“What’s that?” asked Caecilius curiously, squinting as he followed Hortensius’s gaze.
“That Thracian. Look at his arm. The left one.”
Caecilius whistled. “The Grass Crown … what in the name of Jupiter …?”
Hortensia’s attention was momentarily dragged away from the fight.
“What’s a Grass Crown?”
It was Caepio who answered for her.
“It’s one of Rome’s highest military honors, awarded to those who have saved an army in war.”
“You mean, that Thracian won it?” demanded Quintus excitedly. “He saved an army in war?”
“Hardly,” drawled Hortensius. “He’s obviously a relic of Sertorius’s rabble.”
Quintus looked puzzled and it was left to Caepio to explain once more.
“Sertorius was one of the Roman army’s most celebrated commanders – and one of the few ever to have been awarded a Grass Crown. But he took the populist side during the recent civil war, fled to Hispania and became quite a hero both there and with the Lusitanians, who’ve resisted Roman rule for decades. Even embarrassed Pompey’s army a few times until he and Metellus Pius managed to stop the rot.”
“And gave Tiberius Dolabella his good looks at the same time,” interjected Caecilius with a grim chuckle.
“Who?” asked Hortensia.
“Fellow who stopped by earlier. Got those scars at Sucro when Pompey left his entire wing exposed, trying to claim the victory before Metellus got there. Can’t say I blame the barbarian who did it. Unsavory fellow if ever there was one, Tiberius. Still surprised to find out you’re on terms with him, Hortensius.”
“I told you,” said Hortensius tetchily. “I defended a kinsman of his some years ago. You saw, it was all I could do to remember the man’s name.”
Hortensia looked curiously at her father, who rarely suffered either a failure of temper or memory, but she was distracted by another roar from the crowd around them. With the hoplomachus off balance, the Thracian had leapt forward and seized his shield, tearing it from his startled opponent’s hand. Flourishing his prize in the air, he flung it like a discus into the crowd where it was caught by a group of drunken spectators who bellowed their appreciation. Now the hoplomachus was armed only with his long spear, which he clung to with both hands, holding it out in front of him like a farm laborer keeping an angry bull at bay. Almost all the chants were for the Thracian now, who was advancing steadily while the hoplomachus receded, prodding and jabbing as he went. At last, backed into a corner of the arena, the hoplomachus made one last desperate charge. For a miraculous moment it looked as though his weapon would find its target, but at the last second the Thracian turned his body to one side, leaving space for the spear to pass into harmlessly. In the same movement, he brought up his right, heavily-muscled forearm, and smashed it into the advancing hoplomachus’s exposed windpipe.
The hoplomachus fell backwards and lay gasping on the ground. The referee stepped between them, his wooden baton held aloft to keep the pair apart, and turned his head toward Crassus’s box. Gradually, the wall of sound echoing around the arena organized itself into choruses of chanting. But it soon became apparent that there was a difference of opinion among the spectators, some of whom were greedily calling for the hoplomachus’s execution, while others evidently felt that neither contestant in so exciting a fight deserved to die. This presented Crassus with a dilemma, and it was apparent from the way he was affecting to encourage the crowd’s partisan chanting while simultaneously craning his head back to listen to the advice being hissed into his ear by other men in his party that he was unsure which faction he should satisfy.
Meanwhile, the Thracian continued to stand by, neither raising his sword in readiness for the order to kill, nor walking away from his stricken opponent. Hortensia stared at him intently, wondering what he was thinking. Suddenly there was a cry from a woman in the crowd behind her. The hoplomachus, who had been curled up in a fetal position on the ground, had uncoiled himself with the speed of a cobra and a flash of silver glinted in his hand – a dagger, surreptitiously drawn from inside one of his leg-greaves. He dived beneath the referee’s baton and with a sickening crunch drove the blade of the knife into a gap in the leather strapping on the Thracian’s right knee. The Thracian crumpled like a jointed doll, his right leg collapsing underneath him.
