SPQR IX: The Princess and the Pirates

by John Maddox Roberts

  “Good. Ariston, when you were in Spurius’s little fleet, did many of the men speak of serving with Gabinius on his Egyptian expedition?”

  He nodded. “Several of them did, as I recall. They said his recruiters had come to the villages where they were settled and offered them the chance to do something more congenial than trudge along behind an ox, and they’d jumped at it.”

  “Did these recruiters say why their oath not to take up arms again had been suspended?”

  He shrugged. “I wasn’t there. But Rome is always raising auxilia from defeated people, right? And that oath specified that we never take up arms against Rome. If a Roman general wanted them to fight an enemy of Rome, what could be wrong with that? Anyway, Pompey was mainly concerned that we keep away from the sea.”

  “Quite so. But did any of these men perhaps hint that he still served Gabinius in some fashion?”

  Ariston’s gaze sharpened. “You mean you think he may be behind this?”

  “It is one of many possibilities I am exploring.”

  “Nobody said so. Anyway, if a man that highly placed wanted to do such a thing, he would treat with only one person, and that would be Spurius. Even then, he might not see the man personally. He’d probably use an emissary.”

  “Yes, I know how it’s done.” I remembered innumerable dealings between prominent candidates and officeholders in Rome and the street-gang leaders whose support they needed. Some freedman always acted as go-between. “Go on back to your quarters. Mention to nobody what we’ve spoken about.”

  “Come, Hermes,” I said, when he was gone, “let’s call upon Princess Cleopatra.”

  We found her in a beautiful little nook of the formal garden, well illuminated by torches and braziers, accompanied by her scholars and listening to Alpheus, who stood before them declaiming a lengthy poem concerning the birth of Venus, which, according to the myth, had occurred not far from the spot we occupied. Upon coming ashore in her scallop shell, she founded her first temple right there in Paphos, where the ancient, rather modest structure remained the center of her cult.

  Of course, the Greeks call her Aphrodite, “the foam-born.” Among the Greeks she is a gentle goddess, lacking the more alarming qualities of the Roman Venus. This does not keep us from identifying the two goddesses though. Among other advantages, it allows us to steal Greek statues of Aphrodite and set them up in our Temples of Venus without impropriety.

  I am told that, in the old days before we came under Greek influence, our gods had no form, and we didn’t even know what they looked like. It is difficult now to think of Jupiter without picturing Zeus, or Mars lacking the image of Ares, but once this was so.

  I waited in the shadows of the fruit trees until Alpheus had finished his song, and while I waited I noticed the man seated next to Cleopatra. He looked decidedly familiar—a pudgy, round-faced man with a bald head, wearing a great many Egyptian rings on his fat fingers. The Egyptian jewelry jogged my memory. It was Photinus, First Eunuch to the court of King Ptolemy. When I had seen him years before in Alexandria, he had worn the Egyptian dress, complete with wig and cosmetics, favored by that court’s functionaries. Despite that he was a Greek like the rest of them, and here he was dressing the part.

  “Good evening, Princess,” I said, as the applause died down and Alpheus took his bows.

  “Ah, Senator, there you are,” she said, smiling. “We tried to find you earlier.”

  “I have been enjoying the hospitality of Sergius Nobilior,” I told her. “You remember Photinus, I am sure,” said Cleopatra. “It is so good to see you again, Senator Metellus,” he said heartily. Our previous relations had been of a decidedly hostile nature, but the present moment is all that counts to courtiers and diplomats.

  “An unexpected pleasure,” I assured him. “What brings you to Cyprus?”

  “Some trivial matters concerning the transfer of authority to Rome. A great many Egyptian noblemen have extensive landholdings on Cyprus, and their anxieties must be set at rest.”

  “We wouldn’t want them worrying,” I said. “I’m sure all will work out to your satisfaction. We Romans are punctilious about property rights, especially in regard to land and slaves.”

  “You mean,” Cleopatra said, “that having stolen the whole island, you will respect all the deeds and titles?”

