Render Unto Caesar (34 page)

He snorted and glanced round the bare courtyard again. “Four Halls?” he asked. “Where are all the others?”

She waved a hand at the blank walls. “Locked in their cells. They never let out more than one hall at a time. You stay in your cell unless it's your turn to exercise or eat.”

He looked at the dirty brick walls. “No windows,” he said in a low voice.

She nodded. “That was hard. I hated that.”

Two years, he thought, locked up in the dark, let out only to exercise in this bare yard; taken, once a month or so, to the arena to kill or be killed. He couldn't imagine it. He shook his head.

“They don't allow real weapons in the school,” she said abruptly. “They're afraid the gladiators would kill themselves, even if they didn't attack their trainers.”

One of the fighters in the center took a blow to the face and stopped, hand clapped over his bleeding nose. His opponent stood back; the Savage immediately rounded on the pair, and began striking both men with his whip, shouting at them until they began cutting at each other again. The man with the nosebleed was half-blinded, and his opponent drove him back, and back again. The Savage got behind the casualty and began whipping him, shouting for him to attack. He did, and his opponent caught him in the belly, then tripped him. “Hit him!” yelled the Savage, “Get the bastard!” and the opponent obediently rained down blow after blow.

“How did you help that brute get his job?” Hermogenes asked in disgust.

She snorted and crossed her arms. “When I first arrived at the school, the man in charge was called Papinius Macer. He and the Pimp used to take money from citizens to allow them in. Some people want to fuck a gladiator.” She glanced at him warily. “Some women, even rich ones, want that. And men who like young men, and some who like women. It doesn't matter what you look like, it's the smell of blood they want. Anyway, I wouldn't. I said I'd rip the balls off any man that tried, and they didn't want that happening to a citizen, so they couldn't make me. At first it didn't matter because Macer just gave them somebody else, but after I'd fought a couple of times, he started getting requests. He offered me half the money, but I still wouldn't. So he would beat me and put me in the punishment cell every time I said no. The old bull—that is, General Taurus—came by once and asked what I'd done, and Macer just said I'd been disobedient. And then he had me chained and thrown in the punishment cell before a fight, for three days. He only let me out for the dinner the night before. He wasn't supposed to do that: you're not supposed to be sent out to fight unless you're fit for it, because it's bad for the reputation of the school if you get killed easily. Everybody thought I was going to die, because I was tired and stiff, and he'd fixed me up against a retiarius, a man. Only I won. The old bull saw the fight, and he went and checked the record, and then he had me brought in and asked me, in front of Macer, why I'd been in the punishment cell immediately before I was supposed to fight. I told him.”

She grinned fiercely. “So then the old bull said to Macer, ‘What are you, a lanista or a pimp? If she's willing to fight, it's no concern of yours whether she fucks!' and sacked him. He brought in the Savage to run the school instead, out of a smaller school down South. After that nobody tried to make me fuck anyone.”

He was silent, once again confronted with a thing he couldn't begin to imagine.

“The Pimp's still here, though,” she said regretfully.

There was a stir at the doorway beside them, and then a band of six guardsmen trooped through—not barbarians, and not toughs in livery, but Roman soldiers in strip armor and red-crested helmets. Despite the ban on real weapons, they all carried spears and wore short swords: ordinary rules didn't apply to the praetorian guard. They halted, three on each side of the gate, and stood to attention as a man in the long red cloak of a general strolled through. Another two guardsmen followed him.

Titus Statilius Taurus was older than his friend Tarius Rufus—perhaps sixty—but tall and powerful where Rufus was thick and flabby. He had a dark face with heavy brows, a large nose, and deep lines at the corners of his mouth. He paused at the edge of the yard, studying the fighters. The Savage at once stopped his supervision and came over to him. The two men talked briefly, and then both turned to look at Cantabra and Hermogenes. The Savage beckoned them over.

Hermogenes came warily. Cantabra was slightly ahead of him, and when she stopped, she saluted Taurus with the outflung arm he had seen her employ for the purpose once before. He smiled in reply, his teeth very white in his dark face.

