Antipater seemed to take great pleasure in drawing out the buzzing sound of the initial letters. Later I would realize another reason that “Zoticus of Zeugma” pleased him so much: no name could be more Greek, or less Roman, since neither word could even be properly rendered in Latin, the letter Z having been eradicated from our alphabet two centuries ago by Appius Claudius Caecus, who complained that it produced an abhorrent sound, and the physical act of pronouncing it made a man look like a grinning skull. This tidbit of knowledge I had learned from Antipater, of course.

*   *   *

That night, at an hour when all the reputable citizens who might recognize Antipater were presumably indoors, we stole across the city—a young Roman suitably dressed for a journey, his father, his white-haired traveling companion, and the old slave who tended to our baggage cart. Poor Damon! Once Antipater and I were finally gone, he could look forward to getting some rest.

At the dock, my father assumed the role of Roman paterfamilias—which is to say, he did his best to show no emotion, even though an old friend was setting out on a journey from which, at Antipater’s age, it was unlikely he might ever return, and even though the son who had been at his side from birth was about to be parted from him, for the first time and for a duration neither of us could foresee.

What did I feel, as I embraced my father and gazed into his eyes? I think I was too excited at the prospect of finally setting out to realize the gravity of the moment. I was only eighteen, after all, and knew very little of the world.

“You have her eyes,” he whispered, and I knew he meant my mother, who had died so long ago I barely remembered her. He almost never spoke of her. That he should do so now caused me to blush and lower my eyes.

Damon embraced me as well, and I was taken aback when he burst into tears. I thought he must be exhausted from working so hard. I did not understand that a slave who moved in the background of my world could form attachments and experience the pangs of parting as acutely as anyone else.

*   *   *

As it turned out, Antipater and I were the only passengers on the little boat. As we glided down the Tiber under starlight, nestled amid our baggage, I was too excited to sleep. Antipater, too, seemed wakeful. I decided to ask him about something that had been puzzling me.

“Teacher, the Tiber will take us overnight to Ostia, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And at Ostia, we’ll book passage on a ship to take us to our first destination: the city of Ephesus, on the coast of Asia.”

“That is the plan.”

“Ephesus, because there you have a trusted friend with whom we can stay—but also because Ephesus is home to the great Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders of the World.”

“That is correct.”

“Because it is your intention that on our journey we shall visit all seven of the Wonders.”

“Yes!” Even by starlight, I could see that he smiled and that his eyes sparkled.

“Teacher, I’ve been thinking about something I overheard you say to my father, earlier today. You said to him: ‘People are always saying, “Before I die, I want to see the Seven Wonders.” Well, now that I’m dead, I shall finally have time to see them all!’”

“And what of it?”

I cleared my throat. “Teacher, did you not compose these verses?

“I have seen the walls of Babylon, so lofty and so wide,

And the Gardens of that city, which flower in the skies.

I have seen the ivory Zeus, great Olympia’s pride,

And the towering Mausoleum where Artemisia’s husband lies.

I have seen the huge Colossus, which lifts its head to heaven,

And taller still, the Pyramids, whose secrets none can tell.

But the house of Artemis at Ephesus, of all the Wonders Seven,

Must surely be the grandest, where a god may rightly dwell.”

I paused for a moment. The Tiber, reflecting starlight, glided past us. Frogs croaked along the riverbank. “So, in the poem, you declare the Temple of Artemis to be the greatest. But if you haven’t actually seen all the Wonders, with your own eyes, then how could you—”

“First of all, my name is Zoticus, and I never wrote that poem; a famous fellow named Antipater did.” Antipater spoke in a low voice, and even by starlight I could see that he scowled. “Second, your accent is atrocious. I pity that Antipater fellow, that anyone should declaim his verses in such a manner. You murder its music! We must drill you on the finer points of Greek pronunciation daily between now and our arrival in Ephesus, or else you shall cause laughter every time you open your mouth.”

“Teacher—Zoticus—please forgive me. I only wondered—”

“Third, a young Roman does not ask his Greek tutor for forgiveness, at least not where anyone might overhear. And finally, have you never heard of poetic license?” Antipater sighed. “As a well-traveled Greek, I’ve seen most of the Wonders, of course—at least the ones in the Greek part of the world.”

“But if you’ve never been to Babylon and Egypt—”

“Well, now I shall rectify that omission, and you shall come with me, and together we will see all seven of the Wonders, and you may judge for yourself which is the greatest.”

I nodded. “And what if I find the Great Pyramid to be more impressive than the Temple of Artemis?”

“Then you can write your own poem, young man—if you think you have the Greek for it!”

And that was the end of that discussion. For an hour longer, perhaps, I listened to the croaking of frogs passing by, but eventually I must have slept, for when I opened my eyes, the world was light again. I smelled the salt of the sea. We were in Ostia.

*   *   *

Among the ships preparing to set out, we looked for one that would take us to Ephesus. Antipater—now Zoticus—haggled over the price, pretending to do so on my behalf, and before noon we had settled on a ship that was taking a load of premium-quality garum from Rome to Ephesus.

As the ship cast off, Antipater and I stood at the stern and gazed back at the docks of Ostia, where a number of women—some possibly wives, some certainly whores—stood and waved farewell to the departing sailors.

Antipater breathed deeply of the sea air, spread his arms wide, and loudly recited one of his verses.

“’Tis the season, men, to travel forth, thrusting through the spume.

No longer does Poseidon froth and Boreas blow his gale.

Swallows build their cozy nests; dancing maidens leave the loom.

Sailors—weigh anchor, coil hawsers, hoist sail!

So bids Priapus, god of the harbor.”

As Antipater lowered his arms, the captain, who was Greek, sidled up alongside him. “Antipater of Sidon, is it not?” he said.

Antipater gave a start, and then realized the captain had identified the poem, not the poet. “So it is,” he said.

“A pity the old fellow’s dead. I heard the news only yesterday.”

Antipater nodded. “A pity indeed. Yet the best parts of him live on, I like to think.”

“Ah yes, his verses.” The captain smiled “That one in particular I’ve always liked, being a sailing man. It’s a bit suggestive, don’t you think? All that talk of thrusting, and cozy nests, and dancing maidens. And Priapus is the god of rut, not harbors. The occasion may be the return of the sailing season in the spring, but I think perhaps the poet was also speaking of the randiness of sailors in springtime, when they leave their winter lovers to go plowing through the waves, looking to drop anchor in unfamiliar harbors.”

Antipater looked dumbfounded for a moment, so pleased was he by the captain’s insight, then he caught himself and managed to look merely impressed. “Captain, you are a man of considerable discernment.”

“Merely a Greek, and what Greek is not stirred by the beauty of his mother tongue?” He gave Antipater a friendly slap on the back. “You’ll have to recite more poems, old fellow, to keep us entertained during the voyage. Do you know any others by Antipater?”