The Gift, Part II

Lucius was quite surprised at the concessions Gaius had wrested from Julius Nigellus. (Rather, he assumed it was a struggle, and Gaius didn't bother to correct him.)

"Jupiter, boy, it's a pity --" he began to bluster, and left unsaid you didn't join the business: Gaius knew perfectly well what he'd meant, but there was no point in going back over that old, disputed territory. " 'Course, 600's a bit mean for Rome, but I'm astonished you got that much out of him. Suppose I'd better throw some in...."

"I'd hoped you'd see your way clear to giving me my allowance," Gaius retorted. "I don't think there's any question of me being a dutiful son now, do you?"

Lucius sighed and jotted a note for Scato to include the new terms in the contract.

"I hadn't exactly planned for this, you know," Lucius said a bit defiantly. "Came up all of a sudden, so I can't give you more than 200. But I'll come up with something to sweeten it in the long term."

"Even 800 will be a stretch in Rome, for rent and household wages," Gaius said, feeling a twinge of guilt at the deception -- but not enough to confess. "He can still run some errands -- it'll save on hiring a boy or messenger -- and he'll keep an eye on the apartment and the woman. I trust him."

"Fine -- he's yours. Lock up your wine jugs, though -- he drinks like a fish, if he gets the chance."

"Oh, good gods, Gaius, he's a slave -- it doesn't matter what he wants," Lucius said impatiently. "I'll sign him over to you, so there are no difficulties with the authorities when he gets in trouble -- and he will. You're doing me a favour, actually. He's barely worth the upkeep."

Gaius knew when he'd reached the limit with the pater, and sensibly murmured thanks and left the room.

He tracked down Hyperion in the stables: the useless old bugger was cleaning the tack and the harnesses, and glanced up when Gaius entered.

"Got the order to make the cart ready for tomorrow," Hyperion said. "The chariot's going too to bring you back beforehand, so I 'spose you gave in?"

"Yes," Gaius admitted. "But we're living in Rome. I expect we'll take the very next ship out after tomorrow, so we miss the bad weather."

"Just that I know the master's tricks, and I worried when he got tangled up with that man. Your pa's business-smart, but that's not much good with a man like Nigellus. I didn't figure you'd let him twist in the wind."

Gaius might have been surprised that Hyperion had such a grasp of Lucius' business dealings, but wasn't: he knew Hyperion carefully cultivated the drunken-lout image. Not that he wasn't frequently drunk, but you learned a lot more than you ought if people underestimated you, and that went for clerks and scribes as well as slaves.

"How long have you been with the pater, Hyperion?" Gaius asked, leaning against a stall door. (He knew very well, but he wanted to hear it one more time, just to confirm his own opinions.)

"And in all that time, has he ever asked what you wanted? Never offered you manumission?"

"Why the fook would he do that, boy?" Hyperion said, puzzled. "It's a fact of life. My parents sold me -- couldn't afford another mouth to feed. It could have been worse, they might've exposed me instead. It was the will of the gods, pure and simple."

Gaius doubted that -- like many younger wizards, he had a healthy scepticism about the existence of the gods -- but Hyperion obviously believed, so he let it pass.

"I wouldn't know what to do with myself, anyway," Hyperion continued. "A freedman has to find work himself, I'm far past the point of looking useful, and I don't have enough saved to support myself." He shot Gaius a keen look. "Turned me over to you, has he?"

"I asked, actually," Gaius said, surprised. "I thought to ask you first and to ask him for your manumission, but he --"

"No, 'course he wouldn't. It isn't done that way, my boy." Hyperion set aside the bridle he'd been working on and picked up the next. "Let me tell you something, though. In sixty years your father has never lifted a hand to me unjustly, nor let anyone in the house do so, even that stuck-up bastard of a major-domo he had a few years back -- and I deserved it, then. I couldn't stand that prick, and I let it show.

"In all that time, I've never seen your pa abuse any of the household staff -- and I know you haven't seen it, either. He's never looked twice at the women or fathered any bastards on them, even if it's his right to do it, and he's never diddled any of the boys. As far as I can tell he was faithful to the old mistress and is to your mater, and that's unusual, let me tell you. There aren't many men who would do that."

"Nothing to do with it -- you just take it for granted because that's how you were raised. It's about the law and what a man is legally able to do, and what he chooses to do instead. Did you know Marcus asked for me, as well?"

