“So goes the legend. Her own ashes were placed beside those of Mausolus in the sepulcher, and then a huge stone was used to plug the entrance at the base of the Mausoleum, sealing their tomb forever.”
“To die for love!” I said. “But surely that’s madness.”
“Love is always a kind of madness, sometimes mild, sometimes severe. Even when not deadly, its consequences can be drastic. Consider the story we were just talking about, of Salmacis the nymph, and her passion for—”
But again, as if an impish spirit wished to prevent him from speaking of Salmacis, Antipater was interrupted by the captain, who shouted at us to get out of the way while his men attended to the ropes and sails.
* * *
“Bitto is the youngest daughter of my late cousin Theo,” Antipater explained as we traversed the city on the back of a mule-drawn cart he had hired on the waterfront to carry our baggage. Normally I would have preferred to walk, but the wide, well-paved streets of Halicarnassus allowed us to ride on the cart without being jostled. We passed through the public square and the markets and then through a succession of residential districts, each finer than the last, as we began to go uphill in the direction of the royal palace. Sitting on the back of the cart, I watched the Mausoleum steadily grow more distant, yet its vastness never ceased to dominate the view.
“I haven’t seen Bitto in years,” Antipater continued. “Her two daughters are grown and married now, and her husband died a couple of years ago. She must be forty now—a hard age to be a widow. ‘Too young to die and too old to marry,’ as the saying goes. Unless of course the widow inherits a fortune, but that was not the case with Bitto. Her husband was a successful merchant, but he had a run of bad luck toward the end. At least she’s managed to hold on to the house. When I wrote and asked if she could accommodate us, Bitto replied at once and said we’d be very welcome.” He craned his neck and looked ahead. “Ah, but there’s the house. At least I think that’s it. It’s a brighter yellow than I remember. Can it be freshly painted? And the front door, with all those bronze fittings and decorations—I don’t recall it being so ornate. Can it be new?”
While the carter unloaded our baggage, Antipater strode to the doorstep and reached for the bronze knocker beside the door—then drew back his hand when he realized that the knocker was in the shape of a phallus. He raised an eyebrow, then gingerly took hold of the knocker and let it drop. The heavy metal struck the wood with a resounding noise.
A few moments later, a handsome young slave opened the door. He was just about to speak when a hand adorned with many rings landed on his shoulder and pushed him aside. Taking the slave’s place was his mistress, a tall woman dressed in a long red gown belted in several places to accentuate the ample curves of her breasts and hips. Multiple necklaces matched the rings on her fingers, showing off stones of lapis and carnelian in settings of silver and gold. Her dark hair had a crimson luster, as if washed with henna; a complicated arrangement of curls and tresses was held in place by ebony combs and silver pins. Her features might have been those of a woman of middle age, but my first impression of Bitto was of sparkling green eyes, henna-red lips, and a dazzling smile.
“Cousin!” she cried, stepping forward with her arms wide open. Antipater seemed taken aback by her enthusiasm, but submitted to the hug and eventually reciprocated. “Notice, cousin,” she said quietly, “that I refrain from shouting your name for the whole street to hear. I read your letter, and I comply. But you’ll have to remind me of your new name. Something rather silly, as I recall—oh, yes, I remember.” She raised her voice. “Welcome to my house, Zoticus of Zeugma!”
Bitto stepped back and gave me an appraising look. “And this must be the young Roman. Well, Gordianus, what do you think of Halicarnassus so far?”
“I … it’s…”
“Tongue-tied?” She nodded knowingly and rested one hand atop her capacious bosom. “A bit overwhelming, isn’t it?” She laughed. “The Mausoleum, I mean. One sails into the harbor and there it is, right in your face, so to speak. One gets used to it, of course, rather like the sun coming up—a miracle every morning, but eventually one takes it for granted. Even so, every now and again I’ll be crossing the city and suddenly it’s as if I’m seeing the blessed thing for the first time, and truly, it takes my breath away—the way you sometimes notice a sunrise, and think, now
She took us each by the arm and led us through the vestibule, across a beautifully appointed room with vivid images painted on the walls, and finally to the garden at the center of the house where a statue of Aphrodite presided over a splashing fountain. The half-nude Aphrodite stood in a classic pose with one hand resting on her bare breasts, and I suddenly imagined it was a statue of Bitto before me; the voluptuous proportions were the same. I think I must have blushed, for my hostess gave me a look of concern.
“Are you overheated from the journey, Gordianus? I’ll have a slave bring cool water and wine, and something to eat. For you, as well, cousin,” she added. I saw that Antipater, too, appeared flushed.
We sat in the garden and conversed. Antipater seemed uncharacteristically stiff and ill at ease. If Bitto noticed, she gave no sign. I said little, and tried not to stare at my hostess. I had never met a woman like her. She seemed at once sophisticated and down to earth, mature and yet vivacious.
At length Bitto excused herself, saying she would soon return.
The moment she was out of earshot, Antipater grunted with disapproval. “A hetaera!” he said.
I gave him a questioning look.
“A hetaera!” he repeated. “Cousin Bitto has made herself into a woman of pleasure, and turned this house into a—well, what else can I call it? A brothel!”
“Surely not,” I said. I had some knowledge, if not experience, of brothels in the Subura in Rome, and the women who worked in them were nothing like Bitto. They were poor, uneducated women struggling to survive, not the mistresses of their own homes in the better part of town. I frowned. “What exactly do you mean by ‘hetaera’?” I said, pronouncing the Greek word with some difficulty.
“There is no equivalent in Rome,” said Antipater, ever willing to play the pedagogue, “but hetaerae have existed in Greek society for centuries; Plato and Demosthenes speak of them. They are courtesans of a very high caliber, educated in poetry and art, often talented as singers and dancers. A hetaera may even be invited to a symposium of philosophers, and allowed to express her ideas, and some hetaerae entertain in their own homes, where even the most respectable men are not embarrassed to be seen coming and going. But in the end, of course, their work is to pleasure their clients, like any other prostitute. And cousin Bitto is a hetaera!”
“I’m sure you’re mistaken,” I said.
“Am I? Did you not see that knocker on the door? A clear indication of the kind of house this has become.”
