“But then you’ll come here?”
“If I’m welcome. I am only too aware of all the trouble I’ve caused you.”
“Oh, you’re very welcome. Do you want to collect anything from your room before you go?” Titus frowned. “I’m afraid Pollio’s men smashed the lock on your trunk and threw all your things all over the room, but I had the slaves put everything back.”
“Thank you,” Hermogenes told him. “Yes, I would like to collect some things. Could I perhaps borrow your sedan chair as well?”
The Nile Rooms were not much different from the way he remembered them. Pollio’s men appeared to have smashed one or two of the knickknacks, but the ugly Pharos lampstand was—unfortunately—still intact. The trunk stood in the same place by the wall, the broken lock and some scars on the leather the only trace of the assault on it. Tertia and Erotion were in the sleeping cubicle, making up the bed.
“Welcome back, sir,” said Tertia, coming into the dayroom to greet him with a shy smile. “We’re all so pleased to see you safe.”
“He’s hurt his head,” Erotion said anxiously, holding her mother’s skirts.
“And my knee,” Hermogenes informed her, showing her the bandage. “I fell over. It will get better, though. Tertia, I’m sorry you’ve had this work now for nothing. I don’t plan to stay here tonight. Maerica—that is, Cantabra—is in a military hospital near the Colina Gate, and I’m going back to stay with her until she’s well enough to come here. I hope that will be tomorrow, but I intend to listen to her doctors.”
The slave woman looked at him doubtfully, and he added, “She was wounded defending me. I am very much in love with her, and she will be coming to Alexandria as my concubine.”
“Oh!” said Tertia, now thoroughly taken aback. “Oh!” After a minute she added, even more doubtfully, “I am sure she is very lucky, sir, and I hope you will be happy.”
“What’s a concubine?” asked Erotion.
“Hush!” said her mother disapprovingly. “Um, sir—will she sleep in here?”
“Yes,” Hermogenes replied at once. “She prefers a mattress on the floor to a bed, though. Apparently Cantabrians never use beds.”
“Then she can have Menestor’s,” said Tertia—then blushed.
“I take it Menestor has continued to sleep in your master’s room?” Hermogenes asked resignedly.
“Yes, sir.” There was resignation in her voice as well.
Hermogenes hesitated. “Your master made a proposal to me concerning your son.”
Tertia guessed at once what that proposal had been. Her face quivered, caught between emotions he could not identify. She licked her lips. “Did you … that is…”
“I told him I wanted to discuss it with Hyakinthos first. Alexandria is a very long way from here. I certainly do not want to take him there against his will, and I would value your opinion on the matter. Do you and his father think it would be the best thing for him?”
“That’s kind of you, sir. I … I do think it would be the best thing for him, yes. In this house now … well, his father’s just sick, thinks the boy’s wasted the best chance he’ll ever get, and the master’s kind, but still it’s awkward. I’m sure you would be a very good master to him, and he thinks very highly of you.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Erotion.
“Hush, darling. Later,” said Tertia. “Shall I send Hyakinthos here to discuss it with you, sir?”
“Please.” As she started out, he added impulsively, “Your master and I were also talking about doing more business together. If that happens, it would probably mean that I’ll visit Rome again.”
She understood the message—You will see your son again, fairly regularly—and smiled widely. “That’s good to hear, sir. Thank you.”
She went out, and he gave his appalled consideration to what he’d just told her. Come to Rome again? Return to this terrible city?
The practicalities said yes. The current of Alexandria’s business had increasingly flowed toward the Tiber, and in a few more years it would be hard for a businessman of any stature to avoid the occasional trip to Rome. And—of course—it was true that he had an edge over most Alexandrians, due to his command of Latin. It would not be businesslike to waste such an advantage. And if he did make some substantial investments in Italy, as he’d half promised Titus, obviously he would need to come back to adjust them from time to time.
