“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.”
“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.