Marcus was Gaius' half-brother, and there was something a little... off about him. A streak of cruelty that no one in the family was able to explain, but which his wives (plural -- he was on his third, one dead and one divorced) probably could.

"That's right. I don't know why Marcus wanted me, and I don't want to know -- I'm just grateful, because I never could abide the nasty little sod. The master outright refused to pass on any of the family slaves to him, in fact. So before you go judging your pater, you bear in mind that he does care about his people -- he just doesn't show it the way you'd like, is all. He knows you'll take good care of me, at least if I can talk you out of this freedom shite. And I won't find work on my own, so you'll end up supporting me anyway. Might as well live with the situation as is."

Gaius shook his head at that: he simply couldn't imagine someone preferring to remain a slave, and he wasn't yet willing to accept such a charitable view of this father.

"If you're goin', I'm goin'. Don't care where. I hear there are taverns on every street in Rome, anyway...." he added with a gleam in his eye.

And Gaius, totally flummoxed at such a carefree attitude toward ones' fate, left to brood over the impending nuptials.

Hyperion had outdone himself: the tack not only shone in the sun, but the harnesses and cart were swagged with flowers and greenery by the time Gaius saw them, at the third hour the next morning. The entire family -- minus Longinia minor, who had pitched a fit at being left out and who would be staying with Gaius' eldest brother for the next few days -- would travel to villa Nigellii in it as it was too far for the usual procession, and the bride would travel to villa Corvinii in it after the ceremony and dinner.

(Gaius supposed Longinia major was coming so she could see the fate that awaited her: she was thirteen, and ripe for marriage herself. She and her parents would be staying at villa Nigellii for a day after the wedding -- his pater's idea of giving the newlyweds time alone to honeymoon, Gaius assumed.)

So they all jolted along the road toward villa Nigellii -- Hyperion indecently cheerful, whistling; the pater smug, but nervous; Gaius' mater as silent as Gaius himself, though judging from the occasional trembling of the lips she was overwhelmed by losing her last son to marriage; and Gaius' elder brother Lucius and his wife Drusilla, both of whom obviously enjoyed their marriage, tried to jolly everyone into a better mood. (Longinia major, the silly cow, seemed more concerned with the new tunic she'd acquired for the occasion, and with the fillet and necklace the mater had lent her.)

The damned formal toga itched, contributing to Gaius' misery, but he didn't dare scratch for fear of mussing the careful folds his mater had placed herself.

They were there far too soon, and Julius Nigellus was waiting for them in the atrium. (It was a splendid villa -- far more grand than villa Corvinii -- but Gaius was too preoccupied to take much of it in.)

"Greetings, Longinius Corvinus," he murmured to Lucius the elder. "The guests haven't yet arrived. Philemon will show you to the peristylum. Gaius, perhaps you'd care to meet Julia now? She waits for you in my study."

Damned right, Gaius thought as he followed the man through the atrium, down the left side of an inner courtyard, and to the tablinum -- which, contrary to tradition, was a separate room to itself: Nigellus apparently valued his privacy over aesthetic concerns. Nigellus drew back the latticed door and stepped inside, and Gaius followed.

The tablinum was on the east side of the house -- by design, to catch the morning light and prevent mold from the west winds from ruining the many scrolls Nigellus undoubtedly possessed -- and Julia Nigella stood, a slight figure, in front of the opened shutters at one window. Gaius couldn't see her face for the sunlight behind her: it filtered through the flammeum draped about her head and shoulders, and all he could see was a brilliant nimbus of colour around the dark smudge of a face.

"Gaius Longinius, my daughter, Julia," Nigellus said in that same soft voice. "I shall leave the two of you for now. Assuming that you are of a like mind after you make each others' acquaintance," he added wryly, "we shall see you in the peristylum shortly, I hope."

"Thank you, Pater," Julia said in a low voice like honey, and the man left, drawing the door closed behind him.

The room might as well have been empty: now that he had the damned women in front of him, Gaius had absolutely no idea what to say, and the silence stretched thin and strained between them.

"I assume --" Gaius finally began, and had to stop and clear his throat. "I assume your pater told you of the changes in the contract?"

"Of course," she replied steadily, and cocked her head as though puzzled. "Why should I object?"

"I think Pater has chosen well. I know he chose you precisely because we have similar interests, and he feels you are an honourable man. That's far more than many paters do."

