John Roberts - The Princess and the Pirates

“This is scandalous,” I said.

“Decidedly. It is also a tradition many centuries old, one with which Rome does not interfere, I might add. Rome needs slaves, too. And I am told the pirates are careful not to victimize Roman citizens.”

“A sound policy. That was the sort of behavior that caused their downfall years ago. Well, get what you can out of them and send your reports on to me. I expect to be at sea a lot, but I’ll send someone to pick up the reports at regular intervals.”

“It shall be done.”

“Let’s go inspect our ships,” I told Hermes. “Haven’t we had enough of them for a while?” “I just want to see if Ion has sold them for firewood.” We found the ships hauled up onto a convenient stretch of sandy beach. The masts, sails, and oars were neatly laid out; the hulls propped up with timber balks; the sailors busily at work scraping the bottoms. Whatever his shortcomings, Ion was a thoroughgoing professional when it came to his vessels.

I found him squatting beneath one of the hulls, inspecting a plank that appeared to be nearing the end of its serviceable life.

“Why aren’t you using the naval harbor facilities?” I queried. “That’s for bigger ships, and the sheds are for bad weather. If you want a good look at your ship, there’s nothing like a good, sandy beach that won’t scrape the bottom and bright sunlight to see by. I’d not have spotted the rot in this plank in the shade.”

“Well, I won’t advise you concerning your own work.”

“Good. You’ll need to buy pitch. All three hulls need treating.” “I see you didn’t bother to go to the naval stores for it.” “Why bother? I haven’t seen any naval stores in the last two years east of Piraeus. We need some cordage, and you might as well pick up some paint. It always makes the men feel better to start a cruise with the ships looking good.”

“At least we have paint. Go to the naval yard and take all you need.”

“Well, there’s a miracle. Weapons?”

“Enough to take on another hundred marines and provide at least light weapons for extra rowers. We’ll be looking over the available manpower tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll be there. Don’t expect much.”

“I’ve lived too long to expect much,” I assured him, “but I want the best of what there is to be had in this place.”

I spent an hour looking over the vessels and the men as if I knew what I was doing, a talent much needed by a man involved with politics. A Roman official is expected to be proficient in law, public speaking, administration, priestcraft, agriculture, and warfare. In reality, proficiency in law and rhetoric are sufficient. The rest can be handled by competent subordinates.

“Somebody’s coming,” Hermes said, pointing toward the water. A golden skiff manned by twenty rowers sped our way, oars flashing in perfect unison. When I say golden, I don’t mean it was touched up here and there with gilding. The whole thing was gilded, a truly Ptolemaic affectation. It looked like a piece of the sun detached and come down to visit. In the prow stood a man in white livery trimmed with golden embroidery.

When the keel touched the beach, the rowers leapt over the bulwarks, grasped the boat, and lifted it onto the sand. They were a matched set, tall, long limbed, with skins just a little darker than the sand. Their hair was dressed like the square-cut Egyptian wig, and they wore the traditional linen kilt of that land-white as a candidate’s toga. When there was no danger of getting his sandals wet, the man in the white tunic hopped ashore.

“Princess Cleopatra, daughter of King Ptolemy, sends greetings to the distinguished senator Decius Caecilius Metellus and invites him to join her aboard the royal galley Serapis. ” He had the high, fluting voice of a court eunuch. This did not mean that he was a gelding though. Sometimes court functionaries pitched their voices falsetto in order to sound like eunuchs, who enjoy special status at the Egyptian court. Greeks are unfathomable people to begin with, and the ones who run Egypt are stranger than most.

I climbed aboard, curious to see what sort of craft Cleopatra might consider a proper royal yacht. During my stay in Egypt I had seen the incredible river barges the Ptolemies amused themselves with: virtual palaces set atop two vast hulls, propelled upstream by thousands of rowers, like something the gods would travel in on their occasional forays to the world of mortals. Only logical, I suppose, when you consider that the Ptolemies, like the old pharaohs, tried to fob themselves off as second-rate gods. Divine or mortal, those barges impressed the common folk no end, and since most of the population of Egypt lives within sight of the Nile, they all got to see their resident god as he drifted past in splendor.

But I had paid little attention to the Egyptian navy. They own the greatest port in the world, but the Egyptians are not a seagoing people. Ships from every land that borders the sea and even those that lie on the ocean beyond the Pillars of Hercules send their ships to Alexandria to carry away grain and other goods, but few Egyptian ships ply the waters. I had always considered Egypt a naval nonentity.

The rowers set briskly to their oars, and we fairly flew out to the waiting vessel. As we drew nearer I saw that Serapis was a bireme of conventional design but higher of sides and wider of beam than most: neither as lean as a typical warship nor as tubby as a merchantman. Its ram was in the shape of a cobra’s head, and the hull was painted crimson, trimmed with gilding. Along the rails I saw some serious-looking ballistas.

Cleopatra awaited me at the rail as a ladder was lowered to the boat. I scrambled aboard with little loss of dignity, closely followed by Hermes.

“Welcome aboard, Senator!” Cleopatra cried, as a little band of musicians shrilled on pipes, rattled sistra, and plucked harps. Slaves whirled small vessels of burning incense on golden chains, filling the air with fragrant smoke. A slave girl draped my neck with a wreath of lotus blossoms. Where they came from I have no idea.

“This beats anything the Roman navy has to offer,” I told the princess. She wore a plain gown of white linen, almost as short as a hunting tunic and belted with a golden cord beneath which was tucked a small dagger with a golden hilt and sheath. On her feet were plain sandals of plaited straw.

“Would you like to inspect the newest vessel in your fleet?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Lead on.”

She led me along the narrow deck that ran the length of the vessel. To each side the heads of the upper-bank rowers poked above deck level. They sat at their oars perfectly still but sweating profusely. No wonder, considering the pace she had set tham that morning. They were powerfully muscled men with typically Egyptian faces, their heads shaven but protected from the sun by head scarves of white linen.

“Egyptians live on the river,” Cleopatra said, “so we have an abundance of skilled rowers. These were chosen from the best, matched as to height and length of arm.”

The deck beneath my feet was beautifully polished. All the workmanship I could see was far superior to what I normally saw on Roman ships. We climbed three steps to the forecastle, a small but crucial area of the ship where the ballistas were concentrated. Here stood about forty armed men in two ranks to each side.

“These are my marines. Their commander is Epimanondas. They are all Macedonians, chosen from my father’s guard.”

Macedonians, although they speak a dialect of Greek, are not to be confused with true Greeks, who are a degenerate and effeminate people. The Macedonians are primitive, ferocious, and probably much like our own Roman ancestors. These wore old-fashioned armor of bronze and layered linen and open-faced helmets of bronze, looking more like Homer’s heroes than modern legionaries. This made sense, as a Roman mail shirt would quickly rust under seagoing conditions. They carried small, circular shields and held half-pikes at their sides. Their captain was a scar-faced veteran whose arms were a bit fancier than the rest but were still eminently serviceable.