“Cantabra,” he said, in a deep strong voice. “With a rich employer. I'm glad of it. What is it you want?”

“That you listen to my employer, lord,” she replied earnestly. “He has news which you should hear.”

The dark, deep-set eyes turned to Hermogenes, who drew a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and committed himself. “Lord Statilius Taurus, good health. I am Marcus Aelius Hermogenes, a businessman from Alexandria, and, as my bodyguard has said, I have come across some information which concerns you closely and which I thought it best to put before you … privately.” He glanced significantly at the Savage.

Taurus regarded him for a long moment in silence, his face forbidding. “Marcus Aelius Hermogenes,” he repeated at last. “I have heard your name frequently in the last few days. In fact, last night I issued an order for your arrest.”

Hermogenes stood frozen. He was aware, without looking away, of how Taurus's guardsmen had come alert and were watching him. “On what charge?” he asked quietly.

“On no charge,” Taurus conceded. “Simply for questioning. Some days ago my friend Lucius Rufus informed me that he was having a house on the Via Tusculana watched because he had had some kind of trouble with a guest of the man who owned it. Yesterday the owner of the house turned up complaining of harassment, which he says is the result of quarrels between you and Rufus, and you and Publius Vedius Pollio. Pollio had his people search the house, and the owner complained about that, too.”

“He had his men search a private house?” Hermogenes asked, shocked. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Not to my knowledge,” replied Taurus, his face unyielding. “Pollio also has men searching the city for you. They claim that you were his guest, but stole a valuable statuette and absconded during the night. He has not brought charges against you before any magistrate, but I believed it prudent to question you.”

“Lord, I am here and ready to answer questions.” He was appalled, but he was also aware of an old niggling worry settling. Rufus's intimidating barbarians had not been as stupid a move as they'd seemed: the consul had cleared them with his friend the prefect of the city before posting them. “I assure you, I am not a thief, and this story that I am was invented to give Pollio a pretext for searching for me. The matter at stake is far more important than a statuette. I would prefer to discuss it in a less public place.”

Taurus grunted. He glanced round at the Savage, then snapped his fingers. “Come, then,” he ordered, and walked directly across the exercise yard to a doorway on the other side, forcing the fighters and the runners to halt abruptly or hurry aside to let him pass. Hermogenes and Cantabra followed, enclosed by Taurus's eight guardsmen. The Savage, at the end of the procession, stopped to haul one of his own guardsmen away from his place in the sun and set him to supervise the yard.

The doorway led into what appeared to be the offices of the gladiatorial school: there was a large front room with a desk and a bench, a number of large chests, and two more doors, one at either end. A set of wooden swords of various types hung on a rack along one wall; the wall to the right, more ominously, held iron shackles of various sizes and weights suspended on pegs. Taurus went directly to the desk and sat down in the chair, turning it to face into the room. He snapped his fingers, gestured for four of his guards to stand watch outside, and waited while the rest arranged themselves on either side of the room. The Savage shut the door.

“Now,” Taurus commanded, “search them.”

Cantabra stiffened. “Lord!” she protested, and took a step forward. Taurus merely nodded, and two of the guardsmen seized her and pulled her off to one side of the room.

Hermogenes stood stiffly while the other two guardsmen turned their attention to him. They pulled off his good cloak, tossing it onto the bench, unfastened and examined his belt, checked his empty purse. They found the trunk key on the cord around his neck, and set it down on the desk. They ran their hands down him, checking for the sheath of a concealed knife, and ordered him to take off his sandals. They untied the bandage on his ankle and shook it out. Then, empty-handed, they stood holding him by the arms and watching as their fellows finished searching Cantabra.

One man was examining the stitching on her belt; the pen case was already lying on the desk in front of Taurus. The other man, grinning, was feeling her breasts. He raised his eyebrows. “Take off the tunic!” he ordered. “I think you've got a knife there.”

The barbarian woman spat, shoved his hand off with an elbow. “I have a knife,” she admitted. “To defend myself, not to attack anyone, still less to kill the bull.”

