Render Unto Caesar (17 page)

“I did know things about you,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I knew you were not Roman, and I knew your enemies were. Also, I knew that they were attacking you, not you them, and that they had laid a trap for you, and that what they were doing was not lawful. Carrying a knife isn't allowed in the city, and the law doesn't ambush men in dark alleys. I wouldn't have helped you otherwise, even for the money. Since then you have treated me fairly and honorably, and everyone in this house speaks well of you. If you hired me I would
not
betray you. I swear it by the gods of my people. I would serve you faithfully and set your life before mine.”

She had, he thought, a logical mind, to set it out like that, and he thought she was honest. She was so strange and so utterly foreign that it was hard to be sure, but he
thought
she was honest. She had, moreover, saved him from something his mind still shuddered away from contemplating, and, whatever Titus might think, he himself was certain that a hundred and fifty denarii didn't repay
that
debt.

He looked at Titus. “I would like to hire her,” he said in Greek. “Can you bear to have her in your house?”

Titus flung up his hands in disgust. “If you
want
her, my friend! But please, I beg you, place no reliance on her. The woman is plainly the worst sort of savage.”

“You are a host whose generosity the gods themselves would honor,” Hermogenes told him warmly. “Cantabra, I will hire you. I warn you that it will not be for very long, because I intend to go back to Alexandria next month, but if you serve me well I will try to find you another place before I go.”

She was pleased about it, there was no doubt of that. She saluted him—a sweeping gesture with an outflung arm, which might have been Cantabrian or might have been something she learned in the arena—and grinned. “You will not regret it, I promise you,” she declared. “You will be glad of this decision.”

“I hope that is true,” he replied.

Stentor returned with the crutch. The freshly trimmed end of the implement had been shod with a piece of shoe leather, and the fork at the top had been carefully padded with leather wrapped about wool. The steward smiled widely as he offered it.

“This is wonderful!” Hermogenes exclaimed, taking it. “And so quickly done! Thank you, Stentor, and thank—who made it?”

“Gallus, sir. The gardener,” Stentor replied, still smiling with satisfaction.

“Thank Gallus from me, then. Here, give him this.” He took a sestertius from his purse. He noticed Titus looking taken aback, and to his friend added, “You don't mind, Titus? I am not trying to corrupt and seduce your household, I assure you. It's only that your people have been very good to me.”

“I don't
mind,
” Titus told him. “And I'm pleased if they have been. But you don't
need
to pay them, my friend. They're only doing what they're supposed to do.”

“I
like
to reward good work,” Hermogenes told him. He tucked the crutch under his arm, got up, and essayed a few steps with it. He was clumsy, but the sense of being able to move about on his own again was a profound relief. He turned back to Titus. “If you don't mind, I need to write some letters. My friend, let me just add that I am very grateful for your continued hospitality and help. I would be utterly dismayed if you suffered any ill consequences as a result of your kindness. Please let me know at once if you see anything that causes you alarm, and I will remove myself and my people from your house immediately.”

Titus burst out laughing. “Oh, gods! You think I haven't been seeing and hearing things that alarm me ever since you arrived? In Alexandria you always seemed such a quiet man—Philemon's faultless son, who respected his father and always managed his business wisely and never got into any trouble. Bring you to Rome, and suddenly you're Achilles, breathing defiance against mighty Agamemnon. It makes
me
feel like a brave young Patroclus instead of a fat old businessman. Please stop talking about going to an inn, or I'll conclude you don't like it here.”

Hermogenes had no response to that, so he merely smiled feebly and limped out of the room.

The woman Cantabra followed him, and he was aware of her close behind him as he proceeded along the colonnade to his room. He stopped in front of the door and looked back at her inquiringly. He was glad of a pause: already the crutch was hurting his armpit, despite the padding.

The barbarian crossed her arms. “Lord,” she said—hesitatingly, as though she weren't sure either of the title or his right to it—“Lord, now that you have hired me, you must tell me what to do to guard you.” Her cold eyes glinted as she added, “Do you expect your enemy to send men against this house?”

