Rivals of the Republic

by Annelise Freisenbruch

  “That’s new,” he remarked, expecting Hortensius to immediately expound on the qualities of the piece and the special lengths he had gone to obtain it. He was known as a prolific collector of beautiful objects and had a library that was the envy of every man of letters in Rome. But when Caepio looked back, Hortensius was concentrating on carefully pressing his seal-ring on to the seam of his letter, and didn’t seem to have heard.

  As soon as Caepio was gone however, Hortensius turned and stared at the sphinx for a long time, as though wondering what question to ask it.

  HORTENSIA WALKED SLOWLY up from the beach, her head full of happy daydreams. Ruefully, she ran her fingers through her damp hair, knowing that Elpidia would scold her for spoiling her coiffure. But what did any of that matter? Caepio loved her. The feeling it had given her when he put his arms around her and kissed her … she wanted to relive it over and over again.

  As she wandered through the olive grove planted by her father at the back of the villa, she found Lucrio and Quintus standing in the shade of a tree, each holding a wooden sword. She stopped to watch them, smiling at the difference in height and build.

  “Head, groin, neck and eyes”, Lucrio was saying. “Always drive with the full force of your arm, and never hesitate.” He illustrated the point with a thrust of the makeshift blade, which Quintus eagerly copied.

  “Head, groin, neck and eyes,” Hortensia repeated. “I shall have to remember that next time I find myself on the battlefield.”

  Lucrio smiled and held out the hilt of the sword.

  “Would you care to try, domina?”

  Hortensia saw a scowl darken Quintus’s face. “No, thank you, I am not sure Papa would approve. I’m going to be late for dinner in any case. Quintus, you should go inside too.”

  “You can’t order me around,” snapped Quintus. “I want to train some more.”

  “No, young master, I must return to my post in the atrium. We will resume again tomorrow. Keep practicing your footwork.”

  Quintus stomped off, slashing at several tree branches with his sword as he went. Hortensia shrugged half in exasperation, half in apology.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. It’s good for him spending time with you. I think it makes the rhetoric lessons with Papa a little easier to bear.”

  She expected him to laugh. When he didn’t, she felt suddenly annoyed with him as well as Quintus. Lucrio was like this sometimes, Hortensia had discovered in the month that he had been at Laurentum. His mood could change from relaxed and smiling to distant and formal in a heartbeat. She began to walk toward the house.

  “Domina? May I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  She waited for him to catch up. He walked with a limp now and a thick leather guard concealed the incriminating mark on his left forearm but otherwise he presented the same respectable appearance as the rest of Hortensius’s household in his smart red livery.

  “Will you go to Rome soon? You and your family?”

  “Yes, I think so, in a few days perhaps. Papa is standing for election to the consulship next month and he has an important case coming up in the law court. Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered if I would be coming with you or staying here.”

  Hortensia was surprised.

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it. Aren’t you happy here?”

  He bowed.

  “Of course, domina. It’s just …” He squeezed the blade of the clumsy wooden sword in the palm of his hand, in the awkward gesture of one trying to find the right way to put his thoughts into words. “I have always wanted to know what became of my family back home in Lusitania. My parents and my brother are dead … but I had other relatives alive when I was captured. I thought if I could find some migrants from my home town in Rome, I may be able to discover what became of them.”

  Hortensia looked at him sympathetically. It had sometimes occurred to her that some ghost haunted Lucrio, perhaps of the wars he had fought. She had seen the shadow of it pass behind those cool green eyes.

  “I see. Of course I understand. I will speak to Papa for you.”

  “You are very good, domina.”

  “In fact … perhaps there is someone else I might ask.” Hortensia was unable to stop herself smiling. “I am soon to be married you see.”

  Lucrio bowed.

  “I trust you and master Caepio will be very happy.”

