Wrath of the Furies by Steven Saylor Page A

into the hallway, and closed the door behind me, thinking to shield her from the gaze of the slave who had made the summons and was waiting to escort me to his master’s dining room. But in a house as well regulated as that of Posidonius, the servants were trained to be circumspect. The slave, a man perhaps twice my age, stood some distance from the door and made no attempt to peek inside.
    Over one arm he held a folded garment of white wool.
    â€œA toga?” I said. “Is that for me?”
    The slave nodded.
    I laughed. “I haven’t worn a toga in ages. I’m not sure I can remember how to put it on. And if you expect me to do it myself, in that tiny room—”
    â€œOh, no, the master sent me especially to help you. We may do so in the master’s study. If you’ll follow me.…”
    The slave proved to be an expert in the art of donning the toga. He put to shame old Damon, my father’s slave, who had assisted me in putting on my first toga when I turned seventeen. In no time, with a bit of tugging here and a bit of gathering there, the toga lay just as it should, falling in proper folds from my shoulders and forearms.
    Smiling with prim satisfaction at his handiwork, the slave led me down the hall to a different stairway from the one I had ascended earlier. For a moment I felt lost in that rambling house, despite the months I had spent there with Antipater, then I found my bearings again as the slave led me to Posidonius’s elegant dining room, which was brightly lit. There were lamps set in sconces in the wall, lamps on bronze stands with griffin heads, and more lamps hanging from the ceiling. One side of the room was open to a garden from which radiated the last faint light of day. The three walls of the room were painted with flowers and trees and butterflies, so that the room seemed a natural continuation of the garden, but while the real garden grew dim, here the soft glow of twilight lingered.
    There were six couches, with two set against each wall. The two closest to the garden, and farthest from our host, were unoccupied; it appeared I was the last but one to arrive. The slave indicated which of these was for me. Next to Posidonius, in the place of honor, was another guest in a toga, a stout Roman with a grim expression. The two other guests, dressed like our host in more colorful, loose-fitting garments, were not much older than me and alike enough to be brothers, which in fact they were.
    From the way the four of them looked at me, I knew that Posidonius had already explained who I was. As I settled myself on my couch, a slave placed a cup of wine in my hand, and Posidonius introduced them to me.
    â€œGordianus, this is Gaius Cassius, the governor of Asia.”
    Deposed governor, I thought. The stout Roman gave me a nod.
    Posidonius gestured to his left and right. “This is Pythion of Nysa. Across from him, his brother, Pythodorus.”
    â€œNysa,” I said, “where the hero Lycurgus ‘drove the nursing mothers of wine-crazed Dionysus over the sacred mountains.’” Greeks are always impressed if you can quote an appropriate bit of Homer.
    Pythion—whom I took to be the older brother, since he did most of the talking—gave me a piercing look. “Was it your treacherous tutor who taught you that—this Zoticus of Zeugma?”
    I glanced at Posidonius. Clearly he had told them something of my situation, but for reasons of his own he had decided not to reveal Antipater’s true identity. It occurred to me that Posidonius would prefer his guests to think he had been duped by a nobody—the obscure Zoticus—rather than let it be known that his old friend, the famous poet Antipater of Sidon, had operated as spy for Mithridates under this very roof.
    I cleared my throat. “As a matter of fact—yes, it was my old tutor who taught me those lines of Homer. He’s … something of a poet