Render Unto Caesar (12 page)

Hermogenes stared. Menestor was certainly sophisticated enough to know what Crispus would think if he
kept
a gift, especially a book of
poetry
. The young man had always seemed honest and well-behaved. Would he really be willing to prostitute himself—not just for his freedom but for a few books or items of clothing?

Perhaps, he thought incredulously, Menestor
wanted
to go to bed with Crispus. Perhaps his natural inclination was toward men, and an affair with a rich and cultured Roman, however fat, seemed exciting.

“If you
want
to go to bed with Titus Fiducius, that's your business!” he said in disgust. “All I was saying was that you don't have to.”

Menestor looked deeply hurt, so much so that Hermogenes feared he was about to burst into tears, but he said nothing. Hermogenes gave up and went to look for Tertia and a fresh poultice.

The rest of that day and the next passed quietly. If Crispus did offer presents to Menestor, they did not appear in the Nile Rooms. Hermogenes' bruise faded from black and purple to purple and red, with green about the edges, but the swelling went down enough that he felt it might soon be possible to appear in public again. In the meantime, he read Crispus's books, wrote some letters, and cultivated Crispus's slaves.

The slaves confirmed his growing impression that his host was a kind master, but not a particularly good one. The nervousness he'd sensed in them from the first sprang not from fear but from uncertainty. The master frequently failed to give orders about what he wanted done, and then shouted in annoyance to find that it hadn't been done, or had been done wrongly. He combined acts of humanity, like retaining his scarred doorkeeper, with acts of crass insensitivity, like naming the man Kyon. He provided a generous allowance for the household, ensuring that everyone was well fed and adequately clothed, but he neither noticed nor rewarded anyone who put in extra effort. In consequence, the household worked much harder to please Stentor, who was competent, and who
did
notice, than they did to please the master. Fortunately for Crispus, Stentor was loyal, deeply grateful to his master for promoting him despite the childhood fever which had cost him his voice, but Hermogenes suspected that Crispus was still aware of his household's lack of devotion, and obscurely hurt by it. He wondered if he could give Crispus a few hints, but knew that he would do no such thing. Such interference in another man's household would be deeply offensive—and it wasn't as though the household didn't work.

On the morning of the third day after he first went to meet the consul, the anxiously awaited letter arrived.

L. TARIUS RUFUS, CONSUL, TO HERMOGENES OF ALEXANDRIA.

 

Your documents appear to be in order. Come to my house this evening at the tenth hour, and I will sign your contract.

He showed the letter to Crispus, and the fat man beamed at him. “Excellent news!” he said happily, and slapped his guest on the back.

Then he frowned, and said, “I don't like the thought of you going to his house again, though.”

Hermogenes didn't much like it, either. He would have far preferred to send Rufus the contract by a courier, and receive his down payment the same way. However, given that the consul was caving in, it seemed unwise to insult him by refusing even to enter his house. Besides, the token was safe.

“It will be all right,” he reassured Crispus. “Since he has agreed, there should be no reason for him to lose his temper again, and I intend to be extremely polite.”

“That's what you said before.”

Hermogenes smiled and shrugged helplessly. “
I
was polite. Maybe this time he will confine himself to merely being rude.”

Crispus yet again offered his own sedan chair. Hermogenes again declined. He did not want to strain the other man's resolutely maintained hospitality by taking Crispus's own bearers to the consul's house and towing his host further into the conflict. He sent another messenger to the Aemilian Bridge for the Rubrii, and Crispus seemed relieved.

The tenth hour was early evening, but there was still a long interval of daylight left when the chair arrived after dinner. Crispus himself came out to see his guest off this time. When Hermogenes had taken his seat in the chair and arranged his freshly laundered cloak, the Roman suddenly hurried forward and caught his hand in both meaty palms. “Do be careful, my friend!” he said urgently.

“I will be,” Hermogenes promised, surprising himself by a sense of real affection for the fat man.

“Good luck, then!”

“Thank you.”

