“Excuse me, Senator,” he said, hastily taking it from my hands. “This is the unfinished work of a colleague, lent to me on the understanding that no one else should see it until he has finished it and made it public.” As he locked the thing in an ornate cupboard, I wondered what sort of colleague would trust Iphicrates of Chios with anything.
“That scroll reminds me,” Julia said, adroitly smoothing things over. “I have yet to see the famous Library. And who better to show it to me than the Librarian himself?” We bade farewell to the difficult mathematician and received his churlish goodbyes in return.
I had already toured the Library, and once you have seen one tremendous warehouse of books, you have seen them all. Besides, it was a noisy place, with hundreds of scholars reading at the top of their lungs. Romans read at a polite, dignified murmur, but not Greeks or, worse, Asiatics. I left Julia and Amphytrion to the dubious pleasures of the Library while I idled about in the great outer courtyard, admiring the splendid statues. I had been there no more than a few minutes when my slave Hermes appeared bearing the most welcome of sights: a bulging wineskin and a pair of cups. I had left him with our litter with strict orders to stay where he was. Naturally, he had ignored me. He was an unregenerate young criminal, but he made up for it by anticipating my needs with mystical precision.
“Didn’t think you’d be able to take too much culture at once,” he said, pouring me a cup. “I went out to a wineshop and picked us up some first-rate Lesbian.”
I took the cup gratefully. “Remind me to flog you sometime for disobedience.” I raised the cup in toast to the statue of Sappho that stood just inside the portico of the Temple. She had this place of honor because the old Greeks had named her “the tenth Muse.” I took a long drink and addressed the statue.
“Now I know what your inspiration was, old girl.” The many tourists made scandalized noises to see someone drinking in such a place. That was all right. A Roman Senator can do whatever he likes, and we’re used to snooty foreigners calling us barbarians. Hermes poured himself a cup.
“I trust you have some valuable information for me,” I said. “There are limits to the insolence I will tolerate.”
“I got this straight from the queen’s personal maids,” he assured me. “She’s pregnant again.” This was one of the ways that Hermes served me.
“Another royal brat!” I said. “This is going to complicate things, especially if it turns out to be a boy. Another princess won’t matter much, with three already underfoot.”
“They say Pothinus, the Number One Eunuch, is not pleased.” Hermes was privy to more privileged information than the whole diplomatic corps.
“No reason why he should be. It just complicates his life, too. Not to mention that eunuchs as a rule don’t take much satisfaction in human fertility. How far along is she?”
“Three months. Berenice is furious, Cleopatra seems to be happy about it and Arsinoe’s too young to care. As far as I know, young Ptolemy hasn’t been told yet.”
“What about the king?” I asked.
“I don’t move in such exalted circles. You’re the great Roman official.”
“Much good does that do me. I’m a glorified tour guide these days.”
“At least you’re in agreeable company. Would you rather be in Rome, dodging Clodius and being poisoned by his sister and worrying about what Caesar has planned for you? Enjoy the vacation, is what I say.”
“Hermes,” I said, “here we stand in the midst of the greatest assemblage of philosophers in the world. I don’t need your worldly advice.”
He snorted. “I’ve seen plenty of these philosophers since we’ve been here. You know why they all have slaves to wipe their bottoms for them? Because they’re too crackbrained to do it for themselves.”
“You shouldn’t speak that way of your betters.” I tossed him the empty cup. “Take this back to the litter. That skin had better not be noticeably flatter when we leave here.”
Still at loose ends, I went into the Temple itself. I had never visited the Temple, and so I was completely unprepared for its breathtaking beauty. It was circular, thus giving equal place to each of the nine Muses, whose statues stood around its periphery.
In Rome we had our fine Temple of Hercules and the Nine Muses, but there the pride of place is given to Hercules, a Roman favorite. The images of the Muses are not of the highest quality.
These were worthy of Praxiteles. They were carved from the finest white marble, adorned with only the subtlest tints, unlike so many garishly painted statues. This gave them a spectral, almost transparent presence, like spirits seen in a dream. Before each burned a vessel of frankincense, wreathing them in smoke and contributing to their divine appearance. Only their eyes, delicately inlaid with shell and lapis lazuli, shone forth with more than mortal intensity.
