The Seven Wonders: A Novel of the Ancient World (Novels of Ancient Rome)

by Steven Saylor

  “Marvelous!” said Antipater. “What was the statue’s condition?”

  “Except for a few nicks here and there,” said Cleobulus, “and patches of mold and other discolorations on the white plaster, it was in remarkably good shape, considering its age and fragility. It was in a corner of the shed, surrounded by moth-eaten rugs. The old farmer said it had been there since he was a child.”

  “But did it look like Vindovix?” I asked.

  Cleobulus exchanged a look with the two Gauls. His nostrils flared. Gatamandix’s face was inscrutable. Vindovix looked amused.

  “On that, we had a difference of opinion,” said Cleobulus.

  “No matter,” said Posidonius. “Barring a storm at sea or some other catastrophe, the ship should arrive in the harbor tomorrow. When the statue is brought here and uncrated, we can stand it side by side with Vindovix, and each of us can judge for himself.”

  “What a splendid occasion that will be!” declared Antipater. “A suitable subject for a poem.…

  “Thus was the method of Chares revealed,

  When upon his model we gazed, eyes peeled—”

  Cleobulus glumly shook his head.

  * * *

  After dinner, Posidonius retired to his library. It was his habit to stay up late, reading and writing. Antipater went directly to bed. The two Gauls retired to their guest quarters. Cleobulus, who lived with his parents in a house not far away but was in no hurry to go home, suggested that he and I share some wine and play a few rounds of a Rhodian board game. Away from the Gauls, and after a cup or two of wine, he turned out to be an amiable enough companion, and very good at tossing dice. When I finally won a round, I suspected it was only because he let me.

  After conclusively thrashing me in the final round, Cleobulus took his leave and headed home. I visited the latrina at the far corner of the house—Posidonius’s plumbing was as modern as any in Rome—and was heading to my bedroom when I encountered a hulking silhouette.

  The passage was lit only by pale moonlight, but there was no mistaking the figure before me. Who else was that big, and had such a mane of coarse hair? Though I could see him only dimly, it appeared that Vindovix was no longer dressed in his strange Gallic costume. Indeed, he appeared to be wearing nothing at all. Perhaps that was how Gauls slept, I thought. Presuming he was on his way to the latrina, I stepped aside to let him pass, but he didn’t move.

  “Can you not sleep, either, my Roman friend?” he said.

  “I was just going to bed.”

  “Alone?”

  I shrugged. “Posidonius’s house is very large. I have my own room.”

  “So do I. Perhaps you would like to join me?”

  “Oh, no, my room is quite comfortable.”

  He sighed, sounding exasperated. “At dinner, you said I could sleep with you if I should ever come to Rome.”

  “Well, that’s not exactly—”

  “Why wait? We can sleep together tonight.”

  His meaning at last became clear to me. I looked at the figure before me—more than a head taller than I, and almost twice as broad—and laughed a bit nervously.

  “Is it my moustache?” he said. He shook his head. “How you Greeks seem to hate it! I can’t understand. In Gaul, a fine moustache is a mark of manhood. It’s quite an honor, to be allowed to touch another man’s moustache. Here, Gordianus, see for yourself.” He took my hand and raised it to his face.

  For an instant, my fingertips made contact with the silky hair above his lip, then I snatched my hand away. I mumbled something about heading to my room. He did not yield at all, and I had to squeeze past him. He snorted, sounding quite disgusted.

  I hurried down the passage and around a corner—where I ran into our host, vaguely lit from behind by the glow from his library.

  “I fear you’ve offended him, Gordianus,” Posidonius whispered.

  “Offended him? I don’t see how. If anything—”

  “The Gauls are not like the Greeks, Gordianus, and certainly not like the Romans. They have their own customs about this sort of thing. He was doing you an honor by inviting you to join him.”

  “Yes, perhaps, but—”

  “And you gave him great offense when you refused. I don’t think he’s used to that.”