  “Exactly,” I affirmed. “It’s the way the world works, if you hadn’t noticed, Princess. After all, you Ptolemys stole the island from someone else, didn’t you? And I’ll wager you simply deposed the previous possessors, too—killed them or sent them packing without a drachma. Our way is better. Everyone agrees that our taxes are far lighter than the ones their old native rulers levied on them. It doesn’t take long for people to get used to it.”

  “Rome’s lordship is the admiration of the whole world,” Photinus said.

  “Come, sit with us, Senator,” Cleopatra said. “You have missed a marvelous presentation.”

  “I caught the final verses,” I told her. A moment later Alpheus joined us. Cleopatra presented him with an olive wreath, as if he had won in the Olympics.

  “You flatter my modest verses,” said the poet.

  “Is this a new poem of yours?” I asked. “I have been working on it for some time,” he said, accepting a cup from one of the servers. “It was commissioned by the Temple of Aphrodite here in Paphos for the great festival. It will begin on the next full moon, ten days from now. Have you visited the Temple of Aphrodite, Senator?”

  “I intend to, but I’m not on a sight-seeing expedition so it will have to wait until I have leisure.”

  “Do we sail out again tomorrow?” Cleopatra asked.

  “If we have word of another raid.”

  “Then we will just get there too late again,” she pointed out. “The next raid or two should establish a pattern,” I told her. “Once I have a pattern nailed down, I may be able to anticipate where they will strike next. In the meantime the men are far from perfectly drilled, and these outings will improve their performance.”

  “But what if there is no pattern?” she asked. “What if they attack on whim or just cruise about at random until they spot some likely, undefended place?”

  “If these were ordinary sea robbers that would be a consideration,” I admitted. “But their leader seems to be a Roman of military experience, and I think his mind will work in a more orderly fashion. He knows the business procedures of the islands and coastal ports, and I believe his raiding will be conducted with an eye toward maximizing his profits. With enough information about his activities, I should be able to anticipate his actions.”

  “You are depending heavily on these stories of the man’s Roman origins,” she said. “Suppose they prove to be wrong? It is easy enough to take a Roman name and allow others to make up stories about you.”

  “Even so,” I said, “he is no brainless criminal following the pirate’s trade for lack of a better. If he is not a Roman, I’ll wager he has served with the Roman forces in the East. I understand Gabinius enrolled quite a large number of foreigners into the army he took to Egypt to set your father back on his throne.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “it contained only a core of Roman soldiers. The rest were every sort of Greek and Syrian. Then there were Cappadocians, Judeans, Lycians, Dardanians, and so forth. It was like the roll of the ships at Troy. There were even some Gauls and Germans. Those were the first Germans I ever saw.”

  “Why didn’t you ask them if they sang?”

  She smiled. “My father would never let me go near those soldiers. He considers only the Macedonian household guard fit to stand near a princess.”

  “Many of these soldiers stayed behind in Egypt, did they not?” I inquired.

  “Many of them did,” she said. “People grumbled about a Roman occupation, but they were just mercenaries. They took their oath to my father and are no longer part of any Roman army.”

  “Are there Romans among them though?”

  “A few. But they are t
ime-served veterans, not deserters or part of a Roman force. Their services are theirs to sell. Why are you so curious?”

  “I am just trying to gain a clear idea of the military situation in these parts. In the West it is simple. There are the Roman legions and not much else except for our enemies. Here it is complicated. I am told that among these mercenaries are a number of the pirates resettled inland by Pompey.”

  Cleopatra shrugged. “If so, I am sure that it was all done quite legally. After all, it was a Roman general who arranged matters.”

  “So it was.”

  “Senator,” Alpheus put in, “if you have no alarms to distract you in the morning, would you allow me to show you the Temple of Aphrodite? It is well worth the visit, and I have a feeling that, once your pursuit of Spurius begins in earnest, you will have very little time to devote to the finer things.”

