The Temple of the Muses (3 page)

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Authors: John Maddox Roberts

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BOOK: The Temple of the Muses
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“However did you get that idea?” Rufus said. “Yes, another little Ptolemy and one in for a lengthy minority, from the look of things.”
“Princesses?” I asked. The women of that line were usually more intelligent and forceful than the men.
“Three,” Rufus said. “Berenice is about twenty and she’s the king’s favorite. Then there’s little Cleopatra, but she’s no more than ten, and Arsinoe, who is eight or so.”
“No Selene in this generation?” I asked. That was the only other name bestowed on the Ptolemaic daughters.
“There was one, but she died,” Rufus said. “Now, if no other girls are born, Cleopatra is probably the one little Ptolemy will marry, if he should live that long. There’s already a court faction supporting her.” The Ptolemies had long ago adopted the quaint Egyptian custom of marrying their sisters.
“On the other hand,” said the secretary, “should the king turn toes-up any time soon, Berenice will probably marry the infant and rule as regent.”
“Would that be a bad idea?” I asked. “On the whole, the Berenices and Cleopatras have been a pretty capable lot, even if the men have mostly been clowns.”
“This one’s a featherbrain,” Rufus said. “She falls into every loathsome foreign cult that comes along. Last year there was a Babylonian revival and she devoted herself to some Asiatic horror with an eagle’s head, as if the native Egyptian gods weren’t disgusting enough. I think she’s over that one, but if so, she’s just found another even worse.”
Courts are never simple, but this was getting truly dismal. “So who supports Berenice?”
“Most of the court eunuchs favor Berenice,” Rufus said. “The satraps of the various nomes are divided, and some of them would like to see an end to the Ptolemies altogether. They’ve become like little kings on their estates, with private armies and so forth.”
“So we must pick somebody to back so that the Senate can vote on it, and then we’ll have a constitutional justification should we have to intervene on behalf of our chosen heir?” I said.
I sighed. “Why don’t we just annex this place? A sensible Roman governor would do it a world of good.”
That evening there was a magnificent banquet, at which the centerpiece was a whole roast hippopotamus. I put the same question to Creticus, and he set me straight on a few matters.
“Take over Egypt?” he said. “We could have done that any time in the last hundred years, but we haven’t and for good reason.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “When did we ever turn down a chance for a little loot and some more territory?”
“You aren’t thinking it through,” he said as a slave spooned some elephant-ear soup into a solid gold bowl supported by a crystal stand sculptured as a drunken Hercules. I dipped an ivory spoon into the mess and tried it. It would never replace chicken soup in my esteem.
“Egypt doesn’t represent just a little loot and territory,” Creticus explained patiently. “Egypt is the richest, most productive nation in the world. The Ptolemies are always impoverished only because they mismanage things so badly. They spend their wealth on frivolous luxury, or on projects that bring them prestige rather than prosperity or might.” The Flute-Player was already snoring gently at Creticus’s elbow, and so did not resent these comments.
“All the more reason for some good Roman reorganization,” I said.
“And just who would you trust with this task?” Creticus asked. “Let me point out that the general who conquers Egypt will become,
instantly, the richest man in the world. Can you imagine the infighting among our military gentry should the Senate dangle such a prize before them?”
“I see.”
“There’s more. Egypt’s grain production surpasses that of all other nations by a factor so huge that it staggers the mind. The Nile obligingly delivers a new load of silt every year and the peasants work far more productively than our slaves. Two crops a year in most years, and sometimes three. In a time of famine for the rest of us, Egypt can feed our whole Empire, by stretching the rations a little.”
“So the Roman governor of Egypt could have a stranglehold on the Empire?”
“And be in a position to set himself up as an independent king, with the wealth to hire all the troops he needs. Would you like to see Pompey in a position of such power? Or Crassus?”
“I understand. So this is why it’s always been our policy to back one degenerate weakling after another for the crown of Egypt?”
“Exactly. And we always help them: with loans, with military aid, with advice. Not that they take advice very well. Caius Rabirius is working heroically to sort out Ptolemy’s financial problems, but it could be years before he makes much progress.” Rabirius was a famous Roman banker who had lent huge sums to Ptolemy, who in turn had named him minister of finance for Egypt.
