Render Unto Caesar

by Gillian Bradshaw

  Hermogenes nodded and left the letters on the table. He turned to the big trunk, which had been set against the wall next to the lampstand, fished out the key on its chain around his neck, unlocked the chest, and took out the box of documents relating to the debt—the original documents, of which the ones in the basket were copies. He handed it to Menestor; after a moment’s thought he added the papers that proved his own citizenship, and the party set out.

  The center of Rome was, indeed, very much grander than its outskirts. It was also, plainly, grander than it had been a generation before, and in another generation would be grander still: everywhere there was building work. Old brick temples along the Sacra Via were being renovated in marble; new porticoes, new basilicas, and new monuments sprouted like mushrooms. Hyakinthos pointed them out in his rudimentary Greek: “That up, on the Palatine—that the Temple of Apollo,” “That the Parthian Arch. Two year old,” “That the Temple of Caesar the God.”

  The morning streets were crowded, quite different from their shadowed emptiness the previous afternoon. Slaves in plain tunics, carrying baskets of shopping, rubbed elbows with citizen-women in their long fringed stoles. Occasionally there was a male citizen draped in a snowy toga, hurrying about on business. Water sellers and pastry vendors competed to cry their wares; sedan chairs lurched along the road, usually with a togaed gentleman swaying high above the sweating bearers. The occasional covered litter sailed past like a merchant ship among the small craft, carried smoothly upon the shoulders of eight bearers, its occupant invisible behind fine curtains.

  Foreigners were common. Hermogenes spotted a couple of northern barbarians before they’d even reached the Sacra Via—Germans or perhaps Celts, fair-haired men with beards, dressed in breeches. There were probably many other northerners who were wearing Roman dress, for there were far more blond and red heads among the crowd than he had ever seen in Alexandria. A pair of women from one of the caravan cities of the East stood together at a cloth merchant’s, dressed in long dark cloaks from head to foot, their necks and veils hung about with gold; a Phrygian eunuch priest sat begging in a public square, chanting the praises of the Great Mother in a reedy voice and occasionally striking a tambourine; a stout man in the stitched shirt and trousers of a Parthian, his beard dyed blue, pushed frowning through the crowd. The commonest sort of foreigner, however, was certainly the Greeks. The himation—the rectilinear cloak of the Greek East—was almost as common on the street as the curved Roman toga, and on every other corner he heard the accents of Athens or Antioch, Ephesus or his own Alexandria.

  Down the Via Tusculana they went, and down the Sacra Via, past the temple of the Deified Julius and into the Roman forum. The crowds were even thicker here, and there were far more togas. Hermogenes commented on it, and Hyakinthos hesitated.

  “You can say in Latin,” Hermogenes told him gently.

  “Oh,” said the boy, blushing. “Yes. Well, Romans are supposed to wear the toga if they have business in the forum. Otherwise they mostly don’t bother.”

  Hermogenes was taken aback. “Should I wear a toga, then?” He had no idea how one did wear the garment: the drape did not look easy.

  “You’re not a real Roman,” Hyakinthos told him immediately. “I don’t think anyone will mind. As a matter of fact, they’d—” He stopped.

  “What?”

  When the boy said nothing, Hermogenes asked in amusement, “The officials I must approach would sneer at a Greek in a badly draped toga?”

  Hyakinthos seemed surprised that he had guessed this. “Yes, sir, they would!” He looked at Hermogenes appreciatively and added, “That’s a very nice cloak. They’ll be more impressed by that than by a toga. You have to be rich to have a cloak like that, but every citizen has a toga.”

  “Then let us proceed to the record office—but I would like to visit a barber’s first, if I can.”

  There were no barbershops in the forum. They walked the length of it, past the temples, the law courts, the statues, the towering-columned public buildings, right to the far end, where a particularly tall and plain building frowned down upon the marketplace. Hyakinthos led them up a stairway into an arcade of shops. “This is the Tabularium,” he explained. “The record office you want. The front faces the other way, though, into the Campus Martius. We have to go through—but there may be a barber’s in here.”

