Crispus laughed again. “Oh, gods and goddesses! Imagine it! A Roman consul summoned for debt by an Egyptian moneylender! He’d be the laughingstock of the city for the rest of his life!”
Hermogenes looked up in surprise and indignation. “I am not an Egyptian!”
Crispus flapped a hand in concession. “I know, I know—but in Rome, nobody cares whether you’re an Alexandrian Greek or an Egyptian Greek or a plain ordinary Egyptian Egyptian. You come from Egypt: you’re Egyptian.”
“I am a Roman citizen.”
“Hermogenes, you’re an Alexandrian to your fingernails! Your father lent money to Aelius Gallus when he was governor of Egypt, and accepted the citizenship in lieu of payment. That isn’t the same as being a real Roman.”
“I am Roman enough to take Rufus to court.”
Crispus stopped laughing. “You’re serious? No, my friend, don’t do it. Don’t even threaten it. A man like that, sitting there in the curial chair—do you know what the consulship means?”
“Probably not,” Hermogenes admitted. “I thought the consuls had very little real power, these days.”
Crispus looked uncomfortable. Of course: the emperor boasted that he had restored the republic, which ought to mean that the consuls were once again the supreme governors of the Roman state. To admit that they were merely figureheads was to disagree with the emperor, and that was not wise. “It’s not a question of power,” Crispus declared, skirting the issue. “It’s the honor. I’m equestrian class, as you know; I’m not a noble, I don’t run after magistracies—in fact, I think they’re a waste of time and money!—but even I feel awe when I look at the consulship. You can go into the forum and read the names of every man who’s held the office, two of them every year, all the way back to the founding of the city—all the most famous names in history. Once a man has sat down in the curial chair he’s a noble, whatever he was before, and what’s more, all his sons after him are noble. The consulship is the summit of any man’s achievements. Tarius Rufus … he’s a nobody by birth, he’s scrambled his way up through the army to get where he is now, but he’s there, he’s made it. If you came in, at his hour of triumph, and threatened to make him a joke … he’d kill you! And who could stop him? He’s a general and a friend of the emperor.”
Hermogenes met his eyes and saw the boundaries of the other man’s hospitality. Crispus would not keep in his house a man who threatened a Roman consul with disgrace—not because he supported the consul but because he feared the consequences for himself.
Hermogenes wondered, not for the first time, how bad those consequences could be. Crispus had implied they might even include death. It would be a terrible thing to die far from home, for nothing, leaving a household headless and a daughter orphaned. Nothing he could gain here was worth that.
Was that extreme consequence very likely, though? Tarius Rufus was a powerful man, yes, but he was not an emperor: he was still subject to the ordinary laws of Rome. Surely even a Roman consul would find it difficult to murder a Roman citizen just because he was a creditor? Rufus was undoubtedly able to pay his debt if he wanted to. Confronted with a creditor who was a citizen, able to summon him in a Roman court, surely he would find it easier to give in and pay up?
Rufus had chosen not to pay his debt before, and Hermogenes’ uncle and father had died because of it. To abandon the struggle before it was even begun would be a betrayal of their memory. No: Crispus was merely being timid in the face of consular authority. Hermogenes would press his claim—but he would try to involve his host as little as possible.
He bowed his head. “Titus, I already told you that I want your advice on how to approach him tactfully. I do not want to offend him in any way. I want to settle this as quietly and peacefully as I possibly can.” It was all true, as far as it went. “Thank you for your warning.”
“Good,” replied Crispus, relaxing. He noticed that his cup was empty again and held it out to the boy. When it was full he sat down on his couch again and gulped some. “I don’t see why he wouldn’t agree to pay you,” he said after a minute, wiping his mouth. “He might not give you all the money at once, but it isn’t as though he can’t afford it, after all. It may well be that he never even saw your uncle’s letters, and has forgotten all about the debt. Maybe he even thinks it was all paid off long ago. It’s entirely possible that his secretary has been taking the payments from his master’s estate and putting them in his own purse.” He frowned. “It might be better if you didn’t mention your uncle’s name when you make an appointment with the consul. That way the secretary, if he has been thieving, won’t try to stop you seeing him. And it would definitely be a good idea to take your contract, and any papers relating to the debt, and get them stored and registered at the public records office, so that nobody can interfere with them.”
