Rivals of the Republic Read online

  “Please no. Please promise me you will escape, if they discover you.”

  Lucrio smiled a little. “You have great faith in my promises, domina. It is very humbling.” He was silent again for a time. “Tell me what it is you wish me to do first. To help you.”

  Hortensia nodded, unlocked her fingers, and resumed her pacing. “I have been thinking of it and I have an idea where we may start. If only I’d been able to study the seven seals on the will in the archive more closely, but it was too dark and I didn’t have enough time. Each one is the personal insignia of the seven men who witnessed the will – they’re the only ones besides Pompey who would know if anything had been changed or tampered with. So presumably they must be in on the plan too. But there is someone else to consider, someone I thought of before you came in. If Crassus wants the new will to convince the Senate, then he will have to have enlisted Pompey’s own scribe to create it.”

  “Why?”

  “It would look too odd if the writing was different to Pompey’s other papers, the Senate would surely notice it. Crassus must have bribed him. The scribe is the only other person besides the witnesses who would know if there was anything different about the will and presumably he’s also the one person apart from Pompey who might have a copy of the original to create the fake from. So the first thing I need you to do is find out who does Pompey’s scribing work for him, and where he lives. See if one of Pompey’s slaves will tell you. Charm the maids, since you’re so good at that,” she added a little archly. “Then I can go and talk to him, not to ask him outright of course but to see if he gives anything away.”

  Lucrio regarded her inscrutably for a moment and then nodded.

  “Very well, domina. I will find your scribe. But you in turn must promise me two things. First, you will not go and see this scribe without me there with you. Second, you will be extremely careful. These are very dangerous men. You do not want them as enemies.”

  “Well they are going to find that I can be dangerous too,” retorted Hortensia, a martial light in her eye.

  TIBERIUS REGARDED HIS informant with beady-eyed interest.

  “You are sure?”

  “I am sure.”

  “And you say it is the second time she has visited the Chief Vestal in as many days?”

  The informant nodded vigorously.

  “The high priestess took her into the archive room on both occasions and today I overheard them arguing over Hortensia’s wish to inspect the will of general Pompey.”

  Tiberius whistled softly. “Well, well. It appears I have greatly underestimated my old friend Hortensius’s daughter.”

  He tapped a finger to his lips for a few moments and then nodded a curt dismissal.

  “Go back to the Temple and conduct yourself as normal. As long as the will remains where it is, unsealed, there is no real need for concern. A pity she saw the message from the dead girl – no no, no more self-recrimination from you. I blame myself for not checking she had been properly finished off. But if Hortensius’s daughter could prove anything, we would know about it by now. However you will send me word immediately if she pursues her enquiry further.”

  XXII

  WHEN HORTENSIA APPEARED IN THE DINING ROOM THAT EVENING, she was in her most dulcet mood. Embracing her husband, she apologized for her earlier petulance and reassured him that she could see the force of his arguments about Lucrio’s testimony and did not mean to meddle in affairs that did not concern her, nor worry her father. She could tell that although Caepio was obviously happy that she wanted to reconcile, he was still a little suspicious. She distracted him by introducing a new topic of conversation as the slaves entered and spread a first course of bread, cucumbers and seafood with cumin sauce on the low table.

  “Did you go to court this afternoon? What happened?”

  Caepio grimaced and shook his head as he settled himself on the couch next to her.

  “Every day is the same. Witness after witness, all of them testifying that Verres robbed, blackmailed, tortured them, countless other charges not fit for me to repeat to you. Verres didn’t even show up in court today. He claims he’s ill – sick to the stomach I can believe. Your father is trying to persuade him that his only hope now is to go into exile. If that happens then the outcome of the trial will be a formality. Cicero has been very clever. He’s going to win by making it impossible for Hortensius to mount a defense.”

  “I suppose they’ll call Cicero the king of the law court now,” she said gloomily, taking Caepio’s silence for assent. “Will it be very hard on Papa?”

