“He lies!” cried Sulpicius Naso. “We will be ruined! Our livelihood rides on each year’s cargoes, at the mercy of war and weather. We are always on the brink of beggary!” Like most rich men, he had an infinite store of self-pity.
“Economics is not my field,” I said. “Ask anyone at the Treasury, where I served my quaestorship. Why did you bring your complaints here to Cyprus instead of before the Senate in Rome?”
“Believe me, Senator,” said Brutus, “a far larger delegation is on its way to Rome for just that purpose. We are here because we have business interests in Cyprus as well as Alexandria. This used to be a Ptolemaic kingdom, but since it is now Roman we sought assurances from the governor that King Ptolemy would not be able to seize our property here, which is considerable.”
“And what did we find?” said Antonius, his face going red. “We found the governor in a cozy relationship with Aulus Gabinius, the stooge of Rabirius, the man behind Ptolemy’s money woes! Not only that, but Ptolemy’s daughter is his houseguest!”
“It does seem a bleak prospect for you,” I agreed. So now somebody else had cause to kill Silvanus. In a way a Roman culprit would simplify things for me; the less foreign involvement the better.
“Of course,” Josephides put in hastily, “we were as shocked and saddened as anyone when the governor was so foully murdered. Despite his unfortunate choice of friend and guest, he listened to our petitions with great sympathy and gave us assurances that our businesses and properties on Cyprus would enjoy the fullest protection. Now, in fact, our situation is once again uncertain. There seems to be no constituted Roman authority here.”
“Unless you are the new governor,” Antonius said.
It was time to change the subject. “How is it that you are here with Photinus?”
“At the king’s insistence,” Brutus said bitterly. “The only way we could get permission to sail was to leave surety for our return and take along a court minister. Our trading licenses are forfeit if we so much as hold a meeting without him present.”
“As you observed, Senator,” said the eunuch, “King Ptolemy is not stupid.”
“So it would seem. One more thing, gentlemen, are any of you in the frankincense trade?”
They looked at me as if I were insane. It is a look I have learned to recognize.
“Frankincense?” Brutus said. “Why frankincense?”
“Indulge my curiosity. I have my reasons.”
“In Egypt,” said Antonius, “frankincense is a royal monopoly and the crown sells it for shipment abroad only to the Holy Society of Dionysus. That society is entirely Greek. No non-Hellene can even apply for membership, which is largely hereditary.”
“I suppose that answers my question then. Gentlemen, thank you for coming, and you may return to your lodgings now. However, I will ask you not to leave the island until the murderer of Governor Silvanus has been found.”
“Do you think,” Brutus said, rising, “that we are anxious to return to Alexandria just now?”
9
THE NEXT DAY WAS LARGELY GIVEN OVER to the funeral of Silvanus. The weather was beautiful, and the hired mourners wailed superbly. The whole Roman population of Paphos and neighboring towns turned out for the occasion, and there were more of them than I had expected. The visitors from Alexandria were there, naturally, and Photinus represented King Ptolemy, dressed in court robes, wig, and cosmetics, adding a delightful note of the bizarre to the proceedings.
Since Paphos was a Greek city, a chorus had been hired for the occasion. They sang traditional funeral songs, plus a new one specially written by Alpheus. Gabinius, dressed in an impressively striped augur’s toga (for he belonged to that priestly college), took the auspices, then sacrificed a couple of handsome calves. After the Greek custom, the fat and bones were offered to the gods. The rest would form part of the funeral feast.
Gabinius performed the oration ably, delivering an eloquent eulogy that, though formulaic, was so well crafted that I almost believed the departed had really possessed all those virtues and accomplishments. All the local dignitaries attended, and so did most of the town’s population. It was an occasion out of the ordinary, a minor spectacle, and everyone appreciates a good show.
Silvanus was laid out in his whitest toga, wearing a laurel wreath I doubt he ever rated in life, rings winking from his fingers, cosmetics restoring his face to an almost natural color.
When Gabinius finished his oration, he took a torch and touched it to the oil-soaked wood of the pyre. In moments it was ablaze, its fragrant wood and burden of incense disguising the aroma of roasting governor. I tossed my own handful of frankincense, benzoin, and myrrh onto the blaze and surveyed the scene. No anti-Roman demonstrations so far, but the obtrusive presence of Gabinius’s bullies, rattling with weapons and armor, seemed more of a provocation than a defense. I saw some of the rougher-looking elements of the crowd glaring at them with intense disfavor.