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

Автор книги: Steven Saylor

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

At length, I stumbled upon an area that had recently been disturbed. Overturned rocks exposed the worm trails beneath, and clods of earth had been dug up. Some instinct led me to move a particular stone, and behind it I discovered a narrow defile, just large enough for a man to stick his arm inside.

The idea that a snake or a spider or something even more terrible might live in such a crack gave me pause. I took a deep breath, then reached into the dark hole.

My fingers touched something cold and scaly, and I heard a slithering noise. I drew back my hand, then had a glimmer of realization. I reached inside again and felt my hand immersed amid bits of smooth, cold metal. I trapped one of the coins between my forefinger and thumb and pulled it out.

The silver was tarnished almost black, but the images were so finely cast that I could easily make out Bellerophon astride his winged horse, Pegasus. On the reverse was an image of the monstrous Chimera slain by the Corinthian hero. The coin was thick and heavy in my hand.

I became so lost in studying the images that I didn’t hear the approach of the horse and rider. When their shadow fell on me, I looked up, startled. The sun formed a blinding halo around the soldier’s gleaming helmet.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Marcus. “The coin, I mean. It’s a funny thing, how some objects are beautiful because they’re one of a kind—like that figure of Hercules you took from me. But coins become more beautiful the more of them there are. And there are a great many in that little hiding place you’ve discovered. It took me months to dig up those coins, along with all the other treasures I’ve found amid the ruins.”

“Treasures?” I said, my mouth dry.

“Vases and such. A lot of the things I find are broken to bits, or melted by the flames, but every so often I find something so perfect I can hardly believe it. Like that little figurine of Hercules that Tullius found yesterday and dared to slip into his coin purse. From what I overheard, he and his friends agreed ahead of time to split anything they found evenly between them, and when they found this particular cache of treasures, they agreed to leave it intact and come back for it later. That was naughty of Tullius, to slip the Hercules into his coin purse while the others weren’t watching. What if Menenius had come across it while searching the dead bodies, and realized where it came from?”

I frowned. “Overheard? When did you hear Tullius and the others talking?”

“Yesterday, as they went about their business here in the ruins. They clucked like hens the whole time—and had no idea I was watching and listening. I can thank my training for that. Quintus Menenius may be one of the stupidest men the gods ever made, but he did teach me a thing or two about stealth and surveillance. That sort of thing comes in handy if you want to scavenge treasures from an area that’s off-limits, and keep anyone else from doing so.” He shook his head. “Titus Tullius and his friends thought they could come here, loot to their hearts’ content, and run off with the spoils, and no one would lift a finger to stop them. What fools!”

“Why didn’t you simply report them to Menenius? Wouldn’t he have arrested them?”

“Menenius would have clicked his tongue, given them a stern lecture, and sent them on their way—then barred all visitors to the ruins, posted guards night and day, and sent a full report to the Senate asking for further instructions. My treasure stores would have been discovered. My little operation would have come to an end. I’d have nothing to show for all my hard work.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Scavenging the ruins? For months. Almost since the first day I was posted to this gods-forsaken place. I couldn’t believe no one else had thought of doing the same thing. The locals are all too superstitious to go nosing about the ruins, and so are most of the Roman soldiers. That silly Lucius keeps the others frightened half to death with his stories about witches and ghosts. I encourage him at every turn, of course. Meanwhile, I come here as often as I safely can, and go treasure hunting. Usually I find nothing. Sometimes I find a ring or a stray coin. And every so often I make a real discovery, like a cameo from a brooch, untouched by the flames and in perfect condition. Or a bag of coins that must have been buried by some wealthy Corinthian, thinking he could come back later and claim it. I hide the things I find. There’s no safe way to smuggle them out without someone noticing, and nowhere in this gods-forsaken place to spend the money or sell the precious stones, so my treasures just keep accumulating. How Tullius and his friends were lucky enough to stumble on this particular hiding place, I can’t imagine.”

“Lucky? Surely it was misfortune that led them here.”

Marcus laughed. “Yes, since I observed them doing it. I couldn’t report them, because that would ruin my own scheme. And I had no intention of letting them come back here the next day, and the day after that, plundering the treasures I’ve worked so hard to accumulate. Ugh, this thing is hot!” He took off his helmet and tossed it on a soft patch of ground, then combed his fingers through sweat-soaked tufts of blond hair streaked with gray.

