The Princess and the Pirates

2

The trip to Cyprus is an easy sail when the weather is good, and ours was perfect. At Tarentum I had made a more than generous sacrifice to Neptune, and he must have been in an expansive mood because he repaid me handsomely.

From Italy’s easternmost cape we crossed the narrow strait to the coast of Greece, then south along that coast, stopping every evening at little ports, rarely straying more than a few hundred paces from shore. Even Hermes didn’t get seasick. We put in at Piraeus, and I took the long hike up to Athens and gawked at the sights for a few days. I have never understood how the Greeks built such beautiful cities and then could not govern them.

From Piraeus we sailed among the lovely, gemlike Greek islands, each of them looking as if it could be the home of Calypso or Circe. From the islands we crossed to the coast of Asia, then along the Cilician shore, keeping a close watch there for Cilicia was a homeland for pirates. From the southernmost coast of Cilicia we crossed to Cyprus, the longest stretch of open water on the voyage. Just as the mainland disappeared from view behind us, the heights of Cyprus appeared before us, and I breathed a little easier. I have never been able to abide the feeling of being at sea with no land in sight.

One reason that I dawdled was that Milo had not met me at Tarentum. I hoped that he was close behind and would catch up soon. I already had a feeling I was going to need him.

The problem was my flotilla, its sailors and marines, and my sailing master, one Ion. The deeper problem was that I was a Roman, and they were not.

For a Roman, service with the legions and service with the navy were as unalike as two military alternatives could possibly be. On land we were supremely confident, and over the centuries we had become specialists. Romans were heavy infantry. We held the center of the battle line and were renowned for feats of military engineering, such as bridge building, entrenchment, fortification, and siege craft. Roman soldiers, when they weren’t doing anything else, passed the time by building the finest roads in the world. For most other types of soldiery: cavalry, archers, slingers, and so forth, we usually hired foreigners. Even our light infantry were usually auxiliaries supplied by allied cities that lacked full citizenship.

At sea we were, so to speak, over our heads. Everyone knows how, in the wars with Carthage, we created a navy from nothing and defeated the world’s greatest naval power. The truth is, we accomplished this by ignoring maneuvers, instead grappling with their ships, thus transforming sea battles into land battles. We were still wretched sailors and kept losing entire fleets in storms that any real seafaring people would have seen coming in plenty of time to take action. And the Carthaginians repaid our presumption by raising the most brilliant general who ever lived: Hannibal. And don’t prattle to me about Alexander. Hannibal would have destroyed the little Macedonian dwarf as an afterthought. Alexander made his reputation fighting Persians, whom the whole world knows to be a wretched pack of slaves.

Anyway, our navy consists of hired foreigners under the command of Roman admirals and commodores. Most of them are Greeks, and that explains the greater part of my problems.

My first run-in with Ion occurred the moment I stepped aboard my lead Liburnian, the Nereid. The master, a crusty old salt dressed in the traditional blue tunic and cap, took my Senate credentials without a greeting or salute and scanned them with a barely repressed sneer. He handed them back.

“Just tell us where you want to go, and we’ll get you there,” he said. “Otherwise, keep out of the way, don’t try to give the men orders, don’t puke on the deck, and try not to fall overboard. We don’t try to save men who fall overboard. They belong to Neptune, and he’s a god we don’t like to offend.”

So I knocked him down, grasped him by the hair and belt, and pitched him into the water. “Don’t try to fish him out,” I told the sailors. “Neptune might not like it.” You have to let Greeks know who the master is right away or they’ll give you no end of trouble.

My other two Liburnians were the Thetis and the Ceto. Liburnians are among the smaller naval vessels, having only a single deck and two banks of oars, usually forty or fifty oars to a side, with only a single rower at each oar. I suspect that the ships of Ulysses were very similar, for it is an antiquated design and a far cry from the majestic triremes with their three banks of oars and hundreds of rowers. The small ram at the prow, tipped with a bronze boar’s head, seemed to me more like a gesture of defiance than a practical weapon.

These three little ships with their tiny complement of sailors and marines seemed totally inadequate even for the humble task of hunting down a pack of scruffy pirates, and I hoped to secure reinforcements as I traveled. Ion curbed his insolence, but he remained abrupt and churlish. I was a landlubber and he was a seaman and that was that. The common sailors were little more respectful. The marines were the scum of the sea, hoping to win citizenship by twenty years of sea service. I suspected that some of them had been expelled from the legions and degraded from citizenship for immorality, and you have to know the sort of behavior that was tolerated in those days to appreciate the magnitude of such an offense. With such men at my back, the pirates ahead of me held little to fear.

“Hermes,” I said, on our first day at sea, “if any of these degenerates gets too close behind me, lay him out with a stick of firewood.”

“Never fear,” he answered. Hermes took his bodyguarding duty seriously, and he had dressed for the role. He wore a brief tunic of dark leather girded with a wide, bronze-studded belt that held his sheathed sword and dagger. At wrists and ankles he wore leather bands, gladiator fashion. He looked suitably fierce, and the sailors gave him a wide berth.

