Render Unto Caesar (15 page)

“Dear boy!” protested Titus helplessly.

“You did very well,” Hermogenes told him, feeling equally helpless. “Calm down. You are not a coward. You tried to fight them. You stayed with me, and I leaned on you all the way back. You were brave and loyal, Menestor, and I am grateful.”

“I'll tell them to fetch the water,” Titus muttered, and slipped out.

*   *   *

It was indescribably wonderful to be clean, to lie down on a bed in a bedroom in a quiet, peaceful house, with the savagery of the streets locked outside. Hermogenes fell asleep almost at once, and slept deeply.

He woke in darkness, his ankle throbbing and his face sore, certain that somebody was creeping into the room with a knife. He sat bolt upright in bed and listened.

There was no sound but the wind against the shutters, the muffled rumble of a cart on the road outside, and Menestor's even breathing from the dayroom. Hermogenes lay down again and stared up into the darkness.

There were things which would have to be done when day came, and decisions which would have to be made. He would have to report the attack to a magistrate; he would have to claim Phormion's body, and arrange for his funeral. He knew, suddenly, that he wanted the priest of Mercury and Isis to assist with the rite. He wanted Phormion to be washed with the water of the Nile, and sent to the gods with the touch and scent of home.

There was a more important decision to make first, though: what to do about the consul and his debt?

It seemed to him that he had three options. First, he could capitulate: send the consul the documents with a letter saying that he was writing off the debt and going home, and hope that that was enough to persuade the man to leave him alone. It might be the most reasonable course; it was undoubtedly the one his poor wretched slave wanted him to take. If he'd followed it before, Phormion would be alive, and he himself would be safely on his way back to his family—but it was no use considering it, because he knew already that he would not do it. Less so than ever, with Phormion dead and himself nearly murdered in the street. Rufus was going to pay every last sestertius of his debt.

Second, then, he could do what he'd threatened, and try to use Rufus's political enemies. He could write to Scipio and get his protection while he summoned the consul to court. True, he had told Titus that he would do that only to defend his own life, but it now seemed it had indeed come to that.

He still felt, however, that it was a course fraught with incalculable risks. He did not understand Roman politics, but he knew that they were both secretive and violent. There was no reason to believe Scipio would respect him any more than did Rufus: he suspected, in fact, that a Roman aristocrat would regard an Alexandrian moneylender as a contemptible tool, to be used and then thrown away. There was, too, that looming absence from the Palatine. Rufus was a
friend
of the emperor; Scipio, though wealthy and assured of privilege, was a mere acquaintance. Trying to use Scipio to extract the money from Rufus might well be an incredibly stupid thing to do.

That left the third option—the one which, he found, he had already chosen: find Rufus's other creditor or creditors, if they existed, and arrange for one of them to buy the debt. He could endure selling it on if that meant it
was
collected and he received at least a part of it—particularly if it meant financial ruin for Lucius Tarius Rufus. Once the debt had been transferred Rufus would have no motive to kill Hermogenes—apart from vengeance, which, though real, was probably not going to be as high a priority for the consul as keeping his own head above the waters of financial ruin.

The biggest difficulty with the third option was that the consul wanted to kill him. Somehow he would have to stay alive long enough to find another creditor and persuade him that he wanted to buy another piece of Lucius Tarius Rufus.

He opened the shutters as soon as the first gray light of dawn showed against them, then inspected his ankle. It was still swollen, but he could swivel it round in every direction, if at the cost of some pain, so he supposed that it was sprained rather than broken. He was not sure he wanted to see what his face looked like, but at least bruises wouldn't impede him.

He got up, then stood on his left foot and gazed unhappily at the long distance of eight or nine paces out the door of the sleeping cubicle and over to the desk in the dayroom. He found that he definitely did not want to put his right foot onto the ground.