“So you got rid of them,” I said. My mouth was so dry I could hardly speak. I was so dizzy I thought I might fall. “Did you kill every one of them, all by yourself?”

“I certainly did. With this.” He pulled his short sword from its scabbard. “Had a terrible time cleaning all the blood off afterward.”

“But how did you manage it? Why didn’t they resist? No, wait—I think I know. You’re not alone in this scheme. The innkeeper is in it with you.”

“How did you deduce that, Gordianus?”

“The way Zoticus and I slept that night—we were tired from the long day and the heat, but not that tired. It wasn’t natural. Some sort of drug was put in our food or wine. Something that made us sleep like dead men. The innkeeper did it.”

Marcus gave me a shrewd look.

“And he did the same thing to Titus Tullius and his party,” I said. “He put something in their wine that sent them into a deep sleep—so deep that not one of them woke while you killed them at your leisure. Why didn’t you kill Zoticus and me, as well?”

“I’m a soldier, Gordianus. I kill from necessity, not for enjoyment. Clearly, your interest in the ruins was historical, or in the case of your old tutor, sentimental. A Roman pup wandering amid the rubble and a doddering Greek declaiming poetry posed no threat to me. I told Gnaeus to drug you so that you’d sleep through the killing; I saw no need to kill you as well. It seems I made a mistake—which I now intend to rectify.”

He deftly swung one leg over his horse and dismounted, keeping the drawn sword in his hand. He tightened his grip on the hilt, making ready to use it.

I backed away and tried to stall him with more questions. “The witch’s curse—the lead tablet among the bodies—was it a forgery?”

He laughed. “Can you believe the coincidence? Gnaeus and I found it when we searched Tullius’s room after the killing. We couldn’t believe our luck—a genuine curse tablet, scary enough to make Lucius faint and even old Menenius lose all common sense.”

“But who made the tablet?”

“Ismene, I’m sure. Lucius always said she was a witch. I took the lead tablet downstairs and hid it among the bodies. It was perfect, that Lucius should be the one to find it. And the way you read it aloud, with that tremor in your voice—like an actor on a stage! Even I had to shudder. ‘Egyptian Ufer of the Mighty Name!’” Marcus laughed so hard he stopped in his tracks. But he was still holding the sword.

“Lucius said something about other soldiers who died, in their sleep,” I said. “He blamed witchcraft.”

Marcus shrugged. “That was my doing. Aulus figured out what I was up to, and demanded a share. So I poisoned him. A month later, Tiberius did the same. Lucius was sure they died by witchcraft and told everyone so. No suspicion ever fell on me.”

“If poison worked before, why didn’t you poison Tullius and the rest?” I said, desperate to keep stalling him.

He shook his head. “That would have required a great deal of poison. No, it was quicker and easier and more reliable to give them all a sleeping draft, and then use this.” He slashed the air with his sword, so close that a gust of warm air blew against my nose.

While I ran through every question I could think of, I had been looking for something to throw at him. I was surrounded by rubble, yet all the stones and bits of wood were either too big or too small to use as a weapon. Marcus saw my consternation and smiled. He said he killed for necessity, not enjoyment, but the look on his face told another story.

I staggered back, weak from heat and thirst. My heart pounded so hard I thought my chest would burst. Amid the oily spots that swam before my eyes, I glimpsed ghostly faces—the dead of Corinth, making ready to welcome me.

I heard a strange whistling noise.

Marcus abruptly dropped his sword. His jaw went slack and his eyes rolled back in his head. He crumpled to the ground.

I stood dumbfounded, then looked up to see Ismene. She seemed to have materialized from thin air.

“How did you do that?” I whispered. “You killed him without even touching him. You were nowhere near him.”

She gave me a withering look. “First of all, he’s probably not dead. Feel the pulse at his wrist.”

I did so. “You’re right, he’s only unconscious.”

“And not likely to stay that way long. I’d tie him up, if I were you.”

“With what?”

She rolled her eyes. “Use the leather reins from his horse.”

“Ah, yes, of course. It’s the heat—I can’t seem to think straight. But I still don’t understand how you did that. Was it a spell?”

“Feel the back of his head.”

I did so. “There’s a big lump. What sort of spell—”

“Really, young man! Did your father never teach you to use a sling?” She held up a bit of cloth. “Witchcraft achieves many things, but as long as there’s an egg-sized stone handy, I don’t need Ufer of the Mighty Name to bring a man down.”

