The Gift

The battered tin cup hung in the air, hovering three inches above the surface of the table. Gaius was quite pleased with the accomplishment -- until the baby in the room below squalled.

Gaius flinched, and the cup clattered to the table top. He growled in frustration, picked it up, and threw it against the wall, adding to its already-considerable dents.

He should have known that trying to economise on lodging would lead to this. The Aventine was cheap, and it showed: a court filled with rickety insulae existed cheek-by-jowl with the occasional gaping hole where one or two had burnt. The court looked like nothing so much as the straggling, uneven teeth in an old hag's mouth.

Although an educated man and a professional scribe, Gaius' neighbors were working class -- bathhouse attendants, dustmen, laundresses, the occasional low-level money-lender. All except the shady character who used to live above him, who had no gainful employment whatsoever, as far as Gaius could tell. The man's room had been regularly ransacked by rough types; his friends (notably a huge vigile) invariably chose to come over to get drunk at every festival day; and at the last he'd installed his patrician girlfriend, who'd often indulged in fits of loud and excessive house-cleaning.

It had become more than an annoyance: it was hazardous to Gaius' experiments. (He'd a reprieve on that, at least: the loafer had moved his establishment to a first-floor apartment across the court -- funded by the patrician girlfriend's family, Gaius had no doubt -- said girlfriend being pregnant. Gaius was therefore spared being totally surrounded by shrieking infants and noisome odors.)

He couldn't, though. Primus could all too easily discover his secret: he was not one of Them.

The baby below was determined to keep squalling, though at least its mother didn't scream at it as many lower-class women did: so Gaius threw his cloak about his shoulders, grabbed his scribe's tools and parchment, and headed down five flights of what could laughingly be called stairs for the nearest wineshop. It might well be crowded but he could sit in relative peace, nurse a single cup of a very inferior wine, and might even make an as or two writing letters for the Great Unwashed.

He made his way down the dangerous, poorly-lit street, but the lurkers at the mouths of the alleys seemed disinclined to attack him (though on the surface he seemed a good target): a slight, decently-dressed man, shorter than the average and lighter in skin and hair. A prime target, one might think: the lighter skin, mousy hair, and straighter nose branded him a non-Roman, a legacy of his mother's Gallacian heritage.

But there was something off-putting about him -- some aura of danger and power that made the watchers think twice -- and by the time he had passed them, they seemed to forget about him altogether, and could not have described him had a vigile or prefect threatened to cut off their air with a beefy arm across their necks.

Contrary to his hopes, however, once Gaius had settled in the grotty little wineshop none of the illiterates seemed inclined to write home to mater: so he sat under an oil lamp and wrote to his best friend, instead.

He stopped by a discreet owlery on his way in to work the next morning and sent the parchment off.

There was absolutely no reason that a well-educated young man from a well-to-do shipping family (not to mention wizarding family) should be working as a scribe and clerk in a smaller, and less successful, shipping business just outside Rome -- but Gaius was doing it, and he was very good at it. He'd picked up a great deal of knowledge about the business as a youth -- more than even his father suspected -- and he fulfilled his duties conscientiously.

He even took pleasure in it, at times: in the satisfaction of seeing the dry, dull manifests transformed into real, solid goods and human passengers loaded into the bellies of the ships that docked at Ostia and Portus and in seeing them off -- and sometimes, as the Kalends of September and the autumn storms approached, in surreptitiously charming a ship to help it reach safe harbour. Then there was the pleasure of tracking its progress as it passed other ships, perhaps stopping in minor ports along the journey, and finally reaching its destination unharmed, crew and contents intact. (They didn't always, of course. Gaius' employer was not a wizard -- and would have been horrified had he realised Gaius was -- and Gaius himself couldn't provide adequate charms and wards to protect all the ships from all storms.) But the owner was more successful that many, and Gaius took considerable pride in knowing it was partly due to his efforts, whether they were acknowledged or not.

But the real reason he was in Rome.... It went far beyond the usual fascination of a young man with the huge, teeming, exciting city. Rome had a highly illicit but flourishing wizarding community, where one might persuade an older, powerful wizard to take one on as an apprentice. The best wizarding bookseller in the civilised world was there: and there were things to be learned from the non-magicals, too -- things the average wizard had no interest in, but for which Gaius had a deep and insatiable curiosity.

The problem was, Gaius had so far been stymied in his efforts to infiltrate both communities. Due to an unfortunate incident during Nero's reign the wizarding community had all but gone underground -- literally, in some instances, many of the tradespeople moving their premises to the parts of the Catacombs already abandoned by that odd messianic cult.