"To do my duty to my family, I must do my duty to you," she finally said. "If that means living apart from them, then so be it."

Gaius tried not to squirm. She wasn't giving him much to work with, here: that was a good, old-fashioned, virtuous response, but didn't tell him a damned thing about her.

"I mean," he said, trying bluntness, "I should like to know how you feel about it."

"I am not concerned with the distance," she finally replied. "There are advantages to living further away. Not least of which is Rome itself. Assuming, of course, that you do not object to me continuing to read and to educate myself."

"There you have it, then. I've lived in my pater's house far longer than most women, in any case, and it's time that I left."

Gaius found himself oddly comforted by her frankness -- and mesmerised by her voice: low and smooth, with a hint of Venetia, where the family had lived prior to moving to Albingaunum. It was strangely compelling.

He wondered if her face matched the voice -- the figure did, what he could see of it, slender even in the folds of her nuptial gown....

He screwed up enough courage to force himself to walk to the window: she turned to face him and the light struck the right side of her face.

Julia Nigella was no Gorgon. She couldn't even be called pretty. She was stunningly beautiful: wide, intelligent eyes, as dark as her father's beneath a broad forehead; a straight nose (unfashionable, but pleasing); delicate, well-etched lips, the lower one distractingly full and lucious, and both tastefully rouged; her hair, a glossy black, was now pulled up into the bride's traditional tutulus -- but Gaius could all too well imagine it tumbling down about her shoulders and over her breasts (which he judged a bit small for fashion, but still...). The flammeum suited her entirely too well: she simply glowed, though Gaius would be hard-pressed to tell whether it was actually the colour of the veil, or something within her.

Shit, he thought as his penis tentatively weighed in with its opinion. (He was grateful for the toga, now.) It's not going to be easy to ignore her. Hail and welcome, acolytes of Venus....

"How old are you?" he blurted out, astonished that she hadn't been snapped up already. Such beauty was considered favourable for fertility and healthy offspring, after all.

"Eighteen," she readily admitted, and suppressed a wry smile -- but not before Gaius caught a glimpse of dimple on one cheek. "Far past time."

"Too old and set in their ways, too ambitious, or too determined to change me to suit themselves," she said of the other suitors. "Most wanted a nice little domestic wife, and only that. Not that that ideal is bad for many, but I doubt my ability to fulfill the expectation."

"I will try to be a good wife in all things, Gaius Longinius, but I cannot give up my love of learning. It's too much a part of me, and I require someone who will respect it. I think," she added delicately, "that you will."

"No question about that," he murmured, not bothering to question how she and Nigellus had come to that conclusion. "And you don't mind that your pater is -- well, that he's supporting us? I'm just a glorified clerk at the moment, you know."

"In their world. You're a scholar in ours," she corrected him, "and you'll find that Pater appreciates that more than anything else. As do I."

For the life of him, Gaius couldn't think of another damned thing to say or a reason to call the whole bloody mess off: and struck by a sudden fit of conscience, he tore his gaze from hers and drifted closer to the window, staring out at the hills in the distance.

I should tell her. I can't expect her to make this decision without knowing what it will really be like....

They heard several wagons pulling up to the portico of the villa and the murmur of voices as Philemon greeted the guests and began to escort them to the peristylum -- and still Julia Nigella stood beside him, calm and quiet, refusing to press him into a decision.

"I'm here, Gaius Longinius, and not barricaded in my room," she said matter-of-factly. "I'm ready. I've waited for you. So, yes. I believe we are in agreement."

By way of reply she turned and walked to the doorway, drew open the curtain and door, and waited for him: Gaius slowly followed and walked out beside into the peristylum, where the assembly waited to celebrate the nuptial.

Lucius Longinius, sweating profusely -- and not from heat -- looked distinctly relieved.

The rite itself -- coemptio -- was surprisingly simple, which was a very good thing indeed: Gaius couldn't have withstood the whole blasted conferreatio ceremony. But though both families had once been patrician, like many they tended to dispense with some of the showier formalities: few wizards were interested in becoming public servants and politicians any longer, and those who did tended to abandon their family and skills. It was distinctly hazardous to the health should one be discovered, as had several patrician wizards in the time of the Great Caesar, and again during Nero's reign.

