Cantabra looked at him with narrowed eyes. “What’s ‘omniscient’?”
“‘Knowing everything’.”
“Huh! Nikomachus was your uncle, but who is this Pilokres? Does it mean anything that he mentioned him?”
“The only reason I can think of for mentioning Philokrates is to sound more knowing. There was never anything disreputable or peculiar about the shipping syndicate. No. I think Pollio was trying to frighten me, to drive down the price of the debt.”
“Drive down the price of the debt,” she repeated, and shook her head. “That still seems a strange idea, that you can sell a thing you don’t have.”
“Not so strange!” he objected. “If money you owe is a debt, then money owed to you has to be an asset. It is no stranger to sell it than to sell a share in a building you partly own, or a ship you have never even seen.”
“And you sell those things, too, you Greeks?”
“Greeks and Romans and Syrians all sell those things. I have, often. Selling a debt, especially one this big, I have not done before, but I think it is my best option.”
“How should it work?”
He shrugged. “I will see Pollio, establish my right to claim Rufus’s money, and tell him I am willing to transfer it to him for a fraction of the total. I will ask for three quarters, I may have to accept two thirds, I won’t go below half. When we have agreed, we will draw up a contract in duplicate. We both sign, and then he should give me the money, while I give him the documents, made over to him. Pollio will make a profit when he recovers the debt; I will recover enough to keep my own business affairs in good order—and Rufus will have to pay everything he owes.”
Cantabra gazed at him evenly, then asked, “What if Pollio doesn’t make Rufus pay? After all, he has not made the man repay what he loaned himself.”
He frowned. It was not a pleasant possibility. If Pollio were to buy the debt and the documents and then do nothing with them, Rufus would probably believe that Hermogenes still had them—and there’d be nothing he could use to buy protection from the consul’s enemies. He began to feel very tired again.
“I will speak to Pollio,” he said wearily. “It ought to be possible to work out what he intends.”
“Have you thought how you will get to the meeting?”
“I have an idea,” he told her. “I need to work on the details.”
The priest arrived just after dinner, a couple of hours before nightfall, accompanied by a slave with a jar of Nile water. Titus welcomed him solemnly at the door, then left Hermogenes to escort him to the slaves’ quarters at the back of the house, where the household had arranged Phormion’s body.
Hermogenes made himself watch while the body was washed, dressed in a clean tunic, and laid out neatly on a litter. The women slaves sent up a clamor of lament—not heartfelt, the way it would have been if Phormion had died at home among his friends, but enough to signal to the gods that here lay the body of a man who would be missed. The priest prayed to Mercury, and then to Isis, and Hermogenes joined in the responses.
Afterward the priest drew Hermogenes aside to ask him how he wanted to manage the funeral the following morning. Was he willing to pay for a cremation, or would a cheap burial be sufficient? There were pits in the cemeteries outside the city wall where the bodies of slaves were often thrown one on top of another, but …
“I will pay for the cremation,” Hermogenes replied at once. “He was a good man, and he died on my behalf. Would it be possible to arrange a covered litter for me to attend in? I wish to pay my respects to the dead, but my ankle is broken, and I am ashamed to appear in public looking the way I do.”
The priest did not try to tell him he didn’t need to be ashamed, which probably meant he looked even worse than he’d thought. Instead he agreed to arrange a litter, and they fixed a price for the cremation, arranged when and where to hold it, and wished each other good health.
Menestor hovered at his elbow for most of this, asking plaintive questions about what was being said, until the priest had pity on him and began to speak Greek. When Hermogenes went back to his rooms, the boy pressed on his heels. “A covered litter!” he exclaimed, as soon as he’d closed the door behind them. “What do you want a covered litter for? You’re not ashamed of the way you look.”
Hermogenes sighed. “I am not planning to skip Phormion’s funeral, Menestor. I’ll only slip away afterward. Vedius Pollio wants me to meet him at his house at the fifth hour. I’m selling the debt to him.”
Menestor scowled furiously. “You’ll send the litter back to the house empty, is that it?”
“No. I thought you could ride in it. In my cloak.”
The young man was shocked and outraged. “You’re planning to go see Pollio on your own?”
“I’ll have Cantabra with me.”
“That’s even worse!”
“You thought her a goddess last night.”
“I was out of my mind last night!—sir. I don’t trust her at all today.”
“I think,” Hermogenes told him irritably, “that she is intelligent and honest, that she has suffered terribly, and that she views me as her best chance of a better life. I think she will work very hard to satisfy me, and that I’m lucky to have found her.”
“You thought that of the men who carried the chair!”
“Not in the least! I liked having Roman citizens wait on me, and I let that blind me. It was a serious error. They were stupid, and they were easily misled. Is this insolent accusatory tone—which, incidentally, is highly inappropriate toward your master!—because I promised to free you? I do mean to do it, Menestor; I would have spoken to the magistrate, or to the priest, but whenever I look at poor Phormion’s body I find it hard to think of anything else.”
Menestor went very red. “Sir,” he said, with a sudden change of that tone from accusatory to pleading, “take me with you tomorrow!”