  “Perhaps not in Gaul, but—”

  “Here, step into the library, where we can talk properly.” He led the way. Once there, he offered me a cup of wine, and I did not refuse.

  “It’s a curious thing,” he said, taking a sip. “In my opinion, the Gallic women are the most comely of all barbarian females, yet the Gallic men hardly seem to notice them. They’re all mad for each other. They even have a form of marriage between men, but that doesn’t stop them from being wildly promiscuous. Now among the Greeks, there is a long and venerated tradition of intimate relations between comrades in arms, or between an older man and a younger whom he chooses to mentor. But among the Gauls—well, anything goes! Often they sleep in groups at night, rolling around on fur skins until all hours, the more the merrier. The best-looking young men strut about, flaunting their moustaches and brazenly offering themselves to anyone who might be interested. They have no standards at all.”

  I frowned, feeling vaguely insulted.

  “And if anyone should turn him down, a young Gaul takes such rejection as a terrible affront to his dignity. Vindovix is a very proud young fellow. As I say, I don’t think he’s used to being rebuffed.”

  I grunted. “How do you know all this about the Gauls?”

  Posidonius raised an eyebrow. “A traveler must be open to new experiences, Gordianus, or what is the use of travel? But I was not entirely surprised to find such customs among the Gauls. Aristotle commented on the relations between Gallic men. How he knew, I’m not sure, since Aristotle lived long before the invasion of Cimbaules—”

  “Are you saying I should apologize to Vindovix?”

  He smiled. “The two of you are set to spend the winter together under my roof. Do try to remember that Vindovix is a very long way from home, and he’s not much older than you are.”

  I shook my head. “I must admit, I don’t know much about the world beyond Rome. This journey with Antipater is certainly opening my eyes. As for … touching Vindovix’s moustache … my father taught me that, while the Greeks may take a different view, among Romans carnal relations between males are acceptable only between a master and his slave, and only if the master plays the conqueror, and only if no one ever talks about it. My father frowns on such relations.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He says it’s unseemly to subject any slave, male or female, to unwanted advances.”

  “What if the desire is mutual?”

  “I asked him that. Between master and slave, he says, there inevitably exists some element of coercion.”

  “I think your father is a bit of a philosopher, Gordianus.”

  “I suppose he is.”

  “Clearly, you’ve given some thought to these questions of human behavior. I’m sure things will work out between you and Vindovix, one way or another. Tell me, was your rejection of his advances predicated on your reaction to his primary or secondary substance?”

  I recognized this as philosopher talk, but had no idea what he meant.

  Posidonius pursed his lips. “Let me put it this way: is it that you find this particular man unattractive, or do you have no attraction to men at all?”

  I considered this. “He’s awfully big.”

  “Big? Oh, I see. You find the prospect daunting?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “I don’t think you need to worry about that. I believe Vindovix prefers that his partners ‘play the conqueror,’ as you call it.”

  “Are you sure about that?” I pictured Vindovix, looming over me in the passage.

  Posidonius gave me a knowing look. “Did you not embark on this journey with Antipater to have new experiences? We have a long, gloomy winter ahead of us. A bit of companionship might make
the time pass much more pleasantly.”

  From a small table nearby, a flash of light caught my eye. It was the knife of Gatamandix, its blade reflecting the light of a lamp hung above it. Lying next to it was a parchment with drawings on it.

  Posidonius followed my gaze. “How Gatamandix loves that knife of his! It’s a sign of his authority, you see. Among the Gauls, the Druids are not just seers, but the guardians of moral conduct; they judge those accused of crimes and mete out punishments, including executions. A Druid’s knife is his ultimate tool of enforcement. Gatamandix cursed himself for leaving his knife behind when he went to Lindos; that’s why he was so disgruntled to see me holding it when he returned. Even so, I’ve persuaded him to lend it to me for a few days, so that I can make a thorough study of the decorations on the hilt. The iconography of the Gauls is amazingly complex, quite fascinating, really—”

  I tried to suppress a yawn.

  “Off to bed with you, then,” said Posidonius.