I realized then how little I knew of the Muses. I daresay I could have named two or three of them: Terpsichore, because everyone likes dance, and Polyhymnia, because we all sing praises of the gods, and Erato, because she is the Muse of love poems and her name is similar to Eros. But the others were hazy to me.
The proportions of the Temple were perfect. It was not numbingly huge like so many of the Alexandrian buildings, but rather of human scale. The statues of the Muses were only slightly larger than life-size, just enough to emphasize that these were not mere mortals. The polished marble of which it was built was of many colors, but all of it pale, accentuating the aetherial nature of the place.
Outside of Rome, I have encountered only a few temples, shrines or sanctuaries that seemed to me genuinely holy. Alexandria’s Temple of the Muses was one of them. Being there was like falling under the spell of the sublime goddesses.
“You like our Temple, Senator?” I turned to see a small, bearded man dressed in a simple white, Dorian chiton and a hair-fillet of plain white cloth.
“It is sublime,” I said in a low voice. To speak loudly in this place would be a desecration. “I want to sacrifice to them.”
He smiled gently. “Here we do not sacrifice. On their festivals, we offer the goddesses wheat kneaded with honey, and we pour libations of milk and honey and water, that is all. We burn incense to their honor. They are not deities who love the blood of sacrifice. Here we work to their glory.”
“Are you a priest?” I asked.
He bowed his head slightly. “I am Agathon, Archpriest of the Muses. Are you familiar with our goddesses?”
“Just slightly. They aren’t well known in Rome.”
“Then allow me to introduce you.” He led me to the first, who stood to the right of the doorway. As we walked, he spoke, or rather intoned, the names, qualities and attributes of each. The Muses differed little in face, figure or garments, so they were known by their attributes.
“Clio, the Muse of history Her attributes are the trumpet of heroes and the clepsydra”.
“Euterpe, Muse of the flute, and bearer of the flute”.
“Thalia, the Muse of comedy, who bears the mask of comedy”.
“Melpomene, the Muse of tragedy. Her attributes are the tragic mask and the club of Heracles”.
“Terpsichore, bearer of the cithara”, Muse of lyric poetry and the dance.
“Erato, the Muse of love poetry, who alone of the Muses has neither attribute nor attitude”.
“Polyhymnia, Muse of heroic hymn, but also of mime, whose finger touches her lips in the attitude of meditation”.
“Urania, the Muse of astronomy, whose attributes are the celestial globe and the compass”.
“Greatest among them all, Calliope, Muse of epic poetry and eloquence, who bears the stylus and tablets.”
All the Muses were portrayed standing except for Clio and Urania, who were seated. I never gave them the study they merited, for my times were mostly times of civil war and violence, unsuited to cultivation of the gentler arts. But from that day to this I have never forgotten their names and attributes, and whenever my steps took me near their temple by the Circus
Flaminius, I never omitted to toss a bit of incense into their braziers.
I thanked the priest with deepest appreciation. The experience had been unexpected and was one I somehow knew I would cherish all my days. When I left the Temple it somehow seemed odd to me that everything outside was exactly as I had left it. A few minutes later Julia and Amphytrion emerged from the Library, and she looked at me strangely.
“Are you drunk?” she asked. “It seems awfully early.”
“Just one cup, I swear it,” I said.
“Then why do you look so strange?”
“The gentleman looks like one who has been given a vision from the gods,” Amphytrion said seriously. “Has this happened?”
“No,” I said hastily. “At least, I don’t think so. Julia, let’s go back to the Palace.”
“I wanted to see more,” she said, “but perhaps we’d better.”
We thanked Amphytrion and returned to our litter. I tried to cover my odd mood with small talk, and soon Julia was chattering away about the stupendous collection of books in the Library, which was sufficient to make the whole city smell of papyrus. I promised to show her the Paneum the next day. I had been there before, and expected no unusual experiences as a result.
