“I can see you’re a little new to the game. Everything’s got a price in this city. Even revenge.”
Lucrio took a step forward but Hortensia put up a hand to check him.
“I understand. You want payment. I don’t have much money about me but I can get you some – though I won’t be held to ransom,” she added.
Petro eyed her quizzically then turned back in reverential contemplation of the roll resting in his hands. “A beautiful piece,” he repeated. Hortensia glanced at it and at last she understood.
“It’s yours,” she said quickly.
Petro seemed delighted. He tucked the roll carefully inside his tunic before seating himself nonchalantly on a small couch.
“Petro’s listening,” he said grandly.
“I think that Marcus Crassus asked you to forge a will for him. Am I right?” asked Hortensia bluntly.
Petro put one finger to his lips. “A will. A will … let me think now …” He appeared to deliberate for some time, then withdrew a small, crumpled piece of saffron-colored papyrus from inside his tunic and offered it to Hortensia.
“What’s this?” she asked, taking it from him.
Petro smiled and laced his fingers behind his head. “Read it,” he invited.
Hortensia stared at him then unfolded the note with trembling hands. There were several lines of writing there, in a hand she vaguely recognized, inscribed in red ink.
“To the Senate and People of Rome,” it began. Hortensia’s breath quickened and she began to read a little louder.
“It is my wish that in the event of my death during the period of my consulship, Rome should be spared another civil war of the kind that has done such damage to our Republic in recent years. Therefore, for the sake of our people and in the exceptional circumstances I have specified, I urge the Senate to do as it has done in the past during times of crisis and confirm my co-consul, Marcus Licinius Crassus …”
She stopped. Lucrio waited but it was Petro who finished the sentence for her, speaking in a slow, mockingly pompous tone.
“… as sole consul and dictator of Rome for such time as is necessary to secure peace and prosperity for the Republic.”
Hortensia stared at the sentence Petro had just spoken aloud. “As dictator of Rome …”
She read it again and again then sank down on to the couch behind her, staring with unseeing eyes at the words in front of her.
“What is this?” she asked incredulously. She looked up to find Petro watching her with an anticipatory smile.
“That’s what they told me to write at the end. Keep everything else the same, they said – estates, bequests, legacies and the rest of it. Just add that on and make it look neat. Then burn the note. But that meathead they sent to watch me do the job wouldn’t know one piece of papyrus from another. Petro likes a little insurance. Helps persuade people to pay on time. Marcus Crassus didn’t pay on time.” He laughed gleefully. “Tried to get rid of Petro instead. But Petro doesn’t burn …”
Hortensia’s eyes moved down to the next sentence and she read on in a half-whisper.
“I urge all members of the Senate to unite behind this proposal which I know will be supported by all patriotic citizens of Rome …” Hortensia’s voice tailed off, and she finally looked up at Lucrio and Petro and shook her head in bewilderment.
“I don’t understand. How can Crassus expect this to convince the Senate? Everyone knows how much he and Pompey hate each other; the idea that Pompey would willingly cede power to Crassus like this is inconceivable.”
Petro shook his head, evidently enjoying her reaction.
“Petro’s no politician. Petro’s just the messenger.”
Lucrio spoke up. “What does it mean by ‘as it has done in the past’?”
Hortensia fidgeted distractedly with the document in her hands.
“There have been occasions when certain men have been given such powers temporarily by the Senate,” she admitted. “Cincinnatus – twice of course – when Rome was under attack from the rest of Italy. Fabius Maximus, during the invasion of Hannibal. But those were exceptional circumstances, times of crisis, not the result of one consul dying.”
“But if Pompey did die … wouldn’t that be seen as a time of crisis?”
