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proconsulship.
    I bade the silk merchant good-bye and continued my explorations. As one might expect in a sea-lanes emporium like Paphos, wares from the whole eastern sea were on display, some for domestic sale but most to attract other merchants who might buy in bulk for transshipment farther west. If a merchant had one fine glass vase on his table, he was sure to have a warehouse full of them down at the docks, ready to load up for you, cheap.
    I stopped in the Temple of Poseidon and made the promised sacrifice and admired the wonderful statue of that maritime god, executed by Praxiteles more than three hundred years before. In the great days of the Greek colonies, each city had competed with all the others to commission the finest sculptures and paintings from the greatest artists. Paphos, it seemed, had done especially well.
    “Where now?” Hermes asked, as we left the temple.
    “The naval docks. It’s time to act like an official.”
    The naval basin of Paphos lay to one side of the commercial harbor, just within the long breakwater built to protect the ships from the worst effects of storms. It was an artificial harbor forming a half circle lined with low-roofed stone sheds to accommodate thirty ships. Inside the sheds the floors sloped upward so that the ships could be floated in, their masts and oars removed, then hauled up out of the water for repairs: to have their bottoms scraped, tarred, and painted, or for other work. During the stormy season, the ships were stored in these sheds, high and dry.
    This facility turned out to be in the care of one Harmodias, a retired naval shipmaster who took his time about responding to my shouts and door pounding. His office was a little house situated among the warehouses for naval stores next to the sheds. He opened the door, blinking his one eye and scratching in his beard, wrapped in a moth-eaten garment that was also the blanket he had been sleeping in.
    “What’s all this racket?” he demanded, last night’s wine still strong on his breath.
    “I am Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger,” I announced grandly. “I bear a senatorial commission to scour this area for pirates.”
    He removed his hand from his beard and scratched his backside. “Well, good luck.” He walked to a small fountain that bubbled into a shell-shaped basin near his doorway and plunged his face into the water, shook his head and blew a while, then straightened, wiping his face with a corner of the disreputable robe.
    “I expect your cooperation,” I said.
    “If I had any to give, you’d be welcome to it,” he assured me. “But, as you can see, Roman naval power on Cyprus is diminished since its days of glory.”
    “I noticed. What happened to the ships?”
    He sat on a stone bench and worked his toes against the pavement as if they were numb. Clearly this man woke up a part at a time. “Well, let’s see. Five years ago I had ten fine triremes, ten Liburnians, and five penteconters, perfectly immaculate and with all their gear. Then General Crassus wanted them for his Parthian war. After that, General Gabinius wanted them for his campaigns in Syria and Egypt. Last year, General Pompey requisitioned them and sent them out to support General Caesar’s war in Gaul. That’s where they are now, if they’re still afloat.”
    “Generals put a high demand on Rome’s military resources,” I commiserated.
    “You’ve got that right. When I first went to sea, it was admirals used the ships for sea battles. Now all the navy does is ferry supplies for the legions, get them across water obstacles, run errands for them, anything but cruise and fight. It’s no work for a real sailor, I can tell you.”
    “Well, I’ve work for you now. I’m here with three ships—” He snorted loudly. “Ships! I saw them yesterday. Senator, your ships are cockleshells, and your crews are scum. Go sacrifice to Poseidon and ask him to keep a wide stretch of water between your little fleet and those