Render Unto Caesar (23 page)

She looked up at him quickly. “You are getting what you want, aren't you?”

He threw the crutch furiously across the room and swore in Greek. Cantabra watched him impassively until he finished and put his hands over his face.

“So,” she said then. “There
is
something wrong. I smelled it. Does he mean to kill you?”

“Isn't it
obvious
?” he shouted, taking his hands away from his face again. “No, he doesn't mean to kill me; he means to use me to blackmail Rufus. Oh, Zeus, oh Isis, I've been stupid!”

She continued simply to look at him. “You know I do not understand these dealings over money. How would this blackmail work?”

He drew in his breath raggedly. “I think,” he said in a harsh voice, “that he will let Rufus know that he has me, and that Rufus will then have to decide whether he does what Pollio wants, and has the debt paid for him, or whether he refuses, and is forced to pay it himself.

“Pollio was never in doubt about any detail of Rufus's finances. Rufus was able to withstand his pressure, however, until now. His liquid resources aren't enough to let him pay me
and
keep Pollio off, and if I take him to court, not only does he suffer the disgrace of the summons itself but he'll have to sell property. That will bring his indebtedness out into the open, and the value of everything he owns will crash. Those farms in Picenum will go from being worth a hundred million to being worth nothing. Oh, I exaggerate: compared to someone like me he would still be a wealthy man—but compared to what he was, and what he believes he should be, he'd be nothing.”

“But he is your enemy,” Cantabra pointed out. “Why should you mind?”

“I don't mind what happens to
him
. What I don't know is what Pollio is blackmailing him
for
. I don't—” He brushed angrily at his face where the Roman had touched him. “I don't like being
used,
particularly when I don't even know what I am being used for!”

“He is an evil man,” Cantabra said seriously. “He cannot be trusted to keep his side of any bargain he makes with you, but he will not permit you to reject his offer.”

Hermogenes shuddered.
You are exactly what I need
. “I know that.”

“So what do you wish to do?”

He drew in another deep breath. “I need to think. It may be that this is still my best option. It may be that it isn't.”

“He believes that your ankle is broken,” Cantabra said, very, very quietly.

“Hush.” He glanced around the room, belatedly remembering that there might be eavesdroppers. Probably they would not have heard that, though, even if they had caught his own outburst. Perhaps it wouldn't help him—there were all the slaves in the household between him and the streets of Rome, to say nothing of the wall and the guards—but being able to run when they thought he couldn't might be the only trick he had left.

She nodded. “You must ask them to bring a mattress,” she said, more loudly. “I do not share your bed. I will sleep here, by the door.”

He nodded ruefully. She was managing better than he was. “I will ask them.”

Then he hesitated, steeled himself, and added, “He has no interest in you. If you want to leave, I will write you a letter of recommendation, and another letter asking Titus to help you find other work. There is no reason for you to suffer this.” Her life, he thought, had had more than its share of suffering already. He sacrificed some more dignity, and admitted, “This is my fault, not yours.”

“I swore by the gods of my people that I would serve you faithfully and set your life before mine,” she replied at once. “Besides, your friend would not help me if he knew I had abandoned you. He didn't want you to hire me at all.”

“Then, thank you,” he said. He fought his dignity again, and admitted, “I would hate to be here alone.”

He decided later that afternoon that there had been no eavesdroppers on that conversation: at that point his keepers were still being organized. When Socrates returned, he brought with him a pair of slaves—an older man called Nestor, and a younger one called Pyrrhus—whom he introduced as “your attendants for the duration of your stay.” An attempt to say that he needed no attendants was politely but firmly dismissed. The two were appointed to sleep in the dressing room, between him and the door. Cantabra's mattress, when it arrived, was put in the study.

