Wrath of the Furies (36 page)

“Tisiphone, we dare to speak your name!”

“Your name means ‘vengeful, violent.'”

While the priest and the wise man recited their litany, Freny writhed on the altar. Mithridates stared at her intently, gritting his teeth. Next to him, Monime gazed at Freny's helpless suffering with a smile of smug satisfaction.

“We call on you, we name the unnameable, we say aloud your names!” said Kysanias. “You were born from the blood that gushed from the wound that unmanned Uranus—Uranus who was made seedless by the child of his seed, Kronos—Kronos who set in motion the passage of time—time which puts an end to all things save the gods—”

Standing at the altar next to Damianus and Gnossipus, across from Kysanias and the Grand Magus, I grew more and more light-headed. The Grove of the Furies began to seem unreal. Surely no such place existed, and the moments I was experiencing were outside of time, a weird and frightful illusion. I felt oddly detached, yet at the same time on the verge of panic. I tried to breathe deeply, but couldn't seem to catch a breath. It was as if my body had forgotten how to breathe.

The air around me was as thick as water. Objects seen at a distance seemed horribly close, as if just beyond my nose—the iron collar worn by Quintus Oppius, the ruby eyes of the cobra in Prince Ptolemy's crown, the gold knob atop the royal staff held by Monime's father. At the same time, the people surrounding the altar seemed very distant, no taller than a finger seen at arm's length.

I would never be able to do what had been asked of me. It would not be possible. I would not be able to move, much less—

“You dwell among the dead in Tartarus,” Kysanias was saying, “but we call you forth from your home to receive this sacrifice. Hear the prayer of this mighty king—this king whose coming was foretold by dreams, visions and oracles—portents and prophecies that seek fulfillment—fulfillment that may only come with
the wrath of the Furies
—”

That was my cue.

*   *   *

When I was a boy, and Antipater was my occasional tutor, he and my father decided that it would be a good thing for me to speak in public, reciting some bit of poetry I had learned before an audience of other boys and their fathers.

The prospect terrified me.

I had never done such a thing before. Nor had I any desire to do so. Was it not enough that I should learn the words of Ennius, or Homer, or Hesiod, or Sappho? Why must I speak them aloud, by memory, in front of other people?

Because, my father said, oratory was the birthright of every Roman. The Republic had been born from the spoken word, for action was always preceded by will, and will was shaped by the spoken word. The better a man could speak, and the larger his audience, the greater his chance to shape the world around him, rather than helplessly be shaped by the world.

But why recite the words of some dead man? Because, Antipater said, it was from the poets, especially the Greek poets, that we learned that speech could be not only persuasive, but also sublime, achieving a beauty and perfection approaching the divine.

For a month, every day Antipater drilled me, and every day I dreaded the coming of that occasion.

I was not the only boy to speak that day. Others came before me. While I awaited my turn, I became light-headed and hardly able to breathe. Objects near at hand seemed far away, and distant objects attained a horrible nearness. I knew that I would never be able to do what was required of me. I would stand babbling and stuttering before my audience, unable to speak, and I would melt, like a wax table in the hot sun, while my father and Antipater and the others looked on, aghast.

But that was not what happened.

When called upon, I rose from my seat. Like some automaton, propelled by a mechanism outside my own volition, I walked to the dais and mounted it. I turned to face the audience. I opened my mouth, and the words of Anacreon came out …

“It irks me that Eurypyle, so glamorous,

For boorish Artemon has cravings amorous…”

The listeners looked at me intently. They did not look aghast, but quite the opposite. Antipater smiled. So did my father. When I came to the lines,

“But now the son of Artemon appears

In a chariot, with gold rings in his ears,”

some in the audience laughed out loud, and their laughter was like wine to me. I felt a novel sensation of power, as if I held them all in the palm of my hand.

By the time I came to the final line, I did not want my turn to end. I would gladly have recited another poem for them, and another. But I stepped aside and let the next boy mount the dais.

