or whomever you are. I’m certain that the Chief Librarian will be most interested in hearing …”

  Zeanthes moved with surprising speed, shoving Epiphaneus hard against the platform’s ballustrade, making it creak against the sudden force.

  “What do you think you’re doing, you fool?” Epiphaneus cried out. “You nearly made me…” A flicker of sudden realization sparked in his eyes. “Oh, of course.”

  Zeanthes seized the sophist by the ankles and tipped him over the ballustrade. As Epiphaneus tumbled, screaming in terror and rage against the injustice of it all, another part of him couldn’t help but notice his sandal slip from his foot and fall at precisely the same velocity as his own, despite its obvious lesser weight. He did not have the opportunity to observe that his head and the sandal both struck against the tapering Lighthouse wall halfway down at exactly the same time before both of them cartwheeled to the rocks below. A passing tourist screamed as the old man’s head splattered against the rocks like an overripe melon, spilling forth on the pale sands all the pink-grey matter that had produced such grand thoughts. Other tourists gathered in shock about the sophist’s broken, lifeless body. One of them looked up to the ballustrade, but Zeanthes was already gone.

  The moon had edged its way onto the horizon, the fire raged in the beacon overhead, casting its light across the darkening sea. The waves crashed against the shore, and the red crabs scuttled across the sand, their shelter swept away by the rising tide.

  Tyche walked through the central atrium, past the lush, fragrant flowers and ornamental shrubs within the peristylium, hardly noticing the little birds that hopped and fluttered along the pathway before her, trying to get out of her way. She stood in the shadows of the gatehouse, watching Calisto approach the litter. Tyche was about to pass through the gate when someone grabbed her arm.

  “Where are you going?” Idaia whispered.

  “With Calisto,” Tyche said.

  “But I thought you said she shouldn’t go to the symposium tonight! That something bad might happen, like what happened to Myrrhine!”

  “She has no choice – Ralla insisted.”

  “But … but why are you going then?”

  “To watch out for her.”

  “But why is s
he letting you? Who’ll watch out for you?” Tyche said nothing. Idaia felt her heart sink when she noticed the fear in her eyes. If she leaves now, I’ll never see her again, she thought. I know it! “I’m coming too!”

  “No you’re not.”

  “But …”

  “No!” Tyche said, too sharply. Idaia’s lower lip started to tremble and she began to sob.

  “Please, Tyche, please don’t go. Osti …”

  Tyche knelt down and wrapped her arms around the child. “No, it isn’t that, don’t worry.”

  “But what if it is?” Idaia wept. “What if it is and you and Calisto never come back?”

  “I will, I promise,” she said, kissing Idaia’s left cheek, then her right, squeezing her tight. After a moment she held her at arm’s length. “You shouldn’t stay here, though. Who else do you know in the city?”

  “A… Aculeo,” the child sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “That won’t do,” Tyche said. “He’s gone now.”

  “Wh … where did he g … go?”

  “I don’t know. Who else do you know? Think! You must know someone.”

  Idaia closed her eyes, thinking hard. Then she thought of that terrible morning in Rhakotis when she’d witnessed poor Myrrhine’s savaged remains. “There’s an old healer woman,” she said dubiously. “She’s a friend of Aculeo’s. She lives where all the Egyptian people live.”

  “Good!” Tyche said. “Do you think you can find her house again? It’s important.”

  “I … I think so,” Idaia said uncertainly. But it’s so far away, she thought, I’ll have to walk across the whole city all by myself. And it’s so dark – I hate the dark!

  “Go then. Go now! She’ll make sure you’re safe until we get back, alright?”

  “Come be safe with me! Please!”

  “I can’t. Now promise me you’ll do what I said, okay?” Tyche held the girl firmly, lifting up her chin when she tried to look away.

  “Okay,” Idaia whispered at last.

  Tyche hugged her again, painfully tight this time, kissed the top of her head, then pulled her cloak over her head and slipped into the mounting darkness.

  The streets were almost empty save for a few wandering groups of drunken revellers looking for yet another tavern. Aculeo approached the outer gates of Lagos, the exclusive deme in Gamma where Ralla lived high up on the hill. He could see the Western Harbour cupped below like a hand around the shore of Lake Mareotis where ships bobbed gently at anchor, cast in a silvery wash from the moon and stars in the deep black sky.

  He paused to rest a moment, the wound in his side throbbing, pain shooting through his body as though red-hot coals were embedded in his side. The side of his tunic was wet with blood. He’d rested in a tavern until it got dark, not wanting to risk walking to Sekhet’s to have his wound tended – he doubted he could have handled the exertion or the old woman’s remonstrations.

  Half a dozen revellers walked just ahead of him, all of them dressed in black, travelling on foot and by litter. Aculeo followed a short distance behind them up the winding streets, past the villas hidden like secret jewels behind high stone walls. They came at last to a large fountain in the centre of a boulevard, just outside of an elaborate pair of iron gates. The sculpture within the fountain appeared to be of Jupiter straddling a naked nymph from behind, holding her head down in the pounding water, obscuring her face as he mounted her. The Rape of Eurynome, he thought. That would be Ralla’s idea of high culture.

  He could hear the steady rhythm of music from behind the compound’s walls, the soft buzzing song of aulos, the sound of lyres and high-pitched, drunken laughter filling the night. Slaves wearing peacock masks, tall feathers fanning up from the backs of their heads, met arriving guests at the gates. Guards stood like statues near the gates, the guests presented their invitation tiles to gain admission. A very private affair. Slave girls dressed in translucent robes stood at the edge of the garden path and handed each guest a cup of wine and bowed before leading them through the gardens towards the villa, lit only with coloured lanterns and smoky torchlight. A large cage sat in a corner of the courtyard, inside of which paced a gaunt, tattered looking panther, which snarled and swiped at any guests who dared to poke at it with a stick between the bars of its cage. The guests roared in laughter at the poor animal’s indignant fury.

