Rivals of the Republic

by Annelise Freisenbruch

  Lucrio nodded. Hortensia shook out her cloak and hurried back to join the crowd of spectators re-entering the theater. Ducking his head between the green-and-gold curtains of Hortensia’s vehicle, Lucrio held out the linen bundle to Petro, who was sitting cross-legged on the luxurious upholstery, calmly testing the point of a fine reed pen. A small oil lamp hung from the frame of the litter, illuminating the short roll of clean papyrus which lay partially unraveled across a plank of wood on his lap. Balanced on his knee was an inkwell, and in front of him, on a faded cloth wrapper, a row of tiny reed pens had been carefully laid out in ascending order of size, with a small pot of red wax at the end.

  “You’ve got about an hour,” Lucrio told him shortly.

  “Not going to stick around? See the master at work?” enquired Petro with a grin, flexing his fingers.

  “Just do your job. I’ll be out here doing mine.”

  Lucrio straightened up and glanced over to where Rixus was now attempting to press Eucherius’s face into a puddle. He would have given them a signal that they could stop now but for a time there was nothing he could do to attract their attention.

  HORTENSIA’S FOOT JOGGED slightly during the second part of the performance, eliciting a glare from the elderly patrician seated alongside Cicero and Terentia. Noticing her restlessness, Caepio asked if she was feeling well and offered to take her home but she assured him she was enjoying herself and it was just the heat of the theater which was making her feel a little nauseous.

  Claudia, overhearing their whispered conversation, clutched Hortensia’s arm.

  “My dear! Might you be expecting? Goodness me, you’ve been married less than a month, but for some women it is like that you know, Juno smiles upon us! I myself became pregnant with little Caecilia in a very short time, Caecilius was terribly startled. One or two of his relatives made little jokes to him about it,” she trilled merrily, oblivious to the furious stare that her husband was shooting at her from her other side. “Take my advice, dear. If you want know the sex of the baby, get an egg from a setting hen and keep it warm – or have one of your maids do it. If a crested cock hatches, you know you’ll be having a boy,” she finished triumphantly.

  Caepio raised an eyebrow at Hortensia, who flushed and whispered that she had no reason to think such an event might be in the offing. She returned the squeeze of Caepio’s hand however and in order that he wouldn’t suspect anything was amiss, laughed warmly at his whispered aside that Roscius’s flamboyant arm gestures and mannerisms clearly owed much to the actor’s careful study of his idol Hortensius. But all she could think about was how far Petro had got, whether he would finish in time so that she could substitute the new version of the will back in the Vestals’ carriage and whether Fabia would be able to replace it in the archive undetected. She was well aware that of them all, Fabia was taking the greatest risk. Yet it was the young Vestal herself who had proposed the theater scheme, pointing out that even if she were able to remove the will from the archive as Hortensia had enquired, its absence would not go long unnoticed. “Cornelia has been holding daily inventories of the chamber,” she confided in her note to Hortensia. “Ever since your last interview with her, she has been terrified that something else is going to go missing and the Vestals will be blamed for not doing their duties. But with all of us out at the theater, there will be a window of opportunity – you must seize it. I can provide the will if you can manage the rest.”

  As she watched the enraptured faces around her reacting obediently to the antics on stage, Hortensia had a brief, wild vision of herself standing in a courtroom, surrounded by a sea of hostile spectators, while her father and Cicero traded rhetorical blows over her guilt or innocence before a jury that included Caecilius and Cato. What was the penalty for her particular crime? Exile? Or would they condemn her to live burial, like an errant Vestal? Her train of thought was interrupted by a sudden burst of applause as the actors bowed themselves into the wings and the team of stagehands appeared once more to rearrange the sets. There was only one act of the play to come. She leaned over and whispered in Caepio’s ear.

  “If you don’t mind, my darling, I think I am just going to go and get some fresh air, it’s so terribly stuffy in here with all these people.”

  “Are you alright?” asked Caepio with concern. “Let me come with you.”

