Render Unto Caesar by Gillian Bradshaw Page B

can find someone to leave it with.”
    â€œSo why…” began Menestor, who then paused and licked his lips.
    â€œSo why?”
    â€œSo why are you doing this?” Menestor burst out. “I was so scared when he hit you. I thought he was going to kill you, and then … I don’t know, kill me and Phormion, or cut out our tongues and send us to the mines or something. You said that even at the worst this wouldn’t ruin you, and I bet you could fix it so that it didn’t ruin anybody else, either. So why are you setting yourself up against a consul of Rome?”
    Hermogenes looked at him for a long moment, then turned away and began to attach the direction to the drawstring of the little leather bag. “When Rufus was commanding the left wing at Actium,” he said slowly, “I was your age. I grew up under the queen, Menestor. I know my family never supported Cleopatra—she was a cruel, incompetent tyrant!—but at least she was Greek. I grew up in an independent nation.” He dribbled some more wax onto the tag, and pressed his seal into it again. “She was the last Greek to rule a kingdom, the last of the heirs of world-conquering Alexander. After she died, sovereignty abandoned the Greeks altogether, and passed entirely to Rome.”
    He looked Menestor in the eye. “Rufus called me ‘Greekling’ and ‘Egyptian’ and spat on me. He thinks that the fact that he defeated us in war gives him the right to take what he wants from us, even now, after fourteen years of peace. My citizenship he regards as a fraud. While he was only a proconsul he felt bound to make payments on his debt, but as soon as he grew powerful enough, he thought it beneath him. To him, no Greek is any better than a slave.
    â€œYou said last night that anyone would prefer freedom to slavery. You are a slave, and you would be willing to prostitute your body to obtain your freedom. Well, I am a free man, and I would be willing to die rather than submit to the iniquity of Tarius Rufus. He borrowed the money, and he will repay it.”
    â€œWhat about Myrrhine?” asked Menestor.
    It was the most potent argument he could have found. Hermogenes had to look away, down at the sealed bag between his hands. He remembered again how his daughter had clung to him before he set out. “I hope I will not die,” he said at last. “I am doing everything I can to ensure that I don’t.” He touched the little bag. “He has agreed to pay. I must find someone to leave this with—as a precaution.”
    The boy was silent for a moment. “You don’t think Titus Fiducius…”
    â€œNo,” Hermogenes said firmly. “If I were dead and he were threatened, he would give it to Rufus immediately. He is a well-meaning man, but he is not strong.” He frowned again. “Not the record office again: I doubt I could persuade them to send it on. Perhaps a temple. I will ask in the morning.” He glanced back at the young man, ironically now. “Go to sleep, Menestor, and I will try to do the same.”
    In the morning his face had swollen and it was impossible to open his left eye. When he borrowed a mirror it showed him the stitched gash sitting like a red caterpillar on a livid black-and-purple bruise. He sighed and resolved to spend as much of the day as he could resting quietly in the house. First, however, he had to find someone to take charge of the bag with the token. In the light of day the possibility that he would be murdered appeared far less real, but the precaution still seemed worth taking. He could not, however, ask his host’s advice on where to leave the token. Crispus would undoubtedly offer to take charge of it himself, and a refusal would insult him.
    Crispus came in to check on his health while he was considering the matter. He took one look and exclaimed “Hercules! You look even worse than you did yesterday.”