She sounded almost eager for it, “No,” he told her sharply. “In fact, I have written him a letter which I hope will convince him that I have given up, and that he will soon obtain what he wants from me.”

She scowled, as Hyakinthos had. Perhaps, he thought, Menestor's unwarlike nature was not so deplorable, after all.

“I have
not
given up,” he said impatiently, “but I want him to believe I have.” He hesitated, studying her. She was taller than he was, probably stronger as well, and she would undoubtedly beat him in any fight. He told himself that he had taken all of that for granted in Phormion, so he should not find it so alarming in a woman. Wisely or not, he had decided to employ her, and if he was to do so, he had to trust her at least enough to let her know where the dangers lay. “Come in, and I will explain,” he told her.

She frowned, glanced at the door, then said, with sudden ferocity, “One thing I should have said before, and I will say now. I am not a whore. If you think I will fuck you as well as guard you, I will go now, and you can keep your hire.”

He was utterly flabbergasted. He remembered the man she'd disabled curled up sobbing on the cobblestones. Sleep with this child of the Furies? He'd prefer to take a leopard into bed!

“I do not expect it,” he said shortly. “It is not something I normally require of my bodyguards.”

She was abashed, but nodded, and he opened the door to the room.

Menestor was up, sitting at the writing table and staring at a sheet of papyrus with some lines written on it. He started when he saw his master, though he must have heard their voices outside the door, and snatched up the paper with a hurried, guilty air. Perhaps he simply hadn't attended to anything said in Latin. He looked tired and distraught, with dark circles under his eyes.

“What is that?” Hermogenes asked, holding out his hand for the paper.

Menestor bit his lip and gave it to him.

MENESTOR TO HIS FATHER CHAIREMON: GREETINGS.

 

I hope you are in good health. Please kiss my mother for me, and greet all the household. I love you all very much, I do not know whether I will ever see you again. My master has sworn to die rather than write off the debt, and last night the consul sent men to kill us. Phormion is dead, and my master was hurt so he can't walk, but he still won't agree to go home. I am very frightened.

He lowered the letter and looked at the boy unhappily. “What is it you want me to do?” he asked slowly.

“Give it up, sir, please!” Menestor cried at once. “Tell him he can have the documents if he'll leave us alone! It's only money, and you can make more of that, you're good at it, everyone knows. It's just a bad debt! You don't need to make it such a … such a
feud. He
wasn't responsible for the storm that killed the old master!”

“That's enough!” Hermogenes shouted, and surprised himself by hitting the desk. He
wanted
to hit the slave. Menestor flinched and bit his lip again.

“I will not give it up,” Hermogenes told the young man, leaning forward to deliver the words, harsh and low, directly into his frightened face. “Do not ask it again, Menestor.”

“No, sir,” quavered Menestor.

Hermogenes leaned back on his crutch. He started to crumple up the letter, then found his eyes snagged by some of the phrases;…
I am very frightened … I love you all very much, I do not know whether I will ever see you again…”
He thought of Chairemon, his usual valet—a cheerful man, fussy and timid but good-natured—hearing that his only son was dead; he thought of Menestor's mother, and the rest of his household at home. He thought of Myrrhine learning that her father had died in Rome, that the family was without its head, that the steady flow of money which had supported everything unnoticed since before she was born was suddenly trickling away in all directions, lost: that her young life was irretrievably shattered.

He smoothed out the letter, set it down. He started to scrub at his face, but caught the bruises and stopped at once.

He thought of Tarius Rufus in his mansion on the Esquiline, smirking with satisfaction because the cowardly Egyptian had given up and gone home. The wave of rage that swept him made him feel physically sick.

“I
cannot
give it up,” he said, more quietly. “Menestor. I have promised to free you one day; this is probably a good time. You deserve some reward for your faithful service last night. You can get out of this, and I will pay your fare back to Alexandria.”