  But Hortensia put her hand on his shoulder and stopped him getting up. “No, you stay, I have seen this play several times before, there is only this last act to go and Lucrio is just outside the door, I shall be quite safe.”

  She saw that her husband still did not look convinced and made her departure before he could lodge another protest.

  At the far end of the Forum Boarium the litter-bearers were warming their hands around their brazier once more. There was no sign of Rixus and Eucherius. Lucrio was pacing up and down in front of the litter.

  “Is he almost finished?” asked Hortensia breathlessly. “There’s only one act left.”

  “Almost, domina,” nodded Lucrio. “He’s reluctant to be rushed though.”

  “Where are the other two?”

  “They made themselves scarce once the night patrolmen arrived. I’d be surprised if what you saw in the theater was any more entertaining.”

  Hortensia poked her head through the curtains of the litter. Petro was bent over almost double, his nose very close to the papyrus – now covered in writing – as the ink from his reed pen slowly leeched into its honey-colored surface in perfect swirling script. A strip of metal lay beside him, used to measure an equal distance between columns. The roll which Hortensia had taken from the Vestals’ carriage lay unraveled in front of him, across the green coverlet.

  “How much longer?” she demanded.

  Petro didn’t look up. “Only the signatures and seals to go,” he replied.

  Hortensia watched in some fascination as Petro perfectly reproduced the autographs of first Pompey, and then the seven witnesses, finishing with her father’s flourishing signature. She noticed that Petro barely had to glance at its twin on the earlier copy laid before him for reference. At his side was a pile of what she thought were coins but then realized were crude little clay discs, baked hard in an oven and embossed with different images – a griffin, a dog’s head, an armed representation of the goddess Venus. Hortensia picked up her father’s own seal and marveled once more at its accuracy.

  “Where did you learn to do all of this?” she couldn’t help asking.

  “Father taught me. His father taught him.” He grinned at her as he laid his pen down on the cloth.

  “Done. Now seal it, we don’t have much time,” urged Hortensia.

  “Not yet,” said Petro calmly. “One more signature to go.”

  “But you’ve done them all,” protested Hortensia. “See, there’s eight names – that’s it, Pompey plus the seven witnesses.”

  Petro didn’t reply. Instead, he picked up an unused reed from the end of the row in front of him and dipped it into a pot of what looked like water. Hortensia watched as he dipped the nib and then scrawled something in the bottom right hand corner of the document. But she couldn’t see what he had written, the ink seemed to have left no trace.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  He grinned at her, enjoying her confusion, and held up the pot.

  “Tithymalus milk. Some people call it goat lettuce. Grows near the seashore. Shows up brown when you sprinkle it with ashes. Stays invisible the rest of the time.”

  “But why?”

  “Petro’s an artist, isn’t he? An artist always puts his name to his work.”

  He blew gently at the papyrus strip before rolling it up very carefully between his dexterous hands. Finally he picked up the first of the little clay discs. Using the metal strip to ensure an equal distance between them, he dipped the counterfeit seals one by one into the pot of soft red wax, holding them up to the glare of the oil lamp for a minute or two first and then carefully pressing them in descending order ag
ainst the seam, mirroring the arrangement on the original will.

  “That ought to do it,” he murmured to himself, holding up the roll and inspecting it from all angles for what seemed like an age to Hortensia before he finally let out a satisfied sigh. “Another beautiful piece of work from the workshop of Petro.”

  She held out her hand. “Careful,” warned Petro, laying it gently across her outstretched palm. “Seals still need a little time to dry.”

  Suddenly Hortensia heard Lucrio whispering urgently and she straightened up.

  “What is it –”

  But she never finished the sentence. The reason for Lucrio’s warning was already plain to her – her husband, approaching from the direction of the theater. Caepio’s eyes were fixed upon her and she daren’t pass the will in her hand to Lucrio in case the movement attracted Caepio’s attention. So, with the roll clutched behind her back, she waited with what she hoped was a tolerable impression of equanimity.