  “No, please continue—”

  “Off, I said.”

  Before I knew it, I was back in the darkened passage, and Posidonius had shut the library door behind me. I headed to my room.

  * * *

  The ship from Lindos did not arrive the next morning. Apparently, there had been a windstorm off the coast—exactly the sort of weather that stopped ships from sailing at this time of year, even to make short journeys like that from Lindos to Rhodes. Probably the ship was merely delayed, said Posidonius; but I could see that he was nervous, no doubt imagining the precious plaster model lost forever at the bottom of the sea, or, just as bad, reduced to dust if the crate had come loose from the ropes securing it and been thrown this way and that on a storm-tossed ship. As darkness fell, the ship still had not arrived.

  When we all gathered with our host for dinner—the Gauls, Cleobulus, Antipater, and myself—I noticed, with a bit of a start, that Vindovix had shaved his moustache. He looked almost civilized, I thought, and the change definitely heightened his resemblance to the Colossus. I tried not to stare, fearing he would misinterpret my interest, but he seemed to avoid my gaze altogether.

  We were still eating when Zenas came rushing in to inform his master that the ship and its cargo had just arrived in the harbor, apparently safe and sound.

  “Shall I have the crate unloaded and carted here at once, Master?” said Zenas.

  Posidonius’s eyes lit up at the prospect, but he shook his head. “No, the hazards of transporting such a fragile object across the city by night are too great. We’ll leave that until morning. In the meantime, Zenas, I want you to spend the night on the ship and to keep watch over the crate. I can’t trust the crew to do so; after sailing through a storm, they’re likely to drink themselves into a stupor. Can you stay awake until dawn?”

  “Certainly, Master,” said Zenas. “You can rely on me. I’ll guard the crate with my very life!”

  Posidonius laughed. “And how would you do that—wielding your stylus and wax tablet like a sword and shield? Just see that the crate is securely tied down and that nothing falls on it or bumps into it. At first light, hire some carters to bring it here and make sure they avoid any potholes or sudden jolts.”

  “The statue will come to no harm while it’s in my care, Master. Just let me fetch a heavy cloak to keep myself warm.” Zenas took his leave.

  Smiling broadly, Posidonius clapped his hands and called for more wine. “Tomorrow, we shall see the face of the Colossus as it was rendered by the hand of Chares himself.”

  * * *

  But it was not to be.

  Posidonius’s guests were all up early the next morning, and Cleobulus, having gone home after dinner, rejoined us shortly after dawn. An hour passed, and then another, and still the crate had not arrived. At last Posidonius sent a boy to check on Zenas’s progress.

  An hour later the boy ran into the garden. “Master! I looked for Zenas everywhere, but I couldn’t find him.”

  “Is he not on the ship?”

  “No. The captain says that Zenas arrived there last night, just as the crew were going to bed. The last time they saw him, he was sitting atop the crate, looking very alert. But when they awoke this morning, Zenas was nowhere to be seen.”

  “And the crate?”

  “It’s still there, just as it was, tied down on the deck.”

  Posidonius frowned. “This is not like Zenas. Not like him at all. I must go to the harbor at once to see what’s happened.”

  “We’ll go with you,” said Antipater, and we all made ready to set out.

  * * *

  The slave was right: Zenas was nowhere to be seen. But some trace of him did remain. On the deck of the ship, not far from the crate, lay his stylus, and some distance away, amid a coil of rope, lay his wax tablet.

  Posidonius shook his head. “Zenas would never mislay or abandon his stylus and wax tablet—not by choice. And why do they lie so far apart? This makes me very uneasy. At least the crate appears to be untouched,” he said, walking slowly around it.

  “Or perhaps not,” I said. “Look there, near the top, along that seam where two planks meet. From the grain of the wood, you can see there was a knothole in one of the boards, but it looks to me as though it’s been knocked out and widened by the use of some sharp instrument—you can see the scrapings of a chisel or some other tool on the wood, and here on the deck, directly below, there are traces of shavings and sawdust.”

