Render Unto Caesar (28 page)

“Do you want to come into the dining room and have some wine?” offered Titus.

They went into the dining room. More people were coming in from the back of the house—Stentor, Gallus, three or four of the other slaves, all relieved to see their master's guest back in one piece for a change. Someone ran to fetch wine.

“Menestor,” Hermogenes ordered, “go get some clothes on.”

Menestor looked down at himself as though only just realizing that he'd run out of the bedroom naked. He blushed and left in a hurry.

“I truly, truly didn't mean to,” said Titus humbly. “It just … happened.”

Hermogenes sighed and rubbed at his face. “Yes. Well, I need to explain what has happened to me. Will you listen?”

Titus sat down on one of his red-upholstered couches and clasped his hands together attentively.

Hermogenes made the explanation rapidly—Pollio's blackmail of Rufus, the meeting that afternoon in the bathhouse, his suspicion that his own life formed part of the bargain; his escape. “I don't dare stay here,” he finished. “Even if I could justify putting your household in danger—which I cannot!—it would not be safe for me to stay in the first place they'll look for me. I must go somewhere else. I need to get my letters of credit, though—and I think I should draw up some kind of document giving Menestor his freedom.”

“I, um, had one drawn up this morning,” Titus said hesitantly. “Because you'd
said
you wanted to free him, and I thought, if I had one drawn up—”

“Thank you,” Hermogenes interrupted. “I will sign it.”

Menestor came back in, clothed.

“But I thought,” Titus went on, looking sick with apprehension, “I thought maybe you would sell him to me, and then
I
could free him. Oh, please, please, my dear friend, let me do that!”

“Why?” Hermogenes demanded bluntly.

Titus went red. “Because then he'd be Fiducius Menestor instead of Aelius Menestor, and my freedman, not yours.”

Hermogenes stared at him a moment, then turned to his slave. “Menestor,” he said, in Greek, “Titus asks me to sell you to him, so that when you are free you will bear his name, not mine. What do you want?”

Menestor reddened and looked at the floor. “I don't know.”

“You must make up your mind quickly,” Hermogenes told him sharply. “I have to leave again very soon, and I want your freedom established before I go. I should not have left before without settling the matter.”

Menestor's head jerked up. “Where are you going?”

“I don't know yet. I will have to hide, for a few days at least. Understand this: going home is no longer an option. I think now they would send people after me. I still hope that I can find a way out, but I am by no means confident of it.” It was the first time he'd admitted it, and he was surprised at how steady his voice was.

“Take me with you!” exclaimed Menestor, gazing at him desperately. “Please, sir! I won't ask you to give up and I won't complain. I don't even want my freedom. I just want to be with you. I can't stand it, staying here, not knowing where you are or what's happening to you. Please, sir!”

Hermogenes shook his head in bewilderment. He'd always been supposed an observant man. How had he failed to notice
this
? “Menestor, you may think yourself in love with me—”

“Think?”
cried Menestor in anguish. “Oh, gods, I've been in love with you for
years
!”

Hermogenes held up his hand. “Child, you are old enough to know better! I am
never
going to love you, and if you come with me, you will be no help but a hindrance. I know you are loyal and intelligent, but
you don't speak Latin.
I would have to provide for you, and explain you, and interpret for you, and in the end, perhaps, watch you die for me—pointlessly. No: I will not take you with me. Accept your freedom and stay here, for now, at least. I will give you money for your fare back to Alexandria before I leave tonight, so that if I don't survive, and if you still wish it, you can go home. Discuss it, if you like, with Titus Fiducius. I am going to fetch the things I need.”

He limped off toward the Nile Rooms.

Cantabra followed him. “What was all that?” she asked.

He snorted. He felt, despite the desperation of his situation, a sense of profound shock. He thought of Menestor sharing a room and a bath with him, Menestor helping him dress in the morning, Menestor tenderly washing the blood off his shoulder. The awareness of what Menestor must have been feeling through all that filled him with a mixture of pity and revulsion. He remembered the longing in the young man's voice in response to his own question as to whether Menestor would be willing to sleep with his master in exchange for his freedom. It hadn't been, as he'd thought then, a longing for freedom, but for something that Menestor had already known he would never obtain. “The boy thinks he is love with me,” he told the barbarian in disgust.