There was a thunderous holler of outraged disapproval from the entire crowd. Crassus leapt to his feet, shaking his head ostentatiously and motioning to the fight referee, who with the help of two assistants restrained the hoplomachus. At a further signal from Crassus, the hoplomachus was dispatched with a knife to his neck to the cheering accompaniment of the whole crowd. Meanwhile two other attendants came on and lifted the prone Thracian onto a stretcher. Blood ran from his knee as he was carried off, leaving a red stain across the white sand.
With the Thracian’s exit, the hollering of the crowd was quickly replaced by a low undulating wave of chatter that pulsed around the arena. Hortensius looked around for one of the blue-liveried attendants to bring him some more wine but instead found his daughter’s anxious face in front of his.
“What will happen to him now?”
Hortensius blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“That Thracian, what will happen to him now?”
“In the name of the gods, my dear, why should you or I or anyone care? They’ll send him to the mines to finish out what’s left of his miserable existence, I expect. If they don’t give him to the lions as a chew toy. Where has that wretched boy gone with my wine?”
“Papa, we have to help him.”
“Help? Help who?”
“That Thracian. Please.” Hortensia hesitated and glanced back at Quintus, who was looking shifty, then squared her jaw resolutely. “He saved our lives.”
Hortensius’s expression was now one of exasperation. “What are you talking about?”
“He saved our lives. I didn’t tell you before but … I went down to the holding area under the arena because … I wanted to get a better look at the crocodile.”
Hortensius’s eyes narrowed.
“Because you wanted to get a better look at the crocodile?”
Hortensia continued hurriedly.
“Yes, and Quintus agreed to come with me, only we got a bit too close and that Thracian pulled us away just in time. Please, Papa.”
Hortensius eyed his cowering son.
“I see. Quintus, you can be sure I will deal with you later so stop hiding behind your mother. Hortensia, what you are asking me is quite ridiculous and I don’t know what you expect me to be able to do anyway.”
“Go and offer to buy him,” she said immediately, blocking his renewed attempts to catch the attendant’s eye. “His name’s Lucrio, he can come to work for you at Laurentum. You’ve hundreds of slaves working for you there anyway, one more can’t possibly make a difference. It’s a debt of honor, Papa.”
“Debt of honor?” Hortensius looked incredulous. “I, Hortensius Hortalus, do not owe debts of honor to barbarian gladiators, particularly not one who would probably kill us all in our beds given half a chance. You haven’t a hope of persuading me, Hortensia, and I absolutely forbid you to plague me any more about this wretched Thracian.”
Hortensia fixed her eyes on him in a mulish stare. Caepio laughed.
“Care to place a bet on how this one will turn out?” he murmured to Caecilius, whose face was a picture of disapprobation.
“If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a hundred times. He should never have taught that girl how to speak.”
V
Hortensius’s summer villa at Laurentum, sixteen miles from Rome. One month later.
HORTENSIUS PUT DOWN HIS BRONZE PEN AND FLEXED HIS ELEGANT fingers with a grimace, holding them up and examining them dispassionately for ink stains. The late afternoon sun was streaming in through the windows of the villa, casting a translucent veil over the mythological portraits daubed in cinnamon and cerulean
paint on the walls of the simply-furnished room. Through the open doorway, which led on to a marble colonnade, Hortensius had a clear view of the sea, a sparkling sheet of cobalt blue flecked with white crests. He always worked in this room during the summer, finding the pulsing sound of the waves sweeping in great arcs over the sand an ambient accompaniment to his musings. Sometimes he wandered down to the beach and walked barefoot along the shore performing his daily breath and voice exercises, the music of his recitations interweaving with the cries of the gulls.
Today though, his gaze rested meditatively on the two figures who had the beach to themselves. With the damp hem of her linen dress clinging to her slender white limbs and her long dark hair freed from the severe coiffure in which her maid Elpidia usually insisted on arranging it, Hortensia looked like a naiad washed up on the shore. She was carrying her skirt bunched up in her left hand and a fishing net heavy with seashells in the other, and as she spotted another specimen in the sand, she called out excitedly to Caepio, who was fishing in the shallows. He extracted his own net from the water, and a squirming lobster was revealed inside, with which he advanced on her laughingly. She dodged away from him with a squeal, head thrown back in delight, black curls tumbling down her back.