  There was. Hermogenes sent Menestor and the boy off to buy something to eat for breakfast while he himself submitted to the razor. They returned just as the barber was finishing, Menestor with a double-handful of fried sesame cakes wrapped in vine leaves, Hyakinthos with both hands and his mouth full.

  “Menestor said you wouldn’t mind if I had some too, sir,” he said in a muffled voice.

  “Nor do I,” agreed Hermogenes, “but leave some for me!”

  They walked into the Tabularium eating sesame cakes. Undignified, Hermogenes thought resignedly, but they were good cakes, and he was hungry.

  Depositing the documents proved to be quicker and easier than he’d anticipated. While the archives had been built for official papers, the public slaves who ran it had established a profitable sideline in providing safe storage for private papers, for a fee. The face of the young clerk in the entrance hall sharpened with interest at the sight of Hermogenes’s cloak, and he smiled with satisfaction when he heard what was wanted. He took the box of documents, then fished out a bronze coin, placed it across a small iron balance weight, and hit it with a mallet. The coin broke jaggedly in half, and he gave one half to Hermogenes. “You know how these work?” he asked.

  Hermogenes nodded and slipped the half coin in his purse. When he came to reclaim the documents, he would have to produce his half of the coin, which the clerk would match with its mate before handing over the box. “Will you keep your half of the token with the documents?” he inquired.

  The clerk shook his head. “No. I’ll tag your documents and put them upstairs in the archives. We keep the tokens down here. Here, I’ll show you.”

  He took string, beeswax, and two small papyrus tags from a box on his desk; he tied the string round the box and secured one tag to it, then attached the other to the coin with the wax. On each tag he wrote a string of letters—FIIIXLII—then glanced up. “The letters mean your documents go up to the corridor on the third floor on the forum side of the building,” he explained, “and that they’re the forty-second lot stored there.”

  He opened another large box at the side of his desk; it contained three separate compartments, each already containing numbers of other tagged half coins. He set the token in the compartment labeled FIII. “When you come back, tell whoever’s on duty that it’s in forum three,” he ordered. “I’ll put the documents there now: they’ll be perfectly safe until you come back to claim them. If you lose the token, we can probably give you the documents if you tell us they’re lot forty-two in forum three and describe them accurately—but try not to lose it, because it makes it hard.”

  “Thank you,” said Hermogenes, and paid him. As he closed his purse again he decided he would have to find somewhere else to keep his token. Leaving it in his purse meant he risked losing it every time he spent some money.

  They went back out into the forum, and Hermogenes stretched, feeling a sense of accomplishment. He had sent Rufus a letter asking for an appointment, and he had done all he could to ensure the safety of his vital documents. Now there was nothing to do but wait for the consul’s response.

  “Hyakinthos,” he said, and smiled at the boy. “What should a visitor do in Rome?”

  It turned into a pleasant day. Hyakinthos took them back through the forum, this time pointing out everything of interest (Hermogenes made a mental note to tell his daughter about the gilded milestone labeled with the distance to Alexandria, among other cities). They visited a couple of temples, which, as was common, contained many fine works of art. The Temple of Caesar the God, Hermogenes discovered with amazement and awe, contained Apelles’ Aphrodite Rising from the W
aves, a towering masterpiece of Greek painting: it lived up to its reputation. There were other famous Greek masterpieces as well—sculptures by Praxiteles and Phidias; paintings by Polygnotos and Apelles. In fact, Hermogenes thought sourly, the temples of Rome did not seem to contain anything made by an Italian.

  When the glories of Art and Architecture began to pall, they did some shopping. They turned right down the narrow Vicus Tuscus, which was lined with shops. Hermogenes bought a small leather bag to keep his token in, and a jar of good wine as a present for his host. Phormion greatly admired a lamp decorated with molded chariots, but could not quite bring himself to part with any of his savings to buy it.

  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!”r />
  “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.”