The Temple of the Muses(16)

“But, learned Iphicrates,” Julia said hastily, “what other marvelous works occupy your mind? In your books you have said that you always have a number of projects under study at any time.”

“If you will come this way,” he said, ushering us into a spacious room adjoining the courtyard where the workmen assembled his water gate. The room was full of cupboards and tables, and the tables were littered with models in varying stages of assembly. Most of the machines, as he explained them, had something to do with raising weights or water. I pointed at one that displayed a long, counterweighted arm tipped with a sling.

“A catapult?” I inquired.

“No, I never design engines of war. That is an improved crane for lifting great stones. A number of your Roman engineers have shown interest in it. It will prove most helpful in your great bridge and aqueduct projects.”

While he spoke to Julia and the Librarian, I wandered about the room, admiring his amazingly lucid drawings and diagrams, every one of them applying geometry and mathematics to the accomplishment of some specific task. This was a sort of philosophy that I could appreciate, even if I found the man himself odious. The open cupboards were filled with more papyri and scrolls. On one table was an oversized scroll of dark, oiled olive wood, its handles stained vermilion. Even a glance told me that it was not made of Egyptian papyrus, but of the skin-paper of Pergamum. I picked up the massive scroll and began to unroll it, but Iphicrates made a massive, throat-clearing sound.

“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.