Pollio did not betray much, but there was a momentary freezing of the smile and a contraction of the pupils of the eye that said that Hermogenes had hit a target. He’d thought it worth trying: it stood to reason that Pollio disliked Maecenas—both financiers, both intimates of the emperor, but the one a gentleman praised for his cultured generosity, and the other a freedman’s son despised for his greed.
“That would be ill-advised.” Pollio said softly. “I think that before he allowed you to do either of those things, my dear friend Lucius would … arrange for you to meet some robbers in the Subura. Your gladiatrix is a fierce fighter, no doubt, but I see only one of her.”
Hermogenes inspected the handle of his crutch. “The consul knows he would not benefit from my death.”
There was a silence, and then Pollio laughed. “Oh, Jupiter, dear Lucius has had bad luck, hasn’t he? Who has the incriminating documents?”
Hermogenes looked back at him with an expression of polite bafflement. Inwardly he was beginning to feel a new chill. Whatever bound this man to the consul, it wasn’t the simple commercial transaction he had thought. The tone and the language were wrong. There was something more complicated here, something political. He began to suspect that he had been extremely unwise to come.
Pollio laughed again, as though he’d seen that realization. “You’re out of your depth, Alexandrian,” he said, almost gently. “You’re swimming well, but you’re out of your depth. Tell me, how did you know I was Lucius’s major creditor? I have not publicized the fact.”
“He had every reason to pay if he could,” Hermogenes replied. “That he didn’t, had to mean he couldn’t. If he had borrowed in Rome, it would have been from a member of his own circle, and that meant you or Maecenas.”
“And he and Gaius Maecenas always loathed each other,” Pollio finished, as though it were common knowledge. “Simple enough. How much does Lucius owe you?”
“Four hundred thousand of the principal,” he answered at once, aware of his heart slowing in relief. Perhaps the political aspect was completely irrelevant to his own concerns, and he could still sell the debt and get out. “Plus a hundred and twenty thousand of interest. Given the difficulties I face in trying to collect—and my innocence of political matters, lord, in which, I do acknowledge it! I am indeed out of my depth—I would sell to you for two-thirds of the total.” He would not press for more, not now. “My great wish is to be quit of this and go home. I have only one condition.”
“Oh, conditions!” exclaimed Pollio. “I never fail to be astonished at the way you Greeks believe you can impose conditions. Winged Death could appear before you with his sword, and you would try to dictate to him the conditions under which he could claim your life. Tell me your ‘condition,’ then!”
His heart sped up again. He was not going to escape so easily. He made himself respond calmly despite his growing apprehension. “Whatever you do with the debt, Rufus must know that I no longer hold the title to it.”
“And you believe that would save you now?” Pollio smiled, then snapped his fingers. “Socrates. Some wine for my guest. Make it the Caecuban. He amuses me.”
The slave bowed and hurried out.
“I presume you have documents to prove title,” Pollio went on, leaning back in his chair and resting his swollen hands on his stomach.
“In a safe place.”
“Of course. Give them to me, and we will talk about payment and ‘conditions.’”
Hermogenes put the end of the crutch on the floor and levered himself upright. “I am sorry to have disturbed you,” he said, as calmly as he could. “I regret that we cannot do business.”
“Sit down!” snapped Pollio, with the first hint of real annoyance. “I’ve just sent for wine.”
Hermogenes remained standing. “All I want,” he said evenly, “is to recover money that is owed to me. I have offered you the opportunity to purchase the debt. And—forgive me!—but what is business but a setting of conditions? If you reject the need for them, what is there left to negotiate about? If you are Death with his sword, and conditions mean nothing to you, then kill me. You should be aware, though, that I have left a letter which will go to one of the consul’s enemies if I do not reclaim it.”
He saw, with dismay, that Pollio wanted that event no more than did Rufus. “Sit down,” the Roman said again. “Sit down or I may become angry with you! I do not reject your conditions. We will negotiate.”
Hermogenes sat down. The slave Socrates hurried in, accompanied by a young male slave carrying a silver tray on which stood wine, water, and two cups, all made of a delicate Alexandrian glass. The young man bowed to his master, set the tray down on the corner of the desk, and poured wine, mixing it with only a third of water. He bowed to his master again and handed him a cup, then gave one to the guest. Hermogenes noticed that the young man’s hands were trembling. Presumably he would be thrown to the lampreys if he dropped the glass. He accepted the wine with a murmur of thanks.
Pollio sniffed the wine appreciatively, then took a slow sip, rolled the drink around his mouth, and swallowed. “Superb!” he announced. “I find that Caecuban is one of the few things in life which never lose their savor. Try it.”
Hermogenes sipped the wine cautiously. It was rich, very heavy, sweet and vinegary at the same time, with a complexity of flavor that instantly proclaimed a formidable expense.
“As you say,” he agreed. “Superb.”
