As a young man I had ended up in Alexandria after a long journey and had decided to stay there for a while. That was where I met my future wife, Bethesda, or more precisely, where I purchased her; she was a slave offered for sale at the great slave market, very young and very beautiful. (And a troublemaker, the auctioneer had begrudgingly admitted, which was why I was able to afford her; but if what she gave me was trouble, I only craved more of it.) Thus I passed the hot Alexandrian nights in a haze of lust; and during the day, while Bethesda kept herself busy in my shabby little apartment or went to the market, I gravitated to the library steps and sought out Dio. 1 was no student of philosophy— I lacked the money for formal education—but it was a tradition among Alexandrian philosophers to engage common men in conversation from time to time, at no charge.
Now, thirty years later, I could recall only bits and pieces of those conversations, but I vividly remembered how Dio had fanned my youthful passion for truth into white-hot flames with his rhetorical conundrums, just as Bethesda had fanned my other passions. In those days I had everything I needed, which for a young man is not much: an unfamiliar city to explore, a partner in my bed, and a mentor. We do not forget the cities, or the lovers, or the teachers of our youth.
Dio was attached to the Academic school. His mentor was Antiochus of Ascalon, who in a few years would become the head of the Academy; Dio was one of the great philosopher's leading proteges. In my ignorance I once asked Dio where the Academy was, and he laughed, explaining that while the name originated from a specific site — a grove near Athens where Plato taught—it applied nowadays not to any par-ticular place or building, but to a discipline, a school of thought. The Academy transcended borders; kings might be its patrons, but they had no hegemony over it. The Academy transcended language (though of course all great works of philosophy, including those of the Academics, are written in Greek). The Academy embraced all men, and yet belonged to none. How could it be otherwise with an institution dedicated to discovering fundamental truths?
How does a man know what he knows? How can he be sure of his own perceptions, let alone those of others? Do the gods exist? Can their existence be proven? What is their form and their nature, and how can men discern their will? How can we determine right and wrong? Can right action lead to an evil result, or wrong action to a good outcome?
To a young Roman, barely twenty, in an exotic, teeming metropolis like Alexandria, these were heady questions. Dio had studied them all, and his quest for knowledge was a profound inspiration to me. Dio was hardly more than ten years my senior, but to me he seemed infinitely wise and worldly. In his presence I felt quite out of my depth, and I was immensely flattered that he would take the time and effort to explain his ideas to me. Sitting on the steps of the library while his slaves shaded us with parasols, we would discuss the differences between intellect and sensation, range the senses in order of reliability, and consider the specific ways that men depend upon logic, smell, taste, sight, hearing and touch to make sense of the world.
Thirty years had passed. Dio had changed, of course. He had seemed old to me then, but now he truly was old. The mane of dark hair had turned to silver. His belly had grown big and his skin had grown loose and wrinkled. But his broad back was unstooped. Unused to having his arms covered, he pulled up the sleeves of his stola to reveal a pair of muscular forearms as brown and weathered as his hands. He looked as healthy as myself, and given his size and robustness, he was probably stronger.
You'd be a hard man to forget,
I had told him. Now, as he implored me to help him stay alive,
I almost said,
You look like you'd be a hard man to kill.
Instead, after a considerable pause, I changed the subject. "What I find surprising, Teacher, is that you should remember me after all these years. I was your pupil only in the most casual way, and my time in Alexandria was relatively brief. After I left, I heard that your mentor Antiochus succeeded Philo as head of the Academy; your life must have become very busy after that, conversing with kings, playing host to diplomats, advising the great and powerful. How curious, that you should remember making the acquaintance of a footloose young Roman who liked to loiter on the library steps, eavesdropping on the discourses of his elders and occasionally daring to converse with them."
"You were something more than that," Dio said. "You say that you would be a poor Finder if you could not deduce the identity of a visitor like myself. Well then, what sort of philosopher would I be, if I could not recognize and remember a kindred spirit when I met one?"
"You flatter me, Teacher."
