The Princess and the Pirates

7

The messenger thrust the bronze tube into my hands the moment my feet touched dry land. “Extremely urgent business at the gevernor’s mansion,” he said, before I had a chance to open it. “You are to come with me immediately, Senator.”

“It can’t be all that urgent,” I told him. “I have things to attend to, not least of which is reading this.” I opened it and read. It was a marvel of baldness:

Senator Metellus:

There has been murder here. Come at once.

A. Gabinius

“Truly Caesarian brevity,” I remarked to no one in particular. Since the note was signed by Gabinius rather than Silvanus, I already had an idea of just who had been murdered.

“Ion!” I shouted. The man came running up.

“Sir?”

“Don’t let anyone turn in until the ships are readied for instant launch. The practice cruises are over. Next time we’ll be serious. We won’t come back to port until we’ve bagged some pirates. Hermes, Ariston, come with me.”

Already Cleopatra was rushing from her ship to join me. From the look of it, another messenger had delivered the same summons to her.

“This sounds serious,” she said, when she arrived, slightly out of breath. She had not waited for her slaves to assemble her litter. “Come on. I may be a princess, but I haven’t forgotten how to walk. I’m not going to wait to travel in state.”

“No sense arriving tired,” I advised, setting a leisurely pace. “Believe me, whoever’s dead will still be dead whan we get there.”

Doson, the majordomo, received us at the door. He was pale but composed. “Please come inside, Princess, Senator.” He waited until we were all inside and the door shut behind us before going on. “Forgive this irregularity, but General Gabinius has given instruction that this matter not be made public immediately.”

“Since General Gabinius is giving the orders, I take it that Governor Silvanus is deceased?” I said.

“Sadly true. It is terribly tragic and very, very strange. I-ah, here is the general now.”

Gabinius entered the atrium, his craggy face more than ever like that of a battered eagle’s. “My friend Silvanus is dead,” he said. “I have not allowed word to spread yet. We must discuss this matter. Come with me.”

We walked through the house, in our progress passing several tough-looking armed men of military bearing. One of them was the grizzled old centurion I had seen on the night we were attacked outside. From someplace came the muffled sound of many voices wailing.

“Those are the household slaves,” Gabinius explained. “Of course it’s their duty to mourn the master, but I’ve made them do it where they won’t be heard outside.” We entered the room where I’d conferred with the two senior Romans after the street fight.

“Who are those thugs?” I asked him, as we took chairs. “Old soldiers of mine who’ve thrown in their lot with me. If you are ever exiled, you’ll be well-advised to keep a picked band of such men close to you. In exile you’ll have few friends and a great many enemies. Just now they’re keeping the other guests quiet.”

“You behave high-handedly, General,” Cleopatra observed. “Had the governor no deputy?”

“No. One was to be sent out from Rome, but whoever the Senate has picked hasn’t shown up yet.”

“Then it seems to me,” she said, “that Senator Metellus is the ranking Roman official here.” I wished she had kept her mouth shut. My situation was precarious enough, and the last thing I needed was to get into a dogfight with Gabinius.

“The senator,” he said, “has a commission from the State to deal with the pirates in the adjacent waters. That is going to keep him fully occupied for a long time. He has never held an office higher than aedile. I have served as praetor and consul together with the attendant promagistracies, as you well know, Princess.”

“But you are an exile!” she said heatedly.

“That means only that I may not set foot in Italy until my exile is rescinded. Exile does not diminish my status.”

I held up a hand. “This does not help things. I am quite willing to attend to my naval duties and leave administration here to an experienced magistrate until a replacement arrives from Rome. Cyprus does not yet have provincial status, and its government is still provisional. This is as good an arrangement as any, for now. There are more immediate matters to attend to.”

“Exactly,” Gabinius said. “I am glad that you are being so sensible, Decius Caecilius. We should work well together. To begin with, I was a close friend of Silvanus, so I shall undertake all the funeral arrangements and have his ashes sent to his family. They have a vault on the Via Appia, I believe.”

“Will you deliver the eulogy?” I asked.

“I have been composing it all morning. It is a shame there are so few Romans of rank here to attend, but I will send the text to Rome to be recited at the tomb site. I will also write his family concerning his slaves and other property here. I presume his will is filed in Rome. It may contain manumissions for the senior slaves, and there will have to be some sort of disposition for the rest. I will see to all this.”