“So who do we back this time?” I asked.
“It’ll have to be the infant,” he said, lowering his voice even further. “But no need to let that be known too soon.” He favored me with a conspiratorial grin. “The other parties will court us lavishly as long as they think they have a chance to win Roman favor.”
“The princesses are out of the question?” I said. I had yet to see these ladies. They were living at country estates at that season.
“The Senate has never favored the support of female rulers, and these are too surrounded by predatory relatives and courtiers.
I suppose the brat will have to marry one of them, but that’s for the benefit of his Egyptian subjects. As far as the Senate is concerned, he can marry one of the sacred crocodiles.”
“That having been decided,” I said, “just how do we occupy ourselves here?”
“Like all the other Romans here,” he said. “We have a good time.”
F
OR TWO MONTHS I LIVED THE WONDERFULLY idle existence of a Roman official visiting Egypt. I made the inevitable journey to all the most famous sites: I saw the pyramids and the nearby colossal head that is supposed to have an equally huge lion’s body beneath it. I saw the statue of Memnon that hails the rising sun with a musical note. I toured some very odd temples and met some very odd priests. Wherever I went, the royal officials went into transports of servility until I began to expect them to erect little shrines in my honor. Perhaps they did.
Once you are out of Alexandria you are in Egypt proper, the Egypt of the Pharaohs. This Egypt is a curious and unchanging place. In any of the nomes, you would see a spanking new temple erected by the Ptolemies to one of the ancient gods. A mile or two away you would see a virtually identical temple, except that it would be two thousand years old. The only difference would be the somewhat faded paint on the older temple.
At the great ceremonial center of Karnak there is a temple
complex the size of a city, its great peristyle hall a forest of columns so massive and so tall that the mind wearies in its contemplation, and every square inch of it carved with that demented picture-writing the Egyptians delight in so. Over countless centuries the Pharaohs and priests of Egypt drove the populace to finance and build these absurd piles of rock, apparently without a murmur of protest in return. Who needs slaves when the peasants are so spiritless? Italians would have reduced the place to rubble before those pillars were head-high.
There can be no more agreeable way to travel than by barge upon the Nile. The water has none of the alarming instability of the sea, and the land is so narrow that you can see almost everything from the river itself. Walk a mile from the riverbank, and you are in the desert. And drifting downstream under a full moon is an experience out of a dream, the quiet broken only by the occasional bellow of a hippopotamus. On such nights the ancient temples and tombs gleam like jewels in the moonlight and it is easy to believe that you are seeing the world as the gods once saw it, when they walked among men.
It has been my experience that periods of ease and tranquility are invariably followed by times of chaos and danger, and my prolonged river idyll was no exception. My time of ease and idle pleasure changed as soon as I returned to Alexandria.
It was the beginning of winter in Egypt. And despite what many people say, there
is
a winter in Egypt. The wind grows cool and blustery, and on some days it even rains. My barge reached the delta and then took the canal that connected that marshy, rich country to Alexandria. It is wonderful to be in a country where one rarely has to walk for any great distance and there are no steep slopes to be negotiated.
I left the barge at one of the lake harbor docks and hired a litter to carry me to the Palace. This one was carried by a modest four bearers, but Alexandria is a beautiful city even at street level.
Our route took us by the Macedonian barracks, and I ordered a halt while I looked over the place. Unlike Rome, Alexandria had
no ban on soldiers within the city. The Successors were always foreign despots, and they never thought it amiss to remind the natives of where power lay.
The barracks consisted of two rows of sprawling, three-story buildings facing each other across a parade ground. The buildings were predictably splendid, and the soldiers on parade went through their drill with commendable smartness, but their gear was old-fashioned to Roman eyes. Some wore the solid bronze cuirass now worn only by Roman officers, others the stiff shirt of layered linen, faced with bronze scales. The better-off Roman legionaries had gone over to the Gallic mail shirt generations before, and Marius had standardized it throughout the legions. Some of the Macedonians retained their long spears, although they had more than a century before discarded their old, stiff phalanx formation and had adopted an open order on the Roman model.