He gave a snort of disgust, went to the trunk, and opened it. Everything was stacked neatly inside. He picked out another clean tunic, then selected a comb, and considered whether to take his sole remaining cloak or just give up on an outer garment. The remaining cloak wasn’t even a himation but a chlamys, a short cloak for riding and traveling, more the sort of garment for a dashing youth than for a sober businessman. He’d only packed it in case he found himself doing any riding.
He pulled it out and put it in the pile to bring along. He realized that he had no idea what had happened to the linen cloak he’d lent Maerica: he hadn’t even asked about it. Well, let it go: it had been knife slashed anyway. He resolved to buy her a new cloak—blue, like her eyes. And a tunic to match, and some jewelry and some expensive sandals, so that when she came off the ship in Alexandria everyone would see at once that she was an important woman, and there would be none of this “That creature!” and “I’m sure she’s very lucky” nonsense. He grinned at the prospect.
Hyakinthos came in, eager and grinning. “Greetings, sir!” he exclaimed, eyeing the bandages with interest. “I’m very glad you’re back safely. My mother said you wanted to talk to me.”
“That’s right.” Hermogenes sat down at the desk. “Your master considers that I will need a valet on the voyage back to Alexandria, and he has offered to give or sell you to me. I did not want to accept without knowing how you would feel about it.”
The boy’s eyes widened and he stared for a long minute. Then he said breathlessly, “I’d like it very much, sir.”
Hermogenes raised his hand warningly. “It’s a long way to Alexandria. Probably I will come back to visit Rome occasionally, but still, it would mean saying good-bye to your family.”
“I’d like it, sir,” Hyakinthos insisted. “I want to get away from here. I’d love to see Alexandria. And sail on a ship, and … and you do business all the way to Cyprus and the Red Sea as well, don’t you? I’d get a chance to see the world!” His eyes were beginning to glow. “They were saying in the kitchen just now that you’ve taken that gladiator woman Cantabra as your concubine: maybe she could teach me sword fighting!”
Hermogenes had no idea what to say to this. “She’s been hurt,” he murmured.
Hyakinthos nodded vigorously. “Yes, they were saying that, too—that she saved your life, only nobody was sure whether it was Pollio’s thugs or Rufus’s barbarians who were trying to kill you, but she’s in a military hospital, and you’re going back there tonight to stay with her. She’ll get better, though, won’t she?”
“The doctor thinks so,” he replied cautiously.
“Good. I like her. She’s like one of those Amazons, in the stories. The others are saying they think it’s terrible, a gentleman like you and a barbarian, but I wasn’t surprised at all. I mean, a man like you isn’t going to take some silly girly woman, he needs somebody heroic.”
Hermogenes stared at him.
“I would like it if you took me, sir,” Hyakinthos continued excitedly. “I really would. If Cantabra taught me sword fighting, maybe next time you get into a fight with some important people, I could defend you, and—”
“Next time’?” repeated Hermogenes in horror. “Let me assure you, I have no intention of getting into another fight with the rulers of the world. Once was enough.”
“Well, then,” said Hyakinthos, dismissing this breezily. “With pirates, then, on the Red Sea—”
“Child, I don’t sail ships. I just invest in them. I think you may have misjudged me. I am a businessman, not some kind of hero. I was
considering taking you as a valet, not as a … a … whatever it is you seem to expect to become!”
Hyakinthos looked bitterly disappointed. “Does that mean you won’t take me?”
Hermogenes stared at the boy a moment longer, than laughed. “No, it means that you must not expect any heroics. If you do, you will be bored and disappointed. I am a businessman, not very different from your present master.”
“That isn’t true, sir,” Hyakinthos said, quietly but with bitter force. “You’re completely different from him.”
“In certain tastes I suppose I am. You can ask Maerica to teach you sword fighting, but whether she obliges you is up to her: she may feel she wants to put that behind her.”
“So you’ll take me to Alexandria?” asked Hyakinthos eagerly.
“Since you wish it, I will arrange it with Titus Fiducius. If you change your mind—”
“I won’t!”
“If you do, tell me at once. One thing, though.”