"I most certainly do not. I never flatter anyone, not even kings. Not even King Ptolemy! Which is one reason I find myself in this terrible state." He smiled weakly, but in his eyes I saw the haunted look of a man oppressed by constant fear. He stood and began to pace nervously around the small room, hugging his arms to his chest and shaking his head. Trygonion sat with folded hands and watched him with a curious expression, content to be silent.
"Do you remember the things we used to talk about on the library steps, Gordianus?"
"Only bits and pieces, I'm afraid. But I remember your eloquence when you spoke of perception and truth, of how the teachings of Plato and the Stoics had been clarified rather than refuted by the Academy—"
"Is that what you remember? How strange! That's not at all what I recall of our conversations."
"But what else was there, except talk of philosophy?"
Dio shook his head. "I don't remember talking of philosophy with you, though I suppose I must have. All those abstract fancies and high-minded ramblings—-how pompous I must have seemed to you!"
"Not at all — "
"No, what I remember are the stories you told, Gordianus." "What stories?"
"About your adventures out in the great world! About your long, roundabout journey from Rome to Egypt, and your visits to the Seven
Wonders along the way, and your exploits in Alexandria. How dull my own life seemed by comparison. How old you made me feel, as if life had passed me by! While my colleagues and I lounged under parasols, debating good and evil, you were out in the streets, encountering good and evil in the flesh, taking part in the whirling drama of life and death. Who was I to speak of discerning truth from falsehood, when sitting beside me on the steps of the library was the young Roman who had solved the riddle of the cat murdered in the Rhakotis district, which caused half the populace of the city to riot?"
"You remember that story?" I said, amazed.
"I have never forgotten it! Even now I can close my eyes and hear you telling the tale while philosophers and shopkeepers gathered around to listen in awe."
"The killing of a mere cat caused the city to riot?" Trygonion turned a heavy-lidded, dubious gaze at each of us in turn.
"You obviously have never been to Alexandria, where cats are gods," said Dio curtly. "Only a few years ago a similar incident occurred. The culprit was a Roman, or so they said. But given the political climate in Alexandria these days, any pretext will do to stir up the mob to chase a Roman through the streets, cat killer or not." He stopped his pacing and took a halting breath, then another. "Do you think we could retire to another room? The brazier is too hot. The air grows stuffy."
"I could call Belbo to unshutter another window," I suggested.
"No, no, perhaps we could step outside for a moment?"
"As you like."
I led them into the garden. Trygonion made a show of shivering and hugging himself, flapping the folds of his toga in an undignified, decidedly un-Roman fashion. Dio studied the fishpond with an abstracted air, then gazed up at the darkening sky, took several deep breaths and resumed his pacing, which brought him to a startled halt before the statue of Minerva. The virgin goddess held an upright spear in one hand and clutched a shield in the other. An owl perched on her shoulder and a snake coiled at her feet. The whole statue was painted in such lifelike color that the goddess seemed to breathe and gaze down o
n us from beneath the visor of her crested helmet.
"Magnificent," he whispered. Trygonion, loyal to the Great Mother, gave the goddess of wisdom only a cursory glance.
I stepped alongside Dio and gazed up at the statue's familiar face. "The only female in the place who never talks back to me. But then, she never seems to listen to me, either."
"She must have cost a small fortune."
"Probably, though I can't tell you the cost. I gained her by inheritance, more or less, like the rest of this house. The tale of how that came to pass would fill a book."*
Dio surveyed the portico that surrounded the garden, clearly impressed. "Those multicolored tiles above the doorways—"
"Fired by artisans in Arretium. So my late benefactor Lucius Claudius once told me, when I was merely a visitor here."
"And all these finely carved columns—"
"Salvaged and brought up with great difficulty, so I was told, from an old villa at Baiae, as was the statue of Minerva. All are of Greek design and workmanship. Lucius Claudius had impeccable taste and con-siderable resources."