“Agreed,” I said. “Now I would like to know the circumstances surrounding the governor’s death. You used the word ‘murder’ in your note, so I presume he died violently and that you’ve ruled out accident.”

“Decidedly. I’ve seen men killed in a great many fashions, but this one is unique in my experience. I think you should view the body.”

“An excellent idea,” I said, standing. Cleopatra got up as well.

“No need for you to see this, Princess,” Gabinius said.

“But I wish to. I have seen people die in great variety, too, General, some of them close relatives.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He led us from the room. “The body was discovered early this morning by the chamber slave who was supposed to wake Silvanus at sunrise. He had an early meeting scheduled with those wretched businessmen from Alexandria.”

We found the late Governor Silvanus reclining upon his bed, his face blackened, eyes wide and protruding, mouth agape as if gasping for breath. Any such breath was precluded by the amorphous, yellowish mass that filled his mouth, spilling onto the pillow. It didn’t look like something regurgitated in his death throes. Rather, it had the distinct aspect of something forcefully crammed into his mouth, causing the cheeks to bulge like a trumpeter’s.

I picked up a particle from the pillow and examined it closely. It was a golden crystal, semitransparent. It looked almost like stone, but when I squeezed it between my nails it shattered. “What is this stuff?” I mused.

“You know what it is,” Gabinius growled. “You’ve seen it all your life.”

Cleopatra picked up a few grains and rubbed them between her fingers, then sniffed at the resulting powder. “Frankincense,” she pronounced. “He choked on frankincense. What an amazing way to die.”

“I don’t suppose,” I hazarded, “that our host was in the habit of experimenting with exotic foods? I have known others to sample inappropriate foodstuffs to their detriment.”

“Not likely,” Gabinius said. “Look at him. I’d say this was done by at least two strong men, more likely three. Someone held him down while someone else jammed his gullet full of frankincense. Then he had to be held there for a while. A man doesn’t choke to death quickly, you know that.”

“All too true. Have the slaves been examined?”

“Doson got them together and made a count. They’re all here. There are a couple of porters strong enough to have accomplished it, but surely they would’ve fled after murdering their master. I don’t think the household staff were involved.”

“That’s a relief,” I said.

“It would make things simpler,” Cleopatra said.

“Too simple,” I told her. “Under Roman law, when a slave murders a master, all the slaves are crucified.”

“What was it you said about my family’s homicidal habits?”

“There are far easier ways to kill a man,” I noted. “Stifling him with frankincense must have some sort of significance. Is there a large amount of it in the house?”

“The steward tells me there is some kept in the family shrine for the household gods,” Gabinius answered. “There is never more than about half a pound of it on hand. I looked and there is about that much still there. Silvanus has at least a pound jammed down his throat. The killers brought it with them.”

“Who was the last to see him alive?” I asked.

“After dinner he dismissed his slaves and went to bed it seems.”

“And who were his guests?” A wealthy and important Roman almost never dines alone. Failure to entertain nightly means a reputation for miserliness, which is death to a political career.

“Most were those Roman businessmen from Alexandria,” he said with distaste. “A despicable lot of moneygrubbers if you ask me.” He had the true aristocrat’s distaste for people who earned their own money instead of stealing or inheriting it. Gabinius had stolen and inherited quite a bit of it in his time. All quite respectably, of course. There is no shame attached to plundering the conquered and squeezing treasure out of desperate allies. His conviction for extortion and subsequent exile was just political bad luck not lasting dishonor.

“Were you here last night?”

“Eh?” he asked angrily, “what’s that?”

“I merely want to establish who was present,” I said.

“As a matter of fact I was at my house outside the town. When the murder was discovered, Doson locked the doors and sent a messenger to fetch me.”

I ran a hand over my face, deep in thought. This was a complication I surely did not need. Pirates were a nuisance; this could be a disaster. “We need to assess the state of anti-Roman sentiment on the island. If this was done by a disgruntled pro-Ptolemy faction, we could be looking at the start of a war.”

“I hope you do not imply that I was involved in this sordid business!” Cleopatra said hotly.

“Just now I can dismiss no one from suspicion. This is a matter of utmost seriousness.”

