Rivals of the Republic

by Annelise Freisenbruch

  Hortensia set her teeth. “I am quite serious, sir, and if you do not believe me –”

  “Oh I believe you, my dear, I believe you,” Pompey waved a hand in lazy dismissal, “and I don’t doubt that you are serious. In fact your concern does you credit and I applaud the feminine sensibilities which are no doubt making you so anxious. But if I had a denarius for every time someone warned me that my number was up, I’d be richer than Crassus over there – and that’s saying something.”

  “I don’t think you should dismiss this so slightly, sir,” she persisted. “My sources are very credible.”

  “And just who are these credible sources of yours, my dear?” he asked in a tone of mock seriousness.

  “People I trust, sir,” she said with dignity, “and I wish you would too. Promise me that you will at least pay some heed to my warning.”

  “How could any man refuse to promise you anything?” teased Pompey.

  But Hortensia did not smile. She was annoyed, and also uncomfortably aware that a few people were now glancing in their direction. Despite Pompey’s reassurances, she knew that Mucia’s presence was not enough to mask the impropriety of being seen in such intimate conversation with the consul and she made her excuses, claiming that she wished to help her mother find Quintus.

  “Oh, don’t coddle the boy. Tell me, shall I see you at my games? I’m going down to my villa at Albano tomorrow but I’ll be back on the Ides. Promise me you’ll come?”

  He reached out and tried to squeeze her hand, which Hortensia disengaged as quickly as she could. Mumbling her excuses, she wrapped her rich plum-colored mantle around her shoulders and began to weave round the groups of party-goers sprawled out across the gardens, many of them now in a deeply mellow mood from the fine Pucine wine served with dinner.

  She found her progress checked almost immediately by Publius Dolabella, who was passing in the other direction, accompanied by another man. He had seen her too and for a moment she thought he was going to cut her dead and carry on walking. But at the last moment he forced his patrician features into a smile.

  “My dear Hortensia. A pleasure to see you. And in great beauty as always.”

  “You are too kind, Publius,” Hortensia answered evenly.

  He gestured to the older man alongside him, a tall, slim individual with a round face, thinning hair and very dark eyes. “Allow me to present to you my patron – Gaius Julius Caesar, a close friend of our host. Julius, do you know Hortensia, wife of Servilius Caepio?”

  “Of course. The famous advocate,” answered Publius’s companion slowly, raising his glass in wry acknowledgement. “I know all about you.”

  There was something a little sly in his tone and Hortensia resented it. “I know a little about you too,” she thought grimly, thinking of his signature on Pompey’s will. An awkward silence descended. Publius looked discomfited at having his humiliating courtroom defeat alluded to by his patron but still he hovered uncertainly, despite being given no encouragement to linger.

  “Your family are well, I trust?” he persevered. “Your father is in good health?”

  Hortensia was about to return a cool answer and move on when she was startled by an interruption from someone standing just behind her.

  “You always did have such lamentable tact, Publius. What a clumsy thing to say to the girl. No wonder she wouldn’t marry you.”

  Tiberius Dolabella loomed over Hortensia’s shoulder, his eyes bright and keen like a satyr’s, his lower lip slightly stained with wine. He smiled down at her. “Charming to see you again, my dear,” before adding loudly for the benefit of his nephew’s companion, “I recently had the good fortune of restoring an errant slave to this young lady you see, Julius. Poor fellow became a little disorientated during a nighttime adventure. Well, we’ve all been there, haven’t we?” The wolfish smile reappeared.

  Hortensia didn’t bother to keep the disdain out of her voice. “Forgive me for not staying to hear more of your edifying conversation, gentlemen, but I am on an important errand for my mother.”

  Julius nodded and Publius bowed, a touch of embarrassment in his manner, but Tiberius suffered no such discomfort, and as Hortensia swiftly detached herself and began to stride toward the balustrade he accompanied her for a few steps, keeping up easily as she attempted to outpace him.

  “That must have been quite an interesting encounter you had a little earlier,” he murmured.

