Render Unto Caesar (7 page)

By this time it was after noon, and the shops were closing. Hyakinthos recommended a bathhouse. It was a big place near the bank of the Tiber, with a swimming pool and an exercise yard as well as the usual hot and cold plunge baths. The three slaves took turns guarding the party's clothes and the shopping so that everyone could have a wash and a swim. Afterward they bought some cheese pastries and sweet wine cakes from a vendor in the colonnade which flanked the exercise yard, and sat in the shade to eat them. Hermogenes bought two extra cakes and set them aside.

Hyakinthos, who'd relaxed into noisy thirteen-year-old boisterousness during his swim, challenged Menestor to a ball game. Balls could be hired in the yard, so Hermogenes paid the tiny charge for one, and watched the two slaves running energetically up and down their end of the yard, trying to toss the ball into the corners designated as goals. The thirteen-year-old was no match for a seventeen-year-old, and after Menestor's third goal, Phormion got up and went to join Hyakinthos. Menestor, laughing, protested that that made it two against one, so Hermogenes got up and joined him.

They played until they were all red-faced from exertion and drenched with sweat. Hyakinthos and Phormion were declared the winners—as Hermogenes had known they would be, since Phormion was by far the fastest, strongest, and toughest member of the party. Everyone had a drink of water and another swim. They dressed again, feeling pleasantly tired and relaxed, and set out for the house of Fiducius Crispus.

Hyakinthos eyed the two extra cakes, which Hermogenes carried himself. “I could eat one of those, sir, if you're not hungry,” he said hopefully.

Boys that age were always hungry, Hermogenes thought with amusement. “These are for a couple of your fellows,” he said mildly.

The slave looked surprised. “For
my
fellows?”

Hermogenes waved a hand negligently. “For a little girl called Erotion, and for her mother Tertia. I was talking to them this morning.”

Hyakinthos frowned. “But they're slaves of my master. Why buy them cakes?”

“The child—because she's charming, and reminds me of my own daughter. The woman—because she seems gentle and kind, and I think she'd appreciate a cake even more than the child. I suspect that little Erotion may be a household pet. Is that so?”

The boy made a sound expressive of deep disgust. “She
is. Everybody
thinks she's just so
cute,
she can get away with
anything
. But—”

Hermogenes laughed.
You have to be clever to learn Greek, my brother says.
“She's your sister, is she?”

“Yes,” said the boy, startled. “But…” He stopped, looking worried.

A moment's consideration showed Hermogenes the reason for the worry. “I have no amorous intentions toward your mother,” he said gently. “The cake is only because she has to clean up after me, and I thought she deserved thanks.”

The boy went a deep red and bit his lip. “I'm sorry, sir,” he mumbled, staring at the road. “I didn't … I know it's not … I mean, if you
did,
you wouldn't even have to give her cakes … it's just that she's my mother.”

“What is the matter?” asked Menestor, in Greek. Hyakinthos had been speaking in Latin.

“The cleaning woman I bought one of the cakes for is the boy's mother,” Hermogenes told him matter-of-factly, “and he feared the fact that I bought her a cake means I intend to take her to my bed,”

“Oh, no!” Menestor said, amused. “He's always buying cakes.”

“Not always!” Hermogenes protested.

“Everytime you go to the market.” Menestor insisted. “One for Myrrhine, and one for Myrrhine's nurse. And every big cleaning day, one each for the cleaners, ‘because they've been working so hard, and the house looks splendid.' And sometimes you buy them because one of your ships has come in, and you want everyone to celebrate. And sometimes for no reason, just you saw something that looked good, and you thought your household would enjoy it.”

“Very well, very well!” his master said, embarrassed now. “I'm always buying cakes.”

“We're not complaining, sir,” said Phormion in his growling voice.

“My master never buying cakes for slaves,” Hyakinthos stated in Greek, with more than a touch of bitterness.

“I bet he gives cake to
you,
though,” said Menestor lightly.

Hyakinthos turned red again and stopped in the street. “What you mean?”

“Well—you're his catamite, aren't you?”