Not that guards were needed. Socrates also brought along Pollio's personal doctor—another Greek slave—who declared that he needed to purge the vicious humors that had infected the cut on the patient's face. He let blood from the vein in Hermogenes's elbow and gave him a powerful concoction of drugs “to scour the poisons from your system.” Then he cleaned the cut. He examined the ankle as well, but—fortunately—decided that to remove the splints at this early stage would be detrimental to the knitting of the bone, and contented himself with loosening the bindings and applying hot compresses. The compresses did not stay on long: he'd scarcely left when his purgative began to work, and Hermogenes spent the rest of the day getting up to use the chamber pot under his bed, and then lying down again groaning. He was only vaguely aware of it when Cantabra went out, though he was relieved when she came back safely.

He did pen the required letter to Titus—a very guarded missive, saying only that Pollio had invited him to remain at the house while they settled their business together. He gave it to Socrates, but had no further knowledge of what happened to it. By that stage he didn't really care, either.

The doctor returned at dawn next morning, and pronounced, with satisfaction, that the inflammation was much reduced. He cleaned the cut again, anointed it with more myrrh, and prescribed rest and a low and cooling diet. Hermogenes was so glad to escape another dose of purgative that he didn't argue. He drank the barley broth his two guardians brought him for breakfast, then looked at his keepers speculatively. He had said little to them before, apart from apologetic requests that they empty the chamber pot. Now he felt well enough to wonder how they would respond to cultivation.

Very badly, as it turned out. It was not that Nestor and Pyrrhus were unfriendly, still less that they were rude: it was more as though they had become perfect servitors, and to that end had locked away every trace of normal human feeling. They were, he thought, both Asiatic Greeks, but he could not persuade them to discuss where they had come from, what they had been before they arrived in Pollio's house, or how they had come there. All his questions were answered with requests to know if he wanted a hot compress, or more broth, or some other small service. If they had feelings or desires of their own, they would not admit to them. He found it very disquieting.

Cantabra went out again, which annoyed him: he felt she might at least have advised him what she was doing. He spent the morning in bed, recovering from the purgative, considering his situation, and wishing that his bodyguard would come back so that he would have someone to talk to. As the hours wore on he began to wonder anxiously if she'd got into a fight—or whether Pollio had hired her. By her own account, the man had recognized her, and he had certainly seemed to find her amusing. From her point of view, working for Pollio would be a great deal safer and more secure than working for a man who would at best leave Rome in a score of days, and, at worst, meet an inglorious death.

Early in the afternoon the steward Socrates turned up, with another strong young male slave. “My master believed you might want a bath,” he informed Hermogenes. “Xanthos and Pyrrhus can carry you to the bathhouse.”

The thought of a long hot bath was actually very appealing, but the reference to Socrates' master wanting him to have one put him instantly on guard. “Perhaps later,” he said, smiling. “I was just about to have a nap.”

There was a momentary silence. The new slave, Xanthos, shifted his feet uncomfortably and glanced anxiously at Socrates.

“The master wants the bathhouse for some other guests later,” Socrates told him smoothly. “Please come now, sir. The doctor recommended bathing as good for your injuries, and now is the time that would be convenient for the staff.”

He met the steward's eyes, and had no more doubts: Pollio had given orders that he be delivered to the bathhouse. A meeting? Very likely. With whom, though, and why?

“Very well,” he said, trying to hide his queasy apprehension. “I do not wish to inconvenience any of the staff, after you have all been so … attentive. Do you happen to know where my bodyguard is?”

The steward showed a hint of what Hermogenes suspected was real amusement. “You want the gladiatrix to attend you in the bath?”

“No!” he snapped, more sharply than he'd intended. “I don't want her to come back here and think that I've been kidnapped. She is new to the work, and trying very hard to prove her worth. She might do something stupid.”

“Nestor will stay here to tell her where you are,” Socrates conceded. He snapped his fingers, and Xanthos and Pyrrhus helped the guest to the chair which had been used the day before, and carried him from the room.

Pollio's private bathhouse occupied a whole wing, descending the slope of the Esquiline in steps. It was, as Hermogenes expected, enormous and sumptuous—hot plunge room, cold plunge, steam room, swimming pool, all lavishly decorated with frescos and polished stone. It was also, to his surprise, empty. He and the slaves undressed, and he allowed Xanthos and Pyrrhus to help him first to the hot plunge, then to the cold, and then to the steam room. He was lying on the bench between the two slaves, allowing the heat to soak the aches out of his muscles, when he heard the sound of voices just outside the door. He grabbed his crutch and sat up, steeling himself.

