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Authors: John Maddox Roberts

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical

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BOOK: The Temple of the Muses
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“It’s the longest bridge in the world,” I told her as we were carried across. “Almost a Roman mile.” It divided the Great Harbor to the east from the Eunostos Harbor to the west. We paused over the central arches and marveled as several ships passed from one harbor to the other without having to lower their masts.
Back in our litters, we traversed the rest of the causeway to the island of Pharos, which had its own small town, complete with several lovely temples, including the one to Poseidon and another to Isis. At the extreme eastern spit of land we climbed from our litters at the base of the lighthouse. Seen up close, it was oddly unimpressive. That was because the step-back of its construction made its great height invisible. All one could see was a rather massive wall that did not at first seem to be terribly high. We went inside and were shown the dizzying central shaft, which terminated in a tiny dot of light so far overhead that it seemed that the tower was in danger of scraping the underside of the sun. Amid a great mechanical clatter a huge basket of iron and timber was lowered at intervals to be filled with wood for the fire basket overhead. Since Egypt was so poor in native wood, most of it was shipped in from the islands and from the mainland to the west. Ashes were dumped down a chute into a waiting barge, which took them out to sea for disposal.
We turned down an offer to ride up in the wood basket and instead climbed an endless ramp that wound up the inner sides of the base. For Julia, recently arrived from the hilly terrain of Rome, it was an easy climb. I had been living the soft life and was puffing and sweating by the time we walked out onto the first terrace. Even on this lowest section of the lighthouse we stood higher than the highest temple roofs of the city. The stone spire soared interminably
above us, its peak sending up smoke into the clear air. Julia leaned back and shaded her eyes, trying to see the top.
“I almost wish I’d had the courage to ride up,” she said wistfully.
“It isn’t natural for people to ascend so high,” I said. “However, if you want to climb the steps up there, I’ll wait for you here.”
“No,” she said, “the view from here is splendid enough. You can see the whole city, from the Hippodrome to the Necropolis. You can see all the way to Lake Mareotis. It’s all so orderly, like a picture painted on a wall.”
“It does seem so,” I said. “It’s hard to believe that in the midst of all that order, something very peculiar and dangerous is happening. At least Rome
looks
like a place where awful things are happening all the time.”
“I wouldn’t have put it that way.”
“Julia, I want to get to know Princess Berenice better.”
“Why?” she said suspiciously.
“We need to talk religion.”
That evening we were rowed from the royal harbor in the curve of Cape Lochias to the gemlike palace on the Antirrhodos Island. This was an even more frivolous place than the Great Palace, strictly a pleasure retreat, wanting even a throne room or any other place for conducting public business. Berenice was throwing another of her endless parties for the fashionable set. Ptolemy and Creticus weren’t attending, but I went, along with Julia, Fausta and a number of the embassy staff. The parties on the island were legendary because they were without even such feeble restraints as the Great Palace insisted upon.
It was in full roar when we got there, as the setting sun made an imperial purple mantle of the western sky and the torches were being kindled. Music made the evening riotous, and we were helped from our boat by pseudo-Maenads costumed, if that is the word, in leopard skins and vine leaves, wearing masks. Men dressed as satyrs chased naked nymphs through the gardens while acrobats walked on tightropes stretched between the wings of the palace.
“My father would never approve,” Julia said, wide-eyed. “But then, my father isn’t here.”
“That’s the spirit,” I commended her. “I wish Cato was here, just so I could watch him drop dead from apoplexy.” Berenice came out to greet us, leading a half-dozen tame cheetahs on leashes.
The Egyptians are fond of cats of all sorts, from lions down to the little house cats that seem to own the towns. So devoted are they to these little beasts that, when one dies, it is mourned exactly as if a member of the family had died. The punishment for killing one was the same as for murder. It seemed odd to me that people would want little lions running around the house, but in recent years they have become popular even in Rome. They are said to be good at catching mice.
Berenice gushed the usual welcomes and compliments and urged us to loosen up and have a good time, something I was quite prepared to do. Instead of tables where guests could recline to eat, there were small tables everywhere heaped with rare delicacies. Slaves carried pitchers of wine and everyone stood or wandered about, eating, drinking and talking as long as they could remain upright. Besides the human servants, there were more of the liveried baboons. They were not very efficient as servers, but they were better behaved than many of the guests.
I wanted to speak with Berenice, but the big cats she led made me nervous. I knew that these tame cheetahs behaved like hunting dogs, but somehow they looked unnatural on leashes. So I left Julia and Fausta with the princess and made my way into the palace. It had all the marks of a long evening, so there was no rush about cornering the woman.
I had never been to the Island Palace before, and found it very much to my taste. The proportions were almost Roman in their acknowledgment of human stature. The rooms were not vast echoing halls, and their decoration was calculated to enhance rather than to overwhelm.
The same could not be said of the guests and the entertainment. In an open court was a pool in which a muscular youth wrestled
with a medium-sized crocodile, splashing the guests almost as copiously as the pair of hippos who shared the water. Some guests, overcome with excitement, leapt into the pool and disported themselves after the fashion of naiads, diving beneath the surface and coming up to spout water on unsuspecting passersby. I watched for a while, hoping that the wrestler would lose his hold and the crocodile make a lunge for the naiads. That would have been even more exciting. However, the youth trussed up the reptile with cords and carried it off amid much applause.