All coemptio involved on the groom's part was paying the bride-price, and that Gaius could afford on his own: it was nummus usus -- a single penny. For one penny Gaius would achieve a bride, guardianship of same, and an entire household.

First, though, the auspices. These were taken very seriously among wizarding families. Gaius had forgot about that -- there was still a chance it might all fall through....

Please, let the blasted rooster be the most disease-riddled bird in the province....

The local seer had been called to read the omen. She approached the makeshift altar set at one end of the peristylum: her slave brought over the article to be read -- a cockerel, in this instance, thankfully not a pig or lamb -- and proceeded to dispatch the poor, struggling animal quite neatly and in record time, extract the entrails, and pronounce them normal and (as far as Gaius was concerned) disgustingly healthy, to the approval of the assembly.

Gaius slowly walked to Julius Nigellus, took the nummus usus from his purse, and gave what amounted to a standard declaration of intent.

"According to our traditions I offer you payment for my bride, your daughter. May this be acceptable to you."

Nigellus gravely took the paltry little coin as though it were an aureas, nodded, and replied, "Take her, our first-born daughter, with our best wishes for your future happiness and for a long and fruitful marriage."

Gaius' mother sniffled. (But then she did at this point in every nuptial Gaius had ever attended with her. He only hoped she wouldn't start bawling like a sick calf.)

Now for the worst bit: the declaration to each other. Gaius turned to move back to Julia -- standing so quiet and so lovely in the light that shone down into the peristylum -- and he finally realised what a crime he was committing.

This was not a woman who should spend her life with an uninterested husband. This was a beautiful, intelligent, vital girl who should be given every advantage for which her breeding and background had suited her -- a household to run, people to care for, her studies, a fond, if not loving, husband.... And, without doubt, children. That loveliness shouldn't be wasted with either the lack of them, or of too many, too fast. And her husband should respect her and be willing to love her, on a regular basis, within an inch of his life -- not simply service her like some clumsy peasant. Or ignore her, precisely as Gaius proposed to do.

It isn't my fault, Gaius thought savagely. It isn't my fault that she's been caught up in Pater's idiocy. If only we'd really been allowed to choose....

But his only options at this point was to call the whole thing off -- to turn away now, give the poor girl the ultimate insult of a jilting quite literally at the altar, and in the process insult her family, his, and everyone in the room -- or to swallow his pride and accept the fate others had engineered for him. The first was unthinkable, and the last so repugnant.... No, he couldn't do that, no matter how attractive a proposition it was. Gaius' two glaring faults, it must be admitted, were Pride and Defiance.

I can't give in. I won't. But I can respect her and do my best to honour her in other ways. And I can give her a freedom most women only dream of.

Gaius walked to her, removed the plain iron ring from his purse, took her hand -- a cool, slender-fingered hand that trembled slightly in his own -- and slipped the ring onto her ring-finger.

"Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia," she replied, so softly that he had to bend his head to catch the last of it.

And, beyond the formality of signing the marriage contract, that was all there was to it.

Gaius' mother burst into tears; Julia's mother, pale and watchful, twisted the edge of her stola in tight fingers, gasped, and quickly suppressed it; Lucius pater looked fair to a collapse. Everyone else in the room applauded -- with the exception of an ancient female Nigellus relative, who pounded on the floor with her walking-stick and dislodged several bits of the mosaic.

Nigellus clapped a hand to Gaius' shoulder, and then bent to give Julia a cool, formal kiss on the cheek.

"She is, and will carry, precious cargo, Gaius Longinius," he murmured in Gaius' ear. "I know you will value her and treat her well."

"If our guests would repair to the exedra, the grooom and the witnesses will sign the contract now," Nigellus announced, "and then dinner will be served."

Gaius was certain in retrospect that the wedding feast had been quite fine -- it certainly far surpassed the rather modest convivium that had taken place at villa Corvinii -- but it tasted like ashes in his mouth. He couldn't even claim the understandable distraction of the lovely Julia, who reclined upon the lectus before him: his earlier red-blooded randiness had deserted him, for which he gave many thanks.

He was, simply, miserable, and he could only hope that it didn't show. He did his best to laugh at his brother's jokes, fielded several astute questions on magical matters from Nigellus (and acquitted himself well), and made certain that his wine was well-watered -- something the pater was making no attempt to do: despite (or perhaps because of) his relief, Lucius was apparently intent on getting more than a bit drunk, and Gaius was glad that he shouldn't be expected to stay much longer past the mensa secunda and the marriage-cake.