The first man through the door was Tarius Rufus.

They recognized one another at once. Rufus looked less intimidating naked than he had in consular purple: a heavy, hairy body, with a pronounced paunch. He was still wearing all his rings, though, and Hermogenes braced himself against the bench and held the crutch in front of himself like a shield. Rufus, however, stared for a long moment in shock and evident horror, then whirled and shrieked to the man behind him, “Oh, Jupiter, the
Egyptian's
here!”

The man behind shoved forward to see; he was, as Hermogenes had expected, Tarius Macedo, looking thin and hard as a dagger—more formidable than when clothed, in contrast to his patron. He stared wildly and exclaimed, “It's not possible! He's still at the moneylender's!”

“Don't be stupid!” bellowed the consul. “It's
him
. Gods and goddesses, what do we do now? I can't kill Titus, but you know what'll happen if we try to sell!”

“I'll strangle Gunthar!” muttered Macedo, and strode rapidly into the steam room.

Pollio's two slaves were both on their feet, and Pyrrhus stepped quickly in front of Hermogenes. Macedo halted, glaring. Hermogenes had noticed that both the slaves who'd accompanied him were young, strong, and athletic looking. He'd assumed that they'd been chosen for their decorative appearance, but he suddenly doubted it.

“Ah, my dear Hermogenes!” exclaimed Pollio, waddling into the room behind his guests—a grotesque figure, with his swollen feet and hands and shriveled torso. He had another two sturdy slaves behind him. “I hope you are enjoying the steam bath? Lucius, I believe you've met my other guest, Marcus Aelius Hermogenes? He was injured the other day by robbers in the Subura, and was very fortunate to escape with his life.”

Rufus had turned nearly purple and seemed unable to speak. Pollio waddled over and sat down on the bench beside Hermogenes. “I didn't know you had so many bruises,” he remarked. He squeezed his guest's shoulder, gazing at the black blotches that marked his torso with avid admiration. “What a pity they didn't catch your attackers!”

Hermogenes set the foot of the crutch on the floor and pushed himself to his feet. He felt no more able to speak than Rufus, so he inclined his head politely to his host and limped toward the door. His two guards followed him, keeping between him and the visitors. Rufus, however, did not move away from the door, and Hermogenes was forced to stop.

“What are you doing here?” the consul demanded in choked voice. He spoke in Greek, though everything else had been in Latin. Hermogenes suddenly suspected that the other man didn't realize that he spoke Latin. All their dealings had been in Greek. That “I can't kill Titus!” had been something he wasn't expected to understand.

“I came here to ask Publius Vedius Pollio if he wished to buy a debt,” Hermogenes told him evenly, in Greek. “He has yet to decide whether he wants to do so. I neither know nor care about anything else that may be involved.”

“You foul, greedy, moneylending parasite!” roared the consul.

Hermogenes stood where he was, trembling with a rage he had not expected. “I practice a useful trade honestly,” he said fiercely. “You are the one who abused your power as governor of Cyprus to force an honest businessman to lend you more than he could afford, and who defaulted when you could have repaid him easily. When I asked you for what you unquestionably owe, you tried to have me killed. Foul, greedy parasite? That's a very good description of
you,
Consul.”

Rufus swung at him. The slaves had been braced for it, however: Xanthos blocked the blow with his forearm, while Pyrrhus grabbed Hermogenes round the waist and half dragged, and half carried him out, shoving Rufus aside. Pollio laughed and clapped his hands.

Back in the changing room, Pyrrhus deposited the guest in the chair, which was still standing where they'd left it on arrival, and began hauling their clothing and sandals from the storage niches. Xanthos came out from the steam room, his forearm bruised red and a ring scrape along his bare shoulder. From behind him came the sound of Pollio's voice, high and gleeful, and an angry reply. Xanthos glanced back and spat, then looked at Hermogenes in the chair and Pyrrhus with his armful of clothing. Hermogenes could see him wonder how to move everything at once.