Rivals of the Republic

by Annelise Freisenbruch

  Hortensia wrinkled her brow. “But … forgive me …” She stopped, feeling extremely embarrassed about the level of intimacy her conversation with a virtual stranger had already reached.

  Drusilla turned and looked Hortensia in the eye. “I have been a chaste wife, I can assure you,” she said quietly. “But if Marcus Rufio says that I have not, then who will argue with him?”

  Hortensia did not find it difficult to believe her declaration of innocence. Everything about her manner and appearance was an advertisement for the upstanding Roman matron. The embarrassment she had felt before now gave way to indignation.

  “I can assure you there are people who will argue with him,” she said warmly. “I am very glad you have brought this matter to my attention. My husband shall certainly hear of it.”

  Drusilla stood up with an expression of panic on her face. “Oh no, please! Your husband cannot be involved. If Marcus Rufio thinks that I have harmed his relationship with his patron, he will make things even worse for me.”

  Hortensia put out a hand to soothe her.

  “I promise not to do anything that would upset you, but you must allow me to help in some way. Will you at least permit me to consult with my husband – perhaps even seek my father’s advice? I assure you that I will do nothing to make things more uncomfortable for you.”

  After much wringing of hands, Drusilla finally agreed that Hortensia might make further enquiries on her behalf.

  IX

  AT THE TOP OF A TALL APARTMENT BLOCK IN THE SUBURA, A MAN WAS bent over a rickety table. He had smooth, very dark skin and the pale crescents of his fingernails were rimed with ink. A roll of papyrus lay on the table in front of him and he was holding a fine reed pen between his elegant fingers, its tip suspended like a spider quivering on the end of a carefully spun thread. Working very slowly and with meticulous precision, the man was swirling the pen up and down, glancing up every now and then to look at the other document he was copying. A shadow fell across the table and he looked up, the silver hoop in his ears glinting in the moonlight. There was a woman standing in the doorway, her skin dark like his but thickly painted and with bright eyes rimmed with kohl. She spoke in a sleepy tone of voice.

  “Petro. You better run. Men outside asking where you live.”

  Delicately, the forger slotted his pen into place alongside a row of others on the cloth beside him, rolled it up quickly, and then went to a box in the corner of the room from which he extracted several items – pots of wax, an inkwell and several rolls of parchment. He then removed a tile from the floor and took out from underneath it what looked like a handful of clay coins and a square of saffron-colored papyrus with red ink lettering. He placed all of these items in a cloth bag, which he slung over his shoulder.

  “Insurance.” He grinned as he passed the painted woman in the doorway, pausing to kiss her cheek. Then he ran lightly down the stairs and disappeared into the darkness of night.

  “BUT THAT IS preposterous!”

  Hortensia glared across the small dining table at her husband, who shrugged apologetically.

  “I am sorry, my dear, but that is the law. It is unusual for the husband to retain the whole dowry, I grant you, but there is precedent for this kind of case, and children always live with their fathers after a divorce in any case, unless they are minded to leave them with the mother. I am sorry for your friend but she is right, there is really nothing she can do.”

  They were lying on two couches in the summer dining room where the remains of a modest evening meal were spread on a low table. Hortensia had considered seeking out her father for advice but something told her he would consider the case beneath his attention and try to dissuade his daughter in turn from involving herself. Caepio’s assistance would answer to the matter far better if he could be persuaded to confront Marcus Rufio, but Hortensia was deeply disappointed by his reaction.

  “But you are his patron! Surely you can make him see reason?”

  “I cannot interfere in my clients’ family lives. As soon as I do that, where is the line drawn? I can advise them on their business dealings, I can withhold loans of money if I judge that they will not use them wisely, but it is not for me to tell them how to conduct their personal affairs. I agree that if your reading of this woman’s character is correct then Marcus Rufio would appear to have behaved disgracefully, but he has the law on his side.” He peered over at Hortensia, whose brow was furrowed in irritation, and added in a mild, placatory tone, “In my defense I did not choose him as my client. His claim on my family’s protection goes back several generations.”

