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

by Steven Saylor

  “You won’t find a more knowledgeable guide. I know the origin and significance of every piece of sculpture on the monument. If the right guards are on duty, I can even arrange for us to ascend to the uppermost tier. Not everyone is allowed to do that.”

  “What are we waiting for?” I said.

  She was indeed a splendid guide. We began by having a look at the nearby royal palace built by Mausolus. Its design and the methods used to build it, so Bitto informed me, were unique; the ornaments were made of marble, but the massive walls were made of brick covered by a sort of plaster, so highly polished that they glittered like glass under the sun.

  A litter took us all the way to the top of the hill where the Temple of Ares stood. Having come from Ephesus, where Antipater and I had seen the Temple of Artemis, I could not be easily impressed by another temple, but it was certainly grand, and the colossal statue of the god inside was truly awe-inspiring.

  We descended by way of the theater, so that I could have a look at it, then crossed a lively district of shops and taverns where we stopped for a bite to eat, and then at last arrived at the Mausoleum. First, we circled the monument on foot, so that I could appreciate the decorations on all four sides. Bitto was not sure how many statues adorned the monument, but estimated there were at least 250—the population of a substantial town, I thought. She pointed out the various architectural influences to be seen in the monument, indicative of Caria’s location at the confluence of the world’s greatest cultures—the lower tiers suggested an impregnable Persian citadel, the upper level with its columns was clearly Greek, and the roof suggested Egypt and another of the Seven Wonders, the Great Pyramid. All these influences had merged in magnificent harmony to create the Mausoleum.

  True to her promise, Bitto was able to sweet-talk one of the guards into letting us enter the monument. To my surprise, there was no grand space within, only a narrow, winding staircase that ascended to a promenade that circled the upper level with columns. I had assumed there were rooms within the lower tiers, and that the upper level was an actual temple with a sacred chamber, but according to Bitto, except for the sealed sepulcher at ground level, the entire structure was solid. A hollow space, like the cella of a temple, would have been an engineering impossibility; only a core of solid stone could support the incredibly heavy stepped-pyramid roof with the colossal chariot atop it.

  Leaving her slave and bodyguard behind, the two of us ascended the narrow spiral staircase all the way to the promenade. I was panting for breath by the time I took the final step. The size of the columns, seen so close, was truly astonishing, and with the gigantic statues of Mausolus and Artemisia and their ancestors towering above us, I felt rather as a canine must feel standing in a human’s shadow.

  But when I saw the view, I felt godlike. Beyond the harbor, filled with tiny ships, I gazed over islands and craggy promontories all the way to the open sea. Ships in the far distance appeared as mere points of white, their sails catching the sunlight. I had never been so high up, not even when I stood atop the Capitoline Hill in Rome. To think that I had attained such a height by ascending a man-made structure was almost beyond belief.

  “Truly, this is a wonder!” I whispered.

  Bitto smiled and placed her hand on my arm. I felt a quiver of pleasure at her touch. The height made me giddy. We were alone on the promenade. Impulsively, I kissed her on the mouth.

  She did not draw back. After a couple of heartbeats, she separated her lips from mine, and smiled.

  “I think cousin Antipater would disapprove of your behavior, young man.”

  “Antipater isn’t here. He would never have made it up those stairs!”

  We both laughed. She began to stroll. I followed her. We slowly circled the monument. Each of the four sides offered a new, breathtaking view.

  “Bitto, may I ask you a personal question?”

  “You may.”

  “What you do—is it just for the money?”

  She laughed. “That is indeed a personal question! But because you ask so politely, I’ll answer. No, it’s not only for the money. The life of a hetaera is something I’d always been curious about. I never dreamed I’d have the chance to experience it for myself.”

  “Then … you like what you do?”

  She laughed again. “Believe it or not, Gordianus, a woman—even a woman of my years—is capable of experiencing carnal pleasure.”