He simply couldn't find a wizard willing to take an apprentice at the present time, especially one not Roma-born: he was a provincial, and his father's notoriety in the non-magical business community worked against him. Likewise, although he badly wanted to learn more about the healing arts -- not potions, but the more practical art of surgery, for example, at which the non-magicals were far better than wizards -- he had been unable to secure an audience with the most renown physician of the day. Again, he was provincial, and with no practical experience in anything but shipping the man wasn't even willing to see him, much less take him on as observer or student.

He took the obstacles as the dues he must pay, vented his frustration when necessary, and set his considerable stubbornness and patience toward reaching his goals eventually.

He was working at the Levitation again, six nights later, when an owl landed on the sill. Gaius felt rather trepidatious -- it was too soon for Publius to have replied, though it was possible their letters might have crossed....

But it was an official-looking scroll, in his father's secretary's hand, and it was, undoubtedly, trouble. He broke the seal and unrolled it.

Gaius nearly missed the scrap of parchment that fell from the scroll before he flung it across the table.

Gaius cursed -- risking invoking one of the many demons his tutor had always warned him of -- and took great pleasure in holding his father's letter to the oil-lamp and burning it to ash.

Lucius Longinius Corvinus was particularly adept at doing things to muck up Gaius' life, but this took the honey-cake. Gaius had always know his father would try to arrange a marriage -- the threat of such was one reason he'd left home -- Albingaunum, in Liguria -- to make his own way in Rome, but he hadn't expected the old man would eventually achieve it. He'd made certain his reputation was suitably tarnished, to the point that no decent family would want to turn over a daughter to such an eccentric man and blatantly disobedient son.

Not that he knew Julia Nigella personally -- in fact, he hadn't even heard of her before.

Clan Nigellus was another matter entirely. They were notorious: adept at the more unpleasant forms of magic, it was rumoured that the old clan head (M. Julius' father) had been protected by a demon that he himself had called and bound. Gaius had no doubt that Marcus Julius was perfectly capable of doing so, himself.

The family was a bit odd in any case, apart from their preoccupation with the darker magics. They traced their ancestry not to Rome as did the Corvinii, nor to any of the recently-subjugated territories, but to the Etruscans -- a wild, licentious people, who allowed their females the most horrific liberties: exercising publicly (nude, no less) and even aloowed them to participate in games as athletes and gladiators; public speaking and debate.... Etruscan women might have even born children to more than one father -- concurrently -- and brought them up together regardless, like pups fathered on more than one stud. There had been no concession to Roman ideals in the Etruscan way of life, and it so horrified the average Roman that the Etruscans were still held up as the epitome of barbarity.

More specifically, there was an even worse rumour that, generations ago, a wizarding Nigellus had married an asiatic, of all things -- possibly a descendant of Medea, herself. Which went a long way to explaining how the Nigellii women were nearly as vicious as the men.

It was quite shocking, really. And while the Nigellii had to all intents and purposes taken on the appearance of Roman respectability, one could never predict what might come of such wildness in the blood. His father might as well be marrying Gaius to that barbarian Iceni Boudicea -- or a magical Boudicea, at any rate: that barbarian had not been magical, as far as Gaius knew.

The latter was, by far, the more likely possiblity, and Gaius was so enraged with the thought -- of being a sacrifice to his fathers' business interests -- that he very nearly marched to the nearest recruitment station and asked to be sent to Britannia immediately.

P.S. Will be on lookout for weevil-y grain, and let you know. You can't let the old man get away with letting down the side.

Gaius' most recent message hadn't made it yet, obviously, and with Publius out of town, training recruits, he wouldn't get it for a while anyway. He couldn't expect sympathy and advice from Publius for at least another two weeks -- far too long.

Gaius let the scroll roll itself back up and repeatedly thumped his head on the table-edge.

The first of August found Gaius in Portus -- sullen, hung-over, and determined to talk his father out of the idiocy, but there. All past attempts to find a way around Longinius Corvinus had been in vain: when forced to confess to his employer why he needed leave, the man had jollied, given him as much time as required, and made many lewd jokes about married life.

He didn't dare tell Primus, his fellow-clerk and closest friend among the non-magicals: Primus would rag him unmercifully and make his life a bloody misery with the constant reminders of his impending fate. He couldn't tell Primus why he objected so, of course, and Primus wouldn't take one of the handier lies: they'd been out to the brothels together one too many times for Primus to believe Gaius didn't like women. (It was only twice, actually, but twice was enough: Primus had insisted on scribbling I came, I screwed, I went on to the next place on every whorehouse wall, embarrassing Gaius no end. Primus' sense of humour left something to be desired.)