I finished tying Marcus’s ankles and wrists. “You’re very resourceful,” I said. “Are you really a witch?”

“Titus Tullius and his friends are all dead, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but that was because—”

“If you don’t like my answers, don’t ask me questions.”

I thought about this, and decided to show her more respect. “The handwriting on the tablet at the inn was the same as the handwriting on the tablet I read in the room on the Slope of Sisyphus. You wrote both curses. That’s your witch’s den, isn’t it?”

“I’m one of the women who use it, yes.”

“Who is Eudocia, and why didn’t you finish the curse against her?”

Ismene laughed. For a moment her face was transformed. She looked almost pretty. “Of all the questions to ask! Eudocia is someone’s mother-in-law. At the last moment, the woman asking for the spell lost her nerve. I still made her pay me. Now, I suggest you drape this soldier over his horse and hurry back to Lechaeum, before you die of thirst.”

“What about you? Don’t you need the horse?”

“What for?”

“To get away. The commander has the whole garrison looking for you.”

“I’m a witch, you silly boy. I don’t need a horse to make my escape. Now go about your business and I’ll go about mine.” She reached into the narrow place, pulled out a handful of coins, then stuffed them into a pouch at her waist. The loose garment she was wearing appeared to have many such pouches sewn into it. Several were already bulging.

“You’re taking Marcus’s loot?”

“I never intended to do so, but Ananke demands it. Better I should have it than a Roman soldier.”

“Titus Tullius impugned sorcery and insulted the dead of Corinth. Now he and his friends are dead. What about Marcus?”

“His own commander will see to his punishment.”

“And Gnaeus?”

She spat on the ground. “There’s a lead tablet under his bed right now. He’ll be dead before nightfall.”

Hackles rose on the back of my neck. “And me?”

She smiled. “You’ve done nothing wrong, young Roman. You and the poet showed only respect for the dead of Corinth, and for the sacred place of Persephone. You do the bidding of Moira in this affair. You are the agent of fate. Do you not realize that?

“Now go!”

*   *   *

By the time I got back to Lechaeum, the sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows. In the dry breeze that moved through the grass I no longer heard the whispers of the dead, only the sound of wind. The ghosts of Corinth were at peace, with me at least.

As I approached the inn, I could see at a distance that Antipater was still asleep under the fig tree. One of the dogs saw me and barked. Antipater shifted in his sleep, but did not wake. I thought I saw a movement at one of the windows upstairs. Had Gnaeus seen me? I hurried on to the garrison.

Lucius was on guard duty. At my approach, he ran to alert the commander. Menenius appeared a moment later. He strode out to meet me, staring at the soldier slung over the horse like a sack of grain. Marcus was just beginning to regain consciousness. He mumbled and tugged fitfully at the leather straps around his wrists and ankles.

“What in Hades is going on?” demanded Menenius.

My throat was so parched I couldn’t speak. Menenius ordered water to be brought. It helped a little, but not much. It is not an easy thing, revealing a truth that will lead to another man’s death. Marcus was a murderer many times over. He had poisoned two of his comrades and slit the throats of a dozen Roman citizens. If Ismene—or Moira—had not intervened, I would have been the thirteenth. I had a duty to both men and gods to deliver him to justice. Still, I found myself unable to look at Marcus as I told Menenius all I knew, aware that my testimony would lead surely and swiftly to his execution. Once he was fully awake, Marcus might deny my story, at first. But I had no doubt that Menenius would obtain a complete confession from him.

Roman citizens are accorded the dignity of a swift death by beheading, but what did the law decree for a soldier who had murdered his own comrades? Would he be crucified like a slave, or stoned like a deserter by his fellow legionnaires? I tried not to think about it. I had played my part. Now it would fall to Menenius to act as the agent of fate.

The commander dismissed me, saying he would question me again after interrogating Marcus. I walked swiftly to the inn. The first stars had appeared in the sky. The shade beneath the fig tree was now so dark I could hardly see Antipater, but I heard him softly snoring. The lazy dogs did not even look up.

I stepped into the inn. The vestibule was dark, but the doorway to the tavern framed the soft glow of a single lamp. Gnaeus must have lit the lamp. I imagined him standing in the room, alone amid the ghosts of the slain. At any moment, soldiers from the garrison would arrive to arrest him for his complicity in the murders. I had no intention of warning him, but something compelled me to step into the tavern.