Returning to the documents on his lap, Hortensius continued to study them with his head propped up on one hand and his lips pursed, an expression of discontent in his eyes. It was in this pose that Caepio found him some time later as he came up from the beach. Pausing to sluice the sand from his feet in the bucket kept permanently for that purpose on the terrace, he noted with curiosity Hortensius’s frowning expression, the loose strands of his usually sleek hair escaping from between the fingers of his splayed palm. But he said nothing as he helped himself to a jug of water and then came to sprawl on a couch directly opposite Hortensius. Nodding to the documents surrounding Hortensius, he enquired casually, “How is your case going?”
“Quite splendidly. I know almost everything I need to know. My client Verres is venal, corrupt, mendacious and immoral. He is undoubtedly guilty of bribery, extortion, theft, false imprisonment and, in all likelihood, murder.”
“No wonder you look ill,” said Caepio humorously. “Are you worried about the outcome?”
Hortensius raised a haughty eyebrow.
“My dear Caepio. Where would I be if I perpetually allowed such small inconveniences as a client’s guilt to stand in the way of victory? No, to answer your question, I am not worried. My most pressing problem at the moment is that upstanding citizen Marcus Acilius Glabrio.”
“The praetor?”
“Were a less stiff-necked individual to be presiding over the trial, then I would have every confidence in my ability to persuade him to see things from my point of view, shall we say. But Glabrio is not half as cretinous as some of his peers and even I will have my work cut out trying to spin this one in Verres’s favor. So my best hope remains to stall the trial long enough for Glabrio’s term to run out and some more compliant individual to take his place in the upcoming elections – Caecilius’s brother Marcus, for example, who is conveniently in the frame and will no doubt smile more favorably on Verres’s fortunes.”
“Isn’t that a little … underhand?”
“Underhand?” Hortensius laughed. “My dear boy. Just doing the best for my client. Every advocate’s prerogative. Cicero would do just the same, for all that he protests that he is so morally superior to me.”
“Nevertheless, you seem to be taking the case very seriously. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you so preoccupied with a trial.”
Hortensius shrugged. “Caecilius asked for my help. We all have embarrassing family members do we not? Look at your dear brother Cato. How can I not devote myself to the task when a friend is in need?”
Caepio inspected the contents of his cup. He had a fair notion what was really troubling his friend but nothing could be gained by digging further for it. The moment Hortensius had discovered the identity of Verres’s prosecutor, he had seemed to Caepio to be in the grip of an obsession which kept him closeted away in his study for far longer periods than was usual. Now the favorite topic of Rome’s gossiping elite was whether rising star Cicero would finally take Hortensius’s crown as the king of the Roman law court.
His brother Cato had written a typically pithy letter informing Caepio that bets on the outcome were being traded in the forum: “…if you want to give Hortensius some good advice, brother, I would suggest to him that he let the Metelli fight their own battles and do not indulge the tattling classes in their appetite for this duel. He has defended too many of these corrupt governors and a victory on behalf of Verres cannot add to his credit, not when Verres has made an enemy of so many, including, I might add, Pompey himself, not that I wish to indulge that self-satisfied braggart in his inflated delusions of grandeur. Hortensius needs to be careful though, particularly if he is serious about securing a consulship. You and I both know that a man’s good name is the one thing you cannot put a price on.”
Hortensius had begun writing again. “Will any of my daughter’s entertaining suitors be at your sister’s Bacchanalian gathering this evening?”