  “All the more reason for you to exert your influence,” muttered Hortensia, chewing angrily on a piece of dried fig.

  There was silence between them for a while, disturbed only by the call of two songbirds in a yew tree whose branches dipped over the garden. Hortensia appeared lost in thought.

  “The hearing comes before a praetor tomorrow. In one of the civil courts in the forum,” she said meditatively. “If she had an advocate to speak on her behalf, she might stand a better chance.” She shot him a speculative glance.

  “No, Hortensia,” said Caepio firmly.

  “You have spoken in court before,” she pointed out.

  “True, but I do not have anything like your father’s skill. Besides, it would be wrong to speak against my own client and I cannot feel – given the accusation against this Drusilla – that it would benefit her cause to have a man wholly unconnected to her or her family arguing on her behalf.”

  Hortensia’s eyes narrowed but she said nothing, apparently acknowledging the force of this argument. A few more wordless moments passed. Caepio had a premonition of her next question even before she asked it.

  “Are women allowed to address the law court?”

  Caepio sighed. “I know what you are thinking, Hortensia …”

  “Are they?” she repeated firmly.

  “There is no law to prohibit the practice yet but there is talk of one, thanks to a rather eccentric woman called Afrania, the wife of Senator Licinius Buccio, who often appears before the praetor on disputes relating to her property. But she argues on her own behalf, she is not an advocate, and I need hardly tell you her actions have made her very unpopular with the likes of Caecilius and my brother Cato.”

  The songbirds continued to echo each other’s call. Caepio got to his feet and came to sit down on the couch next to Hortensia. She did not look at him but neither did she resist the embrace of his arm around her shoulders.

  “My dearest, I admire the fact that you want to help this woman. No one knows better than I how much courage you have. But those men in that court will not know that, nor will they appreciate it. You have no evidence, no character witnesses to help Drusilla prove her claim against her husband, let alone the slightest experience of the law court. Given that, what do you truly imagine you will be able to do for her without harming yourself in the process?”

  “Perhaps nothing,” Hortensia admitted, raising her eyes to his. “But I cannot leave it alone, Caepio. I keep thinking of that speech Papa used to make Quintus and me recite. ‘If we look to the laws, they afford equal justice to all in their private differences.’” She shrugged and gave a little smile. “I am my father’s daughter, you know.”

  Caepio kissed the top of her head. “That you are, though I cannot believe your father would encourage you in this instance.” He remained silent for a moment. “If you are determined to go to the court tomorrow, I will not try and stop you but on condition that you promise me two things. First, you must take Lucrio to escort you through the forum. It will be very crowded tomorrow. Cicero is due to make the opening speech against Verres in the afternoon and your father needs as strong a show of support as possible, I must be there. Second, if the praetor sitting in judgment on Drusilla’s case refuses you permission to speak from the outset, you must abide by his decision and not create scandal for yourself.”

  Hortensia nodded and raised an eyebrow at him.
“Not many husbands would be so understanding,” she said with a teasing smile.

  “Ah but then I am a remarkable husband,” said Caepio sagely.

  “I promise not to create a scandal.”

  “Oh go ahead, why not,” said Caepio, leaning back on the couch and waving a hand flippantly. “We can always move to Crete, they’re very understanding about that kind of thing over there.”

  Hortensia laughed and raised a hand to her husband’s cheek. “You are indeed a remarkable husband. You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  Caepio smiled and gave a little shrug. “It’s who you are, my darling. It’s why I love you.”

  She kissed him lingeringly and stood up, hand outstretched. “Come to bed.”

  They retired to their room and one by one the oil-lamps around the villa were extinguished by the household slaves until all was quiet and dark.