  Aculeo felt weak, his wound throbbing, the music emanating from beyond the gates a mad, wild thrill of flute, drum and lyre that seemed to echo all around. He could hardly walk unopposed through the gates. He turned about and followed the winding street past the pretty villas. He spotted some thorn bushes at the side of the road next to a cluster of large mud-brick storage crofts. He pushed through the bushes, the thorns catching at his tunic, tearing at the flesh of his arms and legs. And there, in behind one of the crofts, a square opening cut in the ground.

  There were several entrances to the cisterns about the city – from the palaces, public buildings and the street, for the cisterns fed the city’s many public fountains and water pumps. A few villas, those belonging to the wealthiest citizens, had private access to the cistern network. Including, he hoped, Ralla’s villa. A pair of grooves had been carved into the rock slab as handholds. Aculeo set his torch down and slipped his fingers into the grooves to test it. He gasped at the weight – it barely budged. He reset his grip, took a deep breath and heaved, trying to ignore the pain. At last the slab lifted high enough that he was able to drag it off the opening, letting it fall with a heavy thump on the ground. He fell next to it, laying there for a minute, head spinning, trying to catch his breath. At last he rolled to his hands and knees.

  He dropped his torch into the opening, listening to it clatter down the rock wall, revealing an open area perhaps five or ten cubits down before the flame sputtered and extinguished. I won’t be dropping into an endless pit at least, he thought. He slipped his feet into the hole and slowly lowered himself in, twisting around, scrabbling his feet against the rock wall, searching for a toehold. He found one finally, shallow but acceptable, and began to ease his way down. His hand slipped and he lost his toehold, falling the rest of the way into the dark hole, twisting his ankle, sprawling painfully on the rough ground. He eased himself up to a sitting position, the sound of water sloshing around below.

  When his eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness, he saw that he was on a raised area near a set of steps carved into the rock leading down into the cisterns. Stone arches towered overhead, stretching endlessly into the dark void beyond like still waves in a cold, dead sea. A city beneath the city. Faint light danced off the water, reflections dappling across the cavernous walls.

  Aculeo eased himself to his feet and tested his ankle. Painful but manageable. He limped down the steps to the narrow walkway that lined the cistern walls and moved towards the light up ahead. Random strains of music lilted in the air, a lyre, some pipes, a mournful flute. He kept moving towards it until he came at last to the end of the darkness, where shadows gave way to light. He held back, slipping into a shallow recess in the rock wall.

  A broad platform had been built in a great open area overhanging the cistern, lit with torches, hung with tapestries, garlands and grapevine cuttings. A tree, its twisted branches barren and white, stood beside an elaborate gilt wood throne. At the base of the barren tree a woman wearing a goat mask crouched inside a cage, her skinny arms wrapped tightly around her knees, shivering despite the rank heat of the place. The sacrifice, Aculeo thought starkly.

  A dozen black-robed people wearing masks were gathered about the base of the platform, crying ‘Euoi!’ as they danced wildly to the pounding of the drums, throwing their heads back and forth in a rage. A bellowing, rhythmic thrum of bullroarers echoed through the catacombs, the pounding of the drums, the shriek of the pipes, and the revellers all swayed in ecstasy around Aculeo, pushing against him, the heat of their bodies rank and thick, trying to draw him into their wild dance. He spotted Avilius Balbus standing with
his friend Camullus at the edge of the crowd, their masks lifted so they could drink freely, their eyes lit in the drunken fire of worship as they swayed rhythmically with the others.

  From the crowd emerged a man in a satyr’s mask and clad in goat skins, a headpiece of pronged horns set upon his head amidst a wig of dark curls. The worshippers parted to let him through and ascend the platform steps. Ralla, Aculeo thought coldly. At his side atop the platform stood a woman dressed as a nymph, suckling a baby goat to her naked breast. A man in a horse mask stood at the foot of the platform steps plucking notes on a lyre while two slaves knelt at his feet filling a large krater with an amphora of wine.

  The crush of masked, sweaty revellers pressed towards the platform, writhing to the pounding drums and cacophonic music. Two slaves in dragon masks led a snow-white goat towards the platform, garlands draped over its horned head. It bleated in confusion and fear, kicking and bucking, trying to escape, but its handlers prodded it forward with pine cone-tipped staffs until its white coat was stained with blood. The goat was hauled up onto the platform, bleating in terror at the blood-crazed fury of the worshippers, sensing what was to come.

  “The first wine is offered to the immortal Dionysos,” the high priest Ralla cried, his voice echoing through the catacombs as he took up a cup and forced its contents down the poor beast’s throat. “God of the ancients, God of Arcadia, horned child crowned with serpents, you who take raw flesh.” The goat twisted and tried to turn its head away, eyes wide with panic, but Ralla held it fast, pouring until the cup was empty.

  The undulating chants of the worshippers echoed all around, mixed with the pounding drums and the bleating of the goat as it was tied to the barren tree. “Dionysos, killer of the vine, fulfilled at last by his red and bleeding feasts, as we now fulfill ours,” Ralla proclaimed. He raised his arms, his hands spread wide, the revellers roared when the first stone struck the goat in the head. It bleated in pain and confusion as another stone struck it, then another, until its eerie cries of terror were drowned out by the drunken cheers of the worshippers as the stones rained down. Aculeo watched in revulsion as they descended on the wretched goat, screaming as they tore at its flesh. In a moment, it fell silent, a bloody, lifeless pulp on the ground. The revellers all stood and pressed forward, their faces and hands wet with the beast’s blood, their eyes alight with lust.