John Roberts - The Princess and the Pirates

“There have been some legal questions to sort out since you Romans deposed my uncle and drove him to suicide. I am here as my father’s representative. He was understandably reluctant to come in person.”

“I can’t imagine why. You Ptolemies kill each other at such a rate he can hardly object to our getting rid of his brother for him.” I had no personal animosity toward Cleopatra, but I was nettled by this unwonted anti-Romanism.

Her face flamed. “And took Cyprus from Egypt in the process!” “That, of course, is negotiable. Cato tells me that Cyprus may be returned to Egypt if your father continues to adhere closely to our treaties.”

“When did you Romans ever give back land once you had seized it?” “I can’t think of an instance right off,” I admitted, “but I’m not here on a diplomatic mission. I’m chasing pirates.”

“Oh, how exciting!” The animosity dropped from her like a discarded garment. “May I come along?” Now she sounded like what she was: a girl of perhaps sixteen years.

“That might not be wise. Most of my men are only marginally members of the human race, and a Liburnian is not a royal barge or even a halfway decent trireme.”

“I have my own yacht here. It’s a Liburnian for all.practical purposes, fully armed, and my men are all experienced marines.”

“Well, ah-” my resolve was crumbling.

“You probably need every ship you can get.”

“That is true, but-”

“There, you see? And there is precedent. Queen Artemisia of Halicarnassus commanded ships at the battle of Salamis.”

“So she did,” I murmured. “Got out of it by a spectacular act of treachery, as I recall.”

“A queen does what she must for the good of her kingdom,” Cleopatra said. I should have paid more attention to that remark.

“Well, I have been instructed to continue the most cordial relations with your father, King Ptolemy.” That was another whopping lie, “but you must understand that I am commander of this little fleet and your royal status gives you no military standing.”

It may seem that I gave in rather easily, but it was by no means the beauty and famed charm of Cleopatra that caused me to do so. No, my motives were strictly military. Her yacht would give me four ships instead of three, and her hired thugs were undoubtedly at least as good as my own.

“That is understood,” she said, beaming happily. “I’ll just be another of your skippers.” I have observed upon other occasions that royalty often display the most unaccountable fondness for playing the commoner. Kings sometimes don common garb and hang around the taverns; queens go to the country, pick up a crook, and pretend to be shepherdesses; princes and princesses don the chains of recalcitrant slaves and insist upon being ordered about for a while, discreetly. It is all very puzzling.

Shortly thereafter I retired to the bath and luxuriated for a while, being rubbed with scented oil, scraped with golden strigils-well, gold-plated, anyway, and stewed in an extremely hot caldarium. A couple of hours of that and I was ready for dinner. I sensed that I would not be living this well for long, so I was determined to make the most of it.

Dried off, smelling faintly of perfume, I was led to the main triclinium, of which this mansion had several, another departure from the Roman model. Slave girls draped me with garlands of flowers and placed a wreath of laurel leaves on my brow to ward off drunkenness. The need for such precautions boded well for the festivities to come.

Silvanus himself rose to greet me. He was a plump, sleek-looking man with crisply curled hair, the product of a hot iron and a skilled hair-dresser. This was the sort of Oriental frippery we frowned upon in those days, but this was his house, he was laying on the feast, and he could dye his hair green for all I cared.

“Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger,” he proclaimed, “you bring great honor to my house! Please take your place by me. I trust you have been shown the most careful attention? I am so sorry that I was not here to receive you.”

I flopped down on the dining couch next to him, and Hermes, who was already in place, took my sandals. I lay to Silvanus’s right, the place of honor. He introduced me first to the man on his left.

“Decius, I believe you must know Aulus Gabinius?”

“All the world knows General Gabinius,” I said, taking the proffered hand, which was big enough to envelop my own. “But we’ve never met personally. I’ve heard you speak many times in the Senate and on the Rostra, General, but in the years when I’ve been in office you’ve usually been off with the eagles.”

“I’ve heard wonderful things about your double aedileship,” he said, in a sonorous voice. “It’s about time somebody used that office to get rid of the scoundrels instead of acquiring wealth.”

Gabinius had one of those great, old-Roman faces, all crags and scars, with a huge beak of a nose flanked by brilliant blue eyes beneath shaggy, white brows. Except for the intelligence in those eyes and the trained orator’s voice, he might have been one of those martial peasant ancestors we revere.

“It’s how the job is defined by law,” I said modestly. “I trust that your stay here will be short, pleasant as it must be to enjoy the company of our host. With all the glory you have brought to Roman arms, surely you’ll be recalled from exile soon and put at the head of another army.”

“My military days are over, I’m afraid,” he said, with equal modesty. “I’m content to spend whatever days are left to me in retirement. Perhaps I’ll write my memoirs, like Sulla and Lucullus.”

Lying old bugger. No man who has sought supreme power ever really gives up his ambition, as witness Crassus and Pompey, who tried to be field generals long after they were too old for the job. It was clear that Silvanus trusted him. If the position to the right of the host is the place of honor, allowing the host to serve the guest with his own hands, then the position to his left is the place of trust. This is because, in Roman-style dining arrangements, you present your back to the weapon hand of the man on your left.

Cleopatra was to my right, at the next table and couch, which were at right angles, as was the one opposite hers. This, at least, was in accordance with Roman custom. Next to the princess reclined a lady of great beauty and expensive tastes, the latter evidenced by her many jewels and her attention-grabbing gown, woven of the costly Coan fabric, which is light, soft, and all but transparent. The censors rail against it for its extravagance and immodesty, but I have always rather liked it. Assuming, of course, that the lady thus draped has a body worth viewing. This one did. Next to her was her far less prepossessing husband.

“Since you already know our royal guest,” Silvanus said, “allow me to introduce Sergius Nobilior, chief of the Banker’s Association of Ostia, now charged with putting the deplorable finances of this island in order. With him is his wife, Flavia.”

They declared themselves honored to make my acquaintance, and I replied with equal insincerity. The custom of having women recline at table with the men was still rather new, and it was one of which I heartily approved. On the couch to my right, at least, beautiful women outnumbered ugly men two to one, and that is an improvement by anyone’s standards, except perhaps for Cato’s.

The remaining table was a different story. Two of the places were occupied by a pair of Cleopatra’s tedious scholars, whose names I no longer recall. The final guest was a roguish-looking young man with a homely face and an engaging grin. Silvanus introduced him as Alpheus, a poet from Lesbos. He looked like more interesting company than any of the Romans present.