The Princess and the Pirates(7)

“Where is the residence of Governor Silvanus?” I demanded of one of the louts. He just blinked, so I repeated the question in Greek.

He pointed up a gentle slope behind him. “The big house across from the Temple of Poseidon.” I could barely understand him. The Cyprian dialect differs from the Attic as radically as the Bruttian from Latin.

“Come, Hermes,” I said. A couple of porters leapt to take our bags, and we strode along the wharf, picking our way among the boxes, bales, and amphorae that crowded every available foot of space. Everywhere lay stacks of brown metal ingots in the shape of miniature oxhides. Since the time of the Phoenicians the copper mines of Cyprus had been a major source of the metal, and it remained the basis of the island’s prosperity.

Above the pervasive sea smell twined the scents of herbs, incense, and spices, along with an occasional vinegary reek where some ham-fisted porter had let an amphora drop and smash, wasting perfectly good wine. This gave me a thought.

“Hermes—”

“Yes, I know: find out where the good wineshops are.” I had trained him well.

There is this to be said for a small, colonial city like Paphos: you never have to walk far to get where you are going. The Temple of Poseidon was a graceful structure of the simple Doric design, and I made a mental note to sacrifice there as soon as possible in gratitude for my safe arrival and wonderful sailing weather.

The residence of Silvanus was a two-story mansion of a size available only to the wealthiest in crowded Rome. The slave at the door wore fine Egyptian linen. He called for the major-domo, and this dignitary proved to be a cultured Greek of impeccable dress and grooming.

“Welcome, Senator,” he said, bowing gracefully. “Senator Silvanus was not expecting a visit from a colleague, but I know he will be overjoyed and will be stricken that he was not here to greet you personally.”

“Where is he then?” 1 asked, annoyed as always by domestics whose manners are better than my own.

“He visits today with his friend, the great General Gabinius, whose villa is just outside the city. He will return this evening. In the meantime please allow me to put his house at your disposal.” He clapped his hands and a pair of slaves took charge of our bags while Hermes tipped the porters from the wharf.

“While your chambers are prepared, please avail yourself of some refreshment in the garden. Or perhaps you would rather bathe first?”

This was a bit of luck. Usually, the worst house is better than the best inn. This did not look like the worst house in town.

“I’m famished. First something to eat, then a bath.”

“Certainly. I trust your voyage was not too arduous?”

I prattled on about the trip as he led us through the atrium and into a large, formal garden completely surrounded by the house, the way a gymnasium surrounds the exercise yard. Houses were not built this way in Rome. In the center was a lovely, marble-bordered pond with a fountain in its middle. It looked as if I had lucked into prime accommodations.

“We entertain several distinguished guests today,” said the major-domo. “No person of note comes to Paphos without enjoying the hospitality of Silvanus.”

“Admirable,” I murmured. Everywhere, fine tables sat beneath beautifully tended shade trees, and roses bloomed in big, earthen pots. At one such table sat a young woman dressed in a simple but gorgeous gown of green silk. The dress would have bought a good-sized estate in Italy. Her hair was reddish brown, not at all a common color, and her skin was an almost transparent white. Strangest of all, she was writing in a papyrus scroll and had several others stacked beside her. Standing around her were a number of learned-looking fellows with long beards and dingy robes.

She looked up at me, and I was transfixed by a pair of astonishing green eyes. She asked, “Do Germans sing?”

I had seen those eyes once, years before, in a child’s face, but one does not forget such eyes. “Princess Cleopatra! I was not expecting to find you here! Nor to encounter so odd a question.”

“I perceive that the senator and the royal lady know one another,” said the major-domo.

“Senator Metellus and I met several years ago, Doson, in Alexandria.” “Then, Senator, I shall attend to your accommodations.” He bowed himself away. Slaves set me a chair at Cleopatra’s table, poured wine into a fine Samian goblet, and set out a plate of bread, fruit, and cheese with a quiet, unobtrusive efficiency at which I could only marvel. Why couldn’t I ever find slaves like that?

“You were in Gaul with Caesar until a bit over two years ago,” Cleopatra observed.

“You are amazingly well informed.” The wine was superb, but by this time I was expecting it to be. “My services were somewhat less than heroic.”