  “Your Papa has many friends,” asserted Caepio, “and one lost case does not ruin a career.”

  Hortensia hesitated before asking as casually as she could. “Is Pompey a friend of Papa’s?”

  Caepio paused in the act of peeling a prawn. “I thought you said you were going to leave it alone,” he said chidingly.

  “I am, I promise I am,” insisted Hortensia soothingly. “It’s just, Papa doesn’t seem to like Pompey but I’m sure I heard Papa say that he defended him once.”

  “Yes, he did, though that was some years ago. Your Papa was still a young man, and Pompey barely out of his teens. His father Strabo was a great general like himself, and won a famous victory at Asculum a few years before the trial. After Strabo died, Pompey was accused of not handing over some of his father’s war booty to the state as he should have done. Your Papa was one of three orators who spoke for him – the other two were Papirius Carbo and Marcius Philippus if my memory serves me correctly. I was only a small boy at the time.”

  “I remember Philippus,” recalled Hortensia. “He used to come to the house when I was little. Papa made me declaim for him.”

  “Yes, Philippus used to tell your father that you had more talent than he did. A wily, cantankerous old sod, but a great man in many ways, and a fine orator.”

  “Was Pompey acquitted?”

  “Indeed he was. One of his father’s friends, Lucilius Albinus, came forward to say he had seen some of the items in the possession of one of Strabo’s freedmen. Not only that but the judge, Publius Antistius, was so impressed with Pompey he gave him his daughter Antistia in marriage. She was Pompey’s first wife. Mucia Tertia, to whom he is currently married, is his third.”

  “Are Carbo and Philippus still alive?”

  “No Philippus died about three years ago and Carbo picked the wrong side in the civil war. He was executed a few years after the trial, on the orders of Pompey himself would you believe. If that doesn’t tell you something about why you should stay out of the affairs of these men my dear, I don’t know what will.” He stopped and looked suspiciously at his wife. “Why are you asking me all these questions?”

  Hortensia hastily retrieved her position.

  “I promise I’m not trying to deceive you. It’s just that I’m confused. I don’t understand who’s on whose side. I know that Pompey and Crassus hate each other.”

  “That’s an understatement,” commented Caepio.

  “But they were both supporters of Sulla during the civil war, weren’t they? Like Papa. So why don’t they get along?”

  “Just because a man worships at the same temple as you doesn’t make him your friend. Crassus hates Pompey for being a better soldier than he is and more popular with the people. Pompey envies Crassus his money and his social standing.”

  “But Pompey is the more popular of the two?” pressed Hortensia.

  “It depends on who you talk to. With the people, undoubtedly yes. With the senators, it’s another matter. There are plenty among them who don’t like the idea of such a big fish in their pond. They call him a demagogue and a danger to the Republic, though in truth he has little more desire than they do to distribute more powers among the people.”

  “And Crassus has friends among the senators?”

  “Crassus has money. That’s more important than having friends in this city.”

  “So who …?” began Hortensia eagerly.


  “That’s enough now. You promised me you would leave it alone.” And Hortensia was forced to abandon the subject.

  Later that night, as Elpidia took down her hair, there was a knock at the door of her room and one of the maids delivered a note to Hortensia. Recognizing Lucrio’s awkward, spiky scrawl, the product of his rudimentary education in Sertorius’s camp, Hortensia waited impatiently for Elpidia to finish and then unfolded the note as soon as she was gone.

  “Didius Flavius. Goat Street, Aventine Hill.”

  XXIII

  TO REACH THE AVENTINE HILL FROM THE PALATINE INVOLVED A JOURNEY through some of the most insalubrious parts of the city, and it was one that Lucrio warned Hortensia she would be ill-advised to make in her luxurious litter. So having descended the Palatine and left the litter and its carriers in a shady corner of the forum, they made the rest of the journey on foot.