That day I had a very small taste of the thrill that actors must feel on the stage, and politicians on the podium. My father was right, and so was Antipater. To speak in public must surely be the most powerful thing a man can do, and also the most sublime.…

*   *   *

We never know, later in life, what childhood lessons we will call upon. That night, in the Grove of the Furies, I called upon that long-ago experience.

The memory gave me comfort and strength. I
would
be able to do what had been asked of me. I would do it for Freny. I would do it for all the Romans who had taken sanctuary at the Temple of Artemis. Why, I was not even being called upon to speak, only to stand before an audience and—

“
The wrath of the Furies!
” Kysanias repeated, daring to look straight at me across the altar, despite our prearranged agreement that we would not look each other in the eye.

All night, Antipater and I had rehearsed. He devised the words, then drilled me over and over until I knew them by heart. Now the time had come.

Moving stiffly, I stepped back, then strode to the head of the altar. Here, as Kysanias had told me there would be, I saw a small wooden platform attached to the altar. Stepping onto it, I stood tall enough for everyone in the grove to see me, or at least to see my shadowy form. The torches in the stands to either side and slightly behind me had gradually burned lower and lower. As if they were alive and hungry, black shadows were swallowing the light.

Freny was directly below me, her feet pointing away from me. She stared up at me. We saw each other's faces upside down.

“Mute witness!” Kysanias cried. “Why have you left your place?”

I kept my head lowered. “Best to start with your mouth unseen,” Kysanias had advised the night before, “in case at the beginning you and Antipater are not in perfect unison.”

But our beginning was perfect. I felt Antipater's touch on my back. While all eyes were on me, on the opposite side of the altar he had successfully scurried unseen behind Kysanias and the Grand Magus, to take up a spot just behind me. Even as I mouthed the first word, I heard it spoken. Though I had heard it the night before, the voice that spoke was so strange it set my hair on end—a voice neither man nor woman, perhaps not even human. It was the rasping, guttural, grating voice of a Fury—as imagined by Antipater, not only the word's best poet, but also the best reciter of poems.

“Who carelessly calls upon us?” demanded the uncanny voice that seemed to issue from my mouth. “Who dares disturb us?”

“What is this?” whined the Grand Magus, squinting up at me. “Does the mute witness speak?”

I raised my face a bit. Everyone in the grove was looking at me, but from the way they squinched their eyes and stared I knew that not one of them could clearly see my face, because the light from the torches was in their eyes. It was the same effect the fortune-teller in Alexandria had used on me, by sitting below a window that cast light in my eyes.

I had the advantage of the light, which illuminated the crowd before me. The people farthest away faded into the encroaching darkness, but at the back of the group I could clearly see the towering figure of Bastarna. Much closer, at the foot of the altar, stood the king and queen, with Philopoemen to one side of them and Prince Ptolemy to the other. Their faces expressed surprise and alarm.

I moved my lips but did not speak. The voice came from elsewhere.

“Who summons Alecto? Who calls upon Megaera? Who invokes Tisiphone?”

From the corner of my eye I saw the Grand Magus squinting up at me. He suddenly started back, as if touched by something hot. Across from him, Gnossipus clutched at Damianus—the one person in the grove who could not hear the uncanny voice. The deaf man alone was immune to the wave of uneasiness that passed though the group. As one sees a gust of wind set tall grass to shivering, so I perceived this growing distress in those before me.

“It is the King of Kings who calls upon you,” said Kysanias, with a tremor in his voice. He sounded genuinely fearful. He held up the ritual knife and ax. “He offers this sacrifice.”

Again the uncanny voice spoke, seeming to come from my lips. “The thing you seek cannot be given! The blessing you beg for can only be a curse! No man should summon what no man can control!”

One of the torches, already burning low, suddenly went out. Then another torch went out, and another. The grove grew darker and darker.

Someone in the group cried out, as if he had been stabbed or bitten. Another man screamed. These cries came from Rutilius and Zeuxidemus, doing what they could to spread panic in the others.

“What's that?” cried the Grand Magus. “There, in the trees!”