In another courtyard a team of Cretan dancers, elaborately costumed, went through one of their famed productions concerning the scabrous doings of the Olympian deities, with startling realism. I climbed to a second-floor gallery for a better view. Below, on an elaborate stage, were being enacted the legends of Leda and the swan, Europa and the bull, Ganymede and the eagle, Danae and the shower of gold (an incredible piece of costuming), Pasiphae inside the artificial cow designed by Daedalus, and a few probably known only to Greeks. I managed to tear my eyes away from this edification long enough to notice that I wasn’t alone. A girl of about ten leaned on the railing and watched all this with solemn interest.
She was a beautiful child, with skin like alabaster and the reddish hair that is common among Macedonians. Her garments and jewels were rich. Clearly, this was a daughter of a noble family, strayed from her keeper.
“Aren’t you a little young for this sort of entertainment?” I asked. “Where is your nurse?” She turned and regarded me with enormous green eyes. They were the most beautiful eyes I ever saw in a human face.
“My sister says that I must learn how the noble peoples of many lands comport themselves. I have been attending these receptions of hers for some time now.” Her speech was not the least bit childish.
“I take it, then, that you are the Princess Cleopatra?” She nodded, then turned back to the spectacle below.
“Do people really behave this way?” On the stage, something
that looked like a dragon was mounting Andromeda, who was chained to a rock. I didn’t remember that part of the legend of Perseus.
“You shouldn’t concern yourself with the doings of supernatural beings,” I advised her. “You’ll find that what goes on between men and women is quite confusing enough.” She turned from the dancers and looked me over with a calculation disturbing to see in one so young.
“You’re a Roman, aren’t you?” she said in excellent Latin.
“I am. Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, Senator, presently attached to the embassy, at your service.” I gave her the slight bow Roman officials are permitted.
“I never heard the name Decius used as a
praenomen.
I thought it was a
nomen.
” She was inordinately well taught.
“It was introduced into my family by my grandfather, who was sent a vision by the Dioscuri.”
“I see. I have never been granted a vision. My sister sees them all the time.” I could well believe that.
“Your Latin is excellent, Princess. Do you speak other languages?”
“Besides Latin and Greek, I speak Aramaic, Persian and Phoenician. What is it like, being a Roman?” This was an odd question.
“I am not sure I understand, Princess.”
“You rule the world. The Roman officials I’ve seen comport themselves as arrogantly as the kings of most lands. Does it feel different, knowing that the world lies at your feet?” I had never been asked such a question by a ten-year-old.
“We don’t really rule the world, Highness, just a very great part of it. As for our arrogance, we prize the qualities of
dignitas
and
gravitas
highly. We of the governing class are taught them from earliest youth. We don’t tolerate foolishness in public men.”
“That is good. Most people tolerate any sort of behavior in one whose birth is high enough. I heard that you knocked Memnon down yesterday with a single blow.”
“Word does get around. Actually, it took two to put him down.”
“I am glad. I don’t like him.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Yes. He and Achillas are too presumptuous for their station. They treat my family with disrespect.”
This was something to ponder. At that moment some of the guests stormed the stage and began ripping the costumes from the dancers amid excited laughter and shouted encouragement.
“Princess, despite your sister’s advice, I think you should retire. You are far too young to be here alone, and some of these people have taken leave of whatever senses they had.”
“But I am not alone,” she said, nodding slightly to the shadowed gallery behind her. Suddenly I was aware that someone stood there, still as a statue.
“Who are you?” I asked. A youth of about sixteen stepped forward, his arms folded.
“I am Apollodorus, Senator.”
He was a fine-looking boy, with curly black hair and handsome features that bore the unmistakable stamp of Sicily. He wore a brief chiton belted with a short sword and had leather bands at his wrist and ankles. He had that relaxed, almost limp bearing that you only see in the most highly trained athletes, but this was no mere
palaestra-
trained pretty boy. He had the mark of the
ludus
all over him, although I had never seen them in one so young.
“What school?” I asked.
“The
ludus
of Ampliatus in Capua,” he said. That made sense.
“A good choice. They teach boxing and wrestling there as well as swordsmanship. If I wanted a bodyguard for my daughter, that’s where I would send him.”
The boy nodded. “I was sent there when I was ten. The king had me brought back five months ago, when he decided that the princess was to move to Alexandria.” He turned to Cleopatra. “The Senator is right, Highness. You had better go inside now.” His tone was easy, but I could hear adoration in every inflection.
“Very well,” she said. “I really can’t understand why people act in such a fashion anyway.” Just wait, I thought.
I bade her good evening and made my way down to the party once more. In later years Marcus Antonius was reviled for being so besotted with Cleopatra, forgetting Rome and everything else to serve her. They thought him weak and unmanly. But I knew Cleopatra when she was ten, and poor Antonius never had a chance.
I was beginning to feel the need of something to go with the wine. On a broad marble table was coiled a gigantic sausage, made from the intestines of an elephant stuffed with the sweet flesh of waterfowl. It smelled delicious, but the appearance was horrifying. A slave offered me a skewer strung with the bloated bodies of huge locusts. These are a great delicacy in the desert, but scarcely to Roman taste. Luckily, I encountered a tray of pork ribs simmered in
garum
before starvation set in. I feasted on these and other agreeable items and felt ready to face the balance of the evening.
The sound of clashing weapons drew me to a lawn where athletes were putting on an exhibition of swordsmanship. These were not true gladiators, for there were none in Egypt in those days. They were skillful and pleasant to watch, but none of them would have lasted a minute in an Italian amphitheater. I saw Fausta and Berenice watching them. To my relief, the cheetahs were gone.
“This is a most extraordinary event, Highness,” I said to Berenice.
“We do our best. Fausta was just telling me about the gladiator fights she and her brother put on at her father’s funeral games. Our priests and philosophers and such would never allow death-fights here, I’m afraid. They sound thrilling.”
BOOK: The Temple of the Muses
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