  Hortensia could feel her pulse surge and her cheeks growing hot.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about and I wish you would leave me alone, sir,” she snapped, hoping that the bite in her voice would disguise the consternation that she felt. “It can’t have escaped your notice that I don’t welcome your company.”

  Tiberius smiled, showing his thin, crooked teeth. “Your father and Cicero of course. I must admit, I would dearly love to have been within earshot.”

  Hortensia relaxed a little, reminding herself that Tiberius had no idea of her knowledge of the conspiracy, but her brow darkened all the same. “It’s unlikely you would have the opportunity,” she threw at him haughtily. “My father is very particular about the company he keeps.”

  Tiberius laughed. “Though not so particular about his clients in court. Tell me, is it true that Verres has already gone into exile? I hope your father is not feeling the disgrace too deeply.”

  Hortensia stopped dead and turned to confront him. Her eyes flashed and her hands clenched into balled fists. “My father will crush Cicero at their next meeting,” she announced in a quaking voice. “Then the whole of Rome will know who is the greatest orator of them all.”

  Her rich voice had carried over the hum of the Hispanian musicians, silencing the conversation of several nearby groups of guests, and a number of curious stares were directed at her. People began to whisper and Hortensia felt her cheeks glow hot again.

  “I would never dare contradict you, my dear,” replied Tiberius softly. “Tell me, do you enjoy Pompey’s company? He certainly seems to enjoy yours. It’s something I’ve always found remarkable about him – his total lack of shame about pissing in other men’s territory. By the way, my dear, a piece of fatherly advice. It might not be wise in the future to let yourself be seen in a taberna on the Aventine in the company of a male slave. Tongues will wag, you know. You wouldn’t want to hurt your father’s reputation even more.”

  Hortensia opened her mouth to utter another retort when she heard a light tread behind them and spun round to find her father standing just behind her, silver wine-cup in hand.

  “Hortensius. I was just telling your daughter how much we all admire the way you are handling your current difficulties in court.”

  Hortensius took a sip from his cup, regarding Tiberius thoughtfully over the top of it. Hortensia took advantage of the pregnant silence.

  “I’m going to find Quintus,” she muttered. “Mama is worried about him.”

  She walked away quickly, wrapping her mantle closer about her.

  “A charming young lady, your daughter,” said Tiberius admiringly, watching Hortensia’s retreat. “I remember thinking so when I first saw her. She’s obviously very proud of her Papa too. As any daughter of the great Hortensius, king of the law court, would be.”

  He raised his own cup in tribute. Hortensius spoke softly

  “Perhaps I should make something clear to you, Tiberius. If you ever attempt to speak to my daughter again, I will see to it that that scar is the least ugly thing about you.”

  Tiberius’s smile faltered for a moment, but then it returned.

  “I can understand your anxiety. After all, it’s extraordinary what secrets one can let slip after a few cups of wine, isn’t it?”

  He nodded and rejoined the group surrounding Crassus.

  ***

  Feeling enraged and on the verge of tears, Hortensia made her way over to the edge of the estate where a low marble balustrade formed an ornamental boundary wall. As she drew closer, she saw a crowd of childr
en gathered around a conjuror, their eyes lit up in wonder as he made a small ball disappear from underneath one inverted cup and reappear under another in the row of three. Every time they tried to guess which one the ball was under, their guess was wrong, much to their delight. Hortensia began to walk along the balustrade a little, trying to calm her breathing and letting the evening breeze cool her face. Pompey had been right about the view at least, which afforded her a rare perspective on her home up on the Palatine, with the pulsing hub of the forum just below. On the summit of the Capitoline hill above the senate house, she could see where, under the supervision of her uncle Catulus, they were rebuilding the great temple of Jupiter – like a vast white bird looming over the heart of the city.

  She was about to walk back in the direction of the main party when she caught sight of Quintus standing in a small courtyard, throwing a harpastum ball against the villa wall. As Hortensia came closer, she realized that he was trying to hit a particular spot on the brickwork, cursing loudly every time he failed.

  “Mama is looking for you,” she announced without preamble.