  “Darling, I promised I was fine, I was just going to have a little lie down, like I said.”

  “Well I didn’t like to think of you feeling unwell. To tell the truth, I’m rather tired myself. Let’s both take the litter back up to the Palatine, then you can get an early night. Lucrio, go and tell the litter bearers that we’re ready to go. At least we’ll avoid the crush this way.”

  Lucrio glanced at Hortensia, who appealed desperately to her husband.

  “Oh no, don’t be silly, I haven’t said goodbye to Caecilius and Claudia, they would think it so rude of me. Why don’t we go back inside and watch the end of the last act?”

  Caepio looked curiously at her. “What’s the matter, my dear? You look very flushed. Are you sure Claudia wasn’t right – could you be …?”

  Behind her back, Hortensia felt the roll being twitched out of her fingers.

  “It’s really nothing,” she said in a strangulated tone.

  “Come, I honestly think you should lie down.”

  Before she could stop him, Caepio had grasped the edge of the green curtain and drawn it back. Her squawk of protest died abruptly. There was no sign of Petro nor his makeshift workshop. Wax, pens, knives, even the little oil lamp had all vanished.

  Feeling very weak, Hortensia allowed Caepio to assist her into the litter but soon sat bolt upright again. The new copy of the will had to be hidden inside the Vestals’ carriage or else the whole scheme would be exposed.

  “Wait. My bracelet,” she said wildly, clutching at her wrist.

  “What bracelet?”

  “The little amethyst one you gave me, it must have fallen off in the theater.”

  “But you weren’t wearing it.”

  “Yes I was, I remember fiddling with it in the first act …”

  “Hortensia, we’re going home,” he interrupted firmly. “You’re not well and you’re acting quite strangely. I’ll buy you another bracelet.”

  “Please, Caepio, I couldn’t bear to lose it,” she wheedled. “Just have a very quick look for me. I promise I’ll keep very calm and quiet.”

  Caepio sighed heavily.

  “Tell the litter-bearers to be ready to depart when I come back,” he directed Lucrio and went back down the street toward the theater once more. “And keep an eye on her.”

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Hortensia scrambled to her feet.

  “Quick, we’ve got to find Petro,” she hissed, but the words had only just left her mouth when a great storm of cheering suddenly erupted from the belly of the theater. Barely had it reached its peak than a side-door opened and the first members of the audience to depart emerged – the Vestal Virgins, all in white, with Cornelia at their head. They walked in stately procession behind the two lictors charged with accompanying them.

  Hortensia’s heart leapt as she saw Fabia walking just behind Cornelia. If they weren’t able to restore the new will to the carriage in time, there was no telling how much danger the young Vestal would be in. Hortensia closed her eyes at the thought of Fabia’s reaction when she felt in the pocket of the curtain and the will was not there.

  “In the name of the gods what do we do?” she whispered desperately. “Where is Petro?”

  “Did somebody call my name?” drawled a voice behind them.

  She spun round. Petro had appeared out the darkness and was leaning nonchalantly against the litter frame, his arms folded. Hortensia almost grabbed him by the front of his tunic.

  “Where is it?” she asked in desperation. “Quick, what did you do with it?”

  He put his head to one side and it appeared as though he were going to take pleasure in toying with her. Then, as Hortensia beseeched him with her eyes, he seemed to relent.

  “Back right corner, rolled up inside the curtain.”

  Hortensia’s jaw dropped. Then she exhaled deeply, only just managing not to sink to the ground in relief.

  “Petro keeps his ears open,” he added by way of explanation.

  The Vestals were now being helped one by one into their covered carriage, Fabia among them. Hortensia just managed to catch her eye and was able to reassure her with a slight nod of her head that all was well.

  “Praise Jupiter,” she breathed, blowing a kiss in the direction of the temple rising from its ashes on the Capitoline high above them. From inside his tunic, Petro produced the will which Hortensia had earlier removed from the Vestals’ carriage, its crimson seals now splintered and broken. “Figured you still had a use for this one.”