“To what end?” Hermogenes replied coldly. “There is nothing you could do that would help, and I find your belief that I am certainly going to die if I don’t surrender a definite hindrance.”
“Sir,” said Menestor, with ragged dignity, “don’t you understand that I’m afraid for you? You could be killed!”
“Yes, you’ve made that expectation quite clear,” he replied shortly. “And it is hardly flattering. I will try to make certain that you’re free before it happens. Will you fetch Cantabra, and ask Titus if he can spare a moment? I want to discuss the plans for tomorrow.”
Looking hurt and furious in equal measure, Menestor stalked out. Hermogenes sat down at the desk. He swiveled his aching ankle and took several deep breaths, trying to compose himself and arrange his plans for the morning.
* * *
The priest had agreed to return to the house before the beginning of the third hour. Hermogenes had left orders that he was to be woken before the beginning of the second, but in fact he was awake before dawn. His face and ankle hurt worse than ever, and dread of the day ahead throbbed like a headache. He made himself rest quietly in bed until it was light, then got up and hobbled out into the dayroom to put on a clean tunic and have a drink of cold water. Menestor woke up, and he sent the boy to see if Tertia was up and able to provide another poultice.
She was, and presently came in with the steaming cloths and basins. Erotion was not with her, and he was secretly relieved: he would have felt compelled to put on a cheerful face for the little girl, and he didn’t know that he could. Tertia shook her head over the old cut on his face and said she thought it was infected, and that he ought to spend the day resting quietly in bed.
“I can’t,” he told her simply. “Can you clean it for me? And perhaps splint the ankle? It may need more protection than just binding.”
She cleaned the cut, and had him send Menestor to fetch an ointment of myrrh to combat the swelling, together with some laundry beaters to use as splints. He submitted to the anointing with myrhh, then lay down on the bed to have the foot splinted. Tertia knelt beside
him, frowning as she arranged the flat splints on each side of the swollen ankle. “Sir,” she said timidly, “is it just the funeral you mean to go to? Or … are you planning to do other things as well?”
“I do have other things to do today, yes,” he admitted, “though I would prefer it if our friends across the road believe that I have simply attended my slave’s funeral and come back. You know that I have fallen into a dangerous situation. I am trying to set it right.”
“I am sure you are, sir,” she replied, biting her lip. “Sir, are you taking that barbarian woman with you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” She looked more worried than ever.
“You have some reason to suspect Cantabra?” he asked in concern.
“Oh—no—only … it’s just that she’s a terrible woman, sir! and I don’t like to think of you going off with her when you can’t even walk. She frightens me. She stares at my Erotion, sir, with this look on her face like … like she’s hungry. I think her sort of barbarian must eat children!”
He shook his head, moved by a stab of understanding and pity. “Tertia, she had two children of her own who were murdered by soldiers. What do you think she feels when she sees you embracing a lovely little girl?”
“She had children?” the slave woman asked, as astonished by the thought as he had been.
“Children and a husband,” he replied. “They were killed in the war her people fought against Rome, and she lost her freedom and was sent to the arenas. She never chose to be what she is. I know you are a good and kind woman, Tertia. Please, be kind to Cantabra. She has suffered terribly.”
“Oh!” Tertia was wide-eyed and red cheeked. “Of course. Oh, I didn’t know! The poor creature!” She shook her head. “Oh, her poor little babies! I’m glad you told me, sir.”
Cantabra, however, was not glad. A little while later, as he was eating a light breakfast with Titus in the dining room, the bodyguard appeared with a furious scowl on her face, saluted, then stood with her hands on her hips, glaring.
“Yes?” he asked politely.
“Lord,” she said, “you told the slaves about my children!”
“Yes,” he agreed, surprised. “Should I not have done?”
“No! What is my life worth, if I am pitied by slaves?”
“You prefer to be feared and hated by them?” he asked, becoming annoyed. “Tertia was afraid you wanted to eat her daughter. Should I have let her go on believing that? She is a gentle and decent woman who is readily moved to pity: why should that offend you? I pity you for your children: does that offend you, too?”
This seemed to throw her completely. She went red and stared at him speechlessly.
“I have a daughter myself,” he told her. “I know how I would feel if she were killed.”
“You have a daughter?” she asked, as though this were as extraordinary a notion to her as her role as a mother had been to him.
Titus, who had watched all this in astonishment, began to laugh.
“At home in Alexandria,” Hermogenes explained with an irritated glance at his friend. “Woman, I know you are both freeborn and inexperienced, so I am making allowances, but this is not the way to speak to an employer. Most men would dismiss you for this outburst.”
Cantabra looked as though she were about to choke. Still red in the face, she bobbed her head and backed stiffly out of the room.
“Did that creature really have children?” Titus asked in surprise and amusement.
“Apparently, yes,” he replied. Hermogenes set down his piece of bread, feeling greatly dissatisfied with both the world and with himself.
“Hard to believe.” Titus gave him a sly look. “She seemed quite astonished to think of you having children, too. Perhaps it made her jealous. I think she may be in love with you.”
