Render Unto Caesar (44 page)

The litter was a small one, with four bearers. They all stared at him in horror, and he wondered what state he was in, that it shocked people so much. He sat down in the conveyance, drew the curtains, and examined himself. His tunic was covered in filth from the street and the prison, and liberally stained with blood. He had quite a bad cut on his right knee which he had no recollection of getting, through presumably it had happened when he fell during the attack. His elbows were grazed, too, and he was covered in dirt and bruises. There was dried blood crusted in his hair. No wonder the litter bearers were unhappy about having him in their litter: they'd probably have to wash it after he got out. Yes, undoubtedly he was a villainous-looking spectacle, the sort of person he would have avoided in a marketplace.

But it didn't matter. Maerica was
alive
!

*   *   *

The journey across Rome passed in a daze; it seemed that he'd barely got into the litter before the bearers were setting it down, and a soldier drew the curtains to inform him that they had arrived.

The military hospital was an old-fashioned house near the edge of the city, a two-story building built around a central courtyard with a garden. It was not attached to any camp: the three cohorts of the praetorian guard stationed in Rome did not live in barracks but were billeted among the citizens. The soldier in charge of the escort seemed familiar with the place, though: he showed Hermogenes to the door and held a murmured conversation with the guard there. They both looked up sharply.

“You said you're looking for your
concubine
?” asked the escort.

“Yes,” replied Hermogenes, who was propping himself up against the wall.

“There is a woman we took yesterday on the orders of the lord prefect,” said the doorkeeper, “but we were told she was a bodyguard.”

“That too. Where is she?”

They both stared at him. “She's
Cantabra
!” said the escort. “She was a
gladiator
. I seen her fight. You said she was your
concubine
!”

The doorkeeper sniggered. “No wonder he's in that state.”

“No, no!” said the escort hastily. “He got the injuries from Vedius Pollio's men, and the general gave orders that he's to see a doctor.”

Hermogenes glared at them both. “Will you tell me where she is?”

The doorkeeper gave a snort of amusement. “Injuries ward. South wing. You sure you're up for another bout?”

“Get the doctor for him,” ordered the escort irritably. Then he hurried after Hermogenes, who was already blundering off through the gateway and toward the left, southern side of the courtyard.

The ward was a long, wide corridor, with large windows which opened onto the courtyard, all of which were shuttered against the heat of the noon sun. At one end were three or four praetorians, recovering from accidents or injuries; at the far end, only a single occupied couch. Hermogenes hurried along the ward toward it, through the shocked and curious stares, then stopped, his heart beating hard.

It was her. She was lying with her back to the room, but he recognized the line of her hip in the worn slave's tunic, let alone the hair spread out across the pillow, dark in this shuttered afternoon light. She wasn't moving; she didn't even seem to be breathing, and for a horrible moment he was certain that he had come too late. Then she felt his eyes on her and glanced round.

Her face lit, and she tried to turn toward him, then winced. He ran forward, hesitated helplessly with his arms out while she tried to sit up, then went round the couch to face her. He dropped to his good knee beside the bed, started to throw his arms around her, then hesitated again, afraid to hurt or offend her. She shook her head impatiently, took his arms and arranged them around herself, putting one round her shoulder, the other further down her body, clear of the lump of bandages under her right arm. Then she put her own arms around him, very carefully because of all the blood and bruises, and kissed him.

“Och, look at you!” she said when they had to stop to breathe. She ran her fingers gently across the blood in his hair, flinching from the lump. “My poor love, what happened?”

“I was so afraid you were dead,” he told her breathlessly, holding her tightly in the bandage-free area. “I was so stupid, I didn't even try to bribe them, and they left you there.… Are you all right?” He wanted to cry, or shout, but mostly he wanted to hold her, to feel the shape she made in his arms, bony and awkward and indisputably alive.

“Stab wound in the right side,” she said matter-of-factly. “The second man, that was. He was falling, though, so he struck shallow and crooked, broke a rib but didn't reach the vitals. He cut a vein and it bled a lot, but the doctor here stitched it.” She stroked his hair again. “That is a terrible lump. Who did that?”