One of the towering cypress trees had begun to shake, hard enough to break twigs and small branches. Then the tree next to it shivered, and then the next, as if some unseen, unearthly force was at work in the Grove of the Furies, moving from tree to tree. The shivering, crackling trees produced an eerie sound, as if ghastly beings hissed and groaned.

Another torch went out. There were more cries of panic.

“Why is it so dark?” shouted Mithridates, his voice breaking. He clenched his fists and looked over his shoulder. More than ever, Monime's pale face and coppery hair seemed to levitate, disembodied. Her eyebrows were raised above staring eyes and her mouth was open in a perfect circle. Next to her, Prince Ptolemy looked strangely thrilled by the mounting confusion.

I concentrated on my task, for the uncanny voice had more to say—cryptic prophecies of unending punishment, hissing threats of unearthly torment. The uproar of the group rose to such a pitch that Antipater's voice was almost drowned out. The trees around us continued to shudder and sway.

“I see them, in the trees!” cried the Grand Magus. He no longer squinted but gazed up in awe. What did he think he saw with those wide-open, nearsighted eyes of his?

“I see them, too!” yelled someone in the crowd. It sounded like Rutilius.

“It's the Furies! They're here!” This was Zeuxidemus, who then produced a blood-curdling scream.

At that moment, by pure chance, something actually did flitter above our heads. I think it was a bat. Mithridates must have glimpsed it, for he suddenly ducked and pulled Monime close to him, clutching her tightly. In that instant I saw what very few—perhaps no one—had ever seen: a look of utter panic on the face of Mithridates.

“I see their eyes, in the trees! I see their wings!” This cry, surprisingly high-pitched and with a strange accent, came from Bastarna. By the light of one of the few remaining torches, I could see the giant's face. His expression was one of sheer terror. He had shortened the chain held in his fist, doubling it over several times as if to make it into a weapon. Quintus Oppius was forced to stand on tiptoes, clutching at the iron collar around his neck. His tongue was out and his face was dark red.

Bastarna stiffened. He shut his eyes and whimpered—then screamed like a little girl.

The squealing giant looked so ridiculous, I couldn't help myself. I laughed.

Even as I helplessly laughed I felt a quiver of panic, thinking I had ruined everything. But because I tried to stifle it, the laugh came out as a blubbering bark. The sound was so bizarre, so horrifically out of place, it must have seemed yet another manifestation of the uncanny voice, for it caught the attention of everyone in the grove. They flinched at the sound, and grimaced, and stared at me, aghast.

Antipater gave me another poke. “Darkness comes!” cried the uncanny voice, while I mouthed the words. “We bring upon you darkness and death and destruction!”

Only two torches still burned. They sputtered and went out.

“Everyone will be staring at one of those torches, craving the light,” Kysanias had predicted. “Their eyes will be dazzled, so that when the torches go out they'll be as blind as Gnossipus. Close your eyes for a moment, Gordianus, so that when you open them, you'll be able to see by starlight.”

There was a sharp cracking noise. Severed near its base, one of the trees directly behind Kysanias swayed and then began to fall into the circle, toppling toward the altar in the center. Kysanias grabbed the Grand Magus and shoved him out of the way. Damianus did the same for Gnossipus, who cried out in confusion.

Below me, Freny could see the dark silhouette of the towering tree falling straight toward her. She screamed into her gag and writhed wildly from side to side.

This was the most critical moment. My instinct was to run from the falling tree, but if I were to save Freny, this was the only chance.

I stepped off the wooden platform. The altar, carved from a single block of marble, was also hollow. When I kicked aside the platform on which I had been standing, a door was revealed. The door opened to an empty compartment within the altar. This space, Kysanias had explained, was now used only for the storage of sacrificial utensils, but it had originally been intended for hiding the animal to be sacrificed, which could thus, under the right circumstances of darkness and distraction, be produced as if from nowhere—a typical example of the chicanery used by priests to awe their congregants.

With all my strength I took hold of Freny's shoulders and pulled her toward me, off the altar and into my arms. Holding her tightly, I fell to my knees and scrambled inside the hidden chamber.