Render Unto Caesar (22 page)

Pollio smiled. “You do indeed. Socrates! A chair for my guest.”

The attendant bowed, shot off, and returned a moment later with a folding chair of carved cherrywood. Hermogenes sat down warily, holding his crutch in front of him. The seat was low, and he found that he now had to look up at Pollio, whose own chair was tall and thronelike. Again he was glad of Cantabra standing silently behind him.

“I believe you speak fluent Latin,” Pollio told him. “An unusual accomplishment for a Greek. Which language would you prefer for our business?”

Hermogenes spread his hands. “I defer entirely to you, lord.”

“Let's speak Latin, then,” said Pollio, switching to that language. “It will be a novelty to conduct business with a Greek in my own language. Does the arrogance of that never strike you? That your people expect even their conquerers to learn Greek?”

“If our conquerers choose to learn our language, lord, would it not be arrogant to reject their efforts?”

“Oh, very smooth. And the report was right: you
are
fluent. What is it you want of me,
Marcus
?—if I may presume to use your first name?”

Hermogenes found himself off-balance and embarrassed. He had barely even thought of that Marcus as a name: it had been a title, an indication of the status and power of his Roman citizenship. Pollio was watching him with amusement, well aware of it. He felt at once that it would be a mistake to ignore that thrust.

“I am deftly rebuked, lord,” he said. “Tarius Rufus called me Greekling and Egyptian, yet never made me feel I had as little right to my Roman name as you do simply by using it. It is a name which I claim a right to, however, so if you wish to use it, how can I object?

“My lord, to answer your question: I am here to see whether you wish to buy a debt which I am owed by Tarius Rufus. I inherited it with the estate of my kinsman Nikomachos of Cyprus, but it has proved difficult to collect, and, since you are his major creditor, it seemed best to offer you the chance to consolidate the loan before I tried anyone else.”

“
Difficult
to collect?” replied Pollio, and leaned back in his throne smiling. “
Impossible,
I should think.”

“I think not,” said Hermogenes evenly. “Rufus has enemies who would be willing to protect me in order to see him disgraced by a summons for debt. Or perhaps Gaius Maecenas would buy the debt from me, if you have no interest in it.”

Pollio did not betray much, but there was a momentary freezing of the smile and a contraction of the pupils of the eye that said that Hermogenes had hit a target. He'd thought it worth trying: it stood to reason that Pollio disliked Maecenas—both financiers, both intimates of the emperor, but the one a gentleman praised for his cultured generosity, and the other a freedman's son despised for his greed.

“That would be ill-advised.” Pollio said softly. “I think that before he allowed you to do either of those things, my dear friend Lucius would … arrange for you to meet some robbers in the Subura. Your gladiatrix is a fierce fighter, no doubt, but I see only one of her.”

Hermogenes inspected the handle of his crutch. “The consul knows he would not benefit from my death.”

There was a silence, and then Pollio laughed. “Oh, Jupiter, dear Lucius
has
had bad luck, hasn't he? Who has the incriminating documents?”

Hermogenes looked back at him with an expression of polite bafflement. Inwardly he was beginning to feel a new chill. Whatever bound this man to the consul, it wasn't the simple commercial transaction he had thought. The tone and the language were wrong. There was something more complicated here, something political. He began to suspect that he had been extremely unwise to come.

Pollio laughed again, as though he'd seen that realization. “You're out of your depth, Alexandrian,” he said, almost gently. “You're swimming well, but you're out of your depth. Tell me, how did you know I was Lucius's major creditor? I have not publicized the fact.”

“He had every reason to pay if he could,” Hermogenes replied. “That he didn't, had to mean he couldn't. If he had borrowed in Rome, it would have been from a member of his own circle, and that meant you or Maecenas.”

“And he and Gaius Maecenas always loathed each other,” Pollio finished, as though it were common knowledge. “Simple enough. How much does Lucius owe you?”

