The Temple of the Muses(62)

“I’ve never met a woman of such impressive diplomatic credentials,” I said. “But I cannot blame you for finding Rome more congenial.”

“Yes. Mine is an unforgiving profession. One’s desirability lasts only as long as youthful beauty. Once that fades, the road downhill is steep. I’ve known women to go from highly paid hetaira to mere streetwalking porna in two years.”

“It is a hard world,” I agreed.

“But it is looking better now,” she said. “Tell me, have you visited the Daphne of Alexandria?”

“I’ll confess, the diversions of the court have been too exhausting to seek out the more strenuous amusements of the city.”

“It isn’t as famous as the one in Antioch, but it is more than lively. You’ve been living the high life thus far, Roman. Why not come with me and sample the low?”

“Now?” I said, looking up at the full moon. “It must be near midnight!”

“Then things should just be getting lively,” she said.

I was never one to hold out against temptation for long. “Lead on!” I said.

In Rome, it was easy for people to forget that some other cities have what is known as a night life. When Romans feel in a mood for debauchery, they begin their parties early so everyone can get properly paralytic before it gets too dark for their slaves to carry them home. In other places, they just light the torches and carry on.

The Daphne of Alexandria, named for the famous pleasure-garden of Antioch, was located in a beautiful grove in the Greek quarter, near the Paneum. Lines of torches led to its entrance, and between the torches vendors wandered, selling the wherewithal necessary for an evening of revelry. To my surprise, we were expected to wear masks. These were cleverly made out of pressed papyrus, artfully molded and painted to resemble various characters from mythology and poetry. They were rather like theatrical masks save that they left the mouth uncovered to facilitate eating, drinking and whatever other uses to which one wished to devote that orifice. I took one with a satyr’s face; Hypatia, one with the licentious features of a nymph.

Then we had to have wreaths. Around our necks went wreaths of laurel and vine leaves, and Hypatia wrapped a garland of myrtle around her beautiful black hair. I chose a generous chaplet of acorn-studded oak leaves to help disguise my Roman haircut. Not that I was greatly worried in this place, where the crowd consisted mainly of Greeks and other foreigners. There were few if any Egyptians.

At the entrance a fat fellow dressed as Silenus came to greet us. He wore the white chiton, carried the flowing bowl and wore the chaplet of vine leaves complete with dangling bunches of grapes. He recited verses of welcome in the rustic Greek of Boeotia.



“Friends, enter these sacred precincts

In peace of heart and expectation of joy.

Here dread Ares has no home,

Nor does hardworking Hephaestus toil.

But only Dionysus of the grape, Apollo of the lyre,

Eros and the gentle Muses reign.

Here each man is a swain,

Each woman a carefree nymph.

Leave care and sorrow behind you.

For these have no place here.

Welcome, doubly welcome, and rejoice!”





I tipped the man handsomely and we entered. The grove consisted of a series of interlocking arbors in the form of a maze. Torches burned, perfumed to give a fragrant smoke. There was just enough light to make everything clear and to reveal rich colors, but no more than that. A step would carry you from plain view to dark intimacy as desired. Everywhere were small tables on which little lamps burned, the low-level light making the masked faces nearby look like something from another world. Among the tables wandered women in the abbreviated tunics of mythical nymphs, men costumed as satyrs, boys with the pointed ears and tails of fauns, wild-haired women in the leopard skins of Bacchantes. All of them poured wine from amphorae or served delicacies from trays or danced or played wild music upon the syrinx and double flute and tambour. It was all quite licentious and abandoned to Roman eyes, but its joyous exuberance utterly lacked the fanatic hysteria of, say, the rites in the Temple of Baal-Ahriman.

“Come on, let’s find a table,” Hypatia urged. We wandered into the maze, taking so many turns that I despaired of ever finding a way out again. It is the virtue of such a place that you don’t really care if you ever get out. Eventually we found a table with a top no larger than the thumping tambours of the musicians. A bright-eyed girl placed cups on our table and filled them. As she bent over, her breasts nearly fell out of her brief tunic. Hypatia eyed her as she danced away.

“A pity it’s so cool,” she said. “Most of the year they wear less.”