John Roberts - The Princess and the Pirates

There is this to be said for a small, colonial city like Paphos: you never have to walk far to get where you are going. The Temple of Poseidon was a graceful structure of the simple Doric design, and I made a mental note to sacrifice there as soon as possible in gratitude for my safe arrival and wonderful sailing weather.

The residence of Silvanus was a two-story mansion of a size available only to the wealthiest in crowded Rome. The slave at the door wore fine Egyptian linen. He called for the major-domo, and this dignitary proved to be a cultured Greek of impeccable dress and grooming.

“Welcome, Senator,” he said, bowing gracefully. “Senator Silvanus was not expecting a visit from a colleague, but I know he will be overjoyed and will be stricken that he was not here to greet you personally.”

“Where is he then?” 1 asked, annoyed as always by domestics whose manners are better than my own.

“He visits today with his friend, the great General Gabinius, whose villa is just outside the city. He will return this evening. In the meantime please allow me to put his house at your disposal.” He clapped his hands and a pair of slaves took charge of our bags while Hermes tipped the porters from the wharf.

“While your chambers are prepared, please avail yourself of some refreshment in the garden. Or perhaps you would rather bathe first?”

This was a bit of luck. Usually, the worst house is better than the best inn. This did not look like the worst house in town.

“I’m famished. First something to eat, then a bath.”

“Certainly. I trust your voyage was not too arduous?”

I prattled on about the trip as he led us through the atrium and into a large, formal garden completely surrounded by the house, the way a gymnasium surrounds the exercise yard. Houses were not built this way in Rome. In the center was a lovely, marble-bordered pond with a fountain in its middle. It looked as if I had lucked into prime accommodations.

“We entertain several distinguished guests today,” said the major-domo. “No person of note comes to Paphos without enjoying the hospitality of Silvanus.”

“Admirable,” I murmured. Everywhere, fine tables sat beneath beautifully tended shade trees, and roses bloomed in big, earthen pots. At one such table sat a young woman dressed in a simple but gorgeous gown of green silk. The dress would have bought a good-sized estate in Italy. Her hair was reddish brown, not at all a common color, and her skin was an almost transparent white. Strangest of all, she was writing in a papyrus scroll and had several others stacked beside her. Standing around her were a number of learned-looking fellows with long beards and dingy robes.

She looked up at me, and I was transfixed by a pair of astonishing green eyes. She asked, “Do Germans sing?”

I had seen those eyes once, years before, in a child’s face, but one does not forget such eyes. “Princess Cleopatra! I was not expecting to find you here! Nor to encounter so odd a question.”

“I perceive that the senator and the royal lady know one another,” said the major-domo.

“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?”