“As you say,” Hermogenes said meekly. “How does one make an appointment to see a consul?”
For months hermogenes had been sleeping badly. Since the first news of his uncle’s death, he’d woken two or three times a night and lain awake, staring into the darkness, or—unable to endure his midnight thoughts—got up and gone through accounts by lamplight. The first night in Crispus’s house, however, he slept deeply and dreamlessly, and woke to find bright daylight lancing through the cracks of the window shutters.
He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. It was plain white plaster, decorated in the corners with a motif of wreaths and garlands in light relief. Voices were talking not too far away, and from the street outside his window came the cries of a vendor, Fresh, fresh, fresh! He wondered what was fresh. Bread? Fruit? Shellfish?
There was no time to lie in bed thinking about street cries: he had things to do. He sighed, swung his feet over the side of the couch, and wandered, barefoot and in his tunic, out from the sleeping cubicle into the adjacent dayroom.
Crispus had called this suite the Nile Rooms, and the river certainly figured prominently in its decoration. There was a large painting of the river god on one wall, crowned with papyrus and surrounded by gamboling crocodiles and hippopotami. A statuette of the same subject stood in one corner, with two more paintings—the harbor of Alexandria and a Nile scene—hanging above it. The legs of the writing table were carved to look like Egyptian gods—Anubis, Isis, Thoth-Hermes, and Serapis—the chair had finials shaped like papyrus flowers, the lampstand was shaped like Alexandria’s Pharos lighthouse, the lamps were little bronze crocodiles, and the lamp trimmer was a striking asp. Hermogenes could remember Crispus buying most of the things—or remember him coming back to the house in Alexandria with them, at least, and unwrapping each absurd purchase to display it proudly to his bemused and embarrassed hosts. Here was where many of those souvenirs had ended up. He wondered if the businessman’s other guests found them as silly as he did.
Perhaps not. Crispus had always assured his hosts that Egyptian themes were very popular in Rome, very fashionable—like Greek names for your slaves. He grimaced and looked about for Menestor, who as valet had been given a sleeping mat in his master’s dayroom while Phormion went to the slaves’ quarters. The mat was rolled up in the corner, and the young man was nowhere to be seen. It was late, then. Hermogenes yawned and scrubbed at his face.
His chin was bristly. He would have to find a barber. Was there time for that? Crispus had said that all the public offices would be shut during the afternoon, and he needed to deposit his documents. What time was it, anyway?
He opened the door that led into the courtyard. A pair of slaves who’d been sweeping the colonnade—a threadbare woman in her thirties, and a girl of about six—stopped their work. The woman stood warily to attention, and the little girl ducked behind her and peered round at the visitor.
The child’s big dark eyes reminded Hermogenes of his own daughter, and he smiled at the pair. “Greetings. I appear to have overslept. Do you know what is the time?” Something about that sentence was not quite right—but then, he’d only just got up.
“You did not,” he told her, “though if you had, I would thank you for it. I do not usually sleep so late.” The third hour, and he was normally out of the house by the end of the second! Oh, well, he felt better for the rest, and there were still three long midsummer hours until noon. He smiled at the little girl. “You were working hard while I was lazy in bed, were you, little one?”
The child hid her face in the woman’s skirts. The woman gave the visitor a timid smile. Her front teeth were missing.
“Your daughter?” Hermogenes asked, returning the smile.
The woman nodded, her smile widening. “Yes, sir. Erot-ion, the master calls her. He says it means ‘Little Love.’”
“It seems a good name for her.”
She blushed. “I like it, sir, I do.”
“I’m Mama’s little love,” said the child in a muffled voice, her face still pressed against the skirts.
“I am sure you are,” Hermogenes told her, with grave courtesy. To the woman he added, “I suppose you have a Greek name as well?”
