Render Unto Caesar by Gillian Bradshaw

he will.” He acknowledged, with another thrill of triumph, that he wouldn’t have dared admit that burning desire to claim his rights if it hadn’t been for the fact that Rufus had agreed to pay.
    Crispus stood staring at him with an expression of deep misgiving.
    â€œI think this needs stitches, sir,” Menestor commented, studying the cut.
    Crispus took a couple of steps forward and bent over to have a look for himself, bracing himself with a hand on Menestor’s shoulder.
    â€œHe was wearing rings,” Hermogenes explained, turning his face to be inspected. “Titus, as I said, if you are concerned that this may harm your business or your household, I will take myself off to an inn. I do believe, though, that it is essentially over. He has agreed to pay. He asked for three days for his secretary to study the documents—the copies, that is; obviously I didn’t give him the originals—and he agreed that if his secretary was satisfied, he would pay. I’m sure he hopes to find some kind of defect in either the contract itself or in my title to it, but there isn’t one. I am going to accept ten percent now, give him a contract scheduling repayment of the rest, and go home to Alexandria.”
    â€œI don’t think Tarius Rufus was really as angry as he pretended to be,” Menestor volunteered suddenly, looking up sideways at Crispus. “Not at first, anyway. That is, he was angry, but he also thought that if he flew into a rage, my master would be so frightened by it that he’d back off. When he saw that my master wasn’t frightened, he didn’t know what to do.”
    Hermogenes looked at him curiously.
    â€œThat other man who was with him,” Menestor explained. “Not the secretary who took the papers, the other one. The thin one in the red tunic. When Rufus jumped up and hit you, he smiled and nodded, like he was saying, yes, that’s the way. Then when you’d been knocked down and you still asked Rufus when he was going to pay you, he looked … he looked like something had gone very wrong. Rufus didn’t know what to make of it, either. The way he was angry was different, after that. At first it was like a master—like some masters, I mean—shouting at a slave to scare him, but after that it was quieter and more real. And the other man was angry, too, after that, even though he hadn’t been before.”
    Hermogenes realized, with chagrin, that he hadn’t really noticed anybody in that room except the consul.
    â€œYou’re an observant boy,” Crispus commented appreciatively, and squeezed Menestor’s shoulder. He straightened with a grunt, gazed down at his guest for another moment, then said resolutely, “I can’t possibly turn you out of my house, not after all the times you and your father received me in Alexandria, and that time I … well, you remember. Besides, I’ve been telling my friends about Alexandria for years, and now I’ve introduced some of them to you. What would they think of me if I admitted that you’d left my house for an inn ?”
    Hermogenes was both touched and surprised. “I don’t want to bring trouble down on your house, Titus.”
    â€œYou said you thought it was essentially over,” Crispus said, with growing confidence. “No, no, my friend. You stay here. I think your lad’s right, and that cut needs stitching. I’ll send for my doctor.” He smiled broadly and went off.
    The doctor came, stitched the cut, and provided a dose of hellebore for the headache, which had not diminished. He advised rest and a low and cooling diet. Hermogenes spent the rest of the day in bed.
    He woke in the small hours of the morning. The headache was better, but had left in its place a black shadow of acute anxiety. He remembered the scene with the consul in tiny, crystalline detail, from the first genial smile to the final furious