  “You could tell?” asked Hortensia in delight. “I didn’t realize it was so obvious to other people. Well, Papa may not like you to leave Laurentum for long. He appreciates how good you are with the animals, even if he doesn’t always show it. But perhaps he would let you come with us and be part of our household for a little while. Just while we settle in.”

  “Thank you, domina. My debt to you grows all the greater.”

  He bowed again, and she went past him toward the villa. Lucrio watched her go. Then he released his grip on the blade of the sword and looked down at his palm, where the skin was raw and bleeding from the splintering wood.

  “Now, I will find you, tribune,” he whispered, “and you will wish with the last breath you take that our paths had never crossed.”

  VI

  The Temple of Vesta, Rome. July 70BC.

  AS LONG AS A FLAME BURNED IN THE HEARTH OF THE TEMPLE OF Vesta, Rome would come to no harm, so ancient memory would have it. The weight of that sacred responsibility lay heavy on the heads of the six priestesses who tenderly guarded both the flame and their own chastity under pain of death. Tonight, so it seemed, the city could sleep easy. A plume of smoke billowed as usual from the vented roof of the old sanctuary, slanting silver through the gaze of the moon overhead.

  In the shadows of the elegant residence behind the Temple where the Vestals lived together in secluded luxury, two figures huddled close together, the pure white worn by the smaller of the pair a less effective camouflage than the grey cloak draped around the shoulders of the other.

  “So you are clear? You will admit me to the Temple at the appointed hour and then you will keep watch. It shouldn’t take long but I will rely on you if it looks as though I might be disturbed.”

  “I still do not see why you do not let me retrieve what it is you are looking for.” There was a slight petulance in the whispered reply. “The Chief Vestal is an innocent fool, I can do no wrong in her eyes.”

  “Because you would not know what to look for, and because I prefer to conduct so delicate a stage of the operation myself.”

  “Very well … If you will have it so, I will be waiting. She insists that we are all praying in our rooms by sundown – all except the Vestal guarding the hearth of course. But they will not know I am out, they never know. I wish it were tonight!”

  Tiberius smiled in amusement, running one finger down the soft, pale cheek of the passionate face before him. “Patience, little one. We both know you were not made for this life of confinement and chastity. Soon, you will be free and then all the pleasures of the world will be yours to enjoy.”

  The figure in white vanished through a side door of the Vestals’ residence, and Tiberius emerged from the shadows and crossed from the eastern end of the forum to the west, heading down Tuscan Street toward the Forum Boarium by the river and then through a series of residential streets winding their way up the Aventine Hill. Turning right down an avenue marked “Goat Street”, he stopped outside a door with a sign above it, depicting a reed pen and a pot of ink. A shaven-headed slave with misshapen features was waiting for him.

  “All taken care of?” asked Tiberius.

  The slave nodded, showing a mouthful of chipped teeth. “Yes, domine. He put up a fight. But not for long.”

  Tiberius stepped inside and followed the slave down a narrow, dark hallway. He paused at the sound of crying and looked questioningly at the slave.

  “Wife and a little girl. We decided to lock them in their room. Unless you would rather we …?”

  “A little girl, you sa
y?”

  “Five or six.”

  Tiberius tilted his head to one side, considering. Then he shook his head.

  “Too many complications. I think we’ll stick to the job we’re being paid for tonight.”

  At the far end of the hallway, two more slaves stepped back to let him pass into the room at the end. A man’s body lay in the middle of the floor, his face beaten to an unrecognizable pulp. Tiberius stepped over the corpse and walked toward a metal strong-box chained to a ring in the wall. The lock had already been broken for him. He lifted the lid and began to search through the rolls of papyrus stacked inside. After some time, he extracted one and held it up to the light being held for him by one of the slaves.

  “This is what we’re looking for. Did you ask him whether he kept more copies of his work anywhere?”

  “Yes, domine. We asked him very thoroughly. There is nothing besides what’s in there.”

  Tiberius tucked the roll into a small leather bag. He then extracted a folded piece of saffron-colored papyrus from the pouch at his waist. It was covered in red ink lettering, and he tucked it inside the bag as well before handing it to the shaven-headed slave.