Nor did frantic consultation with a lawyer turn up any convenient legal loopholes: the man baldly informed Gaius that he was past the socially-acceptable time to marry and produce little Romans, his attitude was distinctly unfilial, and his only option was outright refusal.

Although he couldn't tell the man so, Gaius knew his father would find a way to make him pay for that. Some standards of pureblood society were even more strict than the non-magcial Roman ways, and there were worse things a pureblood wizard could do than legally disinherit a son.

His only options, in short, appeared to be to persuade the damned woman not to accept him: or to marry her, make himself as unpleasant as possible, and hope she'd agree to a divorce. Or failing that, not consummate the marriage and hope she gave up and committed adultery -- in which case he could divorce her. Providing she hadn't poisoned him to death before then. (After all, she was Nigellii, and he'd been half-serious when he'd written Publius.)

Another option presented itself on the voyage to Liguria: death by sea-sickness. But, unfortunately, although he puked for three straight days, Gaius did not expire on the journey. The Hecate was far too swift for that -- aided, it must be admitted, with many significant wards and charms. (They weren't the only reason Longinius Corvinus was such a success in shipping, but they helped.)

Liguria was, admittedly, beautiful: the harbour-town of Albingaunum was northerly enough to have a nice mixture of hill and plain, the climate more moderate than stiffling summer Rome; the further south and west one went, the closer one came to the Maritime Alps, their crests in winter topped with snow contrasting pleasantly with the green slopes winding down to the sea; even further west, where Gaius had never travelled, lay Narbonensis and recently-conquered barbarian Gaul.

Gaius loved Liguria -- he'd been born here, and felt more a citizen of it than of Rome, if truth be told, though the Corvinii had been Roman citizens for centuries. It had caused him wrenching pain to leave it, but given the decision between following his dreams or becoming his father's lackey, he'd packed and gone. It should have been sheer pleasure to be home: to feel cool, softer, salt-laden wind on his cheeks at that indefiniable point crossing the Gulf, the point that said you are here, you are almost home where the land understands you, if no-one else.

It should have been, but it wasn't. His pater and that unseasonable three-day squall, resulting in the seasickness, had put paid to that.

The Hecate -- the smallest and fastest corbita in his father's fleet -- put in at the harbour overnight, and in the protected harbour waters Gaius' stomach settled.

He rather wished it hadn't. It would have pleased him to puke on his father's boots.

Gaius made his way to the Ram's Horn -- the harbour tavern -- early the next morning after disembarking. The villa Corvinii was well outside the little town, and Gaius knew the pater would have sent a wagon for him.

Sure enough, there sat Hyperion, an ancient family retainer, swilling a local rot-gut wine. (Hyperion was an unfortunate name. The man had been born ugly, was ugly young, and was just as ugly now in advanced age as he had ever been. He was, incidentally, born to a Greek magical family but possessed not a jot of magical skill, and was therefore only good for menial tasks within any wizarding household.)

"Just shut it, and let's get going," Gaius muttered, and tossed a few asses on the table to pay for the old man's wine.

Hyperion rose, hobbled out, and led him to one of several wagon-and-teams tethered back by the stables: Gaius slung his bag into the bed of the wagon before climbing up on the board beside the old man, and they were off.

"It's not as bad as all that, boy," Hyperion said at one point during the largely silent journey. "You knew he was bound to do it sometime."

Gaius grunted and stared straight ahead: Hyperion cast him a sidelong glance from one droopy, sty-ridden eye, and then shut up for the rest of the trip.

Gaius should have felt badly. Hyperion had always treated him well -- not like a servant or slave would treat the master's children, but as an ordinary and intelligent child. Hyperion had taught him to fish; Hyperion had taught him how to raid the orchard without being caught; Hyperion, not his father or tutor, had taught him his first letters, and only much later had Gaius realised that the old man had had such confidence in Gaius' ability that he'd continued the reading lessons even when the child had outstripped him in ability -- for Hyperion was nearly illiterate, though he had the letters down well enough. Hyperion had cuddled him when he'd fallen out of trees, wrapped up his scrapes, soothed his bumps, and been more a father to him in many more ways than Longinius Corvinus could claim.

But Gaius could not pull himself out of his misery long enough to feel the slightest bit of remorse.

Lucius Longinius Corvinus was, unfortunately, hearing no debate on the subject of Gaius' marriage, and guessed at precisely which angle Gaius had planned to attack.

"I don't care what the bloody Roman law says," Lucius thundered as soon as Gaius stepped into the study, map-lined, niches bearing rare pottery and statuary from all points west and east on the shipping routes. "You're a pureblood first and a Roman second, and purebloods do as the family requires, damn it all."