  Hortensia knew that she was taking great risks with her reputation in visiting this part of the city with no other escort than a male slave. She had been on the receiving end of a number of suspicious looks from Elpidia since their excursion to the Caelian Hill and had no doubt that her faithful maidservant was dithering on the point of telling Caepio that his young wife was up to something. Only by announcing that she and her mother were going on a shopping expedition to the forum had Hortensia been able to persuade Elpidia that her chaperonage was not needed.

  Once in the privacy of the litter, Hortensia removed her elegant mantle to reveal her plainest gown and veil, chosen so that she would not stand out so much in the plebeian crowd. With the exception of her wedding band, she left off all jewelry that might attract thieves and hid it under the mattress of the litter. Even so, she felt uncomfortably vulnerable as she followed Lucrio around the perimeter of the Forum Boarium, being jostled by cattle traders and having to scurry out of the way of fast-driven carts and herders steering their animals toward the market pens. At least there was little chance she would be recognized here. She had caught glimpses of such environments before from the cloistered seclusion of her litter but never had she experienced them at such close proximity, and her eyes were wide at the sight of stray pigs snuffling through the rubbish piled up at the side of the road, and filthy, hollow-cheeked children splashing about in puddles of overflowing sewage. Coarse voices assailed her ears, barking out trading prices or arguing heatedly. The air was full of dust kicked up by the animals’ hooves and the earthy smell wafting from the nearby river Tiber so pungent that in the absence of her lavender smelling balm, Hortensia had to cover her mouth with a fine linen handkerchief.

  The district around the foot of the Aventine had been colonized by warehouses where river barges traveling up the Tiber from the port of Ostia unloaded their cargo. There were many workshops too, which provided a living for some of the plebeians whose crowded residential ghettos, along with those of foreign immigrants, dominated the upper landscape of the hill. Goat Street, where Didius Flavius lived, was situated near the great temple of Diana, the goddess beloved of the plebeian classes. Sticking close to Lucrio, Hortensia followed him down the street, which seemed mercifully less down at heel than some of the areas they had passed through, although she squealed in horror when someone threw the contents of a chamber pot out of an upstairs window, just missing them. At last they came to a small, one-story residence, where Lucrio stopped and pointed. Hortensia followed his finger and saw a small sign just above the door with a picture of a reed pen and a pot of ink, beautifully and neatly drawn.

  The door itself was closed, so she stepped forward and knocked tentatively.

  There was no sound of a response inside and Hortensia was about to try again when the door opened a crack and a barefooted little girl with solemn brown eyes peered out. Slightly taken aback not to see a servant, Hortensia bent forward and spoke in a kindly tone of encouragement:

  “Hello there. I think I might be looking for your papa. Is he at home?”

  The girl blinked at Hortensia several times without answering and then disappeared, leaving the door ajar. Hortensia and Lucrio could hear her calling to someone within the house. A moment later, another face appeared in the doorway, this time of a middle-aged woman with a careworn expression and deep lines in her brow. “Yes?” she said quietly.

  Hortensia inclined her head. “I’m very sorry to disturb you but I’m looking for Didius Flavius and I’m told he lives here?”

  The woman stared at Hortensia.

  “What did you want with him?” Her voice was almost a whisper.

  Hortensia had already devised a pretext for her visit.

  “Your husband has been described to me as one of the finest copyists in Rome. My father is a great collector of literature and I would like to commission something special for his birthday.”

  Even before Hortensia had finished, the woman had already begun to shake her head and there was a quiver in her throat as she responded.

  “I’m sorry. My husband won’t be able to help you. He was killed this past month.”

  Hortensia’s jaw dropped and she glanced at Lucrio, whose face as usual betrayed little emotion, though his eyes had narrowed attentively. Turning back to the woman, Hortensia bowed her head respectfully.

  “I am so sorry. Truly I am. May I ask … how it happened?”

  The woman shook her head.

  “There was a robbery. They broke into his workroom and took everything from his money-chest. We were at home. We could hear them beating him …” She broke off on a gesture of apology and pressed a shaking hand over her eyes.

