SPQR IX: The Princess and the Pirates Page 3

  “Senator Metellus and I met several years ago, Doson, in Alexandria.” “Then, Senator, I shall attend to your accommodations.” He bowed himself away. Slaves set me a chair at Cleopatra’s table, poured wine into a fine Samian goblet, and set out a plate of bread, fruit, and cheese with a quiet, unobtrusive efficiency at which I could only marvel. Why couldn’t I ever find slaves like that?

  “You were in Gaul with Caesar until a bit over two years ago,” Cleopatra observed.

  “You are amazingly well informed.” The wine was superb, but by this time I was expecting it to be. “My services were somewhat less than heroic.”

  “Distinguished, at the very least,” she said, smiling. She had a marvelous smile. “And you were involved in the early campaigning, against Ariovistus and his Germans. That is why I asked. There is so little really known about the Germans, and I can find nothing at all about their musical accomplishments.”

  “I can’t say that they really sing, but they make a sort of rhythmic, barking noise in which they take a certain satisfaction. It’s nothing a Greek rhapsode would consider melodic. The Gauls, on the other hand, sing all the time. It grates on the Roman ear, but by the time I left I had learned to appreciate it in sheer self-defense.”

  “That is surprising. Romans seldom appreciate other people’s customs and way of life.” This was all too true. “But then, you have the reputation of being a surprising sort of Roman.” She introduced her companions who were, as I had suspected, boring old scholars, both local and Alexandrian.

  “Cyprus was the home of the philosopher Zeno,” she said, “as I am sure you already know.”

  “Never heard of the fellow.” I was lying, but the last thing I wanted was to get drawn into a philosophical discussion.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Princess, in Rome, when a man shows an interest in philosophy, it’s taken as a sign that he is planning to retire from public life. Too much scholarly accomplishment means that you spent your youth in exile in places like Rhodes and Athens. For the sake of my reputation and my political future, please allow me to remain my uncultivated self. My wife will be here before long, and she will talk philosophy, poetry, and drama until your ears turn to bronze.”

  “I’ve heard that well-born Roman ladies are often better educated than the men.”

  “It depends on what you think of as educated. Men study war, politics, law, government, and the arts of public speaking. It takes long study to become proficient in all of them.”

  “Caesar seems to be the master of all of them. Is this a step toward becoming master of all the Romans?”

  This conversation was taking all sorts of wild detours. “Of course not. Rome is a republic not a monarchy. The closest thing to a master of all the Romans is a dictator. Only the Senate can elect a dictator, and then only for a period of six months at the most. The Senate and Caesar do not get along well at all.” This was stating it mildly. Caesar treated the Senate with a contempt not seen since the days of Marius.

  “Egypt is a monarchy,” she said, “and has been for thousands of years. Your republic has existed for—what, about four hundred and fifty-two years, if tradition is correct about the expulsion of Tarquinius Superbus?”

  “About that, I suppose.” I tried to figure how many years that had been but gave it up. “But we’ve done rather well in our short history.”

  “You have indeed. But a government appropriate to a city-state is rather inadequate when extended to a vast empire, is it not?”

  “It works superlatively,” I protested, lying through my teeth. Our rickety old system was coming apart under the demands of empire, but I wasn’t about to admit it to a foreign princess, however beautiful her eyes.

  “I think your Caesar has different ideas. He seems to be a most remarkable man.”

  “Just another general,” I assured her. “He’s done all right, but look at Gabinius. I understand he’s here on Cyprus. Until a couple of years ago he was as successful as Caesar and Pompey. Now he’s twiddling his thumbs on Rome’s latest acquisition, all because he flouted the laws. No mere soldier is greater than the Senate and People.” A sanctimonious statement, but it was a sentiment I made a strong effort to believe in, despite all evidence to the contrary.

  “That is another thing I do not understand,” she said. “How can any nation prosper when its generals prosecute and exile one another? It was behavior of that sort that destroyed Athens.”

  “Oh, well, they were Greeks after all. How do you happen to be in Cyprus, Princess?”