"No, I'm not hearing it," the old man raged. "It's past time for you to be wed. You should have had two or three kiddies by now, not been messing about Rome playing at being a scholar. You're a wizard and it's your duty to keep the blood going, and by the gods if you can't manage it on your own, I'll manage it for you!"

"But the Nigellii?" Gaius shot back. "Gods, Pater, the moment I get a whelp on one of them, I'm dead."

"Don't be idiotic," Lucius retorted, and added in a mutter, "I knew it was a mistake to let you hang about Lupercus' house. His wife's a superstitious idiot."

"He's got an unmarried daughter is what he's got, and he's willing to take a risk on an intelligent but unsettled son-in-law."

"Of course not. He's older -- they had to relocate, you know that. Stupid to hold that against them."

One disadvantage of wizardry was the longevity: many wizarding families had moved around the Empire at least once, if not twice, as the family grew older and exceeded the usual lifespan, causing suspicion in the regular population. (Lucius Longinius Corvinus was, in fact, much older than usual: Gaius was his first child and only son on his second wife, the first having died after six children.) After acquiring his second wife, he'd moved his family from Ravenna to the newly-secured territories of Cisalpine Gaul.

"No, no, there's more to this than that," Gaius insisted. "You're in trouble, aren't you? Is it the business, or something else?"

Lucius squirmed uncomfortably. (He never would have in a business deal, but this seventh child of his had a way of striking right at the heart of the matter, and he'd never been able to conceal much from him.)

"He was an investor in a shipment that went down," Lucius finally admitted. "I, ah, owe him a bit of money."

" 'Course I did, you insolent whelp -- what kind of businessman do you take me for? But there was a little extra bit thrown into the cargo...."

"75,000 denarii worth, all in the drink," Lucius admitted glumly. "It's too deep to be recovered. Could've made it back three times over in Rome, if it'd got there."

"So you agreed to be careless with the manifest, and Nigellus funded this 'little extra bit?'" Gaius said, rage mounting.

"I did, but rather than take a smaller -- much smaller -- payment outright, I took a percentage. Thirty-three percent."

"Not at the moment," his father admitted. "I've got to replace the ship that went down, and I'd just purchased a vineyard up north...."

"Can't, boy. Between the ship and the land, I'm over-extended. If any of my creditors hear I'm borrowing, they'll be on me like a duck on a billywig. And asking the man to take a loss on all of it or wait for the 25,000 in dribs and drabs when I practically guaranteed safe portage...." Lucius sighed. "It's just not done, boy. It was foolish, but I've taken risks before and succeeded. It just didn't work, this time."

He pushed back the unfilial thought that perhaps his father wasn't that upset with the situation. Or that, worse, perhaps Lucius had hoped for it to the extent of not properly warding and charming the lost corbita.

"So," he finally said, voice muffled, "I take it your options were to liquidate the business, or hand me over on a platter."

"No, boy, never -- I wouldn't do that," Lucius said hastily -- and not altogether convincingly. "But when Nigellus brought it up it seemed more advantageous than trying to repay the debt over time. Two pure bloodlines, demonstrated skill, all that...."

"Hades, Gaius, he's a healer. That's his story with the non-magicals, too -- he doesn't have any problem with social status. The girl's quite good with herbals too, I understand. I thought you'd appreciate that, what with your ridiculous obsession."

"I didn't ask the man where he gets his money, blast it. It's an old family, probably inherited."

"Nothing, really. The alliance, some business contacts," Lucius admitted awkwardly. "He gets two daughters off his hands, and we both get grandsons. Eventually."

"Yours is Julia major. Julia minor has a suitor, they're anxious to get Julia mjor settled so they can marry off the other too. They're funny about that, getting them sorted in order."

"Wait a-- a suitor for the younger, but the elder's not spoken for yet? What in Hades is wrong with her?"

"Seemed like a nice enough girl to me. A bit older than usual -- turned down several suitors already, and her pater was inclined to humour her at the time."

"If she turned down other suitors -- whom she saw, I assume -- why take me sight unseen?"

"Dunno. Must have liked what she heard of you. Anyway, Julia minor's young man expects to be posted to a western province any day now, and they want her married here so she can travel with him."

Gaius rose, stumbled over to the window, and stared out at the hills beyond the villa.

What a damnable decision. Take the bloody woman, shackle himself for life -- presumably, barring gross misbehavior -- or let his father take his chances with repaying the debt. Which chances, considering Marcus Julius Nigellus' reputation as a ruthless wizard, were not particularly good.

"Mightn't be so bad, boy," Lucius wheedled. "Your mater and I had an arranged marriage. Hasn't turned out badly."