Hortensia stared at him, a deep furrow in her brow. Yes, the death of so popular a consul could trigger terrible upheavals. But wouldn’t that work against Crassus? It was possible if it weren’t for the fact that there were plenty of senators who might well be glad of Pompey’s removal. Who was to say that Crassus hadn’t already bought the support of key members, just as he obviously had some of the witnesses to the will? The general populace might rage and riot, but perhaps that would be to Crassus’s advantage, enabling him to persuade his fellow aristocrats that a period of strong, decisive government was needed to soothe the troubled waters. Some liberal redistribution of Crassus’s sizeable fortune would no doubt persuade dissenting members of both patrician and plebeian camps. Hortensia’s grip on the document in her hand tightened in anger. She could just imagine the form that Crassus’s persuasion would take – games, public handouts of grain and money, hypocritical posthumous tributes to Pompey.
There was still the matter of the will itself and Hortensia clung hard to the belief that no one could seriously be persuaded of its authenticity, no matter how good a forger Petro was. But after much thought, she was forced to acknowledge, however reluctantly, that it would be a brave senator who accused a man of Crassus’s power and influence of breaching the sacrosanctity of the Temple of Vesta, particularly if the priestesses themselves had not reported a theft. Moreover, if the witnesses to the will were willing to verify that the contents reflected Pompey’s true wishes, then the skeptics would be forced to keep their insinuations to themselves.
“Ugly game isn’t it?” Petro interrupted Hortensia’s thoughts. She stared accusingly at him.
“Why didn’t you take this to someone? Didn’t you realize what it meant?”
“Like I told you. Petro’s no politician,” he repeated. “Doesn’t matter to me who sits at the top of this dungpile.”
Hortensia said nothing at first.
“There’s something else I have to know.”
Petro tilted his head to one side.
“The other men named in the will, the seven witnesses. Did you ever have any dealings with any of them?”
A knowing smile appeared in Petro’s eyes.
“You mean did they know what was going on?”
Hortensia nodded, her eyes fixed on him.
“Hmm. Well, I’d only be guessing … but I’d say maybe at least one of them didn’t want to play the game.”
“Which one? How do you know?” she asked eagerly.
“Got me to write a suicide note from one of them. Old man’s writing, real small and shaky, took an artist like me to get it right.”
“Lucilius Albinus?”
“That’s the one. I guess the writing was on the wall for him.” Petro laughed.
“What about the others?” Her desperation was palpable and Petro seemed to enjoy toying with her.
“Well, now I come to think of it … there was at least one more I reckon they weren’t sure if they could count on. Which one was it now …?”
“Hortensius Hortalus?” came the whispered enquiry.
“That’s the one. Should have thought of it, his name being so similar to yours.” Petro beamed innocently.
“But how do you know? How do you know he wasn’t involved?” she asked eagerly.
“Well, I don’t know of course. But it seemed to me a possibility when they asked me to write some letters addressed to this … Hortensius, was it? Quite a few of them, if I recall.”
Hortensia’s brow was furrowed.
“I don’t understand. You wrote to my father?”
Petro laughed.
“Well, in a manner of speaking. Sort of thing that would be embarrassing to a man, if you get my meaning.”
Hortensia stare
d at him.
“The letter! The letter Quintus saw!” She almost grabbed Petro by the arm. “The one from his client, the one where he talked about how Papa fabricated evidence and bribed the judge! That was you? It was just a forgery all along?”
Petro’s smile widened. Hortensia closed her eyes and slowly let out the breath she had been holding. She glanced over at Lucrio.
“Didn’t I tell you?” she said triumphantly. “If only Quintus were here! Tiberius gave Papa one of the letters, to scare him into thinking there was going to be a scandal and persuade him not to say anything when they eventually killed Pompey. Papa must have known the letter was a forgery but he was worried about what it would do to his reputation, the family’s reputation, you were right, Lucrio! That must have been why he was so preoccupied when we were at Laurentum … I knew there was something not right with him … oh poor Papa, what he must have been going through …” She broke off, now brooding deep in thought.
“What do you want to do now, domina?” Lucrio asked in a low voice.
Hortensia stood up and paced around the room. At last she shook her head in frustration.
“We’re no better off than we were before. This,” she held up the saffron-yellow scrap between finger and thumb, “counts for nothing. Petro’s evidence carries about as much weight as yours does. Who’s to say he wouldn’t be accused of forging this?”