  “I know that, of course. I didn’t mean—”

  “Why did Artemisia drink the ashes of her dead husband? As part of some magical spell, because she thought she could bring him back to life? No. She did it because she yearned for him physically, so acutely that she mingled his substance with hers in the only way that remained possible. After my husband died, I found that I had yearnings, too—but I saw no reason to settle for ashes when warm, living flesh was available. For Artemisia, desire was stronger than death. For me, desire is stronger than age.” She strolled ahead of me, gazing at the view. “But what about you, Gordianus? Have you known many partners?”

  My face grew hot. “I’m not a virgin,” I said, recalling my last night in Ephesus.

  She looked back at me and nodded. “But there are experiences you’ve not yet had. That’s not a bad thing, Gordianus. It means you have much to look forward to. My cousin is taking you to see the so-called Seven Wonders, but you’ll find the world holds many other wonders, made not of stone and bronze, but of flesh and blood.”

  I think you’re a wonder, Bitto! I wanted to blurt out, but I feared I would sound like a fool. “Do you always charge for your company?”

  “What an interesting question, Gordianus. No, not always, and not for everyone.” She turned about and faced me squarely. “But whether I sell my favors or give them away, I remain a free woman. It’s important that you understand me, Gordianus. Men may pay me, but they do not purchase me. No man owns me, and no man ever will. Please remember that, if you should ever feel an urge to kiss me again. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I doubt it. You’re young, Gordianus. Your heart will go where it wants. But I mean to be clear with you from the start, no matter what should happen between us.”

  We came to the west-facing side of the monument, and watched the sun sink behind the distant hills. I learned that the only sight in Halicarnassus more spectacular than watching the sun set behind the Mausoleum was watching a sunset from the Mausoleum itself, and to do so standing beside Bitto.

  * * *

  Even though Bitto proclaimed it her favorite temple, since she was an avid worshipper of the goddess of love, we had no time that day to see the Temple of Aphrodite and Hermes, or the spring of Salmacis, which Antipater had mentioned. Bitto said there was to be an annual ritual at the spring later that month, and we would go then.

  Antipater’s indigestion lingered for several days, but he gradually recuperated. He was at last feeling fit again on the day when Bitto was to hold one of her parties.

  “Have you had a change of heart, cousin?” she asked, in between ordering her slaves to get this and that ready for her guests. “Will Zoticus of Zeugma be attending as an honored guest?”

  “Alas, Bitto, your food does not agree with me, and I fear that your guests and their conversation would give me indigestion as well. I shall spend the evening with Herodotus, if you don’t mind.”

  “And what about you, Gordianus?”

  Both of them looked at me, and both raised an eyebrow.

  “I think I will attend the party, if I may.”

  Antipater pursed his lips but said nothing. Bitto looked pleased.

  * * *

  The first guests to arrive that evening were the other hetaerae. There were five of them. As each arrived, Bitto introduced me. Three were of foreign birth, with exotic accents. The other two were widows. They were all younger than Bitto but there was not a tittering girl among them; these were women of the world, poised and self-assured. Physically, each filled a particular niche; one was a vol
uptuous blond, another a slender redhead, and so on. Their gowns were tucked and belted to accentuate their assets, but were not unduly revealing. Bitto’s garment was the most daring; this was the first time I had ever seen the sheer fabric called the silk of Cos. Its green matched her eyes; its translucent shimmer gave the illusion that she was clothed in nothing but a rippling sheet of water that somehow clung to her flesh.

  As the hetaerae settled themselves and the serving slaves made final preparations, Bitto drew me aside. “The men will be arriving soon,” she said. “Before they get here, perhaps you’d like to choose your partner for the evening.”

  “My partner?”

  “For later.”

  “Ah,” I said softly.

  “Is there one you like more than the others? Have another look.”

  I didn’t even glance at the others, but gazed steadily into Bitto’s green eyes. “I think you know my choice,” I said.

  She smiled and gave me a kiss so delicate I hardly felt it, like a warm breeze brushing my lips.

