The Temple of the Muses (6 page)
Read The Temple of the Muses Online
Authors: John Maddox Roberts
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical
“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.”
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.”
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.”
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.
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.”
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