Gaius half-heartedly agreed. Mater did seem to love the old man, though Gaius couldn't tell why.

"It's actually easier, you know. The wife takes care of all the fiddly domestic things, and you're free to follow your own pursuits. Or run a business," Lucius added craftily.

"Oh, no -- no, no, no," Gaius blurted out. "You're not reeling me in that way, Pater."

Lucius' other three sons -- two of them very gifted wizards -- had meekly assented to becoming glorified managers in Lucius' far-flung business, but Gaius refused to be a cog in the machine of Corvinus Shipping.

"There's no dishonour in it, you idiot -- gods know you've got a head for figures."

"Here are my terms, Pater. I'll do it -- but I don't live here. I go through the bloody ceremony, and then I return to Rome and my job."

"Wha --? You can't do that, boy, it'd be a huge scandal. We've already found a nice little domus for you, practically halfway between the estates! And how d'you think you'll get any children on the girl if you take off --"

"Hope you haven't paid out anything on the domus, I don't want the damned thing. And I don't care about any blasted scandal. If that's such a worry, she can bloody well move to Rome."

"No, but I'm willing to bet Nigellus can. If he can throw away 75,000 denarii on a risky shipment, he can afford to support a daughter in some acceptable fashion, even in Rome."

Lucius gaped at that: this wasn't how he'd thought it would play out, but he had to admit that Gaius had a point (and he had a sneaky admiration for his son's unexpected skill at driving a bargain).

"Then do it. If Nigellus doesn't like it, he can back out. It's only across the Gulf, for the gods' sakes."

"Wait a moment, I'm not done. I see her before the ceremony -- without her pater hanging about -- and I make certain she really wants this. If not, it's off."

"I don't bloody care if it's done, it's the law. Both parties are entitled by Roman law to make their own decisions, and by the gods I'm not going to go through with this if I have to drag her about against her will. Is that clear?"

"Nigellus and the wife are coming to dine in two days' time. I'll send over the contract before then -- bad form to spring in on them in the evening...."

"No -- don't. Get the contract, give it to me, and I'll present it. That should make it clear that I'm insisting on the changes, not you. And I want to see it well before then."

"Jupiter's balls, boy, you drive a hard bargain. Why couldn't you have been interested in the business?"

"I'm better at it than you, apparently," he said. "Of all the rash, stupid things to do, Pater -- intentionally fudging the manifest, and indebting yourself to a hard character like Nigellus?"

"You've only got two unmarried children left, you know," he threw over his shoulder. "Whatever will you do when you've sacrificed them, too?"

The door had barely closed behind him when a piece of pottery shattered against it.

Greek, Gaius thought gleefully. The antique vase with that obscene orgy about the middle. That's set him back a few denarii.

Gaius brushed aside the major-domo who paced anxiously beside him, practically begging him to stop and see his mother, and left the villa, heading up toward the hills beyond to walk off his rage and frustration.

He had no intention of actually living with the woman, of course. She could live off her father's money wherever she chose, and he would keep his room in the Aventine and go about his work and studies undisturbed. Perhaps drop by for dinner on festival days.

Assuming she agreed to the whole, mad business. He almost hoped she would: he wasn't so unfilial that he'd wish total ruin on the old man. Lucius had left Nigellus any number of ways to bring him down: a note to the authorities regarding discrepancies in ships' manifests (because he had no doubt that his father tried that hoary old trick on a regular basis, and knowing his tricks with charms, probably got away with it); he'd very likely drawn up a private contract for the shipment, which Nigellus could prosecute for in the wizarding court or even the non-magical, claiming that he knew of no illegality in the shipping methods; a note to Lucius' creditors, starting an avalanche of debts called in and repossessions -- possibly even of the fleet -- if the old man wasn't able to pay them all; and that didn't even cover the possibility of magical reprisals....

Hades knew what would happen to the mater and his sisters in the event, and Gaius couldn't care for them on his scribe's salary (he was so good as to command that of a secretary and his employer was happy to pay it, but it wasn't enough to support three extra mouths).

He'd give the idiocy a go, then -- but on his own terms. And if the bloody woman or her father didn't care for it, then the old man would have to take his lumps, and like it.

Indecently pleased with his own cleverness, Gaius settled at the base of a stunted olive tree (another of the pater's miscalculations -- they didn't quite thrive this far north, this close to the sea) and watched the sun decline in the west.

He'd done it quite neatly, he thought as he dozed. Wrapped it all up nicely, even if worse came to worst.