“It is an offense to carry a concealed weapon on the streets of Rome,” said Taurus levelly. “Give it to my men.”

She drew it out and reluctantly handed it over. “Now take off the tunic,” the general commanded.

Her head came up angrily, but she took off the tunic. Her body was thin and hard between the plain breastband and the cloth about her loins, and marked with scars. The sheath of the knife stood out, stitched into the breastband. It was evident that the knife she'd just handed over was the only one she'd had.

Taurus grunted and picked up the pen case. He opened it, drew out the letters, tipped the money onto the desk, then slid it back in. He began to examine the letters of credit.

“You have seen that I am unarmed,” Hermogenes told him angrily. “And that my bodyguard has only the sort of weapon which, if illegal, can hardly be uncommon among those of her profession. I came here to speak to you about a matter which ought to concern you. I understood that you wanted to ask me questions.”

Taurus looked up at him with grim satisfaction. “And so I do.” He glanced at the guardsmen and ordered, “Take the man, strip him, and chain him to the pillar. Shackle the woman and put her in the cell until we've finished with him.”

“No!” screamed Cantabra, and flung herself forward.

The two men beside her had hold of her and wrestled her to the floor before she'd gone two steps. Hermogenes noticed the Savage shaking his head as he took a set of manacles from a peg, and then his own guards had marched him through the door to the right.

This was evidently the place where the slaves of the gladiatorial school were punished for any offense against its rules. Three whips hung in prominent positions along the long outer wall, one of leather, one of knotted cord, one, with four lashes, of both; beneath them stood birch rods bound together in a stack. In the center of the room stood a thick pillar of stained wood, fitted with iron manacles on an adjustable chain, so that it would secure for flogging a victim of any height. Hermogenes stood helpless with outrage while the guards stripped him. Cantabra was cursing and screaming behind him. Hermogenes's guards shoved him against the pillar and drew his arms around it, crossing his wrists above his head. The iron manacles locked with a snick, and one of them turned a wheel to tighten the chain.

He stood with his stitched cheek pressed against the wood of the pillar, the sweat cold on his bare skin as it dried, shaking with rage. “I am a
Roman citizen
!” he announced loudly.

No one replied. Somewhere behind him, Cantabra was still cursing, muffled now. He could not see her—could not see anyone, with his face against the pillar.

Footsteps sounded, deliberate and unhurried, from the direction of the office.

“I am a Roman citizen,” he said again. “This proceeding is not legal.”

“I am prefect of the city,” Taurus's deep voice replied. “I am entitled to hold extraordinary hearings … which I declare this to be.”

“You are
not
entitled to flog freeborn citizens without trial!” Hermogenes answered fiercely. “I came here to
save your life,
Roman! This is my reward, is it?”

Taurus's face appeared in his field of view, still with that expression of grim satisfaction. “Publius Vedius Pollio. When did he hire you?”

“He did not,” Hermogenes replied flatly. “You said yourself he has accused me of theft and is searching the city for me: would he do that if I were his hireling?”

Taurus shook his head. “Perhaps you've fallen out with him. Perhaps you did steal something from him: it wouldn't be the first time greed has got the better of one of his creatures. Pollio hired you. I think you have been helping him to blackmail a friend of mine.”

Hermogenes gave a choking laugh. “Your friend Rufus has
sold
you to Pollio, O wise prefect of the city. He has agreed to kill you, in exchange for the cancellation of some debts and my life.”

The dark eyes held his own. There was a sense of something massive behind them, something that was shifting, like a great weight under the delicate manipulation of a cunning machine. “Debts,” Taurus repeated softly. “What debts?”

The wood of the pillar stank of old blood. Hermogenes leaned his head back and looked up at the chain wrapped around its top. From outside in the yard came the weary beating of footsteps, the clatter and thump of wooden weapons, the shouting of a guard: “Hit him!
Hit
him!” For a moment he could feel nothing but contempt for the man beside him, who owned this place.