“Oh, by the way,” Julia said. “Amphytrion has invited us to a banquet to be given tomorrow evening in the Museum. It is an annual affair, in honor of the founding of the Museum.”
“Oh, no!” I groaned. “Couldn’t you beg off? The last thing I want to do is go to a learned banquet and endure a lot of elevated talk from men who don’t know how to have a good time.”
“Berenice is going,” she said firmly, “and she’ll want me and Fausta to attend. You may do as you like.”
I knew what that tone meant. “Of course I’ll go, my dear. Where is Fausta, by the way?”
“She went to see all those bulls sacrificed. She likes that sort of thing.”
“She would. Hermes has been asking around about that temple. It seems the bulls are to be castrated and their testicles will be made into a cloak to drape over the god’s shoulders, like they do for the image of Diana at Ephesus.”
She made a face. “The stories that boy picks up. I don’t know why you tolerate him.”
“He’s amusing, which is more than you can say for most slaves, and he steals very little considering his opportunities.”
When we were back in the Palace, I looked up Creticus, who was conferring with the others in the embassy over some newly arrived papers. When Rufus saw me, he picked up one of the papers and waved it at me.
“These just came in this morning by a fast cutter, Decius. The elections have been held in Rome. Caius Julius Caesar’s to be Consul next year.”
“Well, there was never much doubt,” I said. “Now perhaps his creditors will have some hope of getting repaid. Who’s the other?”
“Bibulus,” Creticus said disgustedly. “They might as well have elected an oyster.”
“It’ll be a one-man Consulship, then,” I said. “Oh, well, at least Julia will be happy.”
We looked over the election results, looking for friends and enemies. As usual, there were plenty of both. Creticus jabbed a finger at a name on the list of new Tribunes.
“Vatinius,” he said. “He’s Caesar’s man. That means Caesar’s laws are likely to make it through the Popular Assemblies.”
“What are the proconsular provinces to be?” I asked. Creticus mumbled his way down a page; then his mouth fell open.
“For both of them it’s to be the supervision of rural roads, cattle-paths and pastures in Italy!” We all rocked with laughter
“That’s a deadly insult!” I said. “It’s war between Caesar and the Senate.”
Creticus waved the thought away. “No, Caius Julius will find a way out of it. He’ll get the Popular Assemblies to vote him a rich province. The Tribunes can override the Senate easily enough these days. Remember, he gave up his right to a triumph to return to Rome and stand for Consul. That counts for a lot with the commons. They think he’s been cheated and they’ll be on his side.”
The astonishing rise of Caius Julius in Roman politics was the wonder of the age. Rather late in life, he had emerged from obscurity to reveal himself as an accomplished politician, a gifted governor and, recently in Spain, a more than adequate military leader. For one who had been noted only for debauchery and debt, his career was doubly amazing. His tenure in Spain had been profitable enough for him to clear the most crushing of his debts. As Consul he couldn’t be harassed by his remaining creditors, and if he could secure a rich province, he would be among the most redoubtable men in Rome. He was a man whom all thought they knew but whom no man had ever fathomed.
“Maybe you can go home soon, Decius,” Rufus said. “You’re betrothed to Caesar’s niece, so he’ll keep Clodius reined in while he’s Consul.”
“I’m not afraid of Clodius,” I said, not quite truthfully.
“The sight of you two fighting in the Forum is embarrassing to the family,” Creticus said. “Fear is immaterial. You’ll go home when the family calls you back.”
“Oh, well, so much for that,” I said. “By the way, I’ve just learned that the queen is pregnant.” I told them what I had learned from Hermes.
“A gentleman should not listen to slave gossip,” Creticus snorted.
“Slave gossip has kept me not only informed but, on more than one occasion, alive,” I retorted. “I think this is reliable.”
We talked over the likely implications. Predictably, all bemoaned the likelihood of another son, which would complicate Roman-Egyptian relations. The gathering broke up on that sour note.
The next day I escorted Julia to the Paneum. This was one of Alexandria’s more eccentric sights, an artificial hill with a spiral path ascending it and the Paneum itself at the top. It was not a true temple. That is to say, there was no priesthood, and no sacrifices were offered there. Rather, it was a shrine to the much-beloved god.