  The five men whom Bitto entertained that night were impeccably groomed and well-dressed, wearing colorful Roman-style tunics and expensive-looking shoes. They were all well spoken, and there were a couple whom even Antipater would have considered witty. The conversation ranged from politics (cautious observations on the looming conflict between Rome and King Mithridates of Pontus), to business (the effect such a war would have on trade), to art (the revival of Euripides’ Phaëton at a recent festival, which all agreed had been a triumph). The food was excellent. The wine flowed steadily but was mixed with water, so that no one became too quickly inebriated.

  After the meal, there was entertainment. One of the girls played the lyre while another sang. Both were accomplished performers. Then, while the other women shook rattles and tambourines, Bitto danced.

  Watching her, I thought of one of Antipater’s poems, about a famous courtesan of Corinth who moved to Rome to ply her trade:

  Melting eyes cast glances softer than sleep.

  Arms undulate like water from the deep.

  Her body when she dances seems boneless,

  As soft and pliant as cream cheese.

  Now she crosses to Italy, where the Romans she will tease

  To lay down arms, their warlike ways to cease.

  Bitto was certainly capable of making this Roman lay down his arms, I thought, unable to take my eyes off her.

  When the dance was over, Bitto joined me on my dining couch. She was flushed from the exertion; I felt the radiant warmth of her body next to mine. Errant thoughts distracted me, and only gradually did I realize the conversation had drifted to the subject of Bitto’s neighbors.

  “We saw them just a few days ago, out on their balcony,” Bitto was saying. “Tryphosa was reading aloud to her daughter-in-law—”

  “This scandal has gone on long enough!” declared one of the men, who was younger and more hotheaded than the others.

  “But what can be done?” said another, whose few remaining strands of hair were carefully arranged and plastered down on his bald crown. “We all know what must have happened in that house—the poor young man was strangled in his sleep, or more likely poisoned—but we have no evidence.”

  “Even so, something should be done,” declared the hothead. “Indeed, I make a pledge here and now that I shall do something about it.”

  “But what?” said Bitto.

  “Surely a male relative can be found somewhere—if not in Halicarnassus, then abroad—to lay claim to the estate and put these dangerous women in their place. And if not, then the city magistrates need to take action. If an accusation is officially registered, the magistrates can seize and interrogate the household slaves. Slaves always know the dirt.”

  The bald man shook his head. “But slaves can be very loyal—”

  “Not when questioned under torture. Give me an hour with those slaves and I’ll get at least one of them to confess what he knows about the crimes of his mistresses. And once one slave confesses, the others will follow suit, and then we can bring down the wrath of the law on these deadly widows!”

  Alarmed by the man’s vitriol, I glanced at Bitto, who flashed an indulgent smile and deftly redirected the conversation to a less volatile subject. Probably the fellow was all hot air and no flame, I thought, but the idea of slaves being tortured and the young widow from Commagene becoming the target of so much hostility made me uneasy. I found myself wishing that Antipater were present; Antipater would have put the hothead in his place. But if Antipater had been in the room, I would not have had the courage to press my thigh alongside that of Bitto, who gently pressed back.

  I drank more wine, and soon had difficulty remembering what had made me uneasy, especially when Bitto whispered in my ear that the time had come for the two of us to retire to a private room.

  * * *

  Life at Bitto’s house was rather like a dream. The spring weather could not have been more perfect. Antipater seemed quite content to immerse himself day and night in the volumes of the library. As for Bitto and myself, we, too, found ways to amuse ourselves. Indeed, I was surprised that so many ways existed, and that Bitto seemed to know them all.

  One evening, as night fell, the three of us—Antipater, Bitto, and I—made ready to head out across the city to have a look at the Temple of Aphrodite and Hermes, and to attend the annual ritual at the spring of Salmacis.

  Just before we left, I stepped onto the balcony, and for only the second time since our arrival, I caught a glimpse of the young widow from Commagene. Veiled and dressed in black, Corinna sat on her balcony and gazed at the sunset. She must have felt my eyes on her, for suddenly she looked up at me. Again I saw her bright blue eyes, and again I wondered if I detected something strange in them, or if that idea had been planted in my mind by Bitto’s suspicions.