“Me? Oh, no, sir!” She laughed. “He only renames important slaves, sir, and favorites. My name is Tertia, sir.”
“Tertia. I am Hermogenes. I hope you will find me no trouble as a guest in your master’s house. Can you tell me where I might find my valet?”
“I think he’s with Stentor, sir. Erotion could fetch him if you want.”
Erotion took her face out of her mother’s skirts and nodded.
“Clever girl! Listen, then. Menestor does not speak Latin. You will have to ask Stentor to explain to him why you want him.”
“What does he speak?” asked the child, with interest.
“Greek.”
“He must be clever, then. You have to be clever to learn Greek, my brother says.”
“Ah, but you do not have to learn it, if you are born a Greek baby: you grow up speaking it. My daughter would think you must be very clever to speak such good Latin.”
Erotion’s eyes widened at this extraordinary notion.
“Don’t keep the gentleman waiting, darling!” her mother scolded gently. “Go fetch his slave.”
“Yes, Mama,” said Erotion, and skipped off.
“She is a good girl, sir,” Tertia told him, “but easily distracted.”
“My daughter is the same.”
They nodded at one another in parental sympathy, and then Hermogenes returned to his room. The sound of the broom began again behind him, and he felt an instant’s guilt about that sympathetic exchange. A freeborn citizen should not stand about discussing the trials of parenthood with a domestic slave, as though the two of them could possibly be equals. You’re reducing yourself to their level, his father would’ve told him. Be kind and gracious, by all means, but never forget that you are their superior. He had offended against his dignity once again, and what was more, he wasn’t sure why he’d done it. The first time he’d been friendly to another man’s slaves it had been because he was genuinely interested, but he’d since discovered that it could be very useful, and now he was never sure himself when his friendliness was genuine and when it was calculated.
No, this time it had been genuine. The little girl had reminded him of his daughter. He remembered how Myrrhine had clung to him when he set out from the house in Alexandria, sobbing and begging him to take her with him, and how she’d stood in the doorway with her nurse, waving and waving until he was out of sight. She was terrified that her father’s ship would go the way of her grandfather’s.
He went to one of the luggage baskets, looking for the writing supplies. It was the wrong basket, and he looked in the other one. There, under the copies of the debt documents: pen case, seal boxes, sheaves of papyrus, and a jar of dried ink. He took them all out, sharpened a pen, and sat down at the ornate table to write a letter.
MARCUS AELIUS HERMOGENES GREETS HIS DAUGHTER, AELIA MYRRHINE: I HOPE YOU ARE IN GOOD HEALTH.
My sweet life, I have arrived in Rome safely after an untroubled voyage, which I know is the thing you most want to hear. I am staying with my guest-friend Titus Fiducius Crispus, who has a fine big house and a great many slaves to look after it for him. One of them is a little girl called Erotion: she is younger than you, and she thinks you must be very clever to speak Greek. I told her you would think she must be clever, to speak Latin.
Rome is as big a city as Alexandria, and has many very tall buildings, but it is not as beautiful—at least, not on the outskirts. It doesn’t even have a proper wall with gates! And, of course, it has no harbor and no lighthouse. Our ship came into the nearest port, which is called Ostia, and we had to take a carriage to the outskirts of Rome, and then walk. The laws don’t allow carriages in during the day, so everyone either walks or uses a sedan chair. I hired porters to carry the luggage and discovered that they were Roman citizens. Tell your aunt Eukleia that: she’ll like it.
I may see some prettier parts of the city today, because today I go into the forum to start my business. I will tell you about it if I see anything interesting.
The door opened abruptly, and Menestor came in with little Erotion.
“I fetched him,” said the little girl proudly.
“Sir?” asked the young man. “You wanted me?”
Hermogenes waved his pen and got ink on his hand. He sighed and looked for a blotter to wipe it off. “Yes. We need to be about our business. Do you know if I need to greet our host before we set out?”