We saw no pirates, but there was plenty of other shipping, most of it consisting of tubby merchantmen with their short, slanted foremasts, triangular topsails, and swan-neck sternposts. It was the beginning of the sailing season, and the whole sea was aswarm with ships full of wine, grain, hides, pottery, worked metal and metal in ingot form, slaves, livestock, textiles, and luxury goods: precious metals, dyestuffs, perfumes, silk, ivory, feathers, and other valuable items without number. Ships sailed bearing nothing but frankincense for the temples. From Egypt came whole fleets loaded with papyrus.

With all these valuable cargoes just floating around virtually unguarded, it was no wonder that some enterprising rogues simply couldn’t restrain themselves from appropriating some of it. There was no way that a slow, heavily laden merchantman with a tiny crew could outrun or out-fight a lean warship rowed by brawny, heavily armed pirates. Best simply to lower their sails, and let the brutes come aboard and take what they wanted.

Lucrative as this trade was, though, the pirates committed far worse depredations on land. They struck the coastlines, looted small towns, and isolated villas; carried off prisoners to ransom or sell in the slave markets; and generally made themselves obnoxious to all law-abiding people. There were countless miles of coastline, and only a fraction of it could be patrolled by coast guards.

I suppose this nefarious trade had been going on since the invention of the seagoing vessel. If we are to believe Homer, piracy was once a respectable calling, practiced by kings and heroes. Princes sailing to and from the war in Troy thought nothing of descending upon some unsuspecting village along the way, killing the males, enslaving the women and children, sopping up the wine, and devouring the livestock-all just a fine bit of sport and adventure for a hero back in the good old days. Perhaps these pirates I was to chase weren’t really criminals. Perhaps they were merely old-fashioned.

Anyway, we didn’t see any of them, which doesn’t mean that they didn’t see us. They would never attack a warship, even a small one. That would mean only hard knocks and no loot. So they kept to their little coves, their masts unstepped, all but invisible from a few hundred paces away.

Another thing I didn’t see were warships. Much of the Roman navy was tied up ferrying supplies and men to Caesar in Gaul, of course, but I had expected to see the ships of our numerous maritime allies in evidence. Rhodes still had its own fleet at that time, for instance. It looked as if everyone had decided that, since Rome was grabbing all the land, Rome might as well do all the coastal patrolling as well.

From a line of mountain peaks, Cyprus grew into a recognizable island, and a pretty fair one, though not as beautiful as Rhodes. Its slopes were cloaked in fir, alder, and cypress, and probably myrtle and acanthus as well. At least, that is the sort of vegetation the poets are always going on about. It looked fine to me at any rate. Put me at sea long enough and a bare rock looks good.

The harbor of Paphos lies on the western coast of the island, and it proved to be a graceful city of the usual Greek design, which is to say that it conformed perfectly to the shape of the land, with fine temples on all the most prominent spots. Here, at least, the Ptolemies had restrained their usual love for outsized architecture and kept the temples beautifully scaled, like those on mainland Greece and in the Greek colonies of southern Italy.

Coming in past the harbor mole, we passed a naval basin surrounded by sheds for warships of all sizes, but these were empty. The commercial harbor, on the other hand, was full of merchant shipping. Cyprus lies within a great curve of the mainland with Lycia, Pamphilia, Cilicia, Syria, and Judea each but a short sail away. This convenient location made it a natural crossroads for sea traffic, and it has prospered greatly since the earliest settlements there. Before the Greeks the Phoenicians colonized the island, and Phoenician cities still exist.

“Bring us in to the big commercial dock,” I told Ion. “Then take the ships to the naval basin.”

“Looks like we’ll have our pick of accommodations there,” he observed.

The rowers brought us smoothly alongside the stone wharf, which jutted out into the harbor for at least two hundred paces. I climbed a short flight of steps to the top of the wharf, and sailors carried up our meager baggage, all under the watchful gaze of the inevitable dockside idlers. Aside from these there was no reception party, official or otherwise. Ordinarily the arrival of Roman vessels with a Roman senator aboard brought the local officials running to the harbor with their robes flapping. But then, Cyprus was now a Roman possession, so perhaps the governor thought that I should call on him rather than the other way around.

“Where is the residence of Governor Silvanus?” I demanded of one of the louts. He just blinked, so I repeated the question in Greek.

He pointed up a gentle slope behind him. “The big house across from the Temple of Poseidon.” I could barely understand him. The Cyprian dialect differs from the Attic as radically as the Bruttian from Latin.

“Come, Hermes,” I said. A couple of porters leapt to take our bags, and we strode along the wharf, picking our way among the boxes, bales, and amphorae that crowded every available foot of space. Everywhere lay stacks of brown metal ingots in the shape of miniature oxhides. Since the time of the Phoenicians the copper mines of Cyprus had been a major source of the metal, and it remained the basis of the island’s prosperity.

Above the pervasive sea smell twined the scents of herbs, incense, and spices, along with an occasional vinegary reek where some ham-fisted porter had let an amphora drop and smash, wasting perfectly good wine. This gave me a thought.