  “That sounds like a splendid idea,” I said. “Ion insists that those lazy sailors need some rest. If duty doesn’t call, I will be more than happy to accept.” The truth was, I felt the need of some rest myself. The wine was working on me, making the urgency of pirate-chasing seem more and more remote as the evening wore on. I looked around. “Where is our host? Off carousing with Gabinius again?”

  “He is conferring with a delegation from Alexandria,” Cleopatra said. “They arrived today with Photinus.”

  “Would General Achillas be among them?” I asked. I had been at swords’ points with that martial gentleman during my stay in Alexandria. The thought of meeting with him on Roman territory was not without a certain charm.

  “Oh, no!” Photinus said. “If it were an Egyptian delegation, I would be with them right now. No, these are Roman citizens resident in Alexandria who have anxieties concerning their property in Egypt and here on Cyprus.”

  “The duties of a Roman governor are tedious,” I said, gazing about the beautiful garden, “but they have their compensations.”

  “Our host has done well for himself, I suppose.” Photinus sniffed. He and Cleopatra lived amidst luxury that made the mansion of Silvanus seem little more than a hovel.

  THE NEXT MORNING ALPHEUS ACCOMPAnied me to the naval docks, where I learned that there was no word of new depredations. I ordered my skippers to keep the men in or near the barracks, ready to board and sail instantly. In the arsenal I checked on the progress made on the catapults and ballistas, which were coming along nicely. Then I went with Alpheus to visit the Temple of Aphrodite.

  “The temple,” Alpheus explained, as we drew near the complex of sacred buildings, “is one of the most ancient in the Greek-speaking parts of the world. Even if the tale of the goddess’s arrival here and personal founding of the temple is untrue, it is far older than any Temple of Aphrodite on the mainland. It was built by people who still respected human scale.”

  Human scale was something of an exaggeration. It looked more like a temple built for Pygmies, no larger than a common farmhouse, constructed of large, ragged blocks of local stone and roofed with the inevitable red tile. The pillars of its portico were clearly stone replacements for wooden ones hewn from single logs.

  Oddly, I found this pleasing. I have always preferred the very ancient, small Italian temples to the grandiose structures we have built in recent generations. The proportions of this temple were exquisite, and its setting was as charming as one could ask: a garden of ancient and lovingly tended trees in which bees hummed and birds sang as they had for who could tell how many centuries. Smoke from the morning sacrifice rose from the altar, and the scent of pure frankincense perfumed the air.

  “The Ptolemies and the other successors of Alexander,” I noted, “were in the habit of building colossal temples and enlarging the ones already in their domains. Have you ever been to Sicily?”

  “I confess I’ve never been that far west,” he said, “although I have heard of its temples.”

  “They built temples for giants. In fact there is one that has caryatids in the form of Atlas-like Titans. The Temple of Ephesian Diana is immense and, of course, the Serapeum in Alexandria is tremendous. The kings of Cyprus have never been poor. Why is their most famous temple so humble?”

  “The priestesses have never allowed the temple to be enlarged. They say that the goddess founded it this way, and this is what she wanted. The kings have found other ways to embellish it. This garden, for instance, is entirely man-made. Early kings built great retaining walls and hauled in earth for the plantings. But the temple itself, and the image of the goddess, are as they have been since the days of legend.”

  I could find no fault with this, having seen too many bloated temples erected to the glory of the rich and powerful rather than in reverence to a god.

  White-robed priestesses were everywhere, speaking with the numerous visitors. Most of the latter had come to Cyprus to attend the Aphrodisia. As usual, many of the more prominent visitors brought gifts for the temple. To my astonishment there was a familiar face among the priestesses.

  “Flavia!”

  The woman turned and smiled. She had been speaking with some prosperous-looking people in Roman dress. She took leave of them and came to join us.

  “So you have found time from your duties to pay the goddess honor, Senator?”

  “Indeed. But I did not expect to see you here dressed as a devotee.” “At home I am a priestess of Venus of the Mariners. We enjoy reciprocal status with the sisterhood here. Aphrodite of Paphos is primarily a sea goddess, with beauty, love, and fertility as her secondary traits. The connection between our temples goes back for centuries, before the time of the Etruscan kings. Come along, I’ll show you the regalia.”