  “There have been some legal questions to sort out since you Romans deposed my uncle and drove him to suicide. I am here as my father’s representative. He was understandably reluctant to come in person.”

  “I can’t imagine why. You Ptolemies kill each other at such a rate he can hardly object to our getting rid of his brother for him.” I had no personal animosity toward Cleopatra, but I was nettled by this unwonted anti-Romanism.

  Her face flamed. “And took Cyprus from Egypt in the process!” “That, of course, is negotiable. Cato tells me that Cyprus may be returned to Egypt if your father continues to adhere closely to our treaties.”

  “When did you Romans ever give back land once you had seized it?” “I can’t think of an instance right off,” I admitted, “but I’m not here on a diplomatic mission. I’m chasing pirates.”

  “Oh, how exciting!” The animosity dropped from her like a discarded garment. “May I come along?” Now she sounded like what she was: a girl of perhaps sixteen years.

  “That might not be wise. Most of my men are only marginally members of the human race, and a Liburnian is not a royal barge or even a halfway decent trireme.”

  “I have my own yacht here. It’s a Liburnian for all.practical purposes, fully armed, and my men are all experienced marines.”

  “Well, ah—” my resolve was crumbling.

  “You probably need every ship you can get.”

  “That is true, but—”

  “There, you see? And there is precedent. Queen Artemisia of Halicarnassus commanded ships at the battle of Salamis.”

  “So she did,” I murmured. “Got out of it by a spectacular act of treachery, as I recall.”

  “A queen does what she must for the good of her kingdom,” Cleopatra said. I should have paid more attention to that remark.

  “Well, I have been instructed to continue the most cordial relations with your father, King Ptolemy.” That was another whopping lie, “but you must understand that I am commander of this little fleet and your royal status gives you no military standing.”

  It may seem that I gave in rather easily, but it was by no means the beauty and famed charm of Cleopatra that caused me to do so. No, my motives were strictly military. Her yacht would give me four ships instead of three, and her hired thugs were undoubtedly at least as good as my own.

  “That is understood,” she said, beaming happily. “I’ll just be another of your skippers.” I have observed upon other occasions that royalty often display the most unaccountable fondness for playing the commoner. Kings sometimes don common garb and hang around the taverns; queens go to the country, pick up a crook, and pretend to be shepherdesses; princes and princesses don the chains of recalcitrant slaves and insist upon being ordered about for a while, discreetly. It is all very puzzling.

  Shortly thereafter I retired to the bath and luxuriated for a while, being rubbed with scented oil, scraped with golden strigils—well, gold-plated, anyway, and stewed in an extremely hot caldarium. A couple of hours of that and I was ready for dinner. I sensed that I would not be living this well for long, so I was determined to make the most of it.

  Dried off, smelling faintly of perfume, I was led to the main triclinium, of which this mansion had several, another departure from the Roman model. Slave girls draped me with garlands of flowers and placed a wreath of laurel leaves on my brow to ward off drunkenness. The need for such precautions boded well for the festivities to come
.

  Silvanus himself rose to greet me. He was a plump, sleek-looking man with crisply curled hair, the product of a hot iron and a skilled hair-dresser. This was the sort of Oriental frippery we frowned upon in those days, but this was his house, he was laying on the feast, and he could dye his hair green for all I cared.

  “Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger,” he proclaimed, “you bring great honor to my house! Please take your place by me. I trust you have been shown the most careful attention? I am so sorry that I was not here to receive you.”

  I flopped down on the dining couch next to him, and Hermes, who was already in place, took my sandals. I lay to Silvanus’s right, the place of honor. He introduced me first to the man on his left.

  “Decius, I believe you must know Aulus Gabinius?”

  “All the world knows General Gabinius,” I said, taking the proffered hand, which was big enough to envelop my own. “But we’ve never met personally. I’ve heard you speak many times in the Senate and on the Rostra, General, but in the years when I’ve been in office you’ve usually been off with the eagles.”

