The Temple of the Muses(24)

I always hated it when she was so penetrating and insightful. “It’s nothing you need to bother yourself about,” I insisted.

“Come on, tell me.” She sounded amused. “If I’m to be your assistant, I want to know.”

“Well,” I said uneasily, “it’s something about the place. Not the Museum or Library so much, but the Temple itself.”

“And?” she prodded.

“And it’s wrong to commit murder in a temple. Even the place where Iphicrates was killed is a part of the Temple complex.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Even a foreign temple?”

“The Muses are legitimate goddesses,” I maintained. “We worship them in Rome.”

“I never thought you all that pious, Decius,” she said.

“This Temple is different,” I stubbornly insisted.

She lay back on the cushions. “I’ll accept that. But I want you to show me this Temple.” She said nothing more the rest of the way back to the Palace.

I had more than enough to occupy my mind.





4

“WHAT’S ALL THIS ABOUT A MURDER?” Creticus demanded.

So I told him all about it, at least what little I knew so far. We were taking breakfast in the shaded courtyard of the embassy: flat Egyptian bread, dates, figs in milk and honey.

“Local matter, then,” he said when I’d finished. “Nothing to concern ourselves about.”

“Still, I want to look into it,” I said. “It’s bad form to kill someone when royalty and Romans are present. Especially Romans. They ought to show more respect to a Senator and two visiting patrician ladies.”

“I’m sure the slight was unintended,” Creticus said, spreading honey on a scrap of bread, to the delight of the hovering flies. “Still, if it amuses you, I see no harm in it. It can’t amount to anything, though. He was just a scholar.”

“Thank you, sir. These Egyptians are a touchy lot where their supposed authority is concerned, though. If they give me trouble, may I count on you for support?”

He shrugged. “As long as it doesn’t cause me too much difficulty.”

After breakfast I hurried to the royal quarters, where my toga and senatorial insignia quickly got me admitted to the royal presence.

I found Ptolemy enjoying a far more substantial breakfast than I had just left. There were whole roast peacocks and Nile fish the size of pigs, oysters by the bucket and a roast gazelle. Those were only the main courses. How he could face any sort of food in his condition was something of a mystery.

When I entered he looked up from his platter with eyes like ripe cherries. His nose looked as if it had been carved and lovingly polished from the finest porphyry. The rest of his face was veined somewhat less luridly. He had once been a fine-looking man, although a certain leap of imagination was required to discern this.

“Ah, Senator … Metellus, is it?”

“Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, your Majesty. I am with the Roman embassy.”

“Of course, of course. Come, sit down. Have you eaten yet?”

“Just minutes ago,” I assured him.

“Well, have some more. More than I can eat here, anyway. Have some wine, at the very least.”

It was early to be drinking, but you don’t get to sample a king’s private stock every day, so I partook.

“You’ve heard about the murder at the Museum, sir?” I began.

“Berenice mentioned something about it earlier, but I was still a little fuzzy. What happened?” So I gave my account yet another time. I was used to this sort of repetition. When dealing with the Senate and its committees, you render your report in full to the lowest committee chief, who listens with a serious expression until you’ve finished and then sends you to the next higher-up to do it all over again, and so forth until you address the full Senate, most of whom snore through it.

“Iphicrates of Chios?” the king said. “Designed cranes and water wheels and catapults, didn’t he?”

“Well, he said he didn’t work on war machines, but that was the sort of work he did. The others seemed to think it was undignified, doing truly useful work like that.”

“Philosophers!” Ptolemy snorted. “Let me tell you something, Senator. My family owns that Museum and we support everyone in the place. If I want costumes and masks designed for my next theatricals, I send an order there and they put their artists to work on it. If I want a new water-clock, they design it for me. If I need a new Nile barge, they will design and have it built for me, and if one of my officers comes back from a campaign with an arrow lodged in him, those physicians will damned well come and get that arrow out, even if they have to get their philosophical fingers bloody in the process.”