Dinner with Julius Nigellus was not pleasant. It was, technically, a convivium -- a banquet, though by no means as lavish as any in Rome: but one could hardly find a man less likely to be described as convivial. It wasn't that the man was a boor: quite the opposite. He observed every nicety, behaved as any well-bred Roman at table (better, if truth be told), and demonstrated proper verbal appreciation for Claudia Corvina's fish sauce and the pater's understandable and (considering the circumstances) tactless choice of a nice Falernian. He wasn't an ogre, either -- he had a face that might even be pleasant, were one to think a real smile ever graced it, and his hair was still as dark as his eyes, though Gaius had thought he was at least as old as the pater.

But he seemed like some monstrous emotional sponge, sucking up any good feeling whatsoever, and returning nothing by a hard, dry disinterest. The wife herself was a nonentity: though properly introduced at the beginning of the evening, Gaius was damned if he could remember her name halfway through the gustum.

The five of them struggled through the gustum, the mensa prima, and the mensa secunda -- odd, to see a man eating Gaius' mother's excellent dessert, and to note that he took no pleasure whatever from it -- and then after a palate-cleansing wine, it was time to get down to business. At least it was according to Julius Nigellus.

"Your pater had the courtesy," Nigellus said, fixing Gaius with dark, hard eyes, "to inform me yesterday that you demanded addenda to the marriage contract."

Claudia and Nigellus' wife, who'd been speaking together quietly at one corner of the lecti, froze and stared at the ice in Nigellus' tone.

"Just one or two minor points," Gaius said, striving for a casual tone that he didn't in the least feel. "Things which would have been in the contract to begin with, had Pater consulted me before continuing with the negotiation."

"I am not averse to discussing the situation," Nigellus said calmly. "What are the matters in question?"

"Ah. Let's take the first. I assume you are concerned with Julia's view of the whole business?"

Lucius muttered something about "Spoiled brats," and Nigellus and Gaius both shot him an impatient look.

"I can assure you that Julia is totally committed to the marriage. In fact, my secretary prepared a dossier on you, and she entirely approved -- despite several apparent eccentricities in your character...."

"I should like to have that directly from her, actually," Gaius said bluntly, ignoring the jab. "You must understand that to our generation it is very odd to not have at least one meeting to gauge suitability."

"It's no matter. All the arrangements are already in place -- if you decide not to proceed, it makes little difference whether it's now or later."

Well, half a concession is better than no concession at all, Gaius thought wryly.

"Agreed. As to the second matter.... Although my father has generously offered me a place in the business," Gaius said, earning another quirk of the mouth from Nigellus, who apparently had Lucius pegged, "-- I should prefer to continue my work in Rome. Pater has pointed out that you had hoped your daughter might settle here in Albingaunum, and that this might cause some difficulty. I wondered what your objection might be, and if you might see your way to agreeing to our living in Rome."

"It is largely paternal interest," he said finally. "Julia's brother has been posted to Hispania, and her sister will soon be leaving for an unknown province. We should have liked to keep one of our children close to hand," he said, without consulting his wife. "I can, however, understand your desire to return to Rome. While I do not particularly appreciate what your pater characterised as your defiance of his wishes and plans for you, I understand your need to return. Rome is undoubtedly a better place to study and refine your skills...."

His voice trailed off and he studied the middle distance for a while, and then abruptly stood.

"I understand the villa's garden is quite fine, Gaius Longinius -- perhaps you would give me a tour?"

Lucius tried to rise, became hopelessly tangled in his toga, and abruptly plopped back down into the cushions.

"No need, Corvinus. It's the young man's demand -- we shall settle it between ourselves," Nigellus said smoothly. "I'm certain an accommodation can be reached."

Nigellus strode out to the peristylum -- without waiting for Gaius, who stumbled to his feet and trotted out behind him.

"I find it very odd," Nigellus muttered when Gaius caught up with him on the terrace overlooking the gardens, "that such a hard and astute businessman as your pater seems utterly flummoxed in your presence. I've never seen him so inept."

"I've always set him off balance," Gaius admitted. "Defiant from babyhood, I suppose, and he's never adjusted to it. You ought take that into account."

"Oh, I have," Nigellus said idly. "I have no use for those who meekly accept a mundane life in exchange for their powers. I do greatly admire your desire to learn more of our real skills. I am rather counting on your commitment to magic and intellectual pursuits, actually."

With that cryptic statement he descended the stairs and began to browse among the garden's perimetre.

"Perhaps you might elaborate on that," Gaius murmured, tagging along at Nigellus' heels.

"My eldest daughter is of an intellectual turn of mind," Nigellus said, bending to observe a plant. "I quite willingly allowed her to study far more than the usual female -- in both general studies, and in magic. I am anxious that she be mated with a man who will not only allow her to continue but who may, perhaps, even appreciate it." He smiled crookedly. "An unusual wish, perhaps, but it pleases me that my children are intelligent, and I have no desire to bend to society's idiotic ideas of a 'woman's place.'"