Half in light, half in shadow, Gnaeus hung from a rope secured to a beam in the ceiling. His lifeless body still swayed slightly, as if he had committed the act only moments before. Ismene had told me he would be dead before nightfall.

*   *   *

The next day, Menenius allowed us to leave. He even arranged for our transportation across the isthmus. Two soldiers drove us in a wagon, and seemed glad for the excursion.

At Cenchrea, we found a ship to take us to Piraeus, and continued on our journey.

As the Isthmus of Corinth receded in the distance, I wondered if the magic of Ismene had truly motivated all the bloodshed and havoc of the last few days, with no one aware of the full truth except the witch herself. If that were the case, how many times already in my life had I been the unknowing agent of unseen powers, and when would I next fall under the spell of such sorcery?

I shivered at the thought, and hoped never to encounter Ismene again.

VI

THE MONUMENTAL GAUL

(The Colossus of Rhodes)

“Mark my words, Gordianus, that young fellow is destined to become one of the shining intellects of the age, a beacon of wisdom and learning.”

This was quite a compliment, coming from Antipater. He was speaking of our host in Rhodes, a man named Posidonius. Considering the flecks of gray at his temples, I wouldn’t have called Posidonius a “young fellow,” but then, I was only eighteen. To my old tutor, I suppose Posidonius seemed quite youthful. He was certainly energetic, constantly jumping up from his chair to fetch a scroll to elucidate some point, or pacing to and fro across the garden and gesticulating as he recounted some tale about his travels in Gaul, from which he had only recently returned.

Posidonius was not just a scholar and a scientist; he was an intrepid explorer whose quest for knowledge had taken him to many lands. His travels had begun with a stop in Rome several years ago; that was when he first met Antipater, and so impressed the poet that the two exchanged many letters as Posidonius traveled to Africa and Spain, and then to Gaul, where he spent a number of years living among the natives and observing their strange customs. Posidonius had at last returned to Rhodes, just in time for Antipater and me to take advantage of his hospitality.

“Here, this is an example of what I was talking about,” said Posidonius, returning to the garden. He carried a long knife, holding it forth on his palms so that we could observe the silver hilt decorated with elaborate whorls and weird animal faces. “This is a ceremonial knife that was actually used by a Gallic Druid in a blood ritual to predict the future. I witnessed the sacrifice with my own eyes. The victim was a captured warrior from another tribe. The poor fellow was made to stand with his hands bound behind his back while two strong men held him fast, then the chief Druid used this very knife to stab him, just above the diaphragm. As the victim convulsed, they released him and carefully observed in what direction he fell, how many times he kicked out his legs, and what sort of pattern his spurting blood made on the ground—and from those observations, the Druids were able to conclude that their chieftain’s infant son would be free of the fever afflicting him within three days.”

“And did the child recover?” asked Antipater.

“Yes, he did. Of course, most fevers, unless they kill the patient, are over within three days, but the chieftain was nonetheless much comforted by the prediction, and generously rewarded the Druids when it came true.”

“Predicting the future from blood spatters—it seems rather far-fetched,” I ventured to say.

Posidonius raised an eyebrow. “If a Roman augur may presume to read the will of the gods by watching a chicken peck at some scattered grain, why should a Druid not be able to do so by studying a pattern of blood?” From his blank expression, I couldn’t tell whether he was being serious or sardonic.

Since leaving Rome on my travels with Antipater, moving among Greeks in the Greek-speaking part of Rome’s empire, I had learned that it was not uncommon for a young Roman to be subjected to subtle ridicule, practical jokes, and even, on occasion, outright displays of hostility. The city of Rhodes and the island of the same name were not yet part of Rome’s empire, having maintained independence even as neighboring islands and much of the mainland of Asia were subjected to Roman rule, and in Rhodes I had not encountered quite as much anti-Roman sentiment as elsewhere. Still, I was not sure what to make of the tone Posidonius often took when addressing me, as if he were making a joke that I was too dull to perceive. Perhaps he simply spoke to me the way he spoke to the students who attended his academy.

It had been ten days since Antipater and I arrived in Rhodes. The ship carrying us had entered the harbor at dusk—and had been one of the last ships to do so, for winter was coming on, and with it the unpredictable gales and storms that put an end to the sailing season.