  “So there are. You have a keen eye, Gordianus.” Posidonius rose onto tiptoes and put his eye to the hole.

  “What do you see?” said Antipater.

  “It’s dark. I can’t be sure.” Posidonius stepped back. “Captain, did you and your men hear nothing last night?”

  The captain was a grizzled seaman with a weathered face and an unkempt beard. He stank of wine. “Most of the men went ashore,” he said. “After that storm we sailed through, they wanted to feel solid ground beneath their feet. Those who stayed aboard bunked belowdecks, where it’s warmer. I slept like a dead man myself.”

  “Helped by a generous amount of wine, no doubt,” said Posidonius.

  The captain scowled. “We left it to your man to look after the crate. He seemed sober enough, and eager to do his job.”

  Posidonius scowled. “Can someone remove the top of this crate?”

  “I’ll do it myself,” said the captain. He fetched a crowbar and a wooden box to stand on.

  “Careful!” cried Posidonius, as the man went to work. My teeth were set on edge by the shriek of nails being drawn from the wood.

  At last the captain lifted the lid free and handed it down to two of his sailors. He stepped down from the box.

  Posidonius quickly took his place. He looked inside. He drew a sharp breath. His shoulders sagged.

  “What is it?” said Antipater.

  “See for yourself,” said Posidonius. With my assistance, Antipater took his place on the box.

  Antipater gasped. “By Hercules! What a disaster!”

  I helped him down from the box. I stepped aside, deferring to Cleobulus and the Gauls, but all three kept their distance. Cleobulus looked especially anxious, I thought.

  I stepped onto the box and peered down into the crate.

  No one could fault the manner in which the statue had been packed. The crate was well proportioned, and folds of soft cloth had been tied around the statue to cushion it. These concealed the details of the statue, but its general shape could be perceived, and it was obvious at once that the head was missing—or rather, destroyed, for plaster fragments and bits of dust that had once constituted the head lay scattered amid the packing and on the bottom of the crate.

  I stepped down. Reluctantly, or so it seemed to me, the others finally took their turns, starting with Cleobulus, whose face was ashen when he ceded his place to Gatamandix. The Druid merely grunted at the sight of the defaced statue and showed no emotion. Vindovix was so tall he did not need the box to look inside. He stood on tiptoes and peered over
the edge. He clenched his jaw. His face turned bright red and his pale blue eyes glittered with tears.

  “What am I to make of this?” said Posidonius. “Zenas is gone, and the part of the statue most vital to our inquiry—the head—has been destroyed. Deliberately destroyed, I think we can safely say. The knothole already in the wood was bored and chipped away until a staff of some kind could be pushed through—an iron stave, perhaps—and used to smash the head. Given the deliberate and determined nature of this act, I suspect premeditation. Someone must have known the knothole was there, at a height corresponding exactly to the statue’s head. The person who did this must have been present when the crate was constructed; indeed, that person may have seen to it that this particular plank, with its convenient knothole, was placed just so, in order to provide an easy way to commit this act of destruction.”

  The whole time he spoke, Posidonius stared at Cleobulus, who turned even paler.

  “Teacher, surely suspicion should fall first on Zenas,” he said. “Why is the slave not here? Why did he abandon his post?”

  “If Zenas played some part in this, it was only because someone put him up to it,” said Posidonius, continuing to stare at Cleobulus. “But I can’t believe Zenas would betray my trust, especially in a matter as serious as this. The fact that he isn’t here, and that his writing instruments were left behind, suggests to me that some harm was done to the poor fellow.”

  Cleobulus swallowed hard. “Then where is he?”

  Posidonius at last took his eyes off his pupil. He turned and looked over the ship’s side.

  “Teacher, if the slave were thrown overboard, his body would have washed against the piers by now,” said Cleobulus. “Someone would have seen it—”

  “Not if his body was tied to the iron stave that was used to smash the statue’s head,” said Posidonius, gazing intently at the water below, as if by sheer will he could make the waves give up their secret.