  Hortensia clutched hold of it gratefully. “Yes, I certainly do. Thank you, Petro. You’ve certainly earned your fee.”

  Petro shrugged. “Shame I couldn’t stick around for the rest of your conversation. I’d have given something to hear you trying to explain to your husband what I was doing there,” he said with an appreciative gleam in his eye.

  Lucrio went to tell the litter-bearers to prepare for departure. Hortensia reached into a side compartment of the litter and withdrew the single-roll copy of Livius Andronicus’s translation of Homer. Petro took possession of it as if she had handed him his first-born child, stroking its soft leather wrapper and crooning something in his native tongue.

  “Thank you again,” she said. “I’ll know who to summon if … well, if ever I have need of such services again.”

  Petro tucked the Homer carefully under his arm and gave an ironic little bow.

  “Nice doing business with you. Don’t have too many lady customers. Surprised to see a lady that day, but as it turns out, a pleasant surprise.” He bowed again and began to saunter toward the forum.

  Hortensia turned back to her litter and was about to settle herself, ready for Caepio’s return, when a thought struck her and she swiveled around.

  “Why were you surprised?” she asked.

  Petro checked his departure and raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “You said you were surprised to see a lady,” she repeated. “But you had my name and direction from the note I left. Who were you expecting to see?”

  Petro showed his teeth in a smile, this time a rueful one.

  “Well, how about that? You’ve got sharp ears just like your father. See, when I got your note, thought I must be reading the name wrong. But I figured, maybe he wants to meet somewhere other than his own house. Then you turned up and … well, I didn’t think he’d want me to let on to you that I knew him. He got pretty agitated that day he ran into Tiberius Dolabella at my place a few months ago. Hope it didn’t cause trouble for him.”

  He subjected Hortensia to an assessing look.

  “You’re both pretty alike I reckon, so maybe you won’t mind knowing. You send him my best. Good man, your father. Haven’t seen him in a while but I guess he hasn’t had anything for me to do. And you tell him not to worry about those letters I cooked up for Tiberius and Crassus. He can show them up for fakes any time he wants. They may not know how to find my signature but old Hortensius does.”

  He waved and disappeared into the throng of theater spectators and late-night
shoppers now spilling across Tuscan Street, leaving Hortensia staring after him, a stricken expression on her face.

  XXIX

  THE DOORS TO TIBERIUS DOLABELLA’S HOUSE HAD BEEN CLOSED TO THE street almost an hour since, nightfall having set in and his servants not expecting any more visitors. When a frenzied hammering echoed through the villa’s painted corridors, it took the startled doorkeeper some time to scramble to his post and he was even more surprised when he saw that the person doing such violence to the dog’s head door knocker was none other than the consul, Marcus Licinius Crassus.

  “Where is your master?” snarled Crassus, barging past the bemused slave.

  “He has retired for the evening, domine. He is in his private room. But … domine …”

  Ignoring the slave’s protestations, Crassus marched down the corridor leading to the inner sanctum of the house, his sandals squeaking angrily against the paved floor. He passed several lurid wall paintings depicting highly eroticized versions of traditional myths before arriving on the threshold of Tiberius’s room, only to discover that his host was not alone. A naked girl was kneeling on the floor, her fleshy brown back and buttocks facing Crassus. Tiberius, who was fully clothed, was holding the girl’s mane of silken black hair in his fist and carried a chariot-racer’s coiled whip in the other. He turned to survey his visitor.

  “Crassus. Dear fellow. You have such timing.”

  Stubbornly averting his eyes, Crassus addressed the wall over the girl’s head.

  “Get rid of her, Tiberius. We have urgent matters to discuss.”

  “We do? And I always used to think myself a man of leisure. Meeting you has truly made me realize what I’ve been missing.” He made a speculative gesture toward the kneeling girl. “Unless … I don’t suppose you’d care to … After all what’s mine is yours, Crassus – no? Ah, your morals. I forgot.”