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

by Steven Saylor

  Antipater laid a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “I think you speak wisely, Mnason. Your daughter was a faithful servant of Artemis, and she will not have died in vain.” He turned to Eutropius. “I had hoped to stay longer in Ephesus, old friend, but the situation here makes me uneasy. With all that’s happened, I fear that anti-Roman sentiments are likely to turn violent. The faction that favors Mithridates will be emboldened, the Roman governor will feel obliged to react—and who knows what may happen? For the sake of my young Roman companion, I think we should move on, and sooner rather than later.”

  Eutropius nodded. “I, too, had hoped for a longer visit. Tomorrow, let us all go to the Temple of Artemis to make a special sacrifice of thanksgiving, and another sacrifice to ask the goddess to bless your travels, and then I shall see about booking passage for you and Gordianus to sail to your next destination.”

  * * *

  We all retired to our separate rooms for the night.

  I was unable to sleep. The room was too bright. I drew the heavy drapes to shut out the moonlight and went back to bed. I tossed and turned. I stared at the ceiling. I buried my face in my pillow and tried to think of anything except Amestris.

  I heard the door open quietly, then click shut. Soft footsteps crossed the room.

  I looked up from the pillow. All was dark until she drew back the drapes and I saw her naked silhouette framed by moonlight. Before I could say her name, she was beside me in the bed.

  I ran my hands over her naked body and held her close. “Blessed Artemis!” I whispered.

  “Artemis has nothing to do with this,” said Amestris, with a soft laugh and a touch that sent a quiver of anticipation through me. “Tonight, we worship Venus.”

  * * *

  And so, in the city most famously devoted to the virgin goddess of the hunt, I killed my first man, and I knew my first woman.

  After our visit to the temple the next morning, Antipater and I set sail. Amestris stood with the others on the wharf. We waved farewell. Gazing at her beauty, remembering her touch, I felt a stab of longing and wondered if I would ever see her again.

  As I watched the city recede, I made a silent vow. Never in my travels would I pass a temple of Artemis without going inside to light a bit of incense and utter a prayer, asking the goddess to bestow her blessings upon Amestris.

  “Gordianus—what is that strange tune you’re humming?” said Antipater.

  “Don’t you recognize it? It’s the melody Amestris played on the Pan pipes.”

  It haunts me still.

  III

  THE WIDOWS OF HALICARNASSUS

  (The Mausoleum)

  The rugged coast of Asia is a jumble of promontories and inlets and scattered islands. Some of the islands are mere fingers of stone, barely rising above the waves; others are like mountains erupting from the sea. More mountains loom along the inland horizon, green and gold under the noonday sun, hazy and purple at twilight. In the month of Aprilis, the color of the water changes from moment to moment, depending on the sunlight, from a harsh lapis blue to the iridescent green of a butterfly’s wing. Sometimes, at dawn or dusk, the calm sea takes on a metallic luster, like a sheet of bronze beaten perfectly flat.

  Amid this profusion of natural splendors, tucked away behind concealing islands and peninsulas, lies the city of Halicarnassus. The south-facing harbor is protected both from storms and from sight. Traveling aboard ship, one might never know the city was there, until the ship sails past a rocky cliff, and suddenly one sees in the distance, set in a semicircular bowl of land that tilts gently to the sea, a walled city with a harbor full of ships. Rising impossibly high above the skyline of Halicarnassus, so madly out of scale that it seems unreal, is the great Mausoleum.

  I had never seen a building so tall. Until that moment, I had not imagined a building could be so tall. How could something made of stone rise so high into the air without crumbling under its own weight? How could mere mortals construct such a thing? The Mausoleum was universally acclaimed as one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and now I saw why.