“Four hundred thousand of the principal,” he answered at once, aware of his heart slowing in relief. Perhaps the political aspect was completely irrelevant to his own concerns, and he could still sell the debt and get out. “Plus a hundred and twenty thousand of interest. Given the difficulties I face in trying to collect—and my innocence of political matters, lord, in which, I do acknowledge it! I am indeed out of my depth—I would sell to you for two-thirds of the total.” He would not press for more, not now. “My great wish is to be quit of this and go home. I have only one condition.”

“Oh, conditions!” exclaimed Pollio. “I never fail to be astonished at the way you Greeks believe you can impose
conditions
. Winged Death could appear before you with his sword, and you would try to dictate to him the conditions under which he could claim your life. Tell me your ‘condition,' then!”

His heart sped up again. He was not going to escape so easily. He made himself respond calmly despite his growing apprehension. “Whatever you do with the debt, Rufus must know that I no longer hold the title to it.”

“And you believe that would save you now?” Pollio smiled, then snapped his fingers. “Socrates. Some wine for my guest. Make it the Caecuban. He amuses me.”

The slave bowed and hurried out.

“I presume you have documents to prove title,” Pollio went on, leaning back in his chair and resting his swollen hands on his stomach.

“In a safe place.”

“Of course. Give them to me, and we will talk about payment and ‘conditions.'”

Hermogenes put the end of the crutch on the floor and levered himself upright. “I am sorry to have disturbed you,” he said, as calmly as he could. “I regret that we cannot do business.”

“Sit down!” snapped Pollio, with the first hint of real annoyance. “I've just sent for wine.”

Hermogenes remained standing. “All I want,” he said evenly, “is to recover money that is owed to me. I have offered you the opportunity to purchase the debt. And—forgive me!—but what is business but a setting of conditions? If you reject the need for them, what is there left to negotiate about? If you are Death with his sword, and conditions mean nothing to you, then kill me. You should be aware, though, that I have left a letter which will go to one of the consul's enemies if I do not reclaim it.”

He saw, with dismay, that Pollio wanted that event no more than did Rufus. “Sit down,” the Roman said again. “Sit down or I may become angry with you! I do not reject your conditions. We will negotiate.”

Hermogenes sat down. The slave Socrates hurried in, accompanied by a young male slave carrying a silver tray on which stood wine, water, and two cups, all made of a delicate Alexandrian glass. The young man bowed to his master, set the tray down on the corner of the desk, and poured wine, mixing it with only a third of water. He bowed to his master again and handed him a cup, then gave one to the guest. Hermogenes noticed that the young man's hands were trembling. Presumably he would be thrown to the lampreys if he dropped the glass. He accepted the wine with a murmur of thanks.

Pollio sniffed the wine appreciatively, then took a slow sip, rolled the drink around his mouth, and swallowed. “Superb!” he announced. “I find that Caecuban is one of the few things in life which never lose their savor. Try it.”

Hermogenes sipped the wine cautiously. It was rich, very heavy, sweet and vinegary at the same time, with a complexity of flavor that instantly proclaimed a formidable expense.

“As you say,” he agreed. “Superb.”

Pollio laughed again, setting down his cup. “Oh, you do have talent, don't you? Lucius should curse the day he decided he could ignore that debt. Being Lucius, of course, he will merely curse
you
. He's never liked Greeks. He has, more than most of us, that sense that you are sneering at us as uncouth barbarians behind our backs.” He smiled, showing the points of his teeth. “Myself, I am very philhellenic. Most of my domestic staff are Greek, as perhaps you've noticed.”

More fashionable even than ordinary slaves with Greek names, no doubt. And no doubt the lampreys liked them just as much.

“You said we would negotiate,” Hermogenes reminded him.

“Yes. As it happens, I am not certain whether I want to buy Lucius's debt from you or whether I would prefer to help you collect it yourself. If I decide to buy it, I will give you the interest and the two-thirds of the principal you ask for, and you may be certain that Lucius will know that I have done so. If I help you to collect it, I will provide plenty of men to ensure your safety while you sue, and you may keep everything you get. I need a couple of days to decide which course to take. While I am making up my mind, I would like you to remain here in my house as my guest.”