“Like my besotted nephew Brutus you mean? Certainly, though I don’t think there is much in that. He follows her round like a puppy, but it is exactly that, a puppyish sort of affection. Young Publius Dolabella is another matter.” A frown descended upon Caepio’s brow. “He is like his uncle Tiberius and all the rest of that family. Only eighteen, but convinced that life is a gaming-board, and everything and everyone on it are playing pieces for him to capture.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Me?” Caepio was startled but Hortensius did not look up and Caepio, on his guard, decided to pretend he hadn’t heard, and changed the subject.
“By the by, has the news reached you about Lucilius Albinus? Cato writes that he was found dead in his bath just after we left for the summer.”
“Yes, I had heard.” Hortensius finished his letter, picked up his own silver cup and swirled the liquid around in it, looking thoughtfully at Caepio. “You did not answer my previous question.”
“I wasn’t absolutely sure you had asked me one,” replied Caepio cautiously.
“Then let me substitute it for another. What if I said that I wanted you to marry Hortensia?”
Caepio looked stunned. “Me?” he repeated.
“Yes, you,” replied Hortensius calmly. He watched him over the top of his glass, and when Caepio automatically opened his mouth to issue a disclaimer, looked at him a little mockingly. “Do not try and tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
Caepio remained silent. Then he said slowly, “Of course I’ve thought about it. How could I help it? But to tell the truth, I am still amazed. You have never wanted to discuss the idea of Hortensia’s marriage. I was beginning to wonder if you ever meant her to marry anyone.”
“Of course she must marry someone,” said Hortensius impatiently. “Did you think I meant her for one of the Vestals?”
“No, naturally I did not. She is just turned seventeen, she would be too old now in any case. It’s just that, well for a start, most of the girls of her age are married already.”
“My daughter is not ‘most girls’.”
“I am well aware of that. Also, that you are not ‘most fathers’.”
Hortensius was silent for a moment. “You think I am sentimental? Well, perhaps you are right. But tell me this.” He made an expansive, sweeping gesture, silver drinking-cup still in hand. “Who should a daughter like mine marry? Hmm? Would you like to see her wedded to young Publius Dolabella, who looks at her like a dog would look at a wounded bird? Or are you imagining I seriously had your precocious nephew Brutus in mind?”
“Given the competition, I suppose I should be flattered,” said Caepio a little drily.
Hortensius waved an impatient hand.
“She loves you. Or she thinks she does – whatever the difference is.”
“I think
you must indeed be a sentimental parent,” said Caepio with a smile. “Not many fathers would let their daughter marry for love.”
Hortensius shrugged. “I do not need money. As you see.”
Caepio got up and began to pace slowly around the room, a distracted expression on his face.
“I confess I am still surprised. I have a real fondness for Hortensia, more than that …”
“Good,” interrupted Hortensius, slipping the seal-ring off his finger and dipping it into the wax pot by his right hand. “Then you can go and tell her now.”
“Now?” Caepio looked a little alarmed. Hortensius raised a sardonic eyebrow.
“Or I will do it for you if you are so chicken-hearted, but I think she would prefer it coming from you.”
Caepio muttered that he was quite capable of making his proposals himself. Pausing on the threshold of the terrace, he turned back and looked hard at Hortensius.
“I do have one thing to ask and don’t try and put me off. Why now?”
“I have never yet lost a case in the law courts of Rome and I have no intention of starting now, dear Caepio. In a short time, I may also be elected consul, in which case the list of my achievements might be said to be complete. But one thing I have learned during the course of my illustrious career is that it does not do to put all your faith into one strategy. If for some unforeseen reason things should not go my way in the next month or so … Hortensia must not be touched by my failure. I will not have her talked about as some bargaining tool with which I may top up my credit with society.”
Caepio raised an eyebrow. “So you want me to marry her because no one would think me capable of improving a girl’s social prospects?” he asked wryly.
“I want you to marry her so that she will be happy.” Hortensius sounded tired. “Is it so much to ask, given how things already are between you?”
Caepio looked hard at Hortensius for a moment and then slowly shook his head. As he went to the door, his eye was caught by a small ivory sphinx with arching wings and an enigmatic expression, sitting bolt upright on the side table.
Rivals of the Republic Page 3