“There may be a solution.”
“What?”
“You let me do what I came to the city to do in the first place.”
She stopped pacing. “No.”
“Without him in the picture, Crassus might lack courage. It would buy time at least.”
“And Crassus will simply buy someone else to do his dirty work for him,” she threw back at him. “One thug is much like another after all …”
Hortensia trailed off mid-sentence. Her eye had been caught by the gap on the shelves where Mago’s De Agri Cultura had recently rested. She walked over and in imitation of Petro’s actions a few minutes earlier, brushed her fingers over the edges of the rolls stored there, tugging meditatively on their little tags. Suddenly she swung round and advanced on the forger, who had remained on the couch in supremely relaxed pose, swinging one sandaled foot to and fro as he observed his two new acquaintances arguing. “What do you charge for your work?” she asked him peremptorily.
Petro’s expression brightened. “For a lady like you, I could do a special rate.” His gaze traveled greedily around the room once more.
“Good.” Hortensia’s eyes too held a gleam. “Because I have a very special commission for you.”
XXVIII
LAUGHTER RANG OUT ACROSS THE NIGHT SKY ABOVE THE PACKED AUDITORIUM as the great Roscius switched back and forth between the grotesque one-eyed mask of Polyphemus the Cyclops and the incongruously beautiful one of Galatea, conveying the giant’s declaration of passion and the nymph’s horrified reaction with comic contortions of his body. The last tints of sunset had since faded but thanks to the largesse of the theater’s sponsor, Crassus, the temporary wooden framework of the three-storyed stage had been heavily gilded so that it caught the light from the flaming braziers set in the bronze statues all around its perimeter, illuminating not only Roscius’s bravura performance but the rapt faces of the spectators sitting in the front rows.
Hortensia felt her husband squeeze her hand and smiled up at him before joining in the laughter and applause that greeted the end of the first act. A buzz of chatter filled the theater as acquaintances hailed each other and people wandered outside to stretch their legs.
Several stagehands hurried on to change the scenery and members of Crassus’s blue-clad household made their way along the rows spritzing saffron wine among the spectators to freshen the air and handing out platters of Syrian dates. Hortensia’s eyes flickered over to their right where the Vestals were just entering the theater and being led to the special row of their own which they were always allocated. Cornelia led them in and from her ramrod posture and censorious expression, Hortensia guessed that pantomime was not to her taste. Immediately behind Cornelia was Fabia, and as the Vestals seated themselves, the young priestess locked eyes with Hortensia. Receiving a firm nod in response to her silent question, Hortensia leant over toward Caepio.
“My darling, I’ve just seen an old friend of mine going outside with her husband, excuse me for a moment while I say hello to her.”
Caepio, who had been hailed by one of his clients, nodded amiably, and Hortensia extricated herself from her row and joined the flow of spectators heading toward the narrow exit. Over on the far side of the theater, she was aware that Fabia was watching her intently.
She emerged from the theater onto Tuscan Street, which linked the Forum Boarium with the main forum. To her right was the great sunken belly of the Circus Maximus, empty and silent for the evening, and just behind her, forming one corner of Crassus’s temporary theater, was the little round temple of Hercules Victor, encircled with offerings laid in honor of this, his festival day. A strong waft from the river Tiber made her pinch her nostrils and hurry toward the other end of the square where beneath a ramshackle wooden canopy shaded by laurel trees, litters belonging to the theater’s wealthier patrons had been laid down on the paving stones, their jewel-colored drapes fluttering in the evening breeze. Their carriers had convened around a blazing brazier a little way off and were passing around a jar of wine, laughing and joking though staying close enough to deter any loiterers from inspecting the vehicles more closely. Alongside the litters, a solitary two-wheeled vehicle was drawn up, the distinctive traveling carriage of the Vestal Virgins. Its driver had not joined the gaggle of litter-bearers but was standing by the heads of the two mules who drew it. Shifting their weight heavily from hoof to hoof, they bobbed their sleepy grey heads now and then and snuffled for wisps of grass between the paving stones. The driver picked his teeth and looked bored.