"And now all this is yours? You've done well for yourself, Gordianus. Very well, indeed. When they said that you lived in a fine house here on the Palatine, I wondered if it could be the same man who'd led a wanderer's life in Alexandria, living from hand to mouth."
I shrugged. "I may have been a wanderer, but I always had the humble house of my father to come back to here in Rome on the EsquilineHill."
"But surely that couldn't be as fine as this. You have prospered remarkably. You see, I judged you rightly when I met you long ago in Alexandria. I have known many wise men, philosophers who crave knowledge as other men crave fine wines or sumptuous clothing or a beautiful slave—as a glittering possession that will bring them comfort and earn other men's esteem. But you sought after truth as if you wished to marry her. You yearned for truth, Gordianus, as if you could not live without breathing her perfume every morning and night. You loved all her mysteries in equal measure—the great mysteries of philosophy as well as the practical mystery of discovering the killer of an Alexandrian cat. To search for truth is virtue. For your virtue the gods have rewarded you."
I could think of no response but a shrug. In the thirty years since I had last seen Dio I easily could have died a hundred times, for my labors had often brought me into danger, or I could have fallen into ruin like so many other men. Instead I owned a fine house on the Palatine and counted senators and wealthy merchants among my neighbors. Dio's explanation of my good luck was as reasonable as any other, though it seems to me that even philosophers cannot say what causes Fortune to smile on one man and show spite to another. Watching him resume his fitful pacing, I couldn't help thinking that Dio, for all his years of devotion to finding the truth, had the haggard look of a man whom Fortune had abandoned.
*'Catilina's Riddle (St. Martin's Press, 1993).
It had been some time since I had conversed at length with a philosopher. I had forgotten how much they loved to talk, even more than politicians, and not always to the point. We had rambled far from the purpose of Dio's visit. It was beginning to grow chilly in the garden.
"Come, let's go back into the house. If the brazier is too hot, I'll have the serving girl bring you some cool wine."
"Heated wine for me," Trygonion said, shivering.
"Yes, more of your very fine wine," Dio murmured. "I'm quite thirsty."
"Hungry, as well?" I said. My own stomach rumbled. "No!" he insisted. But as he stepped through the doorway he tripped and stumbled, and when I reached out to steady him I felt him trembling. "When did you last eat?" He shook his head. "I'm not sure." "You can't remember?"
"Yesterday I dared to take a walk outside, disguised as you see me now, and bought some bread in the market." He shook his head. "I should have bought more to eat this morning—but of course someone could have poisoned it while I slept ... "
"Then you've eaten nothing at all today?"
"The slaves tried to poison me at the last place I stayed! Even at the house of Titus Coponius I can't feel safe. If one man's slaves can be bribed to kill a houseguest then so can another's. I eat nothing unless I see it prepared with my own eyes, or unless I buy it myself in the markets where it could not possibly have been tampered with."
"Some men have slaves to taste their food for them," I said, knowing the practice was especially common in Dio's Alexandria, where the inbred, rival monarchs and their agents were forever attempting secretly to do away with one another.
"Of course I had a taster!" said Dio. "How do you think I escaped the attempt to poison me? But the problem with tasters is that they must be replaced, and my stay in Rome has exhausted my resources. I don't even have money to make my way back to Alexandria once the weather warms and the sailing season begins." He stumbled again and almost fell against the brazier.
"But you're faint with hunger!" I protested, gripping his arm and steering him toward a chair. "I insist that you eat. The food in my house is perfectly safe, and my wife—" I was about to add some extravagant estimation of Bethesda's culinary skills, but having just been praised as a seeker of truth I said instead, "My wife is not at all a bad cook, especially when she prepares dishes in the Alexandrian style."
"Your wife cooks?" said Trygonion. "In such a grand house as this?"
"The property's more impressive than my purse. Besides, she likes to cook, and she has a slave to help her. Here she is now," I added, for in the doorway stood Bethesda.
I was about to say more by way of introduction, but the look on her face stopped me. She looked from Dio to Trygonion, then back at Dio, who in his faint seemed hardly to notice her, then at me, all with a scowl that after thirty years of living with her I could not account for. What had I done now?