"And you think I will accept, if not encourage, her own studies?" Gaius said, determinedly ignoring the rather revolting characterisation of the alliance as a 'mating.'

"I am almost certain of it. Julia will not be happy yoked to a man who does not appreciate her intelligence -- I know my children well. I think perhaps you would appreciate her mind very much, indeed," Nigellus said, and continued walking in toward the centre of the garden.

"But surely you have no real objection to Rome, then -- there is far more opportunity to learn first-hand than here in the provinces."

"I have no objection in theory, no. The reservation is, as I said, largely one of paternal interest and concern for Julia's welfare. She is also more likely to come under close scrutiny in Rome from those who might think she indulges in 'unwomanly pursuits.' That is worrying."

"It depends on how large a role she wishes to play in the non-magical society. Beyond my job and my room I have little contact with it, and I've attracted no attention."

"I see. Commendable choice, in that instance -- may the gods save us from another Nero. But speaking of your lodging.... How would you support a wife and household?"

"Not on my own, I assure you," Gaius said coolly. "I rather thought a man who could drop 75,000 on an illegal shipment could afford to support his daughter in some decency, even in Rome. And Pater could, then, probably be persuaded to add an allowance, as well. He's withheld mine long enough, as far as I'm concerned -- it may be just the shove his pride needs."

Far from being insulted -- which was, frankly, what Gaius had hoped -- Nigellus threw back his head and laughed.

"So there is something of the businessman in you, after all," he said. "Very well, then. What might a domus set one back in Rome?"

"A domus anywhere in Rome would be exhorbitant, and they're hard to find in any case. It's more usual to find a ground-floor apartment in an insula in one of the nicer neighborhoods. Say, 600 denarii rent per annum."

"Pity -- one-time expenditure versus a salary.... Still, it can't be helped. A cook and a general household servant, perhaps? That should do to be getting on with, for the two of you. You don't really need a doorman, not at this juncture. Another 150 denarii for salaries, then."

"That should suit.... No, no doorkeeper," Gaius said slowly, "I had been thinking of asking Pater if I might take Hyperion with us."

"Yes, him. It might do to have a man about the place while I'm at work, and someone to escort your daughter about the city."

Not to mention having someone I can trust to keep an eye on things -- as I don't propose to be there much at all....

"Ah. No problem but working Corvinus around, then." Nigellus stopped in the centre of the garden and leaned against the plinth of a statue. "Shall we say a yearly allowance of 750 denarii? And whatever you can squeeze out of Corvinus, of course -- so the contract will officially list 600 denarii on my part, and I shall send the rest on later. No point in giving your pater room to wriggle, is there?"

Nigellus suddenly reached over, grasped Gaius' forearm, and pulled him closer: Gaius hadn't been expecting that, and nearly stumbled into him.

"We are anxious," Nigellus said urgently, eyes boring into Gaius', "for grandchildren. I expect you to get Julia with child as soon as possible." His mouth twisted wryly. "My son is... disinclined to appreciate the society of women, and has sworn not to leave offspring. Therefore, I want your oath that should you get a son on Julia, you will bring the child to us as soon as possible, given the time of year and the travel conditions. We will raise it here in the country -- much healthier than Rome, I think you would agree -- and I will adopt it so the name Nigellus does not die with me."

Gaius was stunned and frozen to the spot -- more by the man's hard, searching stare than by the hand on his arm -- and wracked his brain for a suitable response.

"That's a hard thing, to take a child from his mother," he finally said, stumbling over the words a bit. "Not to mention his father...."

"Julia understands. She knows the importance of keeping the name alive, and how her brother's... preference and actions have hurt us." Nigellus smiled again. "You are both young and should have plenty of children. And it is not as though you should never see it again -- you might visit as often as you like. It may give you more reason to do so, in fact."

"I am afraid," Nigellus murmured, "that this is absolutely necessary. I must know the name will continue. It is my one non-negotiable point."

Gaius tried to resist -- but then, he reasoned, he never intended to bed the blasted woman in the first place, much less get her pregnant. It was possible, he supposed, that she would blab to her pater if Gaius didn't: but that was a problem that could be dfealt with when it happened. (He could always tell her he wanted them to grow accustomed to each other before consummation, in the meantime.)

"Provided that Julia agrees," he finally said, "then it is acceptable to me as well."

"Very good," Nigellus said softly. "I shall hold you to it, and I swear to you that the child will be raised as if it were my own. I am the last of the Nigellii, and it is imperative that the name -- and the blood -- continues."