  “I saw her. She can keep looking. If I needed a nursemaid, we could have brought Elpidia,” replied Quintus, continuing to fling the leather ball savagely at the wall, letting it fall to the ground and then picking it up to try again.

  “You shouldn’t keep doing that, you’re leaving a mark,” Hortensia said reprovingly. “This isn’t our house and if you cause any damage, Papa will have to pay for it.”

  “What a hardship for him. What a terrible setback. Now he’ll never be as rich as Marcus Crassus.”

  Hortensia resented the sarcasm in her brother’s response.

  “I don’t see why you would say something so horrid. Papa is wealthy, that’s true, but he isn’t interested in money. To compare him to someone like Marcus Crassus is terribly disloyal of you.”

  Quintus snorted, punctuating the sound with a particularly vicious throw of the harpastum ball. “You think you’re so clever, especially now that you’re married. But you don’t know anything.”

  “I know a great deal more than you as it happens,” Hortensia replied loftily. “All you have ever been interested in is blood and battles. It is quite childish.” She saw that Quintus was about to flare up and continued in a more conciliating tone. “I know that Papa has not always been kind to you. I’m not so unfeeling a sister that I haven’t noticed it. But he really has tried his hardest to help you learn. It’s neither his fault nor yours that you don’t have an aptitude for the things he can teach you.”

  This time Quintus did not pick up the ball from where it had fallen.

  “So Papa isn’t interested in money, is he? Then tell me, darling sister, enlighten me in your wisdom – why do you think he defends the likes of Gaius Verres? Why do you think he married Mama for that matter?”

  “He defended Verres as a favor to Caecilius, and Mama came from an excellent family, just like Papa’s,” replied Hortensia, trying to remain dignified, but she was unsettled by the hatred suffusing Quintus’s sallow face.

  “Mama came from a wealthy family,” he spat. “Papa married her to get his hands on her money and don’t think he won’t cast her aside as soon as he wants more. He makes out that he’s a noble advocate and that the law is the only honorable calling. But he’s a fraud. He’d sell Rome to the highest bidder if the price was right,” he concluded with bitter relish.

  “How dare you?” spluttered Hortensia, momentarily about to revert to her childhood self and lunge at Quintus to claw at his face.

  “It’s true.” Quintus knew he had the upper hand now and having stooped to pick up the harpastum ball, was tossing it in the air with irritating nonchalance. “He defended Verres for the money. All that rubbish about how an advocate can’t accept payment, who do you think gave him that sphinx in his study, which is probably worth about fifty thousand sesterces? Verres did. Payment for making sure Papa did whatever it took to win.”

  “But Papa’s losing! So there goes your argument, doesn’t it?”

  Now Quintus came closer to Hortensia. The light from the moon cast an almost ghoulish look across his already pale face. His voice was low and taunting.

  “Have you never wondered how Papa lives the way he does? How he pays for the paintings, the houses, his wine collection, his precious library? Think hard, darling sister, use that famous brain of yours. No? Well I’ll tell you. By taking anything he can get from those crooks and thieves he calls his clients. Did you honestly think he wins all his cases because he’s the greatest orator in Rome?” Quintus gave a hysterical squawk of laughter. “Bribery and corruption, dear sister. Our Papa’s a cheat and a liar.”

  “I don’t believe you,” whispered Hortensia. “You’ll never make me believe you.”

  “No? Then explain why I found a letter hidden under the rug in his study, from one of his clients, thanking him for getting him acquitted and promising final payment soon. It’s all there, praise for Papa’s brilliance, how clever he was to forge the evidence and pay off the judge. Go and look for yourself if you want. But Cicero’s wise to Papa’s little tricks, isn’t he? He’s outwitted Papa, and now he’s the king of the law court. Everyone knows it, everyone’s glad about it. And do you know what, my dear sister? I’m glad too.”

  He leaned in to make sure his words had hit home, then stepped back, a satisfied smile on his face.

  “Not so unlike Marcus Crassus after all, is he?” he crooned, before sauntering back toward the lights of the party, throwing and catching the ball as he went.