There was a silence. They reached the Nile Rooms, and he fumbled in the darkness for the lamplighter. “I heard Greeks were like that,” Cantabra said.

“What does being Greek have to do with it?” he asked in bewilderment. “Don't Cantabrians ever sleep with boys?”

“No,” she replied at once. “If they did we would kill them.”

“Zeus!” he said, shocked again. He found the lamplighter, lit it, then lit the lamps on the lighthouse stand. The tawdry Egyptian decor formed around them, full of mysterious shadows.

“I don't think it is particularly Greek,” he said, going to the trunk. “Most of us like women, and there are plenty of Romans who like boys. My friend Titus, for one, and Vedius Pollio, for another.”

“I saw how he kept touching you.”

“I think that was only to provoke me.”

“It was disgusting.”

He looked at her in surprise. She stood in the doorway, her arms crossed and her face grim. He shrugged. “Yes. Agreed. Should I have allowed myself to be provoked, when it was what he wanted?”

She uncrossed her arms and came forward to kneel next to the trunk beside him. “
You
don't sleep with boys, do you?” she asked anxiously.

He felt like hitting someone—her, Titus, Menestor. Pollio, he thought yearningly, or Rufus. “No,” he snapped. “I do not, and at the moment I feel that I never want Menestor near me again. Satisfied?”

She looked away.

“The poor young man is seventeen, honest, intelligent, and wretched. I am his master, and he loves me. I brought him here, to this city where he cannot speak the language, took him into dangers he could not cope with for a cause in which he did not believe, then left him in this house with a fat Roman who had fallen in love with him. He looked for comfort, and now feels he betrayed me. He will have the choice between going home on his own to a ruined house, or staying here with Titus Fiducius. He has been utterly devoted to me, and I have treated him
shamefully
—and now I don't want him near me. Would your people consider that proper conduct?”

“I am sorry,” she said in a whisper. “I had no business saying anything.”

He grunted and unlocked the trunk.

The strongbox contained only another twenty denarii in coin. He put that in his purse, then collected the letters of credit. He rolled them up in a clean tunic. His good cloak was sitting folded on the edge of the desk: he put the tunic on top of it, then rolled up the whole bundle and secured it with a spare belt. He was about to stand up when he noticed the pen case with Cantabra's money in the corner of the trunk. He fished it out and handed it to her in silence, then closed and locked the trunk. He blew out the lamps and left the room.

Back in the dining room, Titus and Menestor were standing together next to a table on which lay some sheets of papyrus. Titus seemed to be pleading with Menestor, who was shaking his head. They both stopped when Hermogenes limped in.

“Have you made up your mind?” Hermogenes asked the slave.

“Yes, sir,” replied Menestor in a low voice. “I want
you
to free me.”

Hermogenes nodded. “Very well. Menestor, I am sorry. You have deserved better of me than you've received. I wish we could do this properly, with the ceremony it deserves, and not in this harsh haste, but I
must
leave at once. Is this the document?”

“Oh, please!” gasped Titus, coming over. “Please, won't you sell him to me? I'd give you any sum you ask, and I swear I'd free him myself later. Please?”

Hermogenes paused, staring in surprise. Titus blinked back, his round face pale, his jowls trembling, a man in the grip of an overpowering emotion. For once a “lovely boy” had accepted his advances willingly, and he was altogether smitten.

“I'm sorry,” Hermogenes told his friend, in Latin, so that Menestor would not understand, “I swore I would give him his freedom, and you know that he is cruelly distressed. How can you ask me to refuse him this, since he wants it?”

“B-but I
love
him!” stammered Titus. “And if he isn't my slave, and isn't my freedman—well, he's going to leave me, isn't he? Nobody ever loves me. You don't know how lucky you are, to have people love you the way they do.”