Hyakinthos looked as though he might hit him. “I never
want
!” he shouted. “What I do, heh, what? He is the master—I say
no
?”

“I didn't mean—” Menestor began, taken aback.

“I
hate
it!” screamed Hyakinthos.

“Calm down!” Hermogenes ordered him, in Latin. “Calm down. Menestor was not blaming you for anything, boy. Calm down.”

“I
hate
it!” Hyakinthos repeated, in Latin this time. He glared at Hermogenes through tears. “Getting away today—that was so good, just getting out in the forum and then swimming and playing ball, I had so much fun—and now I've got to go back there and let him fuck me, and I
hate
it.”

Hermogenes had no idea what to say. Menestor took the boy's arm and pulled him over to the side of the road. “Of course you must obey your master,” he said in Greek. “I never said otherwise. Calm down.”

Hyakinthos took several deep breaths and rubbed his streaming eyes. “I hate it,” he said again.

“Does he hit you?” Menestor asked seriously. “Hurt you?”

The boy shuddered. “No,” he said in a low voice. “I … I just never want.” He wiped his eyes again. “He is a good master, everyone say. He…” His Greek ran out, and he went on in Latin, “He keeps his slaves in the household even when they're damaged. I mean, my father, after the fire lots of people said he should be sold to the mines or at least sent out to the country where people wouldn't have to look at him, and that would have killed him. The fire hurt his lungs, and he isn't strong. But the master paid all the doctors' fees, and then made him doorkeeper so he wouldn't have to do any heavy work. That was kind. He
is
kind, even if he never does buy cakes for anyone. And he keeps Stentor, who can't hardly talk, and he hardly ever has anyone beaten, and then only when they really deserve it. Everyone knows he's a good master. I do, too, even if … I just don't like it when he touches me. It makes me feel sick.”

“What's he saying?” Menestor asked anxiously.

Hermogenes shook his head. “That his master is kind, but he still hates his bed.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” said Hyakinthos. He wiped his eyes again and took another deep breath. “I shouldn't have said anything in front of you.” He gave Hermogenes a frightened look. “Oh, I shouldn't have! Sir, you won't tell him I said … anything?”

“Not if you don't want me to.”

“I don't!” the boy said fervently. “I don't!” He drew another deep, shuddering breath. “Mama says I'll get used to it—she says probably I'll even be unhappy when he gets tired of me and finds somebody else. She says it's something that just happens if you're young and pretty, and there's no use hating it. She says I ought to think of all the advantages I'm getting because of it.” He shook himself, and began walking on along the street again. “But I hate it,” he muttered, almost inaudibly. “I hate it!”

“What's he saying?” Menestor asked again.

“That he hates it, but his mother tells him he must endure it until his master grows tired of him. And that he doesn't want anyone to tell his master what he said.”

“No,” agreed Menestor soberly. “That would be stupid.” He hurried after Hyakinthos and patted the boy on the shoulder.

Hyakinthos shrugged the pat off, and the party walked on in uncomfortable silence.

When they arrived back at the house on the Via Tusculana, the others went on into the house, but Hermogenes paused in the entranceway looking at the doorkeeper. Now that he knew to look, he could see that the face under the scars had once been handsome, and the reddened eyes were still large and dark.

“Sir?” asked the doorkeeper uneasily.

“Nothing much,” said Hermogenes. “Your son was our guide to Rome today. He did his task well.”

The doorkeeper blinked, pleased. “He's a good boy.”

“Does he have another name than Hyakinthos? And must I call you Dog?”

“Those are the names our master gave us,” Kyon replied severely. “It wouldn't be right for us to use different ones, particularly after all his kindness to us.”

“Your loyalty does you credit. Good health, then.”

“Good health, sir.”

He was aware of the doorkeeper staring after him as he continued into the house.

It was the end of the eighth hour, the middle of the afternoon, and Crispus's dinner party was to start at the ninth. Hermogenes went to his room to wash his face and comb his hair. Menestor was there, unpacking the baskets. Hyakinthos was with him, probably because he wanted to put off the hour he saw his master. The letters had gone from the table.