  Hortensia glanced again at Lucrio and saw by his return look that they were thinking the same thing. Turning back to the woman in the doorway, she spoke gently. “I am so sorry. Do you have family? Someone to help you?”

  The woman shook her head again and blotted her eyes with a corner of her veil.

  “My brother owns a bread stall in the forum,” she said shakily. “He is giving me what he can and I may be able to earn more by helping him with his accounts. Otherwise my daughter and I are on our own.” She collected herself. “But all of this has nothing to do with you of course. I am sorry that you will have to look elsewhere for someone to do your work for you.” She bowed and was about to close the door but Hortensia put out a hand and stopped her.

  “I know this will seem a strange request and I do not wish to impose on you in your grief. But would you let us, myself and my attendant here, have a look around your husband’s workroom?”

  The woman stared at her. “Why would you want to do that?”

  Hortensia hesitated.

  “I won’t lie to you but I’m afraid I cannot tell you the truth either. The only thing I can say is that I have a suspicion who may have been behind your husband’s death. If you let me look, I may be able to prove it. My name is Hortensia. My father is the advocate Hortensius Hortalus, perhaps you have heard of him?”

  The woman looked at a loss. “I don’t see how you could know anything about my husband’s death. Didius was a quiet, honest man, he didn’t have an enemy in the world. They were just thugs, after his savings.”

  Hortensia waited, imploring the woman with her eyes.

  “But, if you really want to look, you may come in. I am Pernilla.” She gestured to them and they entered the small dark atrium.

  By contrast, the workshop at the back of the house was a relatively light, airy room, flooded with sunshine from a skylight in the roof. There was a sloping bench all along one wall and a cunning rack above, into which a row of bone and bronze pens with differing sized nibs had been neatly slotted, along with a small knife to sharpen them. This was the only sign of order in the room. An alcove containing rows of wax tablets was messily stacked, some of the contents spilling out haphazardly. Both the bench and the floor were strewn with a patchwork of papyrus pieces, most of them covered with the same elegant, swooping handwriting. A pool of some black, viscous substance had half-soaked into the tiles in one corner of the room and for a horrible moment Hortensia thoug
ht it was blood. But then she realized it was just the contents of an overturned inkwell, still lying on its side.

  “Did he always work in such disarray?” she asked.

  Pernilla shook her head vigorously. “No, never. Didius was very meticulous, he got cross with me if I moved so much as a stilus. They did this. Trying to see if he had any more money hidden anywhere. Didius would be heartbroken if he could see it but I haven’t wanted to come in here since … since I found him.” She began to weep silently once more and Hortensia averted her eyes.

  Lucrio, who was standing by the bench, was rubbing some pieces of papyrus between his fingers. “Why do they feel different?” he asked Hortensia.

  “Different grades,” she explained, walking over to him and picking up some of the scraps herself. “The best papyrus comes from the middle of the plant, neither too thick nor too thin. If it is too thin, the pen goes straight through. You can see how the fibers run horizontally here – that’s the direction copyists usually prefer for writing, it makes the script flow better. See this thicker material here though? This is called parchment, they make it from animal hide, stretched over a wooden frame. It’s becoming more popular because it’s more flexible than papyrus and lasts longer. Papa has a little notebook made from it to record his thoughts on various cases.”

  Pernilla nodded wonderingly.

  “You know my husband’s work. I’ve never met a woman who could explain it so well. He would so like to have met you. I think he grew a little tired of my conversation sometimes. He hoped to teach Laelia one day, not that there are many females in his profession of course. But he thought it might make her a more useful companion to her husband.”

  While Lucrio continued to sift through the half-finished documents on the workbench, Hortensia began to walk slowly around the room, breathing in the smoky scent of lamp black ink which was so comfortingly familiar to her from her father’s study. It was evident that the people who had ransacked Didius’s workshop were looking for something, but there seemed little way of knowing whether or not they had found it. She asked Pernilla whether anything had been discovered missing from among his papers but the widow shook her head.