  A team of bearers carried us in a single large litter across the city. While Antipater gazed at the Mausoleum, which was in shadow on one side and ablaze with the glow of sunset on the other, I turned to Bitto. “Do you think that fellow at your party was serious about making an official accusation against your neighbors?”

  “What fellow?”

  “The hothead.”

  “Ah, Straton! He often blusters like that. But he’s not afraid to take legal action. He’s always dragging others into court. A very litigious fellow! I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he makes good on his promise, if only to impress me.”

  “And would you be impressed, if he succeeds in punishing the widows?”

  Bitto frowned. “I’m not sure. If only we knew the truth about those two, and what happened to Timon.”

  Antipater, who had not been listening, suddenly spoke up. “The spring of Salmacis! I haven’t been there since my first visit to Halicarnassus, many years ago—you were only a child then, Bitto. But one never forgets the story of the nymph Salmacis. Do you know it, Gordianus?”

  “No. Tell me, please.”

  “Ah, what a poem it would make! Once upon a time, long before there was a city here, the nymph Salmacis dwelled in the grotto that contains the sacred spring that bears her name. One day, a beautiful youth happened by. Since it was a hot day, he stripped off his clothing and made ready to take a dip in the spring. Salmacis, gazing up at him from the bottom of the pool, was overcome with desire—for the youth was no mere mortal, but the child of two gods, Hermes and Aphrodite. His name combined those of his parents: Hermaphroditus.

  “Salmacis suddenly emerged from the water, giving the boy a start. She at once began speaking words of love, and reached out to caress him. But Hermaphroditus was only fifteen, and not ready for love, and he found the frantic, wet kisses of the nymph repellent. He dove into the water to escape her, not realizing that in the spring lay her power. She dove in after him. Making herself as supple as seaweed, she wrapped herself around him, entangling his limbs with hers. Try as he might, there was no escape.”

  “She drowned him?” I said.

  “If only
she had!” said Antipater. “Since he would not yield to her, and since she could not stand to be parted from him, she cried out to the gods to join his body with hers, to graft them together as two branches may be grafted, merging two living things into one. The gods answered her prayer. When the son of Hermes and Aphrodite emerged from the pool of Salmacis he was no longer a young man, but a creature of both sexes. And from that day forward, the pool of Salmacis has this special property: any man who drinks from it or swims in it becomes partly female.”

  “If that’s true, surely no man goes near the spring!” I said, laughing a bit nervously at the very thought.

  “You might be surprised,” said Bitto. “There are some who would like to change their sex. They come to the spring of Salmacis seeking such a favor from the gods. Do you disbelieve the story, Gordianus?”

  “Well…”

  “Wait until you’ve seen the ritual.”

  Night had fallen by the time we joined a gathering of a hundred or so people in the Temple of Aphrodite and Hermes. Incense was burned on altars. Prayers were chanted to the god and goddess and also to their son. Then the worshippers, most of them women, filed out of the temple.

  We followed a winding path through a grove of ancient trees and entered a cavernous recess. Water seeped from the mossy walls that encircled a pool perhaps twenty feet wide and twice that long. The shadowy space was dimly lit by lamps hung from hooks driven into the grotto walls. Points of flame danced on the water. The only sounds were the hushed murmur of the crowd and the quiet splash of water dripping into the pool.

  The priests stepped to the edge of the pool. With them was a boy with shoulder-length black hair who wore only a loose robe. While the priests chanted, the boy shrugged the robe from his shoulders and slowly turned about, so that everyone could see him naked. He was still a child and did not yet have a man’s hair on his body.

  The boy stepped into the pool. The chanting grew louder as the priests called upon Salmacis to show her power. As the boy strode forward, his back to us, the water rose to his knees, then to his hips, then to his chest. He never broke stride, but kept walking until the water closed over his head. For a long moment there was no sign of him, not even bubbles on the surface of the water, and then he suddenly reemerged, continuing to stride away from us. First we saw his black hair, shimmering and wet, then his shoulders and back, then his buttocks and legs. He emerged from the pool at the far side, and slowly turned to face the crowd.