  Imagine a solid rectangular podium made of dazzling white marble, rising higher than the pediment of most temples and decorated all around its upper edge with huge statues, like a vast crowd of giants standing in a continuous row along all four sides. Atop that base, slightly stepped back, rises another podium of stone, topped by more statues, and then yet another layer, as tall as the other two combined, with a decorative frieze running around the top, vividly colored in shades of vermillion, yellow, and blue. Atop these three massive layers, envision a temple as wide as the Parthenon with a colonnade all around and colossal statues placed between the columns. Atop that templelike structure, for a roof, place a stepped pyramid of almost equal height, where gigantic lions appear to prowl back and forth—an illusion, since these lions are made of marble. And finally, atop the stepped pyramid, place a colossal four-horsed chariot covered in gold, so high in the air and so blazingly bright that one might mistake it for the chariot of Helios himself, shedding light on the world below instead of merely reflecting it.

  Of course, at first sight, the mind takes in the immensity and the complexity of the Mausoleum far more quickly than the monument can be described. The impression is instantaneous: this is a building of the gods set in a city of men, a piece of Olympus come down to earth. As if conscious of its special nature, the building keeps its distance from the lesser structures of the city; surrounding it on all sides is a vast courtyard, a sacred precinct decorated with altars, fountains, and gardens. The monument completely dominates the city, yet at the same time seems alien to it and set apart, an intrusion from a divine realm. This was no doubt the intention of the grieving queen who built it as a tomb for her husband 260 years ago.

  I glanced at the wrinkled face of Antipater and saw that my tutor and traveling companion was nearly as awestruck as I was.

  “You have seen the Mausoleum before, Teacher, have you not?” I said.

  My words seemed to shake Antipater from a trance. He snapped shut his gaping jaw. “Of course I have, Gordianus. As I told you, I have family here. We shall be staying with cousin Bitto. Why do you ask?”

  I only smiled and fixed my eyes on the shoreline, watching in amazement as the Mausoleum loomed ever larger before us.

  As the ship maneuvered around the breakwaters and drew into the harbor, Antipater pointed out other features of the city. Surrounding it were formidable walls set with watchtowers and patrolled by armed soldiers. While much of Asia had been gobbled up by Rome, Halicarnassus, though closely allied with Rome, remained independent. Much of what I could see, including the walls, had been built by the great King Mausolus, whose remains gave the Mausoleum its name. It was Mausolus who made Halicarnassus the capital of the kingdom of Caria and subsequently spared no expense to make it one of the world’s most opulent cities. Built into the hillside beyond the Mausoleum was a beautiful theater. Crowning the hill that was the city’s highest point was the Temple of Ares, which according to Antipater housed a colossal statue, the finest image of the god anywhere in the world. To our extreme right, spread across another hillside, was the rambling palace built by Mausolus. To our extreme left was another impressive temple, which Antipater explained was dedicated jointly to Aphrodite and Hermes.

  “To both deities?” I said.

  “Yes. Next to that temple, just inside the city wall, is the grotto and sacred spring of Salmacis. Do you know the story of the nymph Salmacis, and her love for the son of Aphrodite and Hermes?” When I gave a shrug, Antipater sighed and shook his head. “Ah, you Romans! Intent on conquering a world of which you know so little!”

  “You know I’m eager to learn, Teacher.”

  “Then we must be sure to visit the spring while we’re here, and I can tell you the story of Salmacis. You can even bathe in her pool—if you dare!” He laughed at some secret joke.

  I might have asked for an explanation, but the captain, having spotted a berth, abruptly tu
rned the ship about so that the Mausoleum again loomed directly before us, larger than ever. I could now make out the details of the painted frieze along the top of the upper podium, which depicted a fierce battle between Amazons and Greek warriors. Higher up, I could see the faces of the colossal statues situated between the soaring columns.

  “Do you see those two statues in the center, of a bearded king and his queen?” said Antipater. “They depict King Mausolus and Queen Artemisia, forever side by side, forever gazing out to the sea, greeting every visitor who arrives in the harbor of Halicarnassus.”

  “Extraordinary!” I whispered.

  “When we have a chance to inspect the Mausoleum more closely, and circle the building at our leisure, you’ll see that the four sides are all slightly different. Artemisia hired the four greatest sculptors of her day and assigned each to design and sculpt the decorations for one of the four faces of the monument. She made it a contest. She also sponsored competitions between playwrights and poets and athletes, and awarded generous prizes, all to honor her dead husband.”