“One of the praetorians.” He rested his head against her chest. The scent of myrrh from the bandages was almost overpowering, but underneath it could could smell the scent that was just her. “I resisted arrest—that is, I tried to stay to look after you, and I was stupid, I hit one of them instead of offering him money. Oh, my life and soul!”

“Sshhhh,” she whispered, her eyes shining with joy, stroking his hair. “My love, what has happened? I have been worrying and worrying ever since I woke. Nobody here knows anything: all they will say is that they have orders from Taurus to care for me.”

“I think it's over,” he told her, not moving his head. “I think we won.”

 

Statilius taurus arrived at the hospital late that afternoon.

By that time Hermogenes had been seen by the hospital doctor, and had also managed to wash in the hospital bathhouse. He was sitting on a cushion on the floor beside Maerica's bed, bandaged at head and knee, dressed in a borrowed military tunic, holding his lover's hand and gazing contentedly into her face. She was now lying so that she faced the door, so she saw Taurus before he did: she stiffened, and he turned to look.

The prefect of the city processed slowly down the ward toward them, flanked by his usual troop of guardsmen. He was still wearing the gilded breastplate and long scarlet cloak he had had at the meeting that morning. He halted a couple of paces away and looked down at them, his dark face impassive.

“Lord Prefect,” said Hermogenes. There was no hope for it: he had to make the enormous effort involved in getting to his feet. He caught hold of the bed and pulled himself slowly upright.

Taurus grunted. “Marcus Aelius Hermogenes.” He enunciated the full Roman name as though it had an unpleasant taste, then glanced at Maerica. “And your
concubine
. I confess I am surprised by that.”

“It is not for money, lord,” Maerica announced proudly.

To Hermogenes' surprise, Taurus smiled at that—a rather sour smile, but a smile. “I never imagined it was. I am pleased for you, girl. Let me say, too, that I am sorry you were injured. I had given orders that my men were to be at the Bank of Gabinius before the third hour, but they interpreted that to mean they should go there at the second hour and sit around in the back room playing dice and waiting for you to arrive. They have been disciplined.”

“They left Maerica lying bleeding in the street,” said Hermogenes, with quiet anger.

Taurus gave him a disapproving look. “They did not. After you were arrested, four of them brought you to the prison, and four stayed behind. They treated the injured, collected the bodies, and questioned the witnesses as to what had happened. If you had not resisted arrest, you would have been aware of that.”

“I would not have resisted arrest if they'd shown any sign of being willing to help her!” Hermogenes objected, more loudly and just as angrily.

“Did you expect them to arrest you
politely
?” Taurus replied sarcastically. “That would have made Pollio's people suspicious. No: they'd been told that you were wanted for questioning concerning a plot against the state, and they treated you accordingly.”

Hermogenes glared at him. “Did you
tell
them that Pollio was looking for me, and was likely to have people at the bank?”

Taurus frowned, but nodded.

“And they went and sat in a back room? They told the staff at the bank what they were doing—and then just sat there? They didn't even station someone outside to keep watch?” It was perfectly obvious now what had gone wrong. Pollio's people had almost certainly been tipped off by a contact within the bank. An ambush on a crowded street in broad daylight had been a risky and extreme move, but obviously better, from Pollio's point of view, than allowing such a potentially dangerous witness to fall into the hands of his enemy Taurus.

“I agree that they should have been very much more careful,” snapped Taurus.

“More careful?” He snorted. “That is putting it very mildly, Lord Prefect. It doesn't strike me as sensible to club a man who's wanted for questioning, either. A blow like that might silence him. I think you should be asking yourself whether they were in Pollio's pay.”

“They were criminally negligent,” said Taurus, scowling. “I do not think, however, they they were dishonest—merely slovenly, lax, and stupid. As I said, they have been disciplined.”