  “I’ve heard wonderful things about your double aedileship,” he said, in a sonorous voice. “It’s about time somebody used that office to get rid of the scoundrels instead of acquiring wealth.”

  Gabinius had one of those great, old-Roman faces, all crags and scars, with a huge beak of a nose flanked by brilliant blue eyes beneath shaggy, white brows. Except for the intelligence in those eyes and the trained orator’s voice, he might have been one of those martial peasant ancestors we revere.

  “It’s how the job is defined by law,” I said modestly. “I trust that your stay here will be short, pleasant as it must be to enjoy the company of our host. With all the glory you have brought to Roman arms, surely you’ll be recalled from exile soon and put at the head of another army.”

  “My military days are over, I’m afraid,” he said, with equal modesty. “I’m content to spend whatever days are left to me in retirement. Perhaps I’ll write my memoirs, like Sulla and Lucullus.”

  Lying old bugger. No man who has sought supreme power ever really gives up his ambition, as witness Crassus and Pompey, who tried to be field generals long after they were too old for the job. It was clear that Silvanus trusted him. If the position to the right of the host is the place of honor, allowing the host to serve the guest with his own hands, then the position to his left is the place of trust. This is because, in Roman-style dining arrangements, you present your back to the weapon hand of the man on your left.

  Cleopatra was to my right, at the next table and couch, which were at right angles, as was the one opposite hers. This, at least, was in accordance with Roman custom. Next to the princess reclined a lady of great beauty and expensive tastes, the latter evidenced by her many jewels and her attention-grabbing gown, woven of the costly Coan fabric, which is light, soft, and all but transparent. The censors rail against it for its extravagance and immodesty, but I have always rather liked it. Assuming, of course, that the lady thus draped has a body worth viewing. This one did. Next to her was her far less prepossessing husband.

  “Since you already know our royal guest,” Silvanus said, “allow me to introduce Sergius Nobilior, chief of the Banker’s Association of Ostia, now charged with putting the deplorable finances of this island in order. With him is his wife, Flavia.”

  They declared themselves honored to make my acquaintance, and I replied with equal insincerity. The custom of having women recline at table with the men was still rather new, and it was one of which I heartily approved. On the couch to my right, at least, beautiful women outnumbered ugly men two to one, and that is an improvement by anyone’s standards, except perhaps for Cato’s.

  The remaining table was a different story. Two of the places were occupied by a pair of Cleopatra’s tedious scholars, whose names I no longer recall. The final guest was a roguish-looking young man with a homely face and an engaging grin. Silvanus introduced him as Alpheus, a poet from Lesbos. He looked like more interesting company than any of the Romans present.

  “What occasion are we celebrating?” I asked, waving an arm to indicate the many statues, which were draped with garlands.

  “Just dinner,” Silvanus said.

  “I can’t wait to see what the real banquets are like around here.” The first course was served. It was the traditional hard-boiled eggs, but these were from a vast variety of birds, lightly tinted in different colors and sprinkled with rare spices. The courses that followed were far more lavish as to ingredients, with items such as peacock brains, flamingo tongues, camel toes, honeyed ibex ears, and so forth, prized for their exotic origins rather than their savor. Others were both more substantial and delicious: Danube sturgeon, brought to the island in freshwater tanks; roast gazelle from Judea; and Egyptian geese baked in pastry stand out in my memory. All of this was served with numerous wines, each chosen to complement the course being served. Soon the wreaths and garlands were being put to the test.

  “Commodore,” Alpheus said, using my semiofficial title, “when do you propose to begin your pirate hunting?”

  “Immediately,” I said, then thought it over. “Actually, I need to receive word of their next depredation. That will give me a starting point and a locale to investigate. I also intend to recruit a few ex-pirates for their expertise.”

  “A wise move,” Gabinius affirmed. “You may wish to begin by examining your own crew. If they’re like other naval crews of my experience, half of them will have been pirates at one time or another.”

  “I suspect so, but none will admit it. They all claim they were part of Pompey’s pirate-conquering navy, even the ones who were infants at the time.”

