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.”
“Yes, the Colossus. Well, the story of its creation is this: the city of Rhodes had just survived a long siege by Demetrius, king of Macedon, who in his attempt to take the city built enormous weapons of war and metal-plated siege towers on a scale never seen before. But Demetrius at last admitted defeat and abandoned the island. To celebrate their deliverance, the Rhodians melted down all the bronze from the battering rams, catapults, and towers, and sold whatever else remained of the hated weapons to build a gigantic statue of the sun god, a celebration of life and beauty to match the awesome scale of Demetrius’s engines of death and destruction.