They set off along the route they had taken before. Gaius Rubrius did not talk this time; in fact, he seemed subdued and ill at ease. Evidently he'd found the previous visit disturbing. Hermogenes kept himself from worrying by reflecting on whether to hire the pair again. They seemed reliable and reasonably honest, but probably he would not have sought them out if he hadn't been so charmed by the idea of being carried about by Roman citizens, and probably they'd prefer a more conventional hire. Maybe next time he needed a chair he
would
use Crispus's.

The shadows were long on top of the Esquiline, and the cypress trees in Rufus's garden streaked the enclosing wall with darkness. The guards at the gate once again admitted the party after cold scrutiny, and the chair once again wound its way along to the stable at the back. This time Phormion didn't even attempt to follow his master into the house, but settled resignedly to wait beside the Rubrii in the stables.

Hermogenes had taken care not to be early again, but he and Menestor were still left sitting on the stone bench in the atrium for nearly an hour. This time, however, instead of the slave arriving to tell them that the consul would see them, one of Rufus's attendants showed up—the hollow-cheeked man who had worn a plain red tunic, and who had, Menestor said, nodded approval at the consul's assault. He was still wearing red, but this time the tunic had been joined by a short cloak—a military cloak, Hermogenes decided, without surprise. The man had never struck him as being a slave, and it stood to reason that a general would have retained some of his military staff.

“Hermogenes of Alexandria,” said the man in red, studying him coldly. “Come with me.” He spoke in the Greek they had all been using last time.

Hermogenes obediently got to his feet and followed him, Menestor trailing nervously behind him.

They did not go back to the reception hall where the consul had met them on the previous occasion; instead, the man in red led them around a colonnade and into a small office or study. It was empty, apart from a table with a single chair and a small iron chest with a large lock.

The military man turned the chair away from the table and sat down. “Shut the door,” he ordered.

Menestor glanced nervously at his master, then shut the door. Hermogenes stood where he was, trying to keep his face showing mild inquiry and not panic. “I was told that the lord consul was going to sign the contract this evening,” he said.

“In due course,” said the other man. “There are a few matters to clear up first.”

“As you wish. Excuse me, but I do not know who you are, sir.”

The man snorted. “Tarius Macedo. A freedman of the general. I speak with his authority.”

Hermogenes blinked. A freedman? He was certain now that this man was military. He supposed, however, that there was nothing to stop an important Roman from taking his freedmen into the army with him. Important Romans always relied heavily on their freed slaves. The use of the former master's family name expressed the strength of the bond.

“Very well,” he said neutrally. “What do you wish to ask me, sir?”

“Have you approached Scipio?”

It was a blunt, flat question, and Hermogenes answered it just as bluntly. “No. I do, however, have a letter deposited with someone who will send it to him on the first of July, unless I collect it first. It would give him access to the originals of the documents I left here last time. My host, Titus Fiducius, knows nothing about it.”

Macedo seemed more offended than surprised. He snorted angrily, then leaned back in his seat. “Suspicious, aren't you, Greekling?”

“Sir,” said Hermogenes, politely, “I regret it if the precautions I have taken offend you.”

“Do you,” said Macedo, with a hardening of his eyes. “Your whole attitude is
extremely
offensive, Egyptian.”

“All I am asking is the repayment of a debt which I am fully entitled to claim, and which your patron can easily afford.”

“Well, we're suspicious, too,” Macedo told him. “We want the documents. The originals, and this letter of yours. We want them before we sign.”

Hermogenes stared at him. Despite the sunny evening outside, the room seemed to turn dark and cold. “Sir,” he said slowly, “if your patron pays the debt, the fact that he incurred it is no disgrace, and the documents are no threat to him. If you insist upon having the documents, then I must conclude that he does not mean to pay.”

“Who are you to dictate terms to a Roman consul?” Macedo bellowed, suddenly as angry as the consul had been when he jumped from his chair.

Hermogenes stepped back hurriedly. “A
Roman citizen
!” he replied passionately.