Nigellus released Gaius' arm, placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder, and slowly steered him back to the villa, discussing the few plants that were worthy of his notice: then they returned to the triclinium, where Nigellus announced to a greatly-relieved Lucius that the marriage would proceed the day after next, the omens being favourable for that day.

The first was his youngest sister, Longinia -- Longinia minor, that is, six years old -- who loved him to distraction (mostly his), was delighted with his return, and who had stolen from her bed in the nursery after the household had retired and was currently curled up against Gaius' chest in the narrow bed, squashing him against the wall and snoring just enough to keep him awake. (The elder sister, Longinia major, took the pater's view and totally disapproved of all things Gaian, the bossy boots.)

Gaius hadn't known a six year-old girl could snore quite so loudly. If he didn't love her so much he'd have carried her back to her own bed.

Then again, perhaps Julia Nigella might snore as well: perhaps he'd best get used to it, at least for the few occasions when, for propriety's sake, he supposed he would have to sleep in the same room.

It wasn't the matter of an adoption: that certainly wasn't unknown -- wealthier Romans did it all the time, if there were no issue to carry on the family name. (Even the Emperors did it.) In the eyes of the law it made absolutely no difference whether there was a blood tie or not. You were Gaius Longinius Corvinus one moment, and Gaius Julius Nigellus the next, with all the hereditary rights and privileges as if you'd been born the man's son in the first place.

But Nigellus had seemed fixed on the idea of a blood tie. (As a Roman, that made Gaius quite uncomfortable: more bad emperors had come out of such single-minded nepotism than he cared to think of. He was, at heart, a Republican.) It wasn't as if the bloodline would actually die out, after all -- the hypothetical child might be a Corvinus in name, but the Nigellus blood would still be present.

It was all distinctly odd. Had the man not seemed so calm and cold, Gaius might have thought he was actually... desperate.

And he'd spoken of the child as an it, even though he specified that it should be a boy, a son. Quite cold-blooded of him -- but then, he was thinking of the child as a vessel for the name and bloodline more than as a child. Gaius knew there were people who did so: he'd simply never had much commerce with them before, his own father being of a distinctly more paternal nature -- at least until his children were old enough to become game-pieces in his business schemes.

There was, too, that unnerving sensation of almost being compelled to agree. It had felt as thought the man were willing Gaius to do as he wished. He was, of course -- trying to cow Gaius with his intensity -- but the feeling was so strong that Gaius wondered if Nigellus hadn't found a way to force his way into other peoples' minds.

Longinia snorted in her sleep, dreaming, and shifted against him, her breath puffing against his neck in short little bursts: he cupped his hand about the back of her head and stroked her still baby-fine hair to calm her, and was overwhelmed by a sudden tenderness for the little sister, who -- if truth be told -- he'd missed most of all, more than any of the family. (He'd even missed the things he'd found most annoying about her, like her temper tantrums, or the way she would drag him out to the fields to play with her. Or the incessant questioning when he was trying to study, though he'd had to admit it was a pleasure to watch her agile little mind snap up the things he would, in exasperation, teach her.) He didn't remember Longinia major being quite so much fun at the same age, but then Longinia major was about as interesting as a pile of cow dung, and twice as thick.

He'd held this child as a babe and watched her grow for her first five years: he'd healed his share of her scrapes and bloody noses, and had taught her her first letters, just as Hyperion had taught him.

And he was suddenly unsure -- though he'd never thought of himself as a father, and had never planned to be one -- that he could hand over a child of his for any reason, not after feeling such deep and abiding affection for his little sister. Perhaps he might feel that regardless, even had Longinia never been.

Would he -- if the unthinkable happened and he changed his mind about Julia Nigella -- be able to keep his part of the bargain with Nigellus?

He shifted, uneasy, and Longinia grunted out a complaint at the disturbance: he shushed her and tucked the blanket closer about her shoulders.

With that -- and totally unconcerned with the ethics of using Julius Nigellus' own money to deprive the man of his longed-for heir -- he drifted off to sleep, and was only wakened the next morning when the nursery-maid shrieked in alarm at discovering Loningia's absence from the nursery.

Convivium at villa Corvinii, Albingaunum ANTE DIEM VIII IVDVS AVGVSTVS
GVSTVM	MENSA PRIMA	MENSA SECUVDA
Black olives	In Mitulis (Sea mussels)	Stuffed dates
Boletos Aliter (Seasoned Mushroom Stems in liquamen)	Vitellina Fricta (Fried Veal in wine and liquamen sauce)	Honey-bread

The Gift, Part I