“I will conduct the relevant investigation,” Gabinius said. “There is no need for this to distract you from your duties.”

“But there is,” I said. “I was his guest.”

There was little he could say by way of objection. Hospitality is more than mutual entertainment; it involves sacred obligations. I was eating his food and sleeping beneath his roof. And ancient, ritual law decrees that if a host is slain, it is the duty of his guest to avenge him. Silvanus was a man I had not known well and did not particularly like, but that is of no significance to religious law. Failure to seek out his killers and bring them to justice could draw the wrath of the gods, and I was not about to risk that.

For a while I examined the bedchamber but found nothing of significance. There was little evidence of struggle other than a slight disarray of the bedclothes. I assumed that Silvanus must have been asleep when the killers struck, allowing them to pinion him securely before he had a chance to resist.

“When will you make the announcement of his death?” Cleopatra asked.

“I see little point in concealing it any longer now that we have been informed,” I said. “Aulus Gabinius, why don’t you go ahead and inform the city council and post notice of Silvanus’s demise? For now there’s no need to say that he was murdered. This isn’t Rome, and we don’t owe these people a rigorous legal accounting. They may as well have the impression that he died of natural causes or misadventure. If anyone challenges that, it will be evidence of a conspiracy.”

He nodded. “It makes sense. With all that stuff cleared out of his mouth, he’ll look presentable enough for his funeral, except for the color of his face. How shall we say he met his end?”

I shrugged. “People drop dead all the time, and nobody can say why. But you might as well simply say he choked to death. It’s not an uncommon cause of death. I’ve known men of great distinction and accomplishment who have choked on peach pits or chicken bones. It will account for his blackened face.”

“I shall do it then,” he agreed.

“How many of the household know for certain that he was murdered?” Cleopatra asked.

Gabinius thought for a moment. “Doson, Androcles the steward, and the slave who discovered him; and she’s spoken to no one but Doson, he’s assured me. My own men, and I’ve instructed them to keep silent about it. For the rest, they just know the master’s dead.”

“Let’s see how long we can keep it that way,” I advised. When will you notify Rome?”

“It’s too late for a ship to sail today. I’ll compose a letter to the Senate this evening and dispatch it to Rome at first light. I can’t detach any of your ships, and Caesar’s stripped the naval base as you learned. I’ll hire a ship to row hard to Tarsus. There is a naval base there, and the commander is a friend of mine, Lentulus Scaevola. He’ll detach a fast cutter to take the letter to Brundisium or Tarentum. A rider can carry the letter to the house of Cicero in Rome, and Cicero can present it to the Senate.”

I thought about it for a moment. “I probably can’t get word there any faster. Are you and Cicero on good terms these days?”

“Excellent. He’ll call a special meeting of the Senate for this.” He was all but grinning, and I could see the wheels turning in his head. Cleopatra looked from one of us to the other, clearly mystified.

“Let’s do it that way then.” Finished with my examination of the area around the bed, I straightened. “And now, if you don’t mind, the princess and I are overdue for dinner and some rest.”

“Go ahead. I’ll see to things here. Doson!” He bellowed the name, but the majordomo had been waiting just outside the bedchamber door. He hurried in. “General Gabinius?”

“You may release the household staff, but none of them are to leave the house or talk to anyone outside until I say so. They are to attend to their late master’s guests as always. Begin preparations for a funeral and tell everyone to mourn quietly. They can wail as loud as they like at the funeral.”

The majordomo bowed. “It shall be as you say, General.” We left and repaired to the garden. Slaves appeared and efficiently set about making us comfortable and getting us fed. Despite swollen eyes and tear tracks, they didn’t appear especially grief stricken, merely anxious in the usual fashion of slaves when the master is dead and their future uncertain.

“Is this the way you Romans always do things?” Cleopatra asked. “I find it difficult to believe that a serving Roman official is deferring to a mere exile! Why did you not take charge and arrange affairs to your own liking?”

