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.”