Pollio laughed again, setting down his cup. “Oh, you do have talent, don’t you? Lucius should curse the day he decided he could ignore that debt. Being Lucius, of course, he will merely curse you. He’s never liked Greeks. He has, more than most of us, that sense that you are sneering at us as uncouth barbarians behind our backs.” He smiled, showing the points of his teeth. “Myself, I am very philhellenic. Most of my domestic staff are Greek, as perhaps you’ve noticed.”
More fashionable even than ordinary slaves with Greek names, no doubt. And no doubt the lampreys liked them just as much.
“You said we would negotiate,” Hermogenes reminded him.
“Yes. As it happens, I am not certain whether I want to buy Lucius’s debt from you or whether I would prefer to help you collect it yourself. If I decide to buy it, I will give you the interest and the two-thirds of the principal you ask for, and you may be certain that Lucius will know that I have done so. If I help you to collect it, I will provide plenty of men to ensure your safety while you sue, and you may keep everything you get. I need a couple of days to decide which course to take. While I am making up my mind, I would like you to remain here in my house as my guest.”
Hermogenes sat very still, gripping the crutch. “My friend Titus Fiducius will be very concerned for me.”
“Ah, yes. Your friend. Does Lucius know that you have left your friend’s house?”
“He should believe that I attended my slave’s funeral, then returned,” Hermogenes admitted reluctantly. “Lord, I told my friend I would be back this evening.”
“It is possible to send him a note, if we arrange for it to be delivered discreetly. You presumably had some idea of how to smuggle yourself back in, broken ankle and all, so I think I could manage a letter. You must stay here. I insist.” Pollio’s voice hardened on the last two words.
Hermogenes met the rheumy eyes. There was no menace there, only a ruthless satisfaction. Pollio had found a tool that he wanted; Pollio would use it. The tool had no choice in the matter.
“I have no interest in what your plans involve, lord,” Hermogenes said deliberately. “As I have said, all I want is to get my money, and if you are willing to assist me in that, I am content. However, I am also concerned for the safety of people to whom I have obligations. If I were forced to sue for recovery, I would not want my friend or his household brought into any danger.”
“Still making conditions? Very well. Agreed. Your friend will be protected. And for now, you will stay here. Socrates, have the White Rooms made ready for my guest. For
his bodyguard … do you want to keep her with you?”
“Yes,” Hermogenes replied, without hesitation. “I gather there was some trouble with one of your men last time she was here.”
Pollio’s eyes slid to Cantabra with a look of amusement, but he nodded. He heaved himself to his feet and hobbled over to his guest, walking with the straddled gait of a man whose feet pain him. Hermogenes pulled himself out of the low chair again and stood balanced on his left foot, holding the handle of the crutch with both hands.
Pollio reached out and touched his guest’s cheek just under the bandage. The white eyebrows lifted slightly. “I thought I smelled myrrh,” he remarked. “Infected, is it? I will have someone bring you something for it.” He stroked the hot flesh with his swollen fingers, then dropped his hand to Hermogenes’ shoulder and squeezed lightly. “I will take very good care of you, Alexandrian. You are exactly what I need.”
* * *
The slave called Socrates led them back out to the long corridor, then along it. When they reached the atrium, Hermogenes stopped. The crutch was hurting his armpit, and he felt hot, weak, and sick. “Let me rest a moment,” he said, when Socrates turned back toward him with a look of concern.
“I’ll have a chair fetched,” Socrates offered at once, in Greek.
Hermogenes shook his head. “I have a chair, and some bearers I hired for the day. They should be waiting…”
“I will see to it that they are paid and sent off,” Socrates said immediately.
The quickness of that response confirmed it: he would not be allowed to slip off. “They expect a denarius,” he murmured, as though he had noticed nothing.
Socrates nodded, clapped his hands to summon the doorkeeper and another passing slave, and gave orders. Someone went off to pay and dismiss the sedan chair; someone else went off into the house, and came back presently with an ordinary chair and two young men to carry it. Hermogenes rode the rest of the way to the White Rooms.
The name obviously came from the stone used to pave and decorate them: Parian marble, pure and glittering as snow. There was a sleeping cubicle, a study, and a dressing room, separated by white curtains and provided with furniture of pale woods and white or gold upholstery. Two women slaves were already there, preparing the bed and topping up the oil in the lamps. The two young men set down the chair in the dressing room, and Hermogenes sat there, hugging his crutch, while the women finished arranging things. Socrates asked him if there was anything else he’d like.
“A drink of water, thank you,” Hermogenes told him. “Is your name really Socrates?”
“Lord Pollio has five stewards,” the man answered obliquely. “The others are called Plato, Aristotle, Zeno, and Epicurus. I am senior, and the oldest.”
He’d suspected something of the sort. “Why philosophers?”
“Being a steward certainly teaches a man to be philosophical,” Socrates said dryly. “I will see that you have the water, and I will bring someone to see to your injuries, as my master instructed.”
Pollio’s slaves went out. Cantabra prowled about the three rooms scowling, then came over and sat down on the floor by her employer’s chair.
“I’m sorry,” he said helplessly.
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 th
e 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.
Render Unto Caesar Page 17