  “I recommend a tavern called Andromeda,” Alpheus said. “The wine is passable, and the company is the lowest imaginable. If ever there was a pirate hangout, that is the one. I’m there most nights.” Alpheus definitely sounded like my sort of man.

  “I’ll give it a try as soon as possible,” I said.

  “I’ll go along with you,” Cleopatra said. “Respectable ladies do not frequent such places!” cried banker Nobilior, scandalized.

  “I’m not respectable,” Cleopatra told him, “I’m royal. Royalty do not have to observe these tedious little social rules. We are above them.”

  Gabinius chuckled. “Still, Princess, those places can be very dangerous. I advise against it.” Silvanus nodded agreement.

  “Nonsense,” she said, with her dazzling smile. “Should the valiant Metellus and the brilliant Alpheus prove insufficient protection, I have my personal bodyguard.” She gestured toward the door, where a young man lounged against the wall, arms folded, one sandaled foot propped against the wall behind him. He had Sicilian features and was dressed much like Hermes, in a brief leather tunic with matching wrist straps and hair band and girded with weapons. He looked half asleep, but so does a viper just before it strikes.

  He looked rather familiar, then it came back to me. “Apollodorus, isn’t it?”

  The youth nodded. “Your Honor has an excellent memory.” “You were watching little Cleopatra’s back when I saw her in Alexandria a few years ago.”

  “All that politician’s training is good for something, eh, Metellus?” Gabinius said. “Caesar can call every man in his legions by name, and they say Crassus could not only put a name to every voter in Rome but could name the fellow’s parents as well.”

  “In the Greek nations,” Alpheus said, “we memorize poetry rather than names. I can’t name one man in ten in my own city, but I can name every man slain by Achilles and where he came from.”

  This raised a good laugh, which shows how drunk we were all getting. When the eating was over and the serious drinking started, the ladies took their leave. I noted that Hermes and Apollodorus faced one another truculently, each taking the other’s measure.

  “There’s a likely pair of fighting cocks,” Gabinius said. “Who do you think would win?” It was an inevitable speculation
. We were, after all, Romans.

  “Cleopatra’s boy was trained in the ludus of Ampliatus in Capua,” Silvanus said. “Yours, Decius?”

  “The ludus of Statilius Taurus in Rome. I’ve paid extra for the best trainers: Draco of the Samnite School, Spiculus of the Thracians, Amnorix of the Galli.”

  “You don’t suppose—” Silvanus began.

  “No,” I said firmly. “I won’t let Hermes fight professionally. It’s not that he’d object, but that it’s exactly what he’d like, and I’ve other uses for him. And I’m certain Cleopatra would never allow it.”

  “Just a friendly bout,” Silvanus persisted, “a little boxing or wrestling, perhaps a match with wooden swords. No worse than a few broken bones, surely.”

  “Look at those two,” said Gabinius. “It would be death for one of them if it came to blows between them.” He was right. Their faces were studiedly indifferent, but if the two had had fur, it would have been standing up. It is the nature of aggressive, superbly trained young men to challenge one another and test themselves.

  Silvanus sighed. “Too bad. It would be a fight worth seeing.”

  Then Alpheus diverted us with some extremely scabrous songs by the more disreputable Greek poets. Included among these was the poet Aristides. When a Parthian general found a volume of Aristides among the effects of an officer slain at Carrhae, he used it as proof of the depravity of the Romans. If some barbarian should ever go through my war chest, the reputation of Rome may never recover.

  I don’t remember much about the rest of the evening, which may be taken for the mark of a really successful party.

  3

  I ROSE RATHER LATE THE NEXT DAY. AFTER a substantial breakfast, bath, and rubdown I was almost ready to face direct sunlight. A little fresh air in the garden finished the job, and by a little past noon I was ready for anything—ready for a cautious walk through the town, at any rate. With Hermes at my back I descended the principal street. My destination was the naval docks, but where the street emerged onto level ground there was a charming market, laid out in the artlessly casual yet orderly fashion you only see in Greek colonial cities.