  “You know where to take these. Remind Petro it’s the fee we agreed – no negotiating. When the job’s done, he needs to burn both of those. We don’t want any evidence. Make sure you stand over him while he does it. Bring the new document back to the villa when he’s finished. I’ll still be up.”

  The slave nodded. Tiberius followed him down the hallway, pausing for a lingering moment beside the door – behind which piteous weeping could still be heard – before continuing out into the street. He turned to one of his other slaves, extracting a folded note and handing it over. It was anointed with the seal of a dog’s head.

  “Take this to the villa of Hortensius Hortalus, on the Palatine Hill. No need to wait for an answer. He’ll know what it means.”

  The slave bowed and retreated into the night. Tiberius turned and looked back at the tendril of smoke still climbing across the face of the moon, his disfigured features illuminated by the silver glow.

  “If a man’s hour is come,” he murmured aloud, “be he brave or be he coward, there is no escape for him when once he has been born.”

  VII

  The house of Servilius Caepio on the Palatine Hill.

  THE WEDDING CEREMONY WAS OVER. PINE TORCHES LIT UP THE VIOLET night sky above the Palatine, lacing the air with their acrid smell. As the singing procession threaded its way past the homes of Hortensius’s wealthy neighbors, they called out the traditional salute of “Talasio!” and threw handfuls of nuts, which were quickly scavenged from the ground by watchful beggar children from the nearby suburbs. The wedding guests, having been treated by their host to a lavish feast washed down with wines from Hortensius’s country estates, were in a rambunctious mood as they tramped along, serenading passers-by with their wedding songs. In the middle of the crush, a saffron-colored head could just be seen bobbing along, the yellow veil blowing back in the breeze to reveal a laughing face. At last they arrived at the garlanded door of the groom’s house where there was a delay while the bride received the greetings of well-wishers in the crowd and was handed a tub of animal fat with which to ceremonially anoint the lintel of her new home in premonition of wealth and plenty for her married life.

  Hortensius stood off to one side with Caecilius. He had been a convivial host throughout the day, slapping backs and ordering cups to be constantly refilled and now wore a broad smile watching the final stages of his daughter’s journey from maid to matron. Caecilius glanced curiously at him.

  “You’re in a remarkably good mood, even for a father on his daughter’s wedding day. Not sure I’ve seen you this relaxed of late, what with all the work you’ve been doing on Verres’s case. Very grateful to you for that of course.”

  “As you say, I’m a proud father today, Caecilius.”

  Hortensia had now finished smearing the doorway with fat. Several of the female wedding guests came forward – Caepio’s sister Servilia and Caecilius’s wife Claudia among them – and lined up behind the bride as a beaming Caepio emerged from the house. To the accompaniment of cheering, and a few ribald comments from individuals in the crowd, he picked Hortensia up in his arms and carried her over the threshold, followed by her matronly attendants.

  Hortensius took another sip from his cup, then said calmly, “By the way, Verres’s trial is to begin in five days.”

  Caecilius looked aghast.

  “What? But I thought you were going to get it delayed until next year when Glabrio’s praetorship is over? We had it all settled. My brother Marcus will almost certainly be in charge of the extortion court by then, you and I will be elected to the consulship, it will be a done deal for us!”

  “That was obviously my intention but the other extortion case I contrived to get scheduled ahead of Verres’s has been settled, the jury for our case has been chosen and Glabrio is insistent that we proceed.”

  Caecilius groaned.

  “But what are you doing to do now? Tell me you have another plan?”

  Hortensius swirled the remaining wine in his cup.

  “Calm yourself, Caecilius. Cicero will only have ten days or so to present his case before Pompey’s games begin and the court goes into recess. Let us see what he’s really made of. My skill against his. May the best man win.”

  He put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. Looking into his bright blue eyes, Caecilius thought he saw some reckless spark there, which may or may not have been down to the amount of wine Hortensius had drunk.