I took a sip of the excellent wine and selected a seedcake. “Rome is a republic, not a monarchy,” I reminded her. “I am not a viceroy, and Gabinius is not a powerless nobody, like someone your father would exile, stripping him of lands, wealth, and influence. Rome is governed by great families whose leading members hold the consulships and praetorships. Their supporters comprise Romans of all levels. There are the bulk of the senators, who are men who have held the lesser offices; the class of equites, who have money and property but who don’t go into politics, like our friend Sergius Nobilior the banker; and the great bulk of the citizenry, who vote in the Plebeian Assembly. There is also the Centuriate Assembly and the Tribunician Committee, but these days real power lies in the Senate and the Plebeian Assembly.”

I dipped the seedcake in honey. “Politics consists of a constant rearrangement of support and power blocs, as each of the great families seeks to place as many of its own members and supporters in high public office as it can. Yesterday’s deadly enemy becomes today’s staunch ally. An exile voted by an indignant Senate may be rescinded by a friendly tribune passing a law in the Plebeian Assembly.”

She shook her head. “It sound like anarchy. It’s political chaos.” “It can be confusing, but it works well for us. For instance, the nearest naval base is at Tarsus. The commander there is Scaevola, and he is a supporter of Pompey, who detests the Metelli. If I were to send that letter under my own seal, he’d put it on the slowest scow on the sea.

“I would send the letter to Cicero to read to the Senate. Cicero has always been friendly with me and usually with my family as well. He once attacked Gabinius in a lawsuit. As I recall, he characterized Gabinius as ‘a prancing, effeminate dancing boy in hair curlers.’”

“That is difficult to imagine,” she replied.

“Nothing is too scurilous in a Roman lawsuit. A few years later, he ably defended Gabinius in a lawsuit for extortion; but Cicero was no longer so popular in Rome, and Gabinius was exiled. Gabinius is a strong supporter of Caesar though. So when Caesar returns from Gaul, he will have Gabinius recalled and restored to all his honors. This sort of thing happens all the time.”

She sipped at her wine and said nothing for a while, then declared, “You people are insane. That is no way to run a petty city-state, much less a great empire. Can you really administer anything on a basis of friendships and feuds and temporary pacts of assistance between families and individuals? Can anything of importance be decided when four separate assemblies have to take a vote? When one consul can overrule the other and a decision of the Senate can be blocked by the veto of a single tribune? It is madness!”

“We’ve done rather well with it,” I said, with some complacency. “We control most of the world and are quickly expanding into the rest of it. Our system may lack the orderliness of a monarchy with a king and a hereditary nobility, but it spares us the government of pedigreed imbeciles. In Rome any man of great will and ability can shape the destiny of the world.”

My confident words were purely for her benefit. The sad fact was that our rickety old Republic was fast coming apart. It was being destroyed by self-seeking megalomaniacs like Caesar, Pompey, and Gabinius, and, I hate to admit, by reactionary, aristocratic families like my own. We thought ourselves conservative because we steered a moderate course between the would-be Alexanders, but our maneuverings always had the goal of expanding our own clientage, holdings, and influence.

“Rome may be master of the world,” she said, “but soon one of your great men must make himself master of Rome. There can be no other outcome.”

The coming years were to prove her words prophetic.

That night a dream came to me. Most people make far too much of dreams, attaching vast import to the most banal reflections of everyday cares, woes, and ambitions. I do not believe that the gods often put themselves to the trouble of sending prophetic visions to individuals, and it is usually a mark of vanity to believe oneself the frequent recipient of such divine messages. When the gods wish to communicate with us, they speak to the entire community; and they do so through the medium of thunder and lightning, the flights of birds, and signs put in the heavens. We have officials and priests whose task it is to interpret such omens.

Personally, I have never believed that the entrails of sacrificial animals have anything to do with it. That is mere Etruscan superstition.

Nevertheless, upon very special occasions, I experience a dream vision so remarkable that I think it must be sent by some divine agency, although perhaps not by a true Olympian. My vanity is not that great. Each of us, man or woman, is born with an attendant genius. These spirits watch over us and inspire us throughout life. It may be that they are in contact with other, equally supernatural beings and are able, at times of great import in our lives, to pass on messages from a world invisible to us.

However, it is the custom of the immortals to speak in signs, riddles, and conundrums when communicating with mortals; and so it was this time. For what it is worth, this was my dream.