“Yes, sir?” Hyakinthos was grinning again.
“I don’t normally change the names of my slaves, but … your name has certain implications which are not appropriate, and I wonder if—.”
“I hate my name!” the boy cried passionately, grin vanishing. “The master gave it to me six months ago, when he … you know, decided he wanted to fuck me. Before that I was called Tertius, after my mother.” He grimaced. “I don’t really like that name, either, though. It’s dull. I think I’d like to be called Achilles!”
Hermogenes shook his head. “That’s inviting people to make fun of you.”
The boy looked crestfallen.
“I will call you Tertius for now,” Hermogenes suggested. “If you think of something you like better which is also sensible, we’ll switch to that.”
“Yes, sir. Is there anything I can do for you now, sir?”
“No—or rather, yes: tell Stentor that I’m ready to start back to the hospital, if he could arrange the chair.”
Tertius went out; a moment later there was a whoop of joy from the colonnade. Hermogenes shook his head, wondering quite what he was letting himself in for.
He picked up the chlamys and swung it over his shoulders; unlike a himation, it fastened with a pin. He bundled his clean clothes together, then went back to the trunk and took out the writing supplies. He had never sent the last letter to Myrrhine, and now he felt confident enough to send another letter in its place.
He arrived back at the hospital in the middle of the afternoon. Maerica was asleep, but woke when he sat down beside her.
“Well?” she asked.
“I postponed the letter for another ten days. I saw my friend Titus, and arranged that we’ll go there tomorrow, if the doctor permits. I got some money.”
“You didn’t see Gellia? She must be worried.”
“Tomorrow,” he said firmly. “I will go to see her tomorrow, and give her some money to pay for another party with her friends.”
She smiled. “You’re wearing a cloak with a pin!” She fingered the pin, which was bronze with a cameo medallion. “I thought you said Greeks didn’t wear that sort of cloak.”
“I never said that. I normally wear a himation, but some Greeks wear a cloak of this sort. Dashing young men, mostly.”
“It suits you.”
He kissed her. “Careful. I may end up thinking myself heroic. Do you remember that boy Hyakinthos, one of Titus’s slaves?”
“Tertia’s son.”
“Him. His real name is, in fact, Tertius, though I think he may decide to change it to something more military. Titus Fiducius has offered to give or sell him to me, as a valet, since Menestor is now free and probably staying in Rome. The boy is delighted with the idea, and wants you to teach him sword fighting so that he can kill pirates on the Red Sea, which he seems to feel is something I might call upon him to do. I tried to tell him otherwise, but I’m not sure I convinced him.”
She laughed hootingly, one hand pressed to her side. “Young men are fools!”
“I won’t dispute it. Well, he thinks you are very heroic, and wholeheartedly approves of you, so I think he will do very well, once he gets over his disappointment with me.”
She grinned. “He will not be disappointed.”
“Ah, woman, I have to go back to being a quiet well-behaved dignified businessman again. Maybe you will be disappointed, too.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“I love you,” he told her. It seemed more natural, and more inevitable, with every repetition.
She gave him a radiant smile.
“My own dear heart. I am waiting to see what you look like without the bruises.”
“I think you’ll find an improvement.” He set down his bundle and took out the writing things. “I’m going to write another letter to Myrrhine.”
“Telling her about me?”
“Telling her about you, yes, and that I’m safe and well.”
“So you’re beginning to believe that you won.”
He nodded. “I went to the Temple of Isis and … well, I started to believe it.” Another thought struck him. “What gods do you worship?”
She shrugged. “We worshiped gods up on the mountains. We worshipped Bandua and Neton, who were goddess and god of war, and Endovellicus, lord of the Underworld, and Lug, the radiant one. None of them helped us. At the school, most of the gladiators said prayers to Fortune, and to Nemesis, and to Mercury, guide of souls. They didn’t help, either. I was surprised when you found that priest of Isis for the funeral. At the gladiatorial school I heard that the worship of Isis was banned at Rome.”
