John Roberts - The Princess and the Pirates

“It does seem a bleak prospect for you,” I agreed. So now somebody else had cause to kill Silvanus. In a way a Roman culprit would simplify things for me; the less foreign involvement the better.

“Of course,” Josephides put in hastily, “we were as shocked and saddened as anyone when the governor was so foully murdered. Despite his unfortunate choice of friend and guest, he listened to our petitions with great sympathy and gave us assurances that our businesses and properties on Cyprus would enjoy the fullest protection. Now, in fact, our situation is once again uncertain. There seems to be no constituted Roman authority here.”

“Unless you are the new governor,” Antonius said.

It was time to change the subject. “How is it that you are here with Photinus?”

“At the king’s insistence,” Brutus said bitterly. “The only way we could get permission to sail was to leave surety for our return and take along a court minister. Our trading licenses are forfeit if we so much as hold a meeting without him present.”

“As you observed, Senator,” said the eunuch, “King Ptolemy is not stupid.”

“So it would seem. One more thing, gentlemen, are any of you in the frankincense trade?”

They looked at me as if I were insane. It is a look I have learned to recognize.

“Frankincense?” Brutus said. “Why frankincense?”

“Indulge my curiosity. I have my reasons.”

“In Egypt,” said Antonius, “frankincense is a royal monopoly and the crown sells it for shipment abroad only to the Holy Society of Dionysus. That society is entirely Greek. No non-Hellene can even apply for membership, which is largely hereditary.”

“I suppose that answers my question then. Gentlemen, thank you for coming, and you may return to your lodgings now. However, I will ask you not to leave the island until the murderer of Governor Silvanus has been found.”

“Do you think,” Brutus said, rising, “that we are anxious to return to Alexandria just now?”

The next day was largely given over to the funeral of Silvanus. The weather was beautiful, and the hired mourners wailed superbly. The whole Roman population of Paphos and neighboring towns turned out for the occasion, and there were more of them than I had expected. The visitors from Alexandria were there, naturally, and Photinus represented King Ptolemy, dressed in court robes, wig, and cosmetics, adding a delightful note of the bizarre to the proceedings.

Since Paphos was a Greek city, a chorus had been hired for the occasion. They sang traditional funeral songs, plus a new one specially written by Alpheus. Gabinius, dressed in an impressively striped augur’s toga (for he belonged to that priestly college), took the auspices, then sacrificed a couple of handsome calves. After the Greek custom, the fat and bones were offered to the gods. The rest would form part of the funeral feast.

Gabinius performed the oration ably, delivering an eloquent eulogy that, though formulaic, was so well crafted that I almost believed the departed had really possessed all those virtues and accomplishments. All the local dignitaries attended, and so did most of the town’s population. It was an occasion out of the ordinary, a minor spectacle, and everyone appreciates a good show.

Silvanus was laid out in his whitest toga, wearing a laurel wreath I doubt he ever rated in life, rings winking from his fingers, cosmetics restoring his face to an almost natural color.

When Gabinius finished his oration, he took a torch and touched it to the oil-soaked wood of the pyre. In moments it was ablaze, its fragrant wood and burden of incense disguising the aroma of roasting governor. I tossed my own handful of frankincense, benzoin, and myrrh onto the blaze and surveyed the scene. No anti-Roman demonstrations so far, but the obtrusive presence of Gabinius’s bullies, rattling with weapons and armor, seemed more of a provocation than a defense. I saw some of the rougher-looking elements of the crowd glaring at them with intense disfavor.

If there was to be trouble, I thought, it would be because the people here resented the insulting presence of these armed hooligans.

Even as the late governor went up in smoke, tables were being set up for a public memorial banquet. This agreeable custom seemed to put everyone in a fine mood. In no time people were taking their places at the long tables as slaves hired for the occasion heaped them first with great baskets of fruit, cheeses, and bread, then with plentiful courses of fish, more modest quantities of veal, lamb, fowl, and rabbit. The wine was indifferent and heavily watered, but only the fabulously wealthy can afford better for a public banquet. Knowing this, some of us took care to provide our own wine.

Most of the population were seated at long benches, but there were also special tables for the attending dignitaries and these had been provided with proper dining couches. I was, naturally, placed at one of these tables. On my right was Alpheus and on my left, none other than Flavia. I wondered, perhaps unworthily, whether she had bribed the majordomo to secure this arrangement.

“How goes your pirate hunt, Decius Caecilius?” she asked, apparently having decided that we were now intimate enough for her to drop my title and use praenomen and nomen only. I would have to be on my guard when she began to use my praenomen alone.

“Complicated by this lamentable turn of events,” I admitted. “I shall be infernally distracted until the matter of Silvanus’s murder has been put to rest. If this portends danger to Roman security on the island, the pirates may have to take second place in my priorities for a while.”

“How would you deal with such a distraction?” Alpheus asked.

“Well, Gabinius has his veterans, and I have my sailors and marines under arms. There is a sizable body of mercenary material hanging about the bars and taverns, and doubtless a quick voyage to the mainland would net us a sizable force. If necessary, we could secure the island for Rome. I would just rather not.”

“It seems a free-and-easy sort of military arrangement,” said the poet. “I am no soldier, but I would think your Senate would frown upon such unauthorized adventures.”

“Outside Italy,” I explained, “there is really nothing to stop any citizen from raising an ad hoc army to deal with an emergency. As long as it is Roman interests he looks after, the Senate won’t say a word in disap-probation. Some years ago Caesar, as mere quaestor, happened to be in Syria when he heard of an invasion from Pontus. He raised a personal army, marched to meet the invasion, and sent the enemy back across the border, all without so much as consulting the Roman governor of Syria. He suffered no censure for his high-handedness.”

“It helped that he was successful,” Flavia put in.

“It goes without saying that victory is essential,” I affirmed.

“But why,” Alpheus asked, “when your General Crassus was defeated at Carrhae, did Rome not immediately pursue that war? I would think that Parthia, not Gaul, would be your first priority.”

“Crassus wanted a war with the Parthians to match Pompey in military glory. But the Parthians had done nothing to offend us, and the Senate refused to declare war. But Crassus was legendarily rich so he raised and paid for his own legions and marched out on his own. A Tribune of the Plebs named Trebonius laid a terrible curse on Crassus as he left Rome to join his army.”

“It was the terror of Rome for a while,” Flavia said. She drew a little phallus amulet from its resting place between her breasts and used it to make a complicated gesture, warding evil away from us. The tribune’s infamous curse had been terribly potent, endangering the whole citizenry.