“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 voluptuous 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.”