It was, Hermogenes reminded himself, the middle of the night—and from the smell on his breath, Titus had been drinking some of the wine his slaves had brought. He sighed in exasperation and put his hand on the other man's shoulder. “Titus, he slept with you of his own free will and choice, because you were kind to him. If you continue your kindness, perhaps he
will
love you. He has a generous and affectionate nature, as do you.”

“He won't,” sobbed Titus, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Nobody ever does.”

“I have no
time
for this!” Hermogenes exclaimed impatiently. “How can you expect anyone to love you if you never give them the freedom to choose you? You can't refuse them that, and then complain!” He picked up the document from the table. It was a bill of sale. He picked up the one underneath it: the manumission. He read it through, saw that it was in order, found pen, ink, and wax, and signed and sealed it.

“Will you witness it?” he asked Titus, offering him pen and document.

Titus wiped his nose again, took the pen, and signed his own name as witness.

Hermogenes handed the manumission document to Menestor, then tipped out his purse. “I'm sorry, this is all I have with me,” he said, giving it to the young man. “It should pay your way to Alexandria if you travel on deck, or if you find work on the ship. You could inquire if any captains or pursers need a secretary. I will try to arrange to have the full fare sent to you when I can get coin, but I do not know whether I will be able to. Titus.” He turned to the businessman.

Titus was looking stunned and subdued.

“I fear I may have put you in danger,” Hermogenes told him. “I think you should take whatever steps you can to protect yourself and your household. Report as much of this as you think reasonable to whoever is in charge of such things at Rome—the prefect of the city, would it be? You do not need to accuse the consul of anything: it would probably be sufficient to say that a guest of yours had a disagreement with him, and that some of his men have been hanging about your house in a threatening manner. Imply that what you fear is barbarian guardsmen out of control, not malice from their employer. Mention that I've quarreled with Pollio as well. Tell your friends, too. Complain about me for having stirred up trouble and left you to face the consequences. Make sure that Rufus and Pollio both
know
that you have told the authorities that you are worried: it makes it much less likely that they will do anything to you. Make sure, too, that they know that I am not here, and that you do not know where I am. I hope that will be enough.”

“What will you do?” asked Titus anxiously.

“I still need to decide. Oh, one more thing, though. Cantabra has served me loyally, with intelligence and courage. I would not be here without her help. If I am killed, please will you see to it that she finds another, more fortunate employer? I am certain that anyone to whom you recommended her would come to thank you for it.”

“You really do expect to die,” said Titus, staring at him.

Hermogenes smiled tightly. “I
hope
to escape, but it is best to be prepared for the worst. Will you do as I ask?”

“Yes,” whispered Titus. He seized Hermogenes' hand and began to wring it. “Oh, gods and goddesses! My dear friend…”

“Please!” said Hermogenes, detaching himself. “I need to keep my head clear. I am very sorry for all the trouble I am causing, to you and to all your household. Menestor,” he switched back to Greek, “I am sorry. I wish you joy of your freedom. Farewell!” He picked up the roll of his cloak, gathered up his crutch, and limped quickly to the door.

The whole household followed him into the entrance hall, talking and exclaiming. Menestor tried to catch hold of him; he shrugged the boy off, advised the others to be quiet, for their safety and his own, and managed to unbolt the door and step out into the night. Cantabra followed him silently.

He walked back down the Via Tusculana to the alley where he'd waited before, then stopped. The silence of the empty streets was infinitely welcome after the harried meeting.

He had behaved badly, he acknowledged silently. He had treated both Menestor and his friend Titus with a casual impatience that would have offended him deeply if he had met it in someone else. They had each given him more than he had any right to ask, and he had not even thanked them.

But it had been so hard, with this desperate need to gather all he was into an attempt to outface death, to spare anything for the requirements of those who claimed him. He let out a long breath and looked up at the overcast sky. He wondered what time it was. Dawn came early at this time of year, and he needed to be safely hidden when it did.