As we sailed past a long mole that projected into the water, I eagerly looked to see what every newcomer to Rhodes is curious to see: the remains of the fallen bronze Colossus, deemed one of the Seven Wonders of the World despite its ruined state. By the uncertain light I had caught glimpses of the huge and grotesquely disconnected remains that lay scattered on the mole—two feet still firmly connected to a high pedestal, a forearm that lay half-submerged amid the lapping waves, and most disconcerting, because one enormous eye seemed to be staring straight back at me, a gigantic head that lay on its side. Where the other eye should have been there was a gaping hole in the bronze. Perhaps it had been damaged when the giant statue tumbled to the ground, felled by an earthquake 135 years ago.

By the time the ship docked and the harbor officials boarded to inspect our travel documents, it had been too late to take a closer look at the Colossus. Instead, Antipater and I headed directly to the house of Posidonius, which was located in the city’s acropolis district, a considerable distance from the harbor.

It was Antipater’s plan that we would spend the winter in Rhodes. The large, luxuriously appointed house of Posidonius certainly seemed a comfortable place to do so. Weary of traveling, Antipater seemed content to venture no farther each day than the garden, where he liked to sit and bask whenever a bit of weak sunshine broke through the clouds, or to converse with our host, who joined us whenever a break in his teaching schedule allowed. When Posidonius was absent, Antipater perused our host’s large collection of scrolls and travel memorabilia. In the evenings we dined with Posidonius in a charming room that opened onto the garden, usually joined by one or two of his more promising students, or by some person of note in the city. Rhodes was known not just for scholars, but for its athletes, merchants, and artists.

Under normal circumstances, Antipater would no doubt have been asked to address the students at the academy, but Posidonius understood that the poet was traveling incognito. Posidonius told us that he himself had occasionally assumed false identities during his travels, and he accepted Antipater’s need for discretion without question. Antipater was always introduced not as a famous poet, but as the humble tutor Zoticus of Zeugma, traveling companion of young Gordianus of Rome.

Antipater had settled happily into this housebound routine, but I was growing restless. From the first morning, I had been eager to return to the harbor and take a closer look at the remains of the Colossus, but Antipater, who had been to Rhodes before and had seen the remains of the statue already, pointed out that there was no hurry, since we would be on the island for months. Whenever I mentioned my curiosity about the Colossus to Posidonius, he responded with a blank expression and told me to be patient. Did he consider me just another empty-headed Roman tourist, determined to check an item off a must-see list?

In fact, Posidonius had a reason to hold off showing me the Colossus, but I did not know that yet.

Just as Antipater and I leaned forward to take a closer look at the ritual Druid blade held forth by our host, a voice boomed out, speaking Greek with one of the strangest accents I had ever heard:

“What are you doing with my knife?”

All three of us gave a start. The knife seemed to jump from Posidonius’s hands. He fumbled to keep from dropping it, and cut one of his fingers. The wound was slight, but a few drops of blood fell onto the paving stone at his feet.

The newcomer strode into the garden. His appearance was as startling as his voice. He was very tall and wore a long, belted robe covered with complex embroidery; the whorls and other patterns reminded me of the decorations on the knife. His sandals, adorned with silver bosses and beaded leather tassels, looked like no shoes I had ever seen before, and left his toes bare. The hood of his robe was pushed back to reveal a great mass of fiery red hair, shot with gray and elaborately pleated. His cheeks were shaven, but the hair on his upper lip had been allowed to grow until it practically concealed his mouth, and hung down in knotted braids all the way to his chest. This was the first time I had ever seen a moustache, and it was a memorable specimen.

“Gatamandix! You gave us all a start,” said Posidonius.

I gazed at the newcomer in wonder. By the way he was dressed, by his savage accent, by his assertion that the knife was his, and by the uncouth name Posidonius used to address him, there could be no doubt: the man was a Druid. I had seen surprising things during my travels with Antipater, but this was one of the most unexpected—a Gallic priest hundreds of miles from Gaul, here on the island of Rhodes.

“When did you get back from Lindos?” asked Posidonius.

“Just now.”

“And did you have any luck?”

Perhaps the newcomer smiled; with his moustache in the way, it was hard to tell. “We found what we were looking for.”

Posidonius’s face registered excitement. “Did you bring it back to Rhodes with you? Is it here?”