At one end of the field a troop of cavalry practiced its maneuvers. The Macedonians had found cavalry to be useful in the broad eastern lands that made up so much of the old Persian Empire they had conquered. We Romans had only a tiny cavalry force and usually hired horsemen when we felt the need.
At the other end of the field some engineers were erecting some sort of siege machine, a massive thing of ropes and timber. I had never seen such a device and ordered the bearers to take me nearer. Now, any foreigner would know better than to wander freely about a Roman camp or barracks, but I had become so accustomed to the unfailing toadying of the Egyptians that it did not occur to me that I might be intruding.
At our approach, a man who had been bawling at the engineers whirled and stalked toward us, the sunlight flashing from his polished greaves and cuirass. He carried a plumed helmet under one arm.
“What’s your business here?” he demanded. I knew the breed: a long-service professional with slits for eyes and a lipless mouth. He looked like every centurion I ever detested. The arrow and spear gouges on his armor matched the scars on his face and arms, as if
he had asked the armorer for a matching ensemble.
“I am Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, of the Roman diplomatic mission,” I said, as haughtily as I could manage. “Your machine piqued my interest and I came for a closer look.”
“That so?” he said. “Bugger off.”
This was not going well. “See here,” I protested, “I don’t believe you appreciate the uniquely intimate relations between the Palace and the Roman mission.”
“Bring old Flute-Face down here and we’ll talk about it,” the officer said. “Meantime, get away from my barracks and stay away!”
“You shall hear more of this,” I promised. That is something one always says after being thoroughly intimidated. “Bear me to the Palace,” I ordered grandly.
As we trotted thither, I fantasized punishments for the obdurate officer. He was perfectly within his rights to expel a foreign civilian, but that did not excuse him, in my estimation. After all, I was a Roman official, of a sort, and Egypt was a Roman possession, of a sort. But the man’s insolence was quite driven from my mind by the news that greeted me when I reached the embassy.
I found Creticus in the atrium of the embassy and he beckoned me to him.
“Ah, Decius, this is convenient. We have some visitors from Rome. I was going to go greet them myself, but now you’re here, so you can do it.”
“
You
were going to greet them?” I said. “Who’s that important?”
“A slave just brought this from the royal harbor.” He held up a small scroll. “It seems that two ladies of important family have come to Alexandria for the salubrious climate.”
“The climate?” I said, arching an eyebrow.
“This is a letter from Lucullus. He informs me that the climate in Rome is unhealthy, something involving political infighting and blood in the streets. He is sending his ward, the Lady Fausta Cornelia, and her traveling companion, another highborn lady, and asks me to extend all aid and courtesy.”
“Fausta!” I said. “Sulla’s daughter?”
He glared impatiently “What other lady has ever borne that name?”
“I was just making sounds of astonishment,” I assured him. “I’ve met the lady. She is betrothed to my friend Titus Milo.”
“All the better. Round up some slaves, they’ll have a lot of baggage. And arrange for quarters. I’ll speak to the court eunuchs about a reception for them.” Romans would never make this sort of fuss for visiting ladies, no matter how highborn, but the Egyptian court, dominated by eunuchs and princesses, was different.
“Who is the other lady?” A horrible thought struck me. “It isn’t Clodia, is it? She and Fausta are rather close.”
He smiled. “No, you won’t be displeased to see this one. Now go. They’re fretting at the dock.”
I barked loudly and a gaggle of slaves appeared from nowhere. I ordered litters to be brought and they appeared as if by magic. It was really the most extraordinary place. I climbed into one and we trooped off to the royal harbor. This was a tiny enclosure within the Great Harbor where the royal yachts and barges were kept. It was bounded by a stone breakwater, and the opening in this was further protected by the island bearing the jewellike Island Palace, rendering it proof against the most violent storms.
Among the royal barges the little Roman merchantman looked humble, indeed, but the ladies who stood at the rail radiated arrogance the way the sun radiates light. These were not only Roman ladies, but patricians to boot, with that special assurance of superiority that comes only of centuries of inbreeding.