  “I am done with stratagems, my old friend. Now I’m ready for the fight.”

  He nodded good night and began to walk unsteadily back up the hill toward his own villa, humming a little tune to himself.

  THE VESTAL RAISED her veiled head and stared at the sanctuary door. The heat from the flames had made her sleepy and the short, high-pitched noise had caused her to start suddenly. But she was confused as to what she had heard. She was sure it had come from the sanctuary, where there was a secret entrance leading to the Vestals’ private quarters, but none of the other priestesses was due to take over her duties until sunrise. She glanced in the opposite direction, toward the open doorway of the temple, and saw that the horizon was the same dark violet as it had been when she had first sat down. Should she fetch the two slaves on guard outside? But surely she would only make herself look foolish. Perhaps it was the Chief Vestal, fetching one of the bags of sacred grain that were kept there for use in special rites. But why would she do so at this time of night?

  Hesitantly, the priestess rose from her ornate chair and walked slowly toward the latticed door of the sanctuary, at the back of the domed temple chamber. She bent her head and listened intently but all that she could hear was the roaring of the flames from the hearth behind her. She pushed at the door and it swung open easily. The room was in darkness, but the light from the great hearth flame behind her illuminated the sanctuary’s most precious cult object – a little sacred statue of the goddess Minerva, said to have been rescued for Rome from the ruins of Troy. Around Minerva’s head, the curved walls were lined with archive niches, each one brimming with precious documents belonging to Rome’s wealthiest and most powerful citizens.

  Then she saw him. A man, halfway up the wall of the sanctuary, balanced on a wooden ladder. He was just withdrawing his hand from one of the private archives, a roll of papyrus between his fingers. As the light from the chamber flooded the room, he turned his head and she saw his monstrous face. She opened her mouth but no sound came out. She felt dizzy, as though the walls of the room were spinning round her. He had already descended the ladder. She took a step back as he moved quickly toward her and she stumbled on the hem of her gown. Her cry was stifled by his hand over her mouth. She felt his thumbs on her throat and as the breath was mercilessly squeezed from her body, her eyes appealed pitifully to the statue of Minerva. But the goddess did not come to her aid.
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br />   SERVILIA, CLAUDIA AND the other married women had done their work and filed out of the room after bestowing smiles and embraces on their youthful charge, and in Servilia’s case, a sly, whispered piece of advice that brought a flush to Hortensia’s cheeks. Barefoot and dressed now only in her white bridal tunic, her black hair freed from its tight braids and her flame-colored veil removed, she sat alone on a scrolled couch in the middle of the bedroom, waiting for her husband. He came in a few moments later and sat down next to her.

  “Well, here we are,” said Hortensia softly.

  “Here we are indeed,” replied Caepio, nodding in emphatic agreement. He wrinkled his brow suddenly. “What on earth do you suppose we do next?” he asked in a tone of puzzlement.

  She smiled and he sat back from her a little, looked down at the woollen orange belt at her waist, carefully tied into a complicated-looking knot.

  “Your handiwork, my dear?” he enquired. “I’m very impressed. There seems to be no end to your accomplishments.”

  Hortensia raised an eyebrow quizzically at him and the smile between them deepened.

  Reaching out to her waist, Caepio tugged gently on the orange cord, which slipped apart easily, allowing the fine white fabric to billow out around her. Leaning over, he buried his face in the curve of her neck and breathed in the warmth of her for a moment, feeling the quiver that ran through her. Then he stood, picked her up and carried her over to the bed in the middle of the room, placing her gently on the damask coverlet. He turned away to blow out one of the candles by the pillows, assuming that his bride would be shy. But when he turned back, he saw that Hortensia had already slipped the white gown over her head and tossed it to the floor. Her skin glowed the color of warm honey in the last of the candlelight, and the crimson bed linen made the perfect foil for her dark, luxuriant hair.