“We returned by horse, up the coast road, but sent the cargo by ship.”

“You found a captain still willing to sail?”

“It took some doing, but Cleobulus thought it would be safer that way. We were told it should arrive tomorrow.”

Posidonius raised an eyebrow. “And the price?”

“The amount you sent was adequate, though just barely.”

“Splendid! Ah, but let me introduce you to two other guests who’ll be spending the winter here—Gordianus, a citizen of Rome, and his tutor, Zoticus. This is Gatamandix, a Druid of a tribe called the Segurovi. Gatamandix showed great hospitality to me when I was in Gaul. When I returned to Rhodes, he came with me, along with a young fellow of the same tribe. They’ve just returned from an excursion down the coast to Lindos.”

“A expedition to locate some object of value, I gather?” said Antipater.

The Druid seemed reluctant to answer.

Posidonius cleared his throat “We’ll speak of the matter later.”

Seeing our host wished to change the subject, Antipater turned his attention to the knife in Posidonius’s hand. “Do I understand that this magnificent blade belongs to you, Gatamandix?”

The Druid took the knife and gripped the hilt with a light, familiar touch. “I suppose Posidonius told you how he witnessed a ‘barbaric’ human sacrifice committed with this very knife? I see from your faces that he did. Yes, this is my knife. And yes, I was the Druid who delivered the death blow—like this!” He thrust the knife into empty air.

Antipater and I jumped. The Druid appeared to smile behind his moustache. “Don’t worry. The gods demand no sacrifice today.”

“Where is Cleobulus?” said Posidonius.

“Your student left us at the door and went on to his parents’ house.”

“And Vindovix?” said Posidonius.

“He went straight to his room,” said Gatamandix. “Tired from riding all day. He’s probably asleep.”

Posidonius shook his head. “How that young man stays so fit is a mystery; he seems to do nothing but sleep and eat. But it’s just as well he didn’t come to the garden. Zoticus and Gordianus will be able to—ah, but I’ll say no more, or else I’ll compromise the experiment.”

“An experiment?” said Antipater.

“Yes, in which you and Gordianus will play a central part.”

“You never mentioned this before.”

“Because the time was not yet right. But now we must make haste.”

“Are we leaving the house?” There was a note of complaint in Antipater’s voice.

“We are, indeed. The time has come to visit the Colossus.”

Posidonius saw the excitement on my face, and smiled. My desire was at last to be realized. But what did Posidonius mean when he spoke of an ‘experiment’? He would say no more. I quickly fetched some cloaks, for it was likely to be chilly and windy at the waterfront, then followed our host to the vestibule.

Gatamandix stayed behind in the garden. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the Druid turn the knife this way and that, staring at the blade.

*   *   *

“What do you know about the Colossus?” said Posidonius.

The four of us were strolling past the sporting complex just down the hill from Posidonius’s house—four, because we were accompanied by a slave named Zenas who was perhaps ten years older than I and was often at his master’s side, ready to take dictation on a wax tablet or to run a quick errand. To our left was the footracing stadium; the long, low wall that supported the viewing stands was decorated with magnificent mosaics of gods and athletes. To our right was one of the long porticos that enclosed the palestra; despite the cool weather, between the columns I caught glimpses of naked youths wrestling on the grass while their tutors looked on and shouted encouragement. I was reminded of something my father had once said: “A Greek will exercise in the nude even if there’s snow coming down.”

Posidonius’s question about the Colossus was directed at me. I cleared my throat. “All I know about the Colossus, I learned from, er, Zoticus,” I began, thinking this a rather clever way to deflect any criticism of my erudition, or lack thereof. But Posidonius, an experienced teacher, would have none of it.

“Come, come, young Roman,” he said, “either you know something about the Colossus or you do not.” Zenas looked amused. He was probably used to watching his master make pupils squirm.

Chagrined, I started over. “As I understand it, the statue was constructed almost two hundred years ago. It was built in the image of the sun god, Helios, whom the Rhodians revere above all others, because it was Helios who at the dawn of time raised this island from the bottom of the sea. The first capital of Rhodes was Lindos, on the east coast, but a new city, also called Rhodes, was designed and built from scratch here on the northern tip of the island a little over three hundred years ago. So the city of Rhodes is relatively young, much newer than Rome or Athens—”

“All very true,” said Posidonius, “but you stray from the subject.”