“I think he’s gone out, sir,” said Menestor. “In the sedan chair, while you were still asleep. But I know that there’s a dinner party for you this evening. Stentor was asking me what you like.”
Hermogenes nodded: he’d been invited to the dinner party. “We’ll be back in plenty of time for that. Very well, then, tell Stentor we’re going out and will be back this afternoon, and go fetch Phormion. Oh, and if you can, ask Stentor how I can send a letter home.”
“Yes, sir.” Menestor left again.
Erotion lingered, curious. Hermogenes smiled at her. “I am writing a letter to my daughter,” he informed her. “I told her how well you speak Latin.”
The girl beamed. “What’s your little girl’s name?”
“Myrrhine.”
“Mur-ree-nee. That’s pretty. Did you tell her my name?”
“I did.”
“Oh!” Erotion was surprised and delighted with the idea that a little girl in a faraway city would know her name. “Tell her I wish her health!” she ordered eagerly.
Hermogenes nodded and wrote,
Little Erotion asks me to say that she wishes you good health, as do I. Greet Aunt Eukleia for me, and Nurse, and all the household. Remember you must be kind to Aunt Eukleia, even if she does tell you not to practice your acrobatics, because she is very sad after losing her husband and her own house. I miss you very much, and I hope I can finish my business soon and come home to my own darling daughter.
He blew on the ink to dry it.
“Will your daughter be able to read that?” Erotion asked him.
Reading must seem a marvelous accomplishment to Erotion. No one bothered to educate female slave children. “Yes, she can read.”
The child nodded wisely. “I thought so. I knew she’d be a lady.”
He thought of Myrrhine practicing cartwheels in the garden, skinny legs in the air and tunic around her waist. “She will be a lady,” he said cautiously. “Now she is just a little girl.”
“Will she write back?”
“She may, but I think there will not be time for me to receive her answer. It is a long, long way to Alexandria. By the time she receives this, I will probably already be on my way home.”
“Oh.” Erotion picked her nose. “I have to go help my mother now.”
“You are a good girl to do that. Good health to you.”
He rolled up the letter, inscribed the ad
dress on the back, and tied and sealed it. Then he took out a second sheet and wrote carefully,
MARCUS AELIUS HERMOGENES OF ALEXANDRIA, TO LUCIUS TARIUS RUFUS, CONSUL OF THE ROMANS, VERY MANY GREETINGS.
My lord, you do not know me, but you have had dealings with an uncle of mine. He has recently deceased, and I am his heir. He has bequeathed me some business which involves yourself, and since I am eager to resolve all his commitments and set his estate in order, I have come to Rome to see you. I hope that you will grant me an appointment to discuss this business with you at your convenience. I am staying in the house of Titus Fiducius Crispus on the Via Tusculana.
I pray that the gods grant you health.
He read the letter over, then gave a nod of satisfaction. He had written in Greek, since his Latin spelling tended to the erratic, but that should present no difficulty. Rufus undoubtedly spoke Greek, and would certainly have a secretary to deal with his Greek correspondence. And the tone was right. Rufus would probably think the “business” involved a legacy of some kind, and grant an early audience. He rolled and sealed this letter as well, then went back to the sleeping cubicle to put on his belt, cloak, and sandals.
When he came back to the dayroom, Menestor and Phormion had arrived. With them was Crispus’s cupbearer, Hyakinthos.
“Stentor says you need pilot,” said the boy in clumsy Greek. “In order that you not lost. I speak Greek.”
Hermogenes regarded him a moment. The boy was about thirteen, tall and slender, with long black hair and dark eyes. He wore a fine orange tunic, short enough to show more of his thighs than was really respectable. He shifted uneasily under the scrutiny.
“I hope it is no trouble to you,” Hermogenes told him.
“No,” replied the boy, relaxing a little. “I like to go to the forum.”
“We do need a guide,” said Menestor approvingly. “Sir, Stentor says that if you want to leave your letter on the table, he’ll have someone collect it later. Titus Fiducius shares a courier service with some other men of business, and he sends letters out every day.”
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