Render Unto Caesar (18 page)

“That was not what I said at all! I said I want him to
pay
.”

“Isn't that the same thing?”

“Not at all! He thinks that he has no need to pay his debts to a Greek. He was furious at the idea that a victor of Actium could be summoned for debt by an Egyptian moneylender—as though that victory had given him the right to take whatever he wanted from me! If I make him pay, I show him that Actium counts for nothing. He may have conquered, and he may be a Roman and a consul, but he is still bound by the same law that binds me, and he cannot treat me as a slave. Yes, very well, you are right, and it
is
a fight. The way I win is if he is forced to
pay,
despite all his arrogance! Whether or not he is ruined is merely incidental.”

“The Romans treat all other nations as slaves,” said Cantabra in a low voice. “My people found that. We were conquered and oppressed. We rose against them, and were defeated again, and oppressed more savagely. The third war was the last. My husband swore that he would never accept slavery, and he went into the mountains with the rest of the men to continue the war to the end. When there was no way out, they killed themselves rather than surrender. And what happened? His children were murdered, and his wife became a slave.”

He looked at her in shock. “You had children?” He could not imagine her as a mother.

“Two. They were killed,” she replied bleakly. They were both silent, looking at each other, and then she said, “Maybe the Greeks are different. The Romans learn your language, they imitate you. I've seen that. They would laugh at the idea of copying anything from
us
. They never considered us to be any better than wild animals. Maybe you can force this Roman to yield. I would like to see that.” She tossed her head suddenly, her face fierce. “Yes, I would like to see you humble him! What will you do?”

“The first thing is to find his other creditor,” he told her. Inwardly, he was shaken, still trying to take in what she had said. Did she really mean that
all
the men in the last Cantabrian uprising had committed suicide rather than surrender? He realized that he had assumed all his life that Greeks were superior to any sort of barbarian, but he had never really considered how lucky he was that the Romans thought so, too. He had never really spoken to a barbarian before.

“You said that you think you know who it is,” Cantabra said hopefully.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. “I have a good guess. I will write to him: that is the next thing. Then I must get someone to deliver the letter—which may be complicated. I suspect that the consul will have this house watched, and if he discovers that I'm trying to contact his other creditor, he'll probably try to kill me at once, even if he has to have his men break down the door to do it.”

“Let me deliver your letter,” Cantabra told him eagerly. “I know how to go unseen. Give it to me, and the consul will suspect nothing, until you ruin him.”

Hermogenes hesitated, regarding her uncertainly. He had only just hired her: he might
think
she was honest, but how could he be sure? Suppose she took the letter to Rufus instead of to Pollio? The consul would probably pay her well for it.

On the other hand, who else could he send on such a delicate errand? He did not want to involve Titus's people any more than he had to, and sending Menestor would have been out of the question even if the boy spoke Latin.

He recognized, grimly, how absurd it was to try to humble a Roman consul when all the resources he could draw upon were one fat timid businessman, one frightened slave, and one untried barbarian hireling. Undoubtedly it would be wiser to do what Menestor wanted him to do, and go home. It wasn't as though the money, if he ever got it, would restore his father—or Phormion.

If he gave up, Rufus would win. Theft, robbery, and murder: Rufus would have subjected him to them all, and emerged triumphant and unscathed, the victor of Actium celebrating another Egyptian defeat. No. His own resources might be slight, but Pollio's were undoubtedly more substantial, if he could enlist them. He
thought
the barbarian was honest. She certainly had reason to hate the Romans, and she seemed eager to help. He would trust her.

“Very well,” he told her. “I will write the letter now.”

 

MARCUS AELIUS HERMOGENES RESPECTFULLY GREETS PUBLIUS VEDIUS POLLIO.

 

Sir, you do not know me, but I am emboldened to write to you because I believe we may have a business interest in common. I have inherited the right to claim an outstanding debt from the consul L. Tarius Rufus, and I have come to believe that the same man may also have borrowed from you. If that is the case, may I apply for an appointment with you at your convenience to discuss matters of mutual interest?

If I am mistaken, please accept my apologies for troubling a gentleman of your distinction unnecessarily. I pray that the gods grant you health.

“What does it say?” Cantabra asked, leaning over his shoulder to frown at the letter.

He told her, tying and sealing it as he did so.

“You give away nothing,” she commented, frowning.

“Indeed,” Hermogenes agreed. “If he is not the man I want, I do not want to attract his interest, and perhaps have him interfere. If he is the man I want, I do not want him to know how hard I am being pressed, or he will expect me to sell him the debt for nothing.”

She nodded understanding. “He may ask to question the messenger who brings this. What should I say if he does? He should at least be warned not to send a messenger back to you openly.”

He hadn't thought of that. Titus and Stentor had come in while he was writing the letter to inform him that there were men watching the house. Titus had been dismayed and Stentor, grim. He hoped he'd managed to convince them that it was a sign that Rufus had believed his letter and decided to watch and wait—a
good
sign!—but he understood their unhappiness. In this residential area it would have been hard for Rufus to have set up his watch discreetly, but it seemed as though he hadn't even tried: he had four blond barbarians leaning against the wall of the insula opposite watching the house door. The blatant nature of the move was probably intended to intimidate, but it still seemed to Hermogenes very stupid. People would notice, and wonder why someone who could employ barbarian guardsmen was watching the house of a respectable middle-class businessman. It could even come to the attention of Rufus's enemies, and cause the catastrophe the consul was trying to avoid. A part of his mind was still worrying at that, wondering whether Rufus really was that arrogant and short-sighted, or whether there was some aspect of the move which he had not grasped.