I opened my eyes as from a deep sleep and discovered myself to be surrounded by clouds. In an instant I broke free of the clouds and saw below me a mass of brown and green surrounded by a deep blue-green. At first I could make no sense of what I was seeing. Then it came to me that I was gazing upon a great island lying in the sea. This, I understood, must be how the world looks to a soaring eagle. In the manner of dreams the great height at which I hovered did not alarm me, nor did it occur to me to wonder how I could be flying in the first place. Dreams take place in another world in which there is no past leading to the events we experience there.

I flew down toward the island (somehow I knew how to do this) and began to see details that had been invisible from higher up: ships upon the sea looking like children’s toys, jewel-like towns with white walls and red roofs, and cattle no larger than ants grazing the hillsides.

I began to circle the island and, as I did, saw a disturbance in the wine dark sea perhaps a legionary mile offshore (distances are hard to judge when one is flying). There arose a great boiling and foaming, as if a volcano were erupting far below. The foam rose into a tower and began to take human shape. Soon there stood, larger than the greatest colossus, the form of a beautiful woman. She was, of course, the goddess Venus (well, Aphrodite, to be precise). She was still composed of semitransparent foam, for which I was grateful. To behold a real goddess would have blasted me to vapor even in my dream state. Such sights are not for mortals. I felt no fear but rather experienced awe of a purity I have seldom known in my long life.

Like a great cloud in motion, she strode across the waves, her feet indenting the water as if she walked upon a blue-green mantle thrown across a bed filled with the finest down. When she reached the coast, I expected to see great activity from the tiny towns: people rushing to see, songs of praise ringing out, a great stoking of altar fires. But I detected no reaction from the minute inhabitants of this place. They did not see her.

With a graceful gesture the goddess beckoned to me, and I followed her. Along the coastline of the island we went, passing many small coves, some of them lively with small fishing craft, some deserted. I was no longer at eagle-soaring height, though I was well above the tallest trees on the shore. I felt now more like a cruising gull, but that was because I was over water. As an attendant of Aphrodite, I suppose I was a dove, that bird being sacred to her.

We came to a part of the island that was different from the rest. A great district was denuded of trees, its soil gouged away into deep pits. Everywhere I saw columns of smoke rising to the heavens, as if a hundred farmsteads were burning.

The goddess arose from the sea and began to walk over the island, her toes just touching the crests of the hills as she strode inland. I followed, flying at the level of her perfect waist.

Inland the devastation was enormous. Whole hillsides and valleys were reduced to bare dirt and rock, furrowed with erosion, the stream muddy and foul. Everywhere the pits and tunnels made the island leprous. Gradually, light faded from the sky, and from the base of every column of smoke there came a sullen, red glow, as of a fire burning night and day.

We came to the other side of the island, and it was dawn again. The night had passed with the magical swiftness of dreams. The goddess walked out upon the waves once more. Below me the coastline was green and beautiful. Here no unnatural despoliation blighted the landscape, and all was serene perfection.

Aphrodite (if it truly was she and not some phantom in her shape) turned a last time and regarded me with a look of great sadness upon her wonderful features. Then she began to lose shape, to collapse in upon herself, returning to the sea until she was no more than scattered streaks of white atop the waves.

The next morning I went about in a daze. The dream did not fade from memory as most of mine do but rather stayed sharp in all its details, and I had no doubt that it was a vision of utmost significance. But what did it mean? There are those who interpret dreams as a profession, but I had always doubted their gifts. In any case I felt that the goddess had not spoken to me in riddles, but rather had shown me some real thing, though whether this was a reflection of the present or a prophecy of the future I did not know.

Leaving Hermes in the house to relay any messages from the naval base, I walked out into the town. The hour was early, but already it was abuzz with news of the murder. People eyed me warily, perhaps expecting some sort of violent vengeance from Rome, but I paid them no attention. For once my political and street senses were in abeyance. I had my mind on higher matters. Almost without conscious volition, my steps took me back to the Temple of Aphrodite.

“Senator!” The priestess lone regarded me with some surprise. “You are back so soon?” She was supervising a bevy of her ever-charming acolytes who were hanging enormous, colorful wreaths all over the temple and its grounds.

“I hate to bother you when you are so busy preparing for the festival,” I said to her. “But last night I believe your goddess sent me a vision.” I added hastily, “Please, I am not the sort of person who has visions all the time. Quite the contrary in fact. That is why I hope you might be able to help me.”