"Diana told me that you had visitors," she finally said. Her old Egyptian accent asserted itself and her tone was even haughtier than usual. She scrutinized my visitors so harshly that Trygonion nervously dropped his eyes, and Dio, finally taking notice of her, blinked and drew back as if he had looked into the sun.
"Is something wrong?" I said, secretly grimacing at her with the side of my face. I thought this might make her smile. I was mistaken.
"I suppose you want to eat something," she said in a flat voice. The way she twisted her mouth would have spoiled the looks of a less beautiful woman.
Ah, that was it, I thought—she'd been in the doorway longer than I'd realized and had overheard my qualified endorsement of her culinary skills. Even so, a mere lifting of her eyebrow would have sufficed to express her displeasure. Perhaps it was the fact that I had packing to do for a trip the next day and was leaving the work to her while I entertained visitors in my study—and dubious visitors at that. I took another look at Dio, with his rumpled stola and clumsy makeup, and at Trygonion, who played with his bleached hair and nervously fluttered the folds of his toga under Bethesda's harsh gaze, and saw how they must appear to her. Bethesda acquiesced long ago to the parade of disreputable characters through our house, but she has never hidden her disdain from those she dislikes. It was clear that she thought very little of the Egyptian ambassador and his companion.
"Something to eat—yes, I think so," I said, raising my voice to capture my visitors' attention, for they both seemed spellbound by Bethesda's stare. "For you, Trygonion?"
The little gallus blinked and managed to nod.
"And for you, too, Teacher—I insist! I won't allow you to leave my house without taking some food to steady you."
Dio bowed his head, looking tired and perplexed, trembling with agitation and, no doubt, hunger. He muttered something to himself, then finally looked up at me and nodded. "Yes — an Alexandrian dish, you said?"
"What could we offer our visitors? Bethesda, did you hear me?"
She seemed to wake from a daydream, then cleared her throat. "I could make some Egyptian flatbread . . . and perhaps something with lentils and sausage ... "
"Oh yes, that would be very
good," said Dio, staring at her with an odd expression. Philosopher he might be, but hunger and homesickness can addle the mind of any man.
Suddenly Diana appeared at Bethesda's side. Dio looked more con-fused than ever as he gazed from mother to daughter. Their resemblance is striking.
Bethesda departed as abruptly as she had appeared. Diana lingered for a moment and seemed to mimic her mother's scowl. The longer I live with a woman the more mysterious the experience becomes, and now that there are two of them in the household, the mystery is doubled.
Diana turned on her heel and followed her mother with the same quick, haughty stride. I looked at my guests. In comparison to comprehending a woman, I thought, comprehending another man—even a philosopher in a stola or a gallus who had given up his sex—was really not so difficult.
The serving girl brought us wine and some crusts of bread to stave off our hunger until the meal was ready. A chill had crept in from the garden, so I called on Belbo to stoke the brazier while I closed the shutters. I glanced outside and saw that twilight had descended on the atrium, casting the face of Minerva into inscrutable shadow.
With more wine in his stomach, as well as a bit of bread, Dio at last found the fortitude to recount the events which had reduced him to such a state of uncertainty and fear.
Chapter Four
Best to begin at the beginning," sighed Dio, "insofar as that's possible with such a twisted tale. You know something of the story already —" "Refresh my memory," I said. "Very well. All my life, Alexandria has been in constant political upheaval. The members of the royal Ptolemy clan wage unending warfare against each other. For the people of Alexandria, this has meant bloody massacres and crushing taxes. Time and again the people have risen up to drive ruler after ruler out of the capital. One Ptolemy goes into exile, another takes his place—I won't recite the list. Whoever is winning occupies Alexandria, with its great granaries and royal treasury. Whoever is losing flees to Cyprus and plots his return. Fortunes reverse and the rulers change places, while the people endure. I forget which Ptolemy was on the throne when you were in Alexandria, Gordianus—"
The Venus Throw Page 3