Suddenly, he wasn't in such a hurry to go -- and he probably wouldn't have, had the younger Lucius not caught Nigellus' eye and the man's unspoken, pointed message, and rose.

And Julia, knowing precisely what she was supposed to do, launched herself at her mother and clung to her, and all the women in the room started wailing.

For not the first or last time in the past week Gaius cursed ridiculous, antiquated Roman custom; staggered to his feet; wrenched Julia from her mother's arms; and dragged her through the peristylum and atrium, and through the front door.

He felt like a complete and utter shit -- and the grin with which Hyperion greeted their appearance only made it worse.

"There she is," Hyperion crowed. "We've got your things all packed away here in the cart, Mistress -- up you go, now --"

Hyperion's eyebrows shot up, and he risked a look at his new master: Gaius shrugged, Hyperion mirrored it, and then he climbed onto the bench, reached down, gently swung Julia up with an ease that belied his age, and helped her fuss with the folds of her robe as if he were her maid.

"You'd best get going, Master," he said pointedly to Gaius. "Won't do for us to beat you there."

He looked behind, once, as the driver guided him down the road: his brother and sister-in-law were clambering into the bed of the cart, and both sets of parents stood at the door of villa Nigellii, waving them off. He assumed Julia had had time to say her good-byes before the wedding -- he hoped so: when he'd torn her from her mother's arms, the woman had looked as though he was ripping out her heart.

Julia, he'd noted, hadn't struggled nearly as much as most of the brides he'd seen. He wasn't quite sure what to make of that. On the one hand he was grateful, but on the other.... She might actually be looking forward to being alone with him.

The worst wasn't over -- not by a long chalk, but he wouldn't be on the receiving end of worst of it. Hyperion was to take Julia to the gate of villa Corvinii, and she would have to walk the rest of the way to the villa surrounded by revelers (mostly the estate slaves and servants, as the house was so far in the country), and she would have to endure some of the most vulgar and blush-making verses known to the ever-inventive and sex-preoccupied Roman mind.

The charioteer got him home safely -- more's the pity -- and he waited at the door for what seemed like hours before he heard the cart-ponies trotting up the rutted road and the excited chatter of the house slaves as they rushed out to greet the young master's bride. The little procession made its way toward the house and the chanting grew louder: Gaius winced as the song, first in praise of Julia's beauty and coaxing her not to be shy, became increasingly ribald.

Gaius could see her clearly, now -- the bright spot of the veil in the midst of the crowd, the men dancing around her and his sister-in-law and the female slaves -- his staid eldest brother among the dancing men, he was appalled to note.

Gaius breathed deeply, clenched his hands in his toga to keep from smacking something -- anything -- and nodded wearily at the sullen little stable-boy posted along the drive, who'd been elected to play his catamite (which he did not possess, and never had, although Primus had encouraged him to try it once on a visit to a brothel).

The boy, looking as disgusted as Gaius felt, pelted the procession with handfuls of nuts from his basket.

Gaius decided it might have been a good idea to hire professional celebrants: the slaves were taking great license with the language, and it was as foul as anything one might hear in Rome. He marveled that Julia wasn't dying of embarrassment -- he certainly was.

Julia wasn't embarrassed, though, or she was doing a damned fine job hiding it: her face was flushed, true, but she was smiling -- she was close enough that Gaius could see that dimple again -- and she wasn't rushing for the door of the villa.

"Well, take her in, idiot," his brother said, grinning. "Unless you want everyone to see all the rest."

Gaius shot him a sour look, stepped beside Julia, swung her into his arms, and carried her into the villa -- much to the delight of the crowd, which picked up the song again.

Take a peek inside -- bet your man's already in the crimson bed,
Thinking about you --
("-- and yer bubbies!" one wit screeched out.)
Io! Hymen Hymenaeus, io! Io! Hymen Hymenaeus!

Gaius carefully set Julia back on her feet in the fauces and turned to chivvy Lucius and Drusilla into the house.

Gaius slammed the door in the revelers' faces, and all but collapsed against it.

"You look like you're trying to keep out the barbarian horde," Drusilla teased, shifting a basket of treats liberated from the feast to her other arm.

"I am," he retorted. "Good gods, I don't remember your procession being that bawdy."

"It was worse," Lucius said. "Drusilla's