  Nothing loath, we followed. Since the temple was so small, most of its belongings were in outlying buildings, most of them larger than the temple itself. We entered one of these, a low, one-story structure faced with a finely painted portico, its roof supported by severely plain Doric pillars. Inside, a number of visitors stood admiring a wall covered with nets. It was not what I expected.

  “Looks like a fisherman’s storehouse,” I remarked.

  “Look more closely,” Flavia advised.

  So I went closer. The nets were extremely fine, almost like if oversized spiderwebs. They also glistened brightly in the light that streamed through the portico windows and door. Then I saw that they were made not of twine but of fine, golden chain.

  “At the climax of the Aphrodisia,” she explained, “the priestesses will wear these nets when they go down to the sea to bathe and be renewed.”

  “In the old story,” Alpheus said, “Hephaestus used a golden net to snare his wife, Aphrodite, in bed with Ares, her lover.”

  “On the mainland,” she said, “Aphrodite lost most of her aspect as sea-goddess. You’ll recall that it was Poseidon who offered to marry her himself when he saw her in the golden net. Here in her most ancient shrine, the net was hers, not her husband’s.”

  “Will you be participating in the festival rites?” I asked her. “Only as an attendant. A pity, really. I would love to bathe in the sea in full view of thousands of worshipers. Roman religious practice is so stodgy these days.”

  “How true,” I commiserated. “Have you considered joining the Cult of Dionysus? It’s forbidden throughout Italy but still greatly esteemed in the Greek parts of the world.”

  “I highly recommend the Samian rite,” Alpheus said. “It is very ancient, supremely orgiastic, and considered to be the holiest of all the Dionysian sects. The priestesses of Samos are renowned for their piety.”

  “Sergius would never agree,” she said, sadly. “He is a banker, and Samos is not a particularly wealthy island. We’ll probably never go there. Come along and let me show you the image of the goddess. It isn’t what you might expect.”

  This proved to be true. The interior of the tiny temple was dim, and wisps of incense smoke made graceful volutes in the air. As my eyes grew accustomed to the light, I beheld the goddess taking form at the rear of the chamber. She was represented in white stone, prob
ably marble, but she could not have been more different from the polished, lifelike sculptures so familiar to us. The stone was roughhewn and porous, shaped in the vague semblance of a human form, its arms not separated from the body, nor the legs one from the other. An indentation midway up suggested a waist-line, two large but indistinct swellings represented breasts, and an ovoid shape at the top was her head. There were no discernible facial features.

  I gazed upon this extraordinary image for a long time, somehow moved by it as I rarely was by the more famous statues of Aphrodite. With those, the observer was always conscious of them primarily as works of art rather than as objects of devotion. This seemed to me the cult object in its purest form. Gradually it came to me what I was seeing.

  “This is the goddess still rising from the sea, still composed of sea-foam!” I said. “She has not yet achieved her full, divine form.”

  “You are perceptive—for a Roman.”

  It was not Flavia who had spoken. The voice reminded me of honey lightly flavored with smoke. I turned to see a woman of regal bearing, perhaps fifty years of age, once of a beauty to compare with Helen, and still wonderfully handsome. Her hair was black, parted simply in the middle, and her features bore the straight-lined perfection of the pure Hellene. Her skin was almost white, with the faintest olive tinge, and her eyes the clearest blue. I could see these things because she stood in the shaft of light admitted by the doorway. Her gown was purest white, and the light shone right through it, revealing a body unmarred by the years.

  “I have been accused of many things but never an abundance of perception. Do I address the high priestess of this temple?”

  “I am lone,” she said. I took this for affirmation.

  I bowed. “I extend the respect and reverence of the Senate and People of Rome, my lady.”

  She accepted this gravely as her due. “And I give you welcome to this holy place. I did not mean you any disparagement. It is just that Greeks understand this aspect of the goddess instinctively, while Romans usually just see a crude piece of stone. You are not a Roman of the usual sort.”