“Hermes-”

“Yes, I know: find out where the good wineshops are.” I had trained him well.

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?”

“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.

“What occasion are we celebrating?” I asked, waving an arm to indicate the many statues, which were draped with garlands.

“Just dinner,” Silvanus said.

“I can’t wait to see what the real banquets are like around here.” The first course was served. It was the traditional hard-boiled eggs, but these were from a vast variety of birds, lightly tinted in different colors and sprinkled with rare spices. The courses that followed were far more lavish as to ingredients, with items such as peacock brains, flamingo tongues, camel toes, honeyed ibex ears, and so forth, prized for their exotic origins rather than their savor. Others were both more substantial and delicious: Danube sturgeon, brought to the island in freshwater tanks; roast gazelle from Judea; and Egyptian geese baked in pastry stand out in my memory. All of this was served with numerous wines, each chosen to complement the course being served. Soon the wreaths and garlands were being put to the test.

“Commodore,” Alpheus said, using my semiofficial title, “when do you propose to begin your pirate hunting?”

“Immediately,” I said, then thought it over. “Actually, I need to receive word of their next depredation. That will give me a starting point and a locale to investigate. I also intend to recruit a few ex-pirates for their expertise.”

“A wise move,” Gabinius affirmed. “You may wish to begin by examining your own crew. If they’re like other naval crews of my experience, half of them will have been pirates at one time or another.”

“I suspect so, but none will admit it. They all claim they were part of Pompey’s pirate-conquering navy, even the ones who were infants at the time.”

“I recommend a tavern called Andromeda,” Alpheus said. “The wine is passable, and the company is the lowest imaginable. If ever there was a pirate hangout, that is the one. I’m there most nights.” Alpheus definitely sounded like my sort of man.

“I’ll give it a try as soon as possible,” I said.

“I’ll go along with you,” Cleopatra said. “Respectable ladies do not frequent such places!” cried banker Nobilior, scandalized.

“I’m not respectable,” Cleopatra told him, “I’m royal. Royalty do not have to observe these tedious little social rules. We are above them.”

Gabinius chuckled. “Still, Princess, those places can be very dangerous. I advise against it.” Silvanus nodded agreement.

“Nonsense,” she said, with her dazzling smile. “Should the valiant Metellus and the brilliant Alpheus prove insufficient protection, I have my personal bodyguard.” She gestured toward the door, where a young man lounged against the wall, arms folded, one sandaled foot propped against the wall behind him. He had Sicilian features and was dressed much like Hermes, in a brief leather tunic with matching wrist straps and hair band and girded with weapons. He looked half asleep, but so does a viper just before it strikes.

He looked rather familiar, then it came back to me. “Apollodorus, isn’t it?”

The youth nodded. “Your Honor has an excellent memory.” “You were watching little Cleopatra’s back when I saw her in Alexandria a few years ago.”

“All that politician’s training is good for something, eh, Metellus?” Gabinius said. “Caesar can call every man in his legions by name, and they say Crassus could not only put a name to every voter in Rome but could name the fellow’s parents as well.”

“In the Greek nations,” Alpheus said, “we memorize poetry rather than names. I can’t name one man in ten in my own city, but I can name every man slain by Achilles and where he came from.”

This raised a good laugh, which shows how drunk we were all getting. When the eating was over and the serious drinking started, the ladies took their leave. I noted that Hermes and Apollodorus faced one another truculently, each taking the other’s measure.

“There’s a likely pair of fighting cocks,” Gabinius said. “Who do you think would win?” It was an inevitable speculation. We were, after all, Romans.

“Cleopatra’s boy was trained in the ludus of Ampliatus in Capua,” Silvanus said. “Yours, Decius?”

“The ludus of Statilius Taurus in Rome. I’ve paid extra for the best trainers: Draco of the Samnite School, Spiculus of the Thracians, Amnorix of the Galli.”

“You don’t suppose-” Silvanus began.

“No,” I said firmly. “I won’t let Hermes fight professionally. It’s not that he’d object, but that it’s exactly what he’d like, and I’ve other uses for him. And I’m certain Cleopatra would never allow it.”

“Just a friendly bout,” Silvanus persisted, “a little boxing or wrestling, perhaps a match with wooden swords. No worse than a few broken bones, surely.”

“Look at those two,” said Gabinius. “It would be death for one of them if it came to blows between them.” He was right. Their faces were studiedly indifferent, but if the two had had fur, it would have been standing up. It is the nature of aggressive, superbly trained young men to challenge one another and test themselves.

Silvanus sighed. “Too bad. It would be a fight worth seeing.”

Then Alpheus diverted us with some extremely scabrous songs by the more disreputable Greek poets. Included among these was the poet Aristides. When a Parthian general found a volume of Aristides among the effects of an officer slain at Carrhae, he used it as proof of the depravity of the Romans. If some barbarian should ever go through my war chest, the reputation of Rome may never recover.

I don’t remember much about the rest of the evening, which may be taken for the mark of a really successful party.