“Surely,” she said, as if this were the sort of request she received every day. Maybe it was. She issued instructions to the white-robed women and asked me to accompany her. We went to a secluded part of the garden surrounded by a high hedge, its open side over looking the sea. I sat beside her on a marble bench supported by carved dolphins and told her of my dream. She followed this recitation with a look of deep seriousness, saying nothing until I was finished.

“This is most unusual,” she said, when I was done. “Aphrodite very often appears in dreams. Most often it is because the dreamers are troubled in matters of love or fearful of barrenness or the dangers of childbirth. She has dominion over all these things. Here on Cyprus and some of the other islands she guides the thoughts and decisions of seafarers as well. What you saw in your dream is most uncharacteristic.”

“Then perhaps it was merely a reflection of my own worries and the goddess had nothing to do with it,” I said, almost relieved.

“No, what you saw was a true vision. I know this. Her appeararance as sea foam means she was Aphrodite of Paphos and no other.”

“But what can it mean?”

“Do you have your purse with you, Senator?” she asked.

“I do.”

“Then take out the smallest coin you have.”

Mystified, I took the marsupium from beneath my tunic and rummaged through it. I drew forth a copper coin, the smallest minted in Rome. It bore the image of an augur from a previous generation, indifferently struck. I handed it to her, and she weighed it in her palm.

“What do you call the metal this coin is made of?”

“The Latin word is aes,” I answered.

“And what is it called in Greek?”

I thought for a moment. “Kyprios.” Then I made the connection. “It means ‘Cyprian,’ doesn’t it?” And then it struck me that, in poems, Aphrodite is often called “the Cyprian.”

“Exactly. Copper has been mined on this island since the days of the pharaohs. The copper mines of Cyprus have been the wealth of the island, as the silver mines of Laurium were the wealth of Athens. What the goddess showed you in your dream is the result of more than two thousand years of copper mining. The land is ravaged, its soil destroyed by digging and erosion, its timber harvested for wood to smelt the ore.”

“How much of the island is ruined?” I asked her.

“Most of it,” she said sadly. “What seems so fair from offshore is a wasteland just a short walk inland. This island has enriched pharaohs and Great Kings and Macedonian conquerors and now, it seems, it is to enrich Rome. But I do not think that if Aphrodite were to choose a home now, she would pick Cyprus.”

I was shocked and saddened. If there is one thing that is sure to enrage an Italian, it is the destruction of productive land. We treat other people with great brutality at times, but we always respect and honor land. At heart we are all still small landholders, tending our few acres of field and orchard.

“Why did she reveal this to me?” I asked. “Surely there is nothing I can do about the ruination of her home.”

“Someday you may be able to,” she said. You are Roman, of a great family, and destined to hold high office. People say that Romans can do anything-that you divert rivers to serve your purposes, drain swamps to make new farmland, create harbors where there is only exposed shoreline. Perhaps such a people can restore Cyprus to the garden it once was.”

“We admit to few limitations,” I agreed. “It would be an intriguing project.” I would never admit to her that anything lay beyond the powers of Roman genius. “When I return to Rome I will speak to the College of Pontifices. Caesar is Pontifex Maximus, and he is fond of undertaking projects in the name of Venus, since she is the ancestress of his house. Venus, or Aphrodite, was the mother of the Trojan hero Aeneas, who fled the burning city and settled in Italy. The Julian gens trace their descent from his son, Julus.”

“I see. He is busy in Gaul, is he not?”

“Yes, but soon he will return to Rome. He will be incomparably rich and ready to undertake all sorts of extravagant things. That is his style. My wife is his niece.”

“Ah, then there was good reason for Aphrodite to make her wishes known to you. Rome is the new master of Cyprus, you have a great future ahead of you as a Roman statesman, and you are related by marriage to the most glorious Roman of the age, who, it seems, is her many times great grandchild.”

It always annoyed me when people spoke as if Caesar were the greatest man in Rome, but that was how he publicized himself so I suppose it was excusable.

I took my leave of lone with many thanks and a gift for the temple. I fully intended to carry out my promise to approach the pontifices, whose pronouncements the Senate would follow, as soon as I returned to Rome.

It is not every day a goddess visits you and makes her wishes known.