  DEEP IN THE heart of the city, the Subura pulsed to its own wild, erratic rhythm. There was no street lighting in the damp alleyways and few of the residents could afford the cost of a lantern-bearer to illuminate their way, but the beat of footsteps, the rattle of vehicles and the screech of voices had barely abated since the sun went down. The waft of hot chickpea soup and thick sausage stew from the cook shops competed with the stench from the underground sewer, tempting the custom of those who did not dare risk a cooking fire in the precipitous, decaying tenements that teetered like crumbling cliff-faces above the narrow streets. Stagnant pools leaked from the public fountains, soaking the feet of those who came down from the topmost apartments to replenish their supplies of washing water. A noisy stream of trade flowed in and out of the tabernas watched from nearby stairwells by groups of hard-nosed men who exchanged silent signals whenever unusually drunk or well-heeled patrons entered or left.

  Most shops were still open for business, from cobblers and ironmongers to barbers and teeth-pullers, where trays of bone and ivory replacements were prominently displayed. A wizened man sat smoking a pipe outside an apothecary crammed with jars labeled “spikenard”, “galbanum”, “mandrake” and “opium” while a roughly chalked sign prescribed various abortifacients, from rue and sea urchin juice to a pessary of cantharone beetles, celery seed and cuttlefish eggs. Crude price-lists etched onto the grime-covered walls advertised the services of countless brothels. As Lucrio walked along, painted girls in threadbare clothing leant out of the windows above and called out to him. “Look at this one, ladies … here’s a prize if you can get it. How about it darling, why not die happy – it’s only the price of a loaf.” But he did not check his limping stride, pausing only to talk to a pair of men lounging outside a taberna, who shook their heads foggily in response to his enquiry.

  A wagon carrying a shaggy-headed fir tree more than twice its length was causing havoc as it attempted to navigate a path through the twisting alleyways, its flailing branches scraping clumps of cement from the brickwork of the buckling tower blocks, much to the wrath of their tenants. Following in the tree’s wake, Lucrio crossed the street to avoid the fishy stench from a stall selling garum in large vats before eventually coming to a halt beside a bread maker’s where coils of dough were being briskly shoveled into a roaring oven. Next door to the bread maker was a curtained alcove with an eye painted on a flimsy sign dangling above it. Lucrio pushed back the curtain to reveal a tiny room occupied by a man swathed in filthy black robes. He was seated on the ground, an earthenware jar beside him and a strong fug of drink lingering about him. A beam of moonlight lanced across his face as the curtain was withdrawn and he squinted up at Lucrio through blueish, sightless eyes.

  “Welcome, young traveler,” he wheezed. “You seek your fortune?”

  Lucrio squatted down in front of him.

  “Not a fortune. Information.”

  “Information … that’s more expensive.”

  Lucrio tossed a coin onto the man’s lap. A scrabbling of a gnarled hand, quick appraisal of the coin’s size, and it vanished into the folds of the man’s clothing.

  “I’m looking for someone and I don’t know how to find him.”

  “Mmm, that is a challenge. My eyes are tired today …” Lucrio flicked another coin at him. It disappeared as quickly as the first.

  “One of the rich bloods up in the hills. A tribune. From the Spanish campaigns. Who would know names?”

  “A tribune you say? Perhaps one of Pompey’s veterans could help you. There’s a group of them who spend most of their time in the Taberna Aquila.”

  “I’ve already tried them. They wouldn’t help me.”

  “I didn’t think they would,” answered the old man, unperturbed, and took a swig from the jar at his side. “Didn’t like your voice I expect.”

  “No. They didn’t. So where now?”

  The man squinted and another coin appeared on his lap. As he turned his milky gaze on Lucrio, a pinprick of orange light seemed to flare in the centre of his pupil.

  “One of the money-lenders on Silver Street maybe. They cater to the rich bloods sometimes, those who don’t want their debts to be known. Or the forgers, there’s always work for them to do. The best ones live on Mercury Street.”

  “And where do I find that?”

  The orange glow in the old man’s eyes suddenly blossomed and there was a roar behind them like a wall of water crashing against a cliff. Lucrio turned and his gaze was dragged toward the skyline above the row of shops and apartments on the other side of the street. A crest of fire was dancing over the rooftops, sending plumes of smoke snaking into the night air.