“You're a
Greek,
” Macedo spat at him. “Worse than that, an
Egyptian
! Aelius Gallus, that incompetent idiot, borrowed fifty thousand from your father to help fund his attempt to conquer Arabia—and when he botched it, and couldn't repay, he sold the citizenship to an Egyptian moneylender for remission of the debt. He was a pimp, and he made his country a whore.”

“At least he did something to repay it,” Hermogenes retorted. Inwardly, the sense of coldness grew. The consul must have ordered an investigation of him, to have that figure of fifty thousand so exactly. “Sir, I was brought here by a letter saying that your patron would sign an agreement to pay what he owes me. I ask you plainly, was that a lie?”

Macedo glared. “Forget the debt, Greekling. I warn you, forget about it. Write it off, and send those documents to us, and you can go home to Alexandria alive and whole. If you persist in these demands, things won't go so well with you.”

“Sir,” Hermogenes told him coolly, “I am a Roman citizen who holds a valid contract entitling me to collect a debt from your patron. I have no wish to shame your patron by dragging him out of the curial chair and into the courts, but I will do so if I must. If I am murdered, however, your patron will face not just ridicule but infamy and execution, should his enemies choose to prosecute him. You know better than I whether that is a course they would pursue.”

He saw that Macedo considered it a course they would pursue eagerly. The man's eyes blazed, but his pale face was strained and baffled. He seemed to know that he had given himself away, because he swore suddenly in Latin, and spat.

Hermogenes drew in his breath sharply in indignation and disgust. “I do not see why repaying a debt is so disgraceful a thing that it needs
this
!” he cried. “Doesn't he have the money?”

“I advise you one more time, Greekling,” Macedo said in a low voice, “write off the debt.”

Hermogenes glanced behind himself. “Menestor,” he said deliberately, “the contract.”

The boy had backed shivering into the angle of the door, but he obediently brought out the document Hermogenes had drawn up that morning. Hermogenes took it, walked over to Macedo, and set it down before him on the table. “If your patron is willing to sign that,” he said evenly, “let him do so, and send it back to me by tomorrow morning. If he is not willing to pay, he must accept the consequences. If he kills me, he must likewise accept the consequences. I swear by Isis and all the immortal gods and goddesses that I will sooner die than write off the debt which he has incurred to me.”

He expected the man to leap at him as he went to the door, but Macedo remained where he was, glaring bleakly. He expected someone to come after him as he hurried back along the colonnade, but there was only calm—a gardener watering some rosebushes in the cool of the evening, a cook coming to pick thyme. He expected to be stopped in the stables, but no one interfered when he collapsed into the sedan chair and ordered the Rubrii to take him back to his friend's house. He expected, finally, that the guards at the gate would not permit him to leave—but they let him pass without comment.

He sat back in the sedan chair, shaking, and touched the stitched gash on his face. “Sweet Lady Isis,” he whispered at random.

Menestor was beginning to cry. “Oh, sir!” he wailed. “Oh, sir, he'll kill us!”

“Be quiet,” Hermogenes told him, though without harshness. “I need to think.”

“Sir,” said Phormion urgently, “sir, we're going the wrong way!”

He looked up and saw that it was true: they had turned left out of the gate instead of right, and were progressing down a wide avenue he had never seen before.

“Where are you going?” he asked Gaius Rubrius sharply, in Latin.

“Down to the main road, sir,” Gaius Rubrius replied. He sounded anxious. “The way we come before, up through the back streets—tha's good for the day, but now it's evening, and you don' wan'ta go that way in the dark. We'll go down the Via Collatina to the Julian Forum, an' then across to the Sacra Via an' up to your friend's house. It's a lot longer, sir, but it's safe.”

“Yes,” he agreed, letting out his breath with a shudder. “A good idea.” Getting caught in the back streets after dark by some of Rufus's men was a very bad idea indeed. If his body were to be found mutilated in an alley behind some insula, who was going to accept that a consul had been responsible? He told Phormion what Gaius Rubrius had said.