He shook his head. “I am quite certain that she is not. She made it very plain that it was not included in the hire.”
“Did she? The insolent bitch!”
“Titus, she’s a barbarian ex-gladiator! Where would she have learned how to express that sort of thing gracefully? I think just now she was angry because she felt I’d betrayed a confidence. It was a mark of trust that she confronted me about it.” The memory of the furious look in her eyes came back to him—a hurt look, Hermogenes realized belatedly. “I should not have acted so superior,” he admitted, suddenly ashamed.
Titus was now watching him with a different sort of look, puzzled and sober. “You really do work at it with everyone, don’t you?” he asked.
“Work at what?”
“At … at trying to understand people, to reason them out. I remember your father telling me once that that was why you were so good at business—that you put yourself in the place of whoever you were dealing with and tried to work out what he really wanted. I watched you after that, and saw that he was right, that was what you did and you were very good at it. But it isn’t just business partners, is it? It’s everyone. That barbarian, your slaves … and my slaves, too.” He met his guest’s eyes. “You said you weren’t trying to corrupt and seduce them, but you have. You’ve been here only a few days, and already they want to please you more than they’ve ever wanted to please me.”
Caught and exposed. The cut on his cheek throbbed as the blood rushed into it. “That’s not true,” he said hurriedly. “They know you’re a kind master and they do want to please you. They just don’t know how.”
“What do you mean?” The obscure hurt he’d sensed in his host was suddenly sharp and open. “Surely it’s obvious how—”
“It isn’t,” Hermogenes insisted. “Look, Titus—when I first arrived here you were angry with them because they hadn’t got the rooms ready for me. In fact, they hadn’t been sure which rooms to get ready, and what you wanted done! You shout at them when they don’t do things properly, but you never say anything when they do—so they’re never certain whether or not they’ve done something right, and are frightened of doing anything, in case it’s wrong. They do want to please you. You just have to let them know how to do it.”
Titus stared at him with an expression he couldn’t interpret. Kyon came to the door and announced that the priest had arrived with the litter for the funeral procession.
“I’m sorry,” Hermogenes said vaguely, picking up his crutch. “Titus, I must go. Please, if anything should happen to me, look after Menestor. I want to give him his freedom; see if you can arrange that.”
Titus paled. “You expect to be killed?” he asked shrilly.
“No! No, I don’t. I expect to come back and arrange Menestor’s freedom myself. I only ask you as a precaution. Good health!” He hobbled quickly out to the door.
The funeral procession was still assembling. Menestor was there, looking sullen. Cantabra stood a little apart, also looking sullen, wearing a good plain cloak over her slave’s tunic—borrowed, but suitable for paying respects to the dead, though he found himself wishing that she had draped it properly instead of putting it on like a shawl. Hyakinthos hurried from the back of the house, together with his mother and his little sister. The priest wore the black robes of Isis, rather than the white ones of Mercury, though he had an attendant with him leading a lamb for a Roman-style funeral sacrifice. When Hermogenes came out, the priest came over to help him to the covered litter which stood waiting. Kyon followed with a borrowed black cloak suitable for use at a funeral.
The litter was a small one, with four slaves to carry it instead of the eight normal to more elaborate conveyances. The curtains were plain brown wool, and smelled musty. Hermogenes allowed Kyon to drape him with the cloak, and the priest helped him into the litter. When he was seated, his foot propped up on a cushion, he pulled back the opposite curtain to look across the street.
The four barbarians were there, two sitting on the curb over an interrupted dice game, the other two standing, all watching him intently. They weren’t all blond, after all—one of them had brown hair—but they were all obviously foreign, with heavy, bear
ded faces and long hair. They were big men, dressed in red tunics and plain cloaks, and if they hadn’t actually brought spears along, they were openly carrying knives. For a long moment he stared at them and they stared back. He beckoned one of them over.
The man stepped back hurriedly. Hermogenes glanced round and caught the eye of one of the bearers who would carry the litter. “Please, would you go across the road, and tell those gentlemen what we are doing?” he asked. “They will be concerned to know.”
Looking distinctly nervous, the bearer went across the road and spoke to the guardsmen. Hermogenes watched as the four men scowled in embarrassment, looking from the messenger to him. The bearer came back. “I told them,” he announced. He seemed relieved: his errand, and its tacit acceptance, made the guardsmen somehow official and nothing to worry about.
“Thank you,” Hermogenes murmured. He drew the curtains of the litter.
A minute later two of Titus’s slaves brought Phormion’s body out of the house, and the procession set off.
Rome was encircled by small cemeteries, all—by legal requirement—outside the old and long-defunct city wall. The nearest lay straight out the Via Tusculana, past the Caelimontana Gate. Hermogenes remembered the Rubrius brothers saying that it was the bad part of the thoroughfare, but he saw little of it from behind his curtains. It was not a long walk—the procession turned right into the cemetery less than a mile from the house, and Hermogenes opened the curtains to watch as Phormion’s body was carried onto the prepared pyre.
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