  XXVII

  THE COULDN’T SEE THEIR FACES, ONLY TWIN OUTLINES LOOMING OVER her, silhouetted against the evening sky. Something was falling on her face, dry and light like a shower of tiny spiders. Her feet felt strangely heavy, she couldn’t lift them, and her arms were pinioned to her sides. She tried to speak but when she opened her mouth, she tasted dirt seeping into her mouth. Coughing and spitting, she choked out a cry for help but the men were so far above her and the patch of light around their heads was growing dimmer and dimmer. Now the falling soil was in her eyes. Her lashes and lids flickered desperately against the deluge and a scream built in her throat, but it was stoppered by clumps of wet mud. As the blackness enveloped her, there was a drumming in her ears, whether from the sound of her heart desperately trying to keep her alive or the noise of mud and stones raining down on her prostrate body.

  Hortensia woke up and realized that the drumming in her ears was actually the sound of someone tapping very gently on the door. She blinked rapidly as she came back to consciousness, feeling waves of heat ripple across her sweat-drenched skin. The tapping continued and she managed to swing her legs round to the floor, wrapping her thick mantle around her shoulders before treading gingerly over to the door and opening it a crack. Lucrio was standing there. He spoke very quietly.

  “I’m sorry to wake you, domina. But you have a visitor.”

  Hortensia stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then her eyes widened.

  “It’s really him?” she mouthed.

  Lucrio nodded and Hortensia slipped out into the corridor, tiptoeing past Caepio’s room next door. They arrived in the atrium, which was in darkness apart from a single moonbeam pouring through the skylight. A slight figure was sitting on one of the chairs and as he got up and came forward into the silver light, Hortensia saw that he was young and dark-skinned with a silver hoop in one ear.

  “Petro?” she whispered. He nodded, a crooked little smile plucking at the corner of his mouth, and she beckoned for him to follow her into her private salon. Lucrio came too and shut the door behind him. A lamp burning in the corner cast flickering shadows around the room.

  “You received my message then?” Hortensia asked. “I’m glad to see you escaped the fire. We didn’t know what to think when Lucrio discovered the remains of your tower block.”

  The forger grinned at her and held up his forearms to the light from the lamp, as if inviting her to inspect them. />
  “Petro doesn’t burn,” he intoned. He spoke with a slightly slurred Punic accent, placing a strange stress on shorter syllables.

  “You must know my name from the message I left. I’m very grateful to you for answering it. I’ve invited you here because I’d like to ask you a few questions about a man I think you may know – Marcus Licinius Crassus – and some work you may have done for him.”

  Petro eyed Hortensia appraisingly for a moment but did not respond. Instead he began to walk slowly around the room, looking up at the shelves of literature and lifting a hand to toy with some of the labels, turning them over to read the contents. Hortensia’s eyes were drawn to his forger’s fingertips, which were pinched and wrinkled as though they had been resting in water.

  “Good collection,” he said approvingly. “Demosthenes … Euripides. That’s from Sabinus’s workshop. Single-roll Livius Andronicus – those aren’t easy to find. Must have cost you.” He flicked another speculative glance at her.

  “Petro, I think that the work you did for Crassus almost got you killed in that fire.” Hortensia waited for a reaction and didn’t get one. “Don’t you think so too?”

  “Maybe so, maybe not so,” drawled Petro, still inspecting the rolls on the shelves.

  “Then wouldn’t you like to get revenge?” she pressed. “Because the best way would be to tell me what you did for him. I can make good use of the information. He’s no more my friend than yours.”

  Still Petro contemplated the shelves, seemingly uninterested in what she was saying.

  “Look at this,” he said reverentially, extracting one of the larger rolls from its compartment. “Mago’s De Agri Cultura. Twenty-eight books, single roll. Hieratic papyrus, middle of the plant. Cedar oil finish. A beautiful piece.” He turned to Hortensia and grinned broadly.

  Hortensia was exasperated. “I don’t understand why you came here if you weren’t willing to talk to me.”

  Petro did not seem the slightest bit abashed nor did his grin slacken.