  “She must have been very devoted to him,” I said.

  “So devoted that in the end she could not stand to be parted from him. When the time came to inter his remains in the sepulcher of the Mausoleum, Artemisia insisted on keeping some of the ashes for herself. She mixed them with wine and drank them, hoping to quell the pain of her grief. But her grief only grew sharper. Artemisia died before the Mausoleum was completed.”

  “Of a broken heart?” I said.

  “So goes the legend. Her own ashes were placed beside those of Mausolus in the sepulcher, and then a huge stone was used to plug the entrance at the base of the Mausoleum, sealing their tomb forever.”

  “To die for love!” I said. “But surely that’s madness.”

  “Love is always a kind of madness, sometimes mild, sometimes severe. Even when not deadly, its consequences can be drastic. Consider the story we were just talking about, of Salmacis the nymph, and her passion for—”

  But again, as if an impish spirit wished to prevent him from speaking of Salmacis, Antipater was interrupted by the captain, who shouted at us to get out of the way while his men attended to the ropes and sails.

  * * *

  “Bitto is the youngest daughter of my late cousin Theo,” Antipater explained as we traversed the city on the back of a mule-drawn cart he had hired on the waterfront to carry our baggage. Normally I would have preferred to walk, but the wide, well-paved streets of Halicarnassus allowed us to ride on the cart without being jostled. We passed through the public square and the markets and then through a succession of residential districts, each finer than the last, as we began to go uphill in the direction of the royal palace. Sitting on the back of the cart, I watched the Mausoleum steadily grow more distant, yet its vastness never ceased to dominate the view.

  “I haven’t seen Bitto in years,” Antipater continued. “Her two daughters are grown and married now, and her husband died a couple of years ago. She must be forty now—a hard age to be a widow. ‘Too young to die and too old to marry,’ as the saying goes. Unless of course the widow inherits a fortune, but that was not the case with Bitto. Her husband was a successful merchant, but he had a run of bad luck toward the end. At least she’s managed to hold on to the house. When I wrote and asked if she could accommodate us, Bitto replied at once and said we’d be very welcome.” He craned his neck and looked ahead. “Ah, but there’s the house. At least I think that’s it. It’s a brighter yellow than I remember. Can it be freshly painted? And the front door, with all those bronze fittings and decorations—I don’t recall it being so ornate. Can it be new?”

  While the carter unloaded our baggage, Antipater strode to the doorstep and reached for the bronze knocker beside the door—then drew back his hand when he realized that the knocker was in the shape of a phallus. He raised an eyebrow, then gingerly took hold of the knocker and let it drop. The heavy metal struck the wood with a resounding noise.

  A few moments later, a handsome young slave opened the door. He was just about to speak when a hand adorned with many rings landed on his shoulder and pushed him aside. Taking the slave’s place was his mistress, a tall woman dressed in a long red gown belted in several places to accentuate the ample curves of her breasts and hips. Multiple necklaces matched the rings on her fingers, showing off stones of lapis and carnelian in settings of silver and gold. Her dark hair had a crimson luster, as if washed with henna; a complicated arrangement of curls and tresses was held in place by ebony combs and silver pins. Her features might have been those of a woman of middle age, but my first impression of Bitto was of sparkling green eyes, henna-red lips, and a dazzling smile.

  “Cousin!” she cried, stepping forward with her arms wide open. Antipater seemed taken aback by her enthusiasm, but submitted to the hug and eventually reciprocated. “Notice, cousin,” she said quietly, “that I refrain from shouting your name for the whole street to hear. I read your letter, and I comply. But you’ll have to remind me of your new name. Something rather silly, as I recall—oh, yes, I remember.” She raised her voice. “Welcome to my house, Zoticus of Zeugma!”

  Bitto stepped back and gave me an appraising look. “And this must be the young Roman. Well, Gordianus, what do you think of Halicarnassus so far?”