The slaves set down the litters and clambered from mine as they abased themselves before the ladies descending the gangplank. The German-blond hair of Fausta Cornelia was unmistakable. She possessed the golden beauty of the Cornelians to an extent matched only by her twin brother, Faustus. The other lady was smaller and darker, but just as radiant. A good deal more so, to my eyes.
“Julia,!” I cried, gaping. It was, indeed, Julia Minor, younger
daughter of Lucius Caesar. Not long before this, a meeting of our families had been held and we had been formally betrothed. That we had desired this betrothal was, of course, immaterial as far as the families were concerned, but was regarded as a rather fortunate happenstance. At that time the Metelli were in a frenzy of fence-mending with the contending power blocs. Creticus had married off his daughter to the younger Marcus Crassus. Caius Julius Caesar was the rising star of the Popular Assemblies, and a connection with that ancient but obscure family was desired. Caius Julius’s own daughter was already promised to Pompey, but his brother Lucius had an unmarried younger daughter. Hence, we were betrothed.
“Welcome to Alexandria!” I cried. I took Fausta’s hand briefly; then Julia presented her cheek to be kissed. I obliged.
“You’ve put on weight, Decius,” she said.
“What a flatterer you are,” I said. “These Egyptians feel they’ve failed their gods if they allow a Roman to walk a step more than necessary, and who am I to interfere in their devotion to piety?” I turned to Fausta. “Lady Fausta, your beauty adorns this royal city like a crown. I trust you had a pleasant voyage?”
“We’ve been heaving our guts out since we left Ostia,” she said.
“I assure you, the accommodations here will more than make up for the rigors of a winter voyage.” The slaves had been unloading their baggage during all this. By the time it was all ashore, the ship rode a foot higher in the water. The ladies were attended by their personal maids, of course, and a few other slaves. They would be lost among the multitude at the embassy.
“Is Alexandria as fabulous as I’ve always heard?” Julia asked, excited despite her rather drawn and haggard appearance.
“Beyond your wildest imaginings,” I vowed. “It shall be my greatest pleasure to show it all to you.”
Fausta smiled obliquely. “Even those low dives where you’ve no doubt been disporting yourself?”
“No need,” I said. “The very basest of amusements are to be
had at the Palace.” At that even the notorious Fausta looked a bit nonplussed.
“Well, I want to see the more elevated sights,” Julia said, crawling wearily into her litter and inadvertently treating me to a flash of the whitest thigh I had ever seen. “I want to see the Museum and converse with the scholars and attend lectures by all the famous, learned men.” Julia had that tiresome love of culture and education that infected Roman ladies.
“I shall be only too happy to introduce you,” I said. “I am intimate with the faculty.” Actually, I had been there only once, to visit an old friend. Who wants to consort with a pack of tiresome old pedants when some of the finest racehorses in the world are exercising in the Hippodrome?
“Really?” she said, eyebrows going up. “Then you must introduce me to Eumenes of Caria, the logician, and Sosigenes, the astronomer, and Iphicrates of Chios, the mathematician. And I must tour the Library!”
“Libraries,” I corrected. “There are two of them, you know.” I sought to change the subject and turned to Fausta. “And how is my good friend Milo?”
“Busy as ever,” she said. “Fighting all the time with Clodius. He’s secured a quaestorship, you know.”
“I heard,” I said, laughing. “Somehow I can’t picture Milo working away in the Grain Office or the treasury.” Milo was the most successful gangster Rome had ever seen.
“Don’t bother. He works out of his headquarters as always. I think he’s hired somebody to carry out his duties as quaestor. He sends you his warmest regards, by the way. He says you’ll never amount to anything if you spend all your time lazing away in foreign lands instead of working in Rome.”
“Well, dear Titus has always extolled the benefits of hard work and diligence. I, on the other hand, have always felt these to be virtues proper to slaves and freedmen. Look at how hard these litter-bearers work. Does it do them any good?”
“I knew you would say something like that,” Julia said, sitting
up and craning her neck to take in the magnificence through which we were carried.
“The men destined for greatness are all fighting it out in Rome right now,” Fausta said.
“And every one of them will die on a battlefield, or from poison or the dagger of the assassin,” I maintained stoutly. “I, on the other hand, intend to expire of old age with the rank of Senior Senator.”

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