Hermogenes sat very still, gripping the crutch. “My friend Titus Fiducius will be very concerned for me.”

“Ah, yes. Your friend. Does Lucius
know
that you have left your friend's house?”

“He should believe that I attended my slave's funeral, then returned,” Hermogenes admitted reluctantly. “Lord, I told my friend I would be back this evening.”

“It is possible to send him a note, if we arrange for it to be delivered discreetly. You presumably had some idea of how to smuggle
yourself
back in, broken ankle and all, so I think I could manage a letter. You must stay here. I insist.” Pollio's voice hardened on the last two words.

Hermogenes met the rheumy eyes. There was no menace there, only a ruthless satisfaction. Pollio had found a tool that he wanted; Pollio would use it. The tool had no choice in the matter.

“I have no interest in what your plans involve, lord,” Hermogenes said deliberately. “As I have said, all I want is to get my money, and if you are willing to assist me in that, I am content. However, I am also concerned for the safety of people to whom I have obligations. If I were forced to sue for recovery, I would not want my friend or his household brought into any danger.”

“Still making conditions? Very well. Agreed. Your friend will be protected. And for now, you will stay here. Socrates, have the White Rooms made ready for my guest. For his bodyguard … do you want to keep her with you?”

“Yes,” Hermogenes replied, without hesitation. “I gather there was some trouble with one of your men last time she was here.”

Pollio's eyes slid to Cantabra with a look of amusement, but he nodded. He heaved himself to his feet and hobbled over to his guest, walking with the straddled gait of a man whose feet pain him. Hermogenes pulled himself out of the low chair again and stood balanced on his left foot, holding the handle of the crutch with both hands.

Pollio reached out and touched his guest's cheek just under the bandage. The white eyebrows lifted slightly. “I thought I smelled myrrh,” he remarked. “Infected, is it? I will have someone bring you something for it.” He stroked the hot flesh with his swollen fingers, then dropped his hand to Hermogenes' shoulder and squeezed lightly. “I will take very good care of you, Alexandrian. You are exactly what I need.”

*   *   *

The slave called Socrates led them back out to the long corridor, then along it. When they reached the atrium, Hermogenes stopped. The crutch was hurting his armpit, and he felt hot, weak, and sick. “Let me rest a moment,” he said, when Socrates turned back toward him with a look of concern.

“I'll have a chair fetched,” Socrates offered at once, in Greek.

Hermogenes shook his head. “I have a chair, and some bearers I hired for the day. They should be waiting…”

“I will see to it that they are paid and sent off,” Socrates said immediately.

The quickness of that response confirmed it: he would not be
allowed
to slip off. “They expect a denarius,” he murmured, as though he had noticed nothing.

Socrates nodded, clapped his hands to summon the doorkeeper and another passing slave, and gave orders. Someone went off to pay and dismiss the sedan chair; someone else went off into the house, and came back presently with an ordinary chair and two young men to carry it. Hermogenes rode the rest of the way to the White Rooms.

The name obviously came from the stone used to pave and decorate them: Parian marble, pure and glittering as snow. There was a sleeping cubicle, a study, and a dressing room, separated by white curtains and provided with furniture of pale woods and white or gold upholstery. Two women slaves were already there, preparing the bed and topping up the oil in the lamps. The two young men set down the chair in the dressing room, and Hermogenes sat there, hugging his crutch, while the women finished arranging things. Socrates asked him if there was anything else he'd like.

“A drink of water, thank you,” Hermogenes told him. “Is your name really Socrates?”

“Lord Pollio has five stewards,” the man answered obliquely. “The others are called Plato, Aristotle, Zeno, and Epicurus. I am senior, and the oldest.”

He'd suspected something of the sort. “Why philosophers?”

“Being a steward certainly teaches a man to be philosophical,” Socrates said dryly. “I will see that you have the water, and I will bring someone to see to your injuries, as my master instructed.”

Pollio's slaves went out. Cantabra prowled about the three rooms scowling, then came over and sat down on the floor by her employer's chair.

“I'm sorry,” he said helplessly.