“Apparently it is, but she has worshipers anyway.”
“Maybe I’ll worship her, then.”
“You could do worse.” He paused, then whispered again the words of the hymn.
“I broke down the government of tyrants,
I made the Right stronger than gold and silver.
I ordained that the Truth should be thought good.”
“Huh!” said Maerica, impressed. “That is Isis?”
“Yes.” He shook his head ruefully. “It was when the priest sang that that I began to believe I’d won.”
He took out the pen, moistened the ink, and wrote carefully,
MARCUS AELIUS HERMOGENES GREETS HIS DARLING DAUGHTER, AELIA MYRRHINE.
My sweetest girl, I think my business in Rome is almost finished, and I will start for home early next month and arrive back in August, if the winds are favorable. It has been very, very hard, much worse than I ever expected. Rufus sent men who attacked us, and poor Phormion was killed. At one point I feared I would be killed as well, but Fate, the gods, and my friends protected me, and now everything is almost settled, and I expect to receive the money in a few days.
One very important thing that has happened is that I have met a woman called Maerica who has become my concubine. She is a barbarian woman, a Cantabrian, from the mountains beyond Iberia. She is brave and clever and honorable, and she saved my life. I am sure that you will like her.
“What have you written?” asked Maerica, frowning at the Greek words.
He interpreted.
“Huh!” Maerica shook her head. “You should never say ‘I am sure you will like her.’ It will make her suspect that she won’t.”
“Well, too late, I’ve said it,” he replied.
“Will she be able to read that herself? Or will somebody else in the household read it to her?”
“She can read.”
“Huh! A clever girl, then. Write down what I say to her now.”
He nodded and dipped the pen in the ink.
“Tell her, ‘Maerica says that she loves your father above her life, and that for his sake she would love you whatever you were like.’”
He swallowed and wrote,
Maerica is with me as I write this, and she says to tell you, first, that she loves me very much, and for my sake would love you whatever you were like.
“Now say, ‘But she also believ
es already that she will like you, because your father talks about you, and says that you are clever, and want to be an acrobat, and she thinks you sound like a girl she will like very much.’”
She says she also believes already that she will like you for your own sake, because when I talk about you I tell her that you’re clever and that you want to be an acrobat, and she thinks you sound like the kind of girl she likes very much. Please don’t mention the bit about the acrobatics to Aunt Eukleia! I fear there may be some trouble with her over this anyway, even without adding that …
“Why have you drawn a line under that bit?” Maerica asked suspiciously.
“I told her not to mention to my aunt the fact that you approve of her acrobatics,” he answered guiltily.
Maerica grinned. “Good. She’s sure to like me now.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
As usual, I have two reasons to write an epilogue. The first is friendly: to fill in historic details which lie outside the narrative. The second is defensive: to protect myself against the charge of having got it wrong when I say something contrary to popular belief.
The Roman monetary system in the early empire was as follows: there were four quadd rans to an as, four asses to a sestertius, four sestertii to a denarius, and twenty-five denarii to an aureus. Large amounts were usually given in sestertii.
Timekeeping was based on the division of the day and the night each into twelve hours; since the day was reckoned from dawn to dusk, this meant that daylight hours were longer in summer than in winter. In Rome at midsummer, an “hour” lasted roughly one and a quarter hours, and the first hour began at approximately 4:30 A.M.
The quotation on p. 278 is from The Odyssey, XII, 256–59; that on p. 436 is from the Cyme version of the Hymn to Isis.
This book is set fairly exactly in Rome during the summer of 16 B.C. It is probably a sad comment on the period—or perhaps just on human nature—that the villains are historical figures, while the heroes are inventions. Lucius Tarius Rufus, Publius Vedius Pollio, and Titus Statilius Taurus all existed and held the ranks I assign them; Rufus did ruin himself by investing in land, and the story about Pollio’s lampreys was certainly current in antiquity. There is no evidence that Pollio loaned money to Rufus, however, or that he and Taurus were particular enemies. This is a work of fiction, after all.
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