The climb up the spiral path was a long one, but it was beautifully landscaped, with the path paralleled by a strip of well-planted ground adorned with tall poplars, studded with odd little grottoes and alive with statues of Pan’s woodland followers. Fauns capered, satyrs chased nymphs, dryads disported themselves all the way up the hill.
At the top was a shrine without walls, consisting of a roof supported by slender pillars, for who would confine a sylvan god like Pan within walls? Beneath the roof was a bronze statue of the god, half again as tall as a man, horned and cloven-hoofed, goat-legged, dancing ecstatically with his syrinx in one hand.
“How beautiful!” Julia said as we passed between the pillars. And then: “Goodness!” She was staring at the god’s far-famed attribute; a rampantly erect penis which, on a man, would have somewhat exceeded his forearm in size.
“Surprised?” I said. “Every herm in every garden is similarly equipped.”
“But not so heroically,” Julia said, her eyes wide. “I pity the nymphs.”
“Now, Fausta would have said that she envied them.” That lady had decided to spend the day among the self-flagellating priestesses of Baal-Ahriman. She had an altogether livelier breadth of interest than Julia.
“Fausta places an excessive value on physical things,” Julia said. “Hence her interest in your odious friend Milo.”
“Milo is intelligent, eloquent, forceful, ambitious and is destined for great things in Roman politics,” I pointed out.
“Others have the same qualifications. He is also violent, unscrupulous and balks at nothing to advance himself. Also common qualities, I grant you. What makes him unique, and desirable as far as Fausta is concerned, is that he has the face and body of a god.”
“Is that his fault? And Cornelian standards are rather high in that area. In all of Rome, who is a match for Fausta but Milo?”
She snorted a delicate, patrician snort. “Why should she bother? It’s not as if they are going to be seen in public. Roman husbands won’t even sit with their
wives at the Circus. They do make a striking couple, though. She is so fair and delicate, he is so dark and brawny. And his bearing is as arrogant as hers, even though his birth is so much lower.”
I smiled to myself. Even Julia admired Milo, although she would never admit it directly. Virtually every woman in Rome did. Serving-girls scrawled his name on the walls as if he were some reigning gladiator or charioteer. “Handsome Milo,” they called him, declaring that they were soon to expire of passion for him, frequently going into indecent detail. Julia would never be so shameless, but she was not immune to his charm.
“Birth no longer means much in Rome,” I said. “Power these days is in the Tribuneship and with the Popular Assemblies. A patrician like Clodius transfers to the plebs so that he can stand for Tribune, and even your uncle Caius Julius, who is as patrician as Romulus, has become a man of the people because that’s where the power is.”
“My uncle Caius wishes to restore the ancient dignity of the Senate, a task in which he says that Sulla failed. If he must go to the commons for the authority to do so, it is merely because that is how corrupt the times have become. He is willing to endure this indignity for the good of the state.”
Her family loyalty was touching, but it was misplaced. The veriest political dunce knew that Caius Julius had no interest in restoring the dignity of the Senate. Restoring the monarchy was more like it, with Caesar as king. We had no idea then how close he would come to doing it, though.
“The view from here is extraordinary,” she said, changing the subject. And indeed it was. The Paneum was not exactly a lofty eminence, but Alexandria was so flat that no great altitude was required to see all of it. I resumed my character of tour guide.
“The Palace complex you know by now,” I said. “Over there”—I pointed to the southeastern section of the city—“is the Jewish Quarter. It is said that there are more Jews in Alexandria than in Jerusalem.” I pointed to the western side of the city, dominated by the immense bulk of the Serapeum, a single temple that rivaled the entire city Museum complex in size. “That’s the Rakhotis, the Egyptian quarter, so called because there was a native town of that name when Alexander founded the city here. The city is cut up into perfectly rectangular blocks, and these in turn form greater blocks, each named for one of the letters of the Greek alphabet.”
SPQR IV: The Temple of the Muses Page 5