He had expected relief and gratitude, but Menestor looked at him in hurt and confusion. “You're sending me away because I'm a coward?” he asked.

“Isn't that what you want?” Hermogenes shouted, losing his temper again. “You
begged
me just now to get you out of this!”

“No, sir, I didn't!” Menestor shouted back. “I begged
you
to get out of it. But I won't, not again.” He picked his letter up angrily and folded it in half, snapping the brittle papyrus.

Hermogenes glared at him helplessly, wondering if the boy had always been so senseless and contradictory, or whether it was an effect of adolescence. “You may send a letter,” he said in a cold voice. “Though I ask that you show it to me first, and that you tell your father to keep it to himself until we have returned safely: I do not want you frightening Myrrhine and the household for nothing. I will also take steps to free you, even if you do choose not to be pleased about it. When you are your own man you can decide for yourself whether to stay with me or not. Now, get out. Get yourself something to eat.”

Menestor got up sullen and resentful, and started for the door. He paused, as though for the first time noticing the barbarian woman standing there. Hermogenes realized that Cantabra would have understood nothing of the scene just played out in front of her; they had spoken entirely in Greek.

“I have hired Cantabra as a bodyguard,” he informed Menestor, remembering that the boy knew nothing that had happened that morning. “And I have sent Rufus a letter which I hope will keep him from our throats for the next ten days, while I take other measures. I do not intend to die. Get yourself some breakfast.”

Menestor flushed, edged past Cantabra, and went off. Hermogenes sat down heavily and ran his hands through his hair.

The barbarian woman slipped into the room and shut the door. She looked around at the decor curiously, then turned her attention back to her employer. “You said you would explain,” she reminded him.

“Yes,” he agreed; then exclaimed angrily, “That boy seems to have become incapable of reason!”

“Huh!” snorted Cantabra. “Young men are never capable of reason. Lord, explain to me first who that one is. When I first saw you, he was walking behind your chair like a slave, but he kept to your side like a kinsman, and you speak to him like a commander to one of his trusted men.”

“I do?” he asked, startled.

The woman's blue eyes met his own levelly. “You spoke just now like a commander to a follower who had lost heart and was urging him to surrender.”

He laughed bitterly. “You understood that? Do you understand some Greek after all, then?”

She shook her head. “I understood only the voices, not the words. It's clear, though, that that one is frightened, and you are preparing to fight. Is this young man Menestor your follower or your kinsman?”

“Neither. Your first guess was correct: he is my slave—though I have just decided to give him his freedom.”

She looked at him steadily a moment. “You are a strange man.”

That from a female gladiator! He laughed again, more naturally this time. “A fit employer, then, for a
very
strange woman. Let me explain our situation to you.”

He ended up telling her nearly all of it: the loan, Nikomachos's bankruptcy, his father's drowning; his own threats to the consul to persuade him to pay; his suspicions about Rufus's finances; the letter he had written that morning. She listened attentively, occasionally asking a question. It was clear that she knew nothing whatsoever about contracts, debts, and finance, but she understood Roman power very well.

When he'd finished she asked at once, “So you wish to ruin your enemy to get revenge upon him?”

He shrugged. “I will be pleased if he is ruined. But what I
want
is for him to pay his debt.” He glanced over the table and picked up a sheet of papyrus.

Cantabra blinked, then stood silently frowning while he collected ink and a pen. “I do not understand,” she said suddenly as he was just about to begin to write.

He set the pen down and looked at her impatiently. She bobbed her head. “Forgive me, lord, but if I do not understand what it is you want to do, it is hard to know what to do to serve you. Last night when you said you were attacked because of a debt, I thought it was all a matter of money. Then I learned more, and I thought no, it is a
fight
between a Roman and a Greek, and money is only the thing the fight is about. Just now it sounded to me as though what you really wanted was revenge. But when I said so, you said no, all you want is the money.”