The Temple of the Muses by John Maddox Roberts

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.
    “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