In a dank passageway opposite the canopy, Lucrio waited alongside Rixus and Eucherius for Hortensia’s appearance. The young door-keeper was extremely over-excited.
“He looks puny,” he remarked confidently of the carriage driver. “Why don’t we just go and knock him over the head and drag him into the trees? Problem solved.”
“Because they’ll arrest you and pack you off back to Cilicia where you belong with your pirate cousins, hippopotamus brain,” explained Rixus, administering a small smack to the back of his friend’s head with one hand and taking a bite of his overripe peach with the other. “We’re trying to do this on the quiet.”
Lucrio, who had been peering around the corner, had already seen Hortensia emerge from the theater, her green dress bright against the dark silhouette of the theater behind. His dark head turned toward his two accomplices.
“Stick to the plan. The mistress is depending on us. Now get moving.”
Rixus and Eucherius nodded. Creeping out of the passageway, they wrapped an arm around each other’s shoulders and began to make circumambulatory progress down Tuscan Street in the direction of the little square where the litter-bearers were holding their convention. From his shadowy hiding place, Lucrio watched, first keenly, then appreciatively, as Rixus began to lean heavily on Eucherius, pushing him into the filthy ditch at the side of the street. In retaliation, Eucherius pushed back.
“Stop pushing me!” slurred Eucherius.
“You’re the one doing all the pushing,” came the belligerent reply.
“You’re on my side of the road.”
“You’re on my side.”
Their squabble began to turn more physical, Eucherius splaying his fingers across the side of Rixus’s face, trying to force him to look straight ahead. In return, Rixus hooked his right leg behind Eucherius’s and caused him to overbalance. Soon the pair of them were crawling around on the dirty paving stones, Rixus attempting to charge Eucherius like a bull while Eucherius in turn did his best to sit on Rixus’s head. The litter-bearers, whose attention was caught by this comic side-show
, quickly left the warmth of the brazier and gathered around the squabbling pair to shout encouragement.
Lucrio glanced at the Vestals’ carriage driver under the laurel trees. He had not moved from his post by the mules’ heads but his attention was also focused on the struggling pair.
“Come on,” he whispered. “Come on.”
As if he had heard Lucrio’s plea, the driver took a few steps away from the mules, craning his head to get a better view, and then with a hesitant glance back at his sleepy charges, hurried up the street in order to join the amused spectators watching the comic combatants.
Further down the street, Lucrio could see Hortensia waiting for his signal and gave her a quick nod. She walked over to the litter station, as though she were going to retrieve something from her own vehicle, which had been set down near the back of the canopy. Then, glancing around to make sure that all eyes were still on Rixus and Eucherius, she slipped behind the row of litters toward the Vestals’ carriage and, with another nervous glance around to make sure she was concealed by the shade of the laurels, she slid her arm under the canvas awning which provided cover to the priestesses on their journeys around the city. The vehicle creaked slightly and one of the mules threw its head up and gave a loud snort. But it soon resumed its whiskery exploration of the paving stones. Blindly groping around the right-hand corner of the compartment, which Fabia had said was her customary seating place, Hortensia began to feel panicky when she couldn’t immediately find what she was looking for. But then her fingers brushed against something that rustled and her fist closed on the curtain which shielded the Vestals from view and whose hem had become wedged under the mattress. Rolled up snugly inside a fold of the thick drapery was a roll of papyrus, an extra piece of linen wrapped around it to protect its seven fragile seals. Quickly tucking her prize under her voluminous myrtle green mantle, Hortensia retraced her steps back to her own litter, where Lucrio was now waiting and keeping a lookout.
“Tell him he must work quickly,” she whispered, handing him the roll. “We must –” A roar went up from the theater down the street, signaling that the second part of the entertainment had begun. “We must have it ready before the play ends. If for any reason I can’t get out of the theater in time, you’ll have to put it in the carriage, though you must make sure no one sees you anywhere near it. Men are expressly forbidden to so much as touch the vehicle: it is a sacred offense. Back right corner, rolled up inside the curtain.”
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