Render Unto Caesar by Gillian Bradshaw Page A

dismissal. He remembered, too, the way the consul’s attendants had whispered in his ear. He was filled with a panicky certainty that Rufus was going to have him murdered.
    He sat up, then leaned his hot cheek against the cool wall and tried to reason with himself. If Rufus was going to have him killed, he would have done it then and there. It would have been easier than sending men to break into Crispus’s house and slaughter him in his bed. To be sure, there were plenty of people who had known that Hermogenes was at the consul’s house—but who would bring charges against a consul, a friend of the emperor? Crispus certainly wouldn’t. Rufus could have had him killed, but Rufus hadn’t, so therefore Rufus wasn’t willing to go that far over a debt which he could easily afford to pay.
    It didn’t satisfy him. Rufus might have delayed only because he wanted to investigate the situation first. He might want to get his hands on the documents that proved his debt and his default before he took action.
    Hermogenes got up and went through to the dayroom, silent on bare feet. He fumbled around on the lampstand until he found the lighter, then struck it repeatedly, the spark brilliant in the dark room.
    Menestor’s sleepy voice from behind him said “Sir?”
    â€œGo back to sleep,” Hermogenes told him. “I just want to write a letter.” The tinder caught, and he lit one of the little crocodile lamps and moved it over to the writing table. The gold light showed him Menestor sitting up on his pallet, his eyes wide and black in the dimness.
    â€œJust go back to sleep,” Hermogenes told him.
    The boy lay down again, but remained awake, watching as his master took out the writing things and sat down.
    MARCUS AELIUS HERMOGENES TO PUBLIUS CORNELIUS SCIPIO: GREETINGS.
    Â 
    My lord, you do not know me, but your reputation for nobility makes me bold to approach you. L. Tarius Rufus, who supplanted you in the consulship, owes me a debt of over four hundred thousand sestertii, and I fear that he may have me murdered rather than repay it. If you receive this, it is because I am dead.
    If you wish to bring Rufus to the disgrace he deserves, take the enclosed token to the Tabularium. The documents deposited there in FIII will prove that Rufus borrowed the money from my uncle and defaulted, and that I inherited the debt, an offense for which I have paid dearly.
    If this information is useful to you, my lord, I beg you to ensure that my daughter receives the money for which I died.
    He read it over, then pulled out the little leather bag with the token, which now hung about his neck next to the trunk key. He folded the sheet of papyrus, rolled it up, and stuffed it into the bag with the token. He drew the drawstrings tight, then melted some wax onto them and marked it with his seal.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” asked Menestor, not sleepy now at all.
    Hermogenes took another sheet of papyrus and wrote on it, To be delivered to the consular, P. Cornelius Scipio, on the first of July, unless it is first reclaimed by me, M. Aelius Hermogenes. “I want to ensure that Rufus sees no advantage in killing me,” he said in a low voice. “If he knows that this will go to his enemies unless I reclaim it, he has nothing to gain from my death.” He frowned. “The question is, who to leave it with?”
    â€œYou think he might kill us?”
    â€œYes. No. I don’t know. It seems to me that paying would be by far the most reasonable thing for him to do. He can afford it, and murdering a Roman citizen must be a risky undertaking, even for a man as powerful as he is. Even if no one charged him, the rumor of it could hurt his reputation, and he seems to care for that. He seemed very indignant, though, at the prospect of paying, and he also seemed very arrogant, accustomed to thinking himself above the law. He might do it. This should ensure that he doesn’t—if I