“If he questions you,” he said slowly, “tell him that you do not know what is in the letter, and that I only hired you after my own bodyguard was killed in a robbery. Say you think I have some disagreement with the consul, but try not to make too much of it. I agree, you must warn him not to send a messenger openly—but try to make it sound as though you might have got something wrong, so that he only takes the precaution
in case
. Offer to carry the reply yourself.”

She nodded again, then grinned. “I will be a stupid barbarian who thinks mostly about what to put in her stomach, who can be trusted to deliver a letter, but nothing more. I will give away no more than you do.”

He smiled back, pleased at this ready, rapid connivance, and handed her the letter. She stuffed it down the front of her tunic and tightened her belt. “The men watching will see that I leave the house with nothing in my hands or at my belt,” she explained. She hesitated, then pulled the pen case with the money he'd given her out of her belt and set it down on the table. “I will leave this here,” she told him, meeting his eyes.

“I will keep it safe,” he promised her immediately. “Here.” He maneuvered himself over to his trunk, unlocked it, and set the pen case inside. “That's so that the household slaves will not be tempted by it,” he told her. “All hundred and fifty denarii will sit there to await your return.”

“It is a hundred and forty-five now,” she corrected him unsmilingly. “I have five here.” She touched the strip of leather at her belt, then started off with a long, confident stride.

He limped after her along the colonnade to the atrium. In the entranceway, she glanced at him, and said, “You should move away from the door, lord, in case they see you. You are supposed to be in bed with a broken ankle.”

He grinned. She was quick. “How do
you
intend to escape the attention of our friends across the road?”

“I do not. I will let them see me go down the road towards the forum, where I will buy some small things. I think probably that will satisfy them, but if they still follow me, it will be easy to lose them at a shop. Then I will go to the house of Pollio on the Esquiline, and wait to see if he wishes to send you a reply. Yes?”

“Perfect. Be careful.”

“I am a careful woman, lord. Move back from the door.”

When she had gone, he limped back into the atrium and sat down on the bench with his leg up, leaning against the crutch. He felt as drained and exhausted as if he'd been working without a pause for days—and it was still nearly an hour until noon.

The prolonged day was not over, however. Cantabra had scarcely departed when there was another knock on the door. A moment later, Kyon summoned Titus: a young man from the office of the aediles of the fourth region, to whom they'd reported the attack, had arrived to inquire about the robbery. With him came two public slaves, carrying a litter on which lay a shapeless bundle wrapped in a torn sheet.

Titus stared at it as it was carried into the atrium, and began to wring his hands. The young aedile—a self-important pimply youth no older than nineteen—informed the master of the house that he'd come about the reported robbery, and asked if
this
was his murdered slave?

“No, no!” protested Titus. “My guest's!” He waved his arm toward Hermogenes, who was still sitting in the atrium. “Oh, Hercules, what a dreadful thing!”

The aedile stared at Hermogenes' battered face and bandaged foot a moment, then asked intelligently, “I suppose it was you who was robbed, then? Is this your slave?”

Hermogenes agreed that he had been the one attacked, and asked if they could uncover the body.

It was, indeed, Phormion. He looked smaller in death. His familiar features were set in an expression of savagery and rage, and his shrunken eyes seemed to stare in mute accusation.

Hermogenes discovered that he could not bear that gaze. He hauled himself off the bench, struggled over to the body with the aid of the crutch, and knelt down to close the staring eyes.

They would not shut. The eyes had dried overnight, and the lids were glued open. Hermogenes found his hand shaking, and he drew it back. Some swollen dark emotion rose and pressed itself against his throat, and he found that he could not speak. He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, trying to swallow the sobs rising in his gorge like sickness.

Titus exclaimed. He hurried over and pressed his guest's shoulder. “Oh, my poor friend!” he said; and, to the aedile, “Cover it quickly! You've upset him.”

The public slaves covered Phormion again, and Titus helped his guest back to the bench and sat him down. Hermogenes bent over double, trembling, remembering with a horrifying vividness how the attacker's knife had gone into Phormion, and how he had screamed—remembering how he himself had been forced to the cobblestones, his arm twisted behind his back and the blows thudding into his ribs. All the self-possession he had clung to at the time seemed to have been ripped away, and he felt like a frightened child.

The aedile was talking officiously, describing how the body had been found in the square by the public fountain that morning. For a time the words simply washed over him without making sense—but suddenly he found himself alert again, realizing that Phormion's was the
only
body that had been found in the square that morning. The corpses of the two attackers must have been removed.

He was relieved, even through the tide of memory. He had been reasonably confident that nobody could convict him or his new bodyguard of
murdering
those two—but trouble over it had certainly been a possibility. Presumably one of the two injured attackers had recovered sufficiently to report to his patron, who had sent men to remove the bodies before any authority could trace them back to the man who'd sent them.

The aedile took out a set of wax tablets and asked him to describe what had happened. Hermogenes uttered a mixture of truth and falsehood: he had been on his way back from a business meeting on the Esquiline when he was attacked by robbers. (He described them honestly, as well as he could: it was easier than making it up, and probably just as little use to anyone who wanted to find the men.) The hired chair bearers had thrown down the chair and fled; no, he couldn't remember their names, they were simply men he'd hired that afternoon. The fall had broken his ankle. (It seemed as well to be consistent about that.) Phormion had tried to defend him, and had struck one of the attackers, knocking him out; he and his other slave had thrown things and struggled with the others. When a woman of the neighborhood had come to help them, the attackers had fled.

“Well, I'm afraid that's a common story,” said the aedile, shaking his head. “The Subura's not safe after dark, and dusk is actually worse than later on at night. Later on you get the carts coming through, but at dusk there's nobody to call on for help. You were lucky to find anyone in the neighborhood willing to answer you: mostly they're wonderfully good at ignoring things. We find bodies four or five times a month—and who knows how many we
don't
find, because they've been thrown into a sewer or taken to the Tiber and tipped in?”