Render Unto Caesar Read Online Free PDF

panic. Hermogenes couldn’t blame him: the prospect of being led off into a strange household by a man with a whip would frighten any slave, and the young man couldn’t even understand what that croaking voice said to him. Hermogenes touched his arm lightly. “They are getting my rooms ready,” he explained in Greek. “This man will show you where to put the luggage. I will ask if—”
    â€œAh, yes!” exclaimed Crispus. “I should have said, shouldn’t I? Stentor here is my steward. If you want anything during your stay, ask him.”
    The worried blue eyes of the steward blinked. Hermogenes smiled at him in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion. “Stentor,” he said, “these are my valued attendants, Menestor and Phormion. They are tired and thirsty from our journey, and I would be grateful if you could ensure that they are looked after. Unfortunately, neither of them speaks Latin.”
    â€œI speak some Greek, sir,” the steward volunteered. There was something wrong with his voice. “And so do some of the others in the household. Our master is a man of culture—but I’m sure you know that.” He turned to Menestor and said in accented, hoarse, but acceptable Greek, “Put the things in your master’s room, and then I will give you to drink.”
    â€œ Moderation, ” Hermogenes reminded Phormion. The big bodyguard, who was fond of drink, rolled his eyes and nodded.
    The slaves followed Stentor through the archway and to the left. Hermogenes allowed Crispus to escort him through and to the right, into a large room facing into the courtyard. It was decorated with garish red panels, augmented by rondels depicting exotic animals—elephants, tigers, and giraffes. A girl and a boy were busy with cups and mixing bowls at the sideboard, but they turned and bowed as the two men entered. Crispus flopped onto the nearest of the three couches and put his feet up on the red leather upholstery. Hermogenes sat warily on the next one. He glanced at his sandals: they were dirty. The girl hurried over, unfastened the guest’s sandals, and wiped his feet with a damp towel. The boy followed with a pitcher and two red Arretine-ware cups, but Crispus stopped him with a gesture before he could pour.
    â€œWhat’s the wine?” he demanded.
    â€œThe Sabine, master,” quavered the boy. “Mixed half and half with water, Stentor said.”
    â€œAh!” Crispus nodded approvingly. “Good, good! One of our local Italian vintages, Hermogenes; I hope you like it. Go on, Hyakinthos, pour it for him!”
    â€œPlease, I do not want it so strong,” Hermogenes said hurriedly. “I have just walked from the Ostian Gate, and I would like more of water.”
    The boy filled the guest’s cup halfway before turning to pour wine for his master. The girl hurried back to the sideboard, dropped the towel, and came over with a second pitcher, this one containing cold water. She topped up the guest’s cup.
    â€œYour health!” Hermogenes said, raising his cup, and Crispus returned the toast.
    The wine was a harsh, rather sour red, but deliciously wet after the hot carriage and the walk across the city. Hermogenes drained his cup, and the boy instantly refilled it. Hermogenes wondered how the lad felt about being called Hyakinthos. The myth of the beautiful boy loved by the god Apollo was routinely invoked by pederastic poets, and it seemed very likely that other boys would greet the name with knowing sniggers. Then he remembered that Crispus liked boys: during one visit there’d been some trouble over one he’d picked up in the marketplace. Hyakinthos was probably well aware of the implications of his name.
    â€œYou walked from the Ostian Gate?” Crispus asked genially. “You didn’t even use that sedan chair you paid so much for?”
    â€œThat was for the luggage. In truth, I had not intended to