He dropped to hands and knees and crawled into the dayroom. He had gone to bed naked from his bath, and he had a sudden ridiculous image of what he must look like—the respectable Alexandrian financier Marcus Aelius Hermogenes, as battered and bruised as a boxer, crawling across that absurdly decorated Nile Room stark naked. He had to pause and stifle a laugh.

Menestor was still asleep. Trying not to wake him, he pulled himself up and sat down in the chair. A letter to Tarius Rufus, that was what he needed—one that would persuade the consul to leave him alone for perhaps ten days.

Pretend that the attack had terrified him so much he was going to write off the debt and go home? Would they believe that, after all his oaths and his defiance?

They might. They might say to themselves, “I knew that the Egyptian would give in once we squeezed him! All Egyptians are cowards at heart.” They would still want those vital documents, though—and he didn't
want
to play the role of the coward.

He took out a sheet of papyrus, considered a moment longer, then picked up the pen and wrote:

M. AELIUS HERMOGENES TO L. TARIUS RUFUS, CONSUL, AND TO HIS FREEDMAN TARIUS MACEDO.

 

Probably you are already aware what happened last night near the Julian Forum, and aware that it failed. I have considered going directly to Scipio, but the desperate nature of that attempt has convinced me that you are unable to pay your debt. I suspect that your lands are so encumbered that if you attempted to sell, you would risk financial catastrophe. Should such occur, I would find myself denied in favor of your Roman creditors, and would likely obtain nothing.

Seeing that this is the case, it seems to me that I must agree to write off the debt and go home empty-handed. I am certain, however, that you will not accept this course from me unless I also hand over to you the documents which prove your obligation. This is difficult, since your conduct toward me hitherto has made me fear that if those documents are in your hands, you will instantly order my death.

I therefore suggest the following compromise: I will send you the documents when I have secured my own departure from Rome. You will then be able to destroy them at your leisure, and your enemies will know nothing about the whole affair. If you make any move against me before then, however, I will turn to Scipio and his friends. I remind you, too, that there is a letter I have left to be sent to Scipio in the event of my death—and, I repeat, it is not at my friend's house, nor does my friend know anything about it, so you will not find it by threatening him. I will reclaim it before I leave Rome, if I am able to do so safely, and send it to you with the documents you so desire. I intend to leave when I am sufficiently recovered from the events of last night. My ankle was broken, and I am currently unable to endure the stresses of travel, but I hope to be able to depart in about ten days.

I hope that this suggestion proves acceptable to you. As a token of good faith, I am reporting the events of last night as an attempted robbery, with no blame attaching to you at all and no mention of your debt.

I pray that the gods grant you all you deserve.

He read it through again, trying to be critical. Was that final line perhaps too heavy-handed?

Probably—but it was satisfying. All in all, he thought the letter would serve. There was enough of the truth in it that it ought to sound convincing, and with luck Rufus and his man would believe that they were going to get what they wanted—that he would spend the next ten days holed up in his friend's house nursing his broken ankle, and that they would have the documents when he left Rome. They would not want to risk sending him to Scipio by making another attempt on him—not unless they were completely insane with arrogance, and he did not think they were insane.

They would, however, probably have the house watched, to make
sure
he wasn't going to Scipio or another of Rufus's enemies. He would have to think of some way around that.

He rolled and sealed the letter, then hopped over to the trunk, unlocked it, and got out clean clothing. Menestor was still asleep, so he dressed very quietly, then crawled silently to the door, resolving that another thing he would do that morning would be to get some kind of crutch.

It was still very early, and nobody had yet come to sweep the colonnade, but a male slave whose name he thought was Gallus was watering the plants in the garden. He greeted the startled man and asked for Stentor. The slave shot off. By the time he returned, with the steward, Hermogenes had been able to crawl unobserved over to the fountain in the center of the courtyard, and was soaking his swollen ankle in the cool water.

“Sir!” whispered Stentor doubtfully. “Shouldn't you be in bed?”

“I have a letter which needs to be delivered urgently.” Hermogenes told him. “I hope that it will prevent further trouble, Stentor. I very much want to avoid having any of my troubles touch this house, so I hope you can spare someone to carry it at once.”