  “I … it’s…”

  “Tongue-tied?” She nodded knowingly and rested one hand atop her capacious bosom. “A bit overwhelming, isn’t it?” She laughed. “The Mausoleum, I mean. One sails into the harbor and there it is, right in your face, so to speak. One gets used to it, of course, rather like the sun coming up—a miracle every morning, but eventually one takes it for granted. Even so, every now and again I’ll be crossing the city and suddenly it’s as if I’m seeing the blessed thing for the first time, and truly, it takes my breath away—the way you sometimes notice a sunrise, and think, now that’s amazing! But listen to me prattle on. Come inside!”

  She took us each by the arm and led us through the vestibule, across a beautifully appointed room with vivid images painted on the walls, and finally to the garden at the center of the house where a statue of Aphrodite presided over a splashing fountain. The half-nude Aphrodite stood in a classic pose with one hand resting on her bare breasts, and I suddenly imagined it was a statue of Bitto before me; the voluptuous proportions were the same. I think I must have blushed, for my hostess gave me a look of concern.

  “Are you overheated from the journey, Gordianus? I’ll have a slave bring cool water and wine, and something to eat. For you, as well, cousin,” she added. I saw that Antipater, too, appeared flushed.

  We sat in the garden and conversed. Antipater seemed uncharacteristically stiff and ill at ease. If Bitto noticed, she gave no sign. I said little, and tried not to stare at my hostess. I had never met a woman like her. She seemed at once sophisticated and down to earth, mature and yet vivacious.

  At length Bitto excused herself, saying she would soon return.

  The moment she was out of earshot, Antipater grunted with disapproval. “A hetaera!” he said.

  I gave him a questioning look.

  “A hetaera!” he repeated. “Cousin Bitto has made herself into a woman of pleasure, and turned this house into a—well, what else can I call it? A brothel!”

  “Surely not,” I said. I had some knowledge, if not experience, of brothels in the Subura in Rome, and the women who worked in them were nothing like Bitto. They were poor, uneducated women struggling to survive, not the mistresses of their own homes in the better part of town. I frowned. “What exactly do you mean by ‘hetaera’?” I said, pronouncing the Greek word with some difficulty.

  “There is no equivalent in Rome,” said Antipater, ever willing to play the pedagogue, “but hetaerae have existed in Greek society for centuries; Plato and Demosthenes speak of them. They are courtesans of a very high caliber, educated in poetry and art, often talented as singers and dancers. A hetaera may even be invited to a symposium of philosophers, and allowed
to express her ideas, and some hetaerae entertain in their own homes, where even the most respectable men are not embarrassed to be seen coming and going. But in the end, of course, their work is to pleasure their clients, like any other prostitute. And cousin Bitto is a hetaera!”

  “I’m sure you’re mistaken,” I said.

  “Am I? Did you not see that knocker on the door? A clear indication of the kind of house this has become.”

  “Perhaps it’s there to avert the Evil Eye. I see phallic talismans everywhere in Rome, and they don’t always mean—”

  “And this statue of Aphrodite looming over us—the goddess of love!”

  “Anyone might have such a statue. Who doesn’t worship Aphrodite?”

  “And those paintings on the walls of the room we passed through—did you not observe the subject matter? Apollo and Daphne, Paris and Helen, Leda and the swan—all stories of lust and seduction.”

  “I did notice that the paintings were rather … suggestive.”

  “Suggestive? Prurient, I would say! And there’s the simple fact that Bitto obviously has money. When her husband died, he left her in dire straits; I know that for a fact, because she wrote to me asking for a loan, and I sent it to her. But look at this house—freshly refurbished and beautifully decorated. And the delicacies we were served, and the wine—that was no cheap vintage. How else could a woman possibly earn so much money? Not by weaving or making baskets or any other respectable occupation, I can assure you of that! And her appearance—it’s downright scandalous. She’s a widow and should be in black.”

  “But you said it’s been a couple of years since her husband died—”

  “In black, I say, until she either remarries or dies. Instead she’s wearing a red gown that looks as if she were poured into it, and her hair is all pinned and piled atop her head, when it should be in a snood!”