Hermogenes held out the two wine cakes in their leaf wrappings. “Hyakinthos, will you take these to your mother and your sister? Or would the temptation to eat them yourself be too great?”

The boy smiled weakly. “I'll take them, sir. And … thank you for buying the one for my mother. It's true, nobody ever buys her cakes, and she'll be very pleased.”

He set off on the errand. Hermogenes picked up the jar of wine he'd bought for his host, then set it down again, troubled by the boy's unhappiness. He wondered if his own slaves ever found their servitude that bitter.

Menestor was smiling as he arranged things on the desk, relaxed and contented after an enjoyable day. Or was that an illusion? Did the young man ever lie awake, longing for a freedom he had never known?

Hermogenes thought of Menestor's parents and the rest of the household in Alexandria, then found himself blinking at an unexpected wave of homesickness. He imagined his daughter receiving the letter he had written that morning, running an ink-stained finger along the words that he had penned for her, smiling, sitting down to produce some badly spelled reply. He wished he could pick her up and hold her, feeling her thin strong arms around his neck and smelling the sweet scent of her hair.

His wife's hair had always smelled sweet, too.

He sighed: Myrrhine and Alexandria were over a thousand miles away, and his wife further, much further still. He had business in Rome. He picked up the jar of wine again and went off to find the dinner party.

It was a big dinner. Crispus had invited seven of his friends to meet his Alexandrian guest, and had provided a meal of three courses, each consisting of six separate dishes. There were eggs in fennel, olives stuffed with cheese, shellfish in dill sauce, sausages, Parthian-style chicken, ham boiled with figs, pepper-stuffed dates, and so on and on over several hours. The quantities of wine consumed were even greater than the quantities of food. Hyakinthos and his girl partner were kept hard at work filling the cups. Kept busy in other ways, too: by the end of the night Crispus was openly fondling the boy, though he rebuked a guest who let his own hand wander in that direction. The girl was pawed freely without comment from the master of the house. She tolerated it with a glittering false smile, but Hyakinthos had a rictus grin under glazed eyes.

All the other guests were also in business or shipping, and the conversation circled around from interest rates to the dealings of shipping syndicates to the likely harvest in Egypt to the price of land in Italy and then back to interest rates again. About halfway through the evening Hermogenes found himself looking around at the drink-flushed faces and despising them, and he reprimanded himself severely. He had no cause to be self-righteous. These men were in the same trade as himself—though, from all he could tell, mostly not as good at it.

The guests had been told the reason for his visit to Rome, and the discussion of land prices provided some information about the consul Tarius Rufus.

“Rufus has bought up half Picenum, from what I hear,” declared a fox-faced banker. “A hundred million sestertii worth of it, anyway.”

The head of a shipping syndicate guffawed. “I would've thought that for a hundred million you could buy
all
of Picenum!”

“Good farmland,” retorted an investor judiciously. “Not cheap. Where did he get the hundred million?”

The banker rolled his eyes and sketched a crown around his own head with a significant forefinger.

A financier shook his head gloomily. “He won't get a good return on his money. Everyone always
says
land is safe, but one bad harvest and where are you? And if you take farming seriously, you have to invest. Wine presses, olive presses, oxen, plows, wells, irrigation—a farm can ruin you as fast as a ship, if you don't manage your investments right. He should have put some of those millions out into buildings. That's where the wise money is these days.”

“Rufus is from some little hole in Picenum, though, isn't he?” said the banker. “He didn't buy land there because he wanted a good return; he bought it because he wanted to go back there as the biggest man in Picenum.”

“Biggest cocksucker in Picenum,” murmured the head of the shipping syndicate, and laughed.

“How much was it you said he owed you?” asked the banker.

Everyone looked at Hermogenes, who smiled, shrugged dismissively, and replied, “Half a million, including the interest.” The banker whistled.

“Well, good luck getting it out of him!” said the head of the shipping syndicate. “I hope you want a farm in Picenum.”