Stentor looked embarrassed. “That's … I am glad of that, sir. I will send someone with your letter immediately.”

Hermogenes handed him the letter and advised him to tell the messenger to deliver it to the guards at the consul's gate with the information that it was urgent and should be given directly to the consul or his freedman. The steward nodded and went off to arrange it, and Hermogenes remained where he was, soaking his ankle. The carp in the pond came over to nibble agreeably at his toes. The sunlit peace of the morning seemed both artificial and ineffably sweet.

Gradually the house woke up. There was a smell of burning charcoal as the morning fires heated water and baked bread, and a sound of voices as the slaves set to work on the daily war against dirt. Eventually Hyakinthos appeared, sent by Titus to check the guest's health. Hermogenes assured the boy that he would be fine.

“Tell your master that I have already sent a letter to Rufus which I hope will prevent more trouble,” he said.

To his surprise, the boy looked acutely disappointed. “You're giving in, sir?” he cried indignantly.

Hermogenes wondered how much the household actually knew of what was going on. Probably most of it: he and Titus had discussed things freely in front of Hyakinthos at least, and slaves did talk among themselves. They would undoubtedly have discussed why their master's Alexandrian guest had twice come back to the house covered in blood.

“You think I should not?” he asked mildly.

Hyakinthos scowled. “It's not up to me to say, sir.”

But that was clearly what he did think. Well, he'd liked Phormion. “I am not giving in,” Hermogenes told him in a low voice, “but I want Rufus to think I am.” He paused, evaluating again, then added, “I think he will probably have this house watched, and he may send people to try to pick up gossip about me, so I would prefer it if he heard that I am prostrate and depressed with a broken ankle.”

The boy's face lit up. “Yes, sir!” He grinned. “I didn't think you'd give up. I'll tell the others to spread the news in the neighborhood that you're … what does ‘prostrate' mean, sir?”

“Lying down.”

Hyakinthos laughed. “Lying down in bed with a broken ankle!” He looked anxious. “It
isn't
broken, is it, sir?”

“I don't think so.” He lifted the ankle out of the pond and swiveled it cautiously. “I will need a crutch for a few days, though. Could you mention that to Stentor, please?”

“Yes, sir. Sir, how is Menestor?”

Hermogenes glanced back at the door to his room. “Still asleep. He was very badly shaken, poor fellow.”

“My master said they put a knife at his throat.”

“They did. He was very brave, though he thinks he was not. He tried to fight them. I leaned on him all the way back.”

Hyakinthos nodded, but something more seemed to be preying on him. He hovered, fidgeting, then finally looked Hermogenes in the eye and said, “Sir—could I ask you something?”

“Ask away.”

“Are you … is Menestor your boy? Like me, I mean, to my master.”

Hermogenes looked back at the nervous young face for a long moment, trying to puzzle out what was transpiring behind it. “No,” he said at last. “Menestor is my secretary and my valet. He was born in my house and I have considerable affection for him, but I have never had the least desire to sleep with another male; in fact, the idea is repugnant to me. I suspect that in that I am like you.”

Hyakinthos reddened. “I'm sorry, sir, if I was insolent.”

“I did not find your question insolent,” Hermogenes told him. Slowly he went on. “I think that you have been wondering why you find your position so bitter, when your master is kind and your family and fellow slaves urge you to take advantage of your good fortune. I understand that you were curious about Menestor, who urges the same thing. Let me say only that I do not think you are either foolish or ungrateful because you hate to sleep with your master. It is simply that you are not by nature a lover of men, and that is something you cannot help. Eros is a god, and will neither come nor go at our command. I think you have a hard lot, child, and I wish I could help, but there is nothing I can see to do.”

Hyakinthos went even redder. “I wish
you
were my master,” he blurted out.

“But I am not,” Hermogenes replied gently. “Nor, I think, would Titus be willing to sell you. I am sorry.”