  Abandoning the old man, Lucrio darted down a tiny alleyway and emerged on the adjoining street where an entire apartment block was engulfed in flames. Pieces of burning timber were crashing down onto the street, sending up clouds of blazing embers. A few people were staggering out of the stairwell, their hands to their mouths, but screams could be heard from the smaller tenements on the higher floors where the fire seemed to be at its worst. Groups of bystanders pointed excitedly and shook their heads. Opposite the building, an argument was going on between a hysterical-looking man in a green tunic and the foreman of a squadron of fire-fighters, who instead of busying themselves filling their buckets from the nearby fountain, were leaning idly against their hooked grappling poles.

  Through one of the second-floor windows, Lucrio suddenly spied the face of a terrified woman through the smoke. She had a baby in her arms and was begging one of the onlookers below to help, but they were too wary of approaching the disintegrating building. Lucrio crossed the street, dodging a falling shard of wood, and stood beneath the window with his arms outstretched.

  “Drop him,” he shouted. “I promise to catch him.”

  She hesitated. Her face was red and covered in sweat and tears. Then she leant out and let the bundle fall from her arms. Lucrio caught it, ran to place the squalling baby in the arms of a woman standing nearby, then raced back to the window. Flames were beginning to consume the woman’s apartment.

  “Now you.”

  She shook her head in a panic. “I can’t,” she wept.

  “Yes you can. Just jump.”

  She clambered awkwardly on to the ledge. Roof tiles were tumbling and smashing on the ground, and she gave a little scream as one hit her on the shoulder. Then she launched herself forwards and landed in Lucrio’s outstretched arms. He staggered a little but recovered himself and carried her over to a group of onlookers who applauded him as he set her down. Next he ran over to where the foreman of the fire-fighters was now waving a crumpled document in front of the anguished man in green.

  “This is the deal,” the foreman was saying. “We put the fire out for you but you sell the whole building plus the land it’s standing on to my master, Marcus Crassus, for twenty thousand sesterces, no negotiating. All I need is that little seal from your finger right there …”

  “Why don’t you put the fire out?” demanded Lucrio. “There are people in there, why don’t you save them?”

  The foreman looked at him rep
roachfully.

  “Do you mind? We’re just doing a bit of business here.”

  He turned away and began to wave the document in front of the landlord’s face again but Lucrio grabbed his arm.

  “You tell your men to put that fire out now, you Roman scum!”

  The foreman’s mouth dropped open. “Who do you think you’re calling scum, Spaniard?” he said aggressively. “Do you have any idea who I work for?”

  Lucrio took a step toward the foreman and was just clenching his hand into a fist when he felt a warm hand being laid on his arm. He spun round and found himself face to face with the woman to whom he had earlier handed the baby. She was dark-skinned and bright-eyed, with a heavily painted face.

  “Cool yourself, Spaniard,” she said in a sleepily caressing voice, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm and forcing him to walk away with her in the opposite direction. “He’s right. You don’t want to cross the guy he works for.”

  She smiled, revealing a mouthful of brown teeth, and she let her gaze wander over him. “You’re new in town, aren’t you? I could show you around if you like.”

  Lucrio stared up at the burning building, a muscle pulsing in his jaw, the glow from the flames casting shadows across his face.

  “No thanks. I’m learning my way.”

  He turned on his heel and walked away.

  IN THE EARLY hours of the morning, Hortensia woke. For a few contented minutes, she watched the rise and fall of her sleeping husband’s chest, then wandered over to the door in the corner of their room, which led out into the garden. The sky was the color of an angry sea, but a stripe of peach-colored light was beginning to warm the eastern horizon. There was a faint tang of smoke on the breeze. Wrapping a thick cloak around her white night dress, she drifted outside. The grass between her bare toes was cold and damp but there was a thickness in the air that warned of yet another oppressively hot day ahead. Placing her hand below her ribcage and filling her lungs with air, just as her father had taught her, Hortensia began to pace back and forth across the grass, steadily inhaling and exhaling as she created a trail of footprints in the dew.