“Oh, but they certainly
were
dishonest,” Hermogenes informed him. “Maerica had a pen case with my letters of credit and nearly fifty denarii in coin. When I asked about it, the hospital succeeded in locating the pen case, but the coin has all gone. I suspect that the only reason the letters are still there is because your men can't read Greek. My best cloak, which I left with her, has also disappeared—and
that
cost over three hundred drachmae in Alexandria: the value must be half again as much in denarii at Rome.”

Taurus sighed. “I will order inquiries, and if they cannot find the cloak, they will repay you its cost. For now, there are things I need to discuss with you. We will use the doctor's office. Come.”

Hermogenes stared at him for a long moment. That was all? The soldiers had neglected their duty, injured a crucial witness, stolen money and a valuable cloak from a woman as she lay wounded and unconscious in the street—and this was all Taurus was going to do about it? Say that they had been “disciplined” and that he would “order inquiries”?

The praetorian guard, he thought bitterly, were of course purebred Romans and Taurus's own men, and Taurus—still!—could not bear to condemn them in front of a barbarian and a Greek. Rage and grief at this new injustice, heaped upon so many, many others, tightened his throat so that he could not speak, and he simply glared at the prefect, unable to move.

Maerica pressed his hand. He glanced down at her, saw the love and concern on her face, and the tightness in his throat relaxed. She was alive: compared to that, what did the rest matter? He should be pleased that the soldiers were being held to account at all. That, for a barbarian and a Greek, was something of a victory. He returned the pressure of her hand and followed Taurus out of the ward.

The doctor's office, or consulting room, was at the southeast corner of the hospital, just beyond the injuries ward. The doctor, a nervous young Campanian who had trained in Alexandria, was in the office, but removed himself hurriedly when informed that the general wanted it. Taurus also dismissed his guards. He sat down in the doctor's chair, frowning.

Hermogenes sat on the examining couch. “Excuse me that I don't stand,” he said. “Thanks to the ‘carelessness' of your men, I find it difficult at the moment.”

Taurus grunted. “The first thing I must tell you is that Lucius Rufus has agreed to pay his debt.”

Hermogenes looked at him a moment, wondering why he felt no triumph. “When?”

“As soon as he has determined the best method of freeing the sum. Within the next few days. I trust that you will collect your letter to Cornelius Scipio tomorrow?”

“I will postpone its delivery, if I am confident that I can do so without being spied upon as I do so,” Hermogenes said coldly. “I will not
collect
it until Rufus has paid. The last time he promised to pay me, it was a trick to lure me into a trap where I could be tortured and killed, so I hope you will understand my reluctance to trust him now.”

“This time he will pay you,” said Taurus, though without heat. “I have told him to send the draft to you at the house of your friend Fiducius Crispus. I hope that will be satisfactory?”

He hadn't thought about it. The prospect of returning to the house on the Via Tusculana, of being again a master among slaves, seemed unbearably strange, almost like a return to childhood. He felt a sudden aversion to it, and at the same time a panicky awareness of some deep rift in himself. “I have caused my poor friend a great deal of trouble,” he said slowly. “I do not know whether I should go back there, or whether he would welcome me if I did.”

“The trouble is over,” Taurus replied. His tone left no room for doubt. “I am sure your friend will welcome you with relief. He has sent me a letter about the matter proclaiming your innocence, protesting at your treatment, and offering to take charge of you if you were found injured.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Hermogenes, in surprise. Despite Titus Fiducius's resolute support, he still hadn't expected this of him. He felt a moment's guilt at his own assumption that the other was too cowardly to protest to consuls and prefects. “Very well, then,” he muttered, ashamed. “I will stay with my friend Titus Fiducius, and Rufus can send the money there.”

Taurus nodded in satisfaction, then sat scowling at him darkly. Hermogenes returned a look of inquiry.

“There is to be no discussion of this affair,” Taurus ordered fiercely. “Gossip about this kind of conduct by a man like Tarius Rufus—a consul, and a friend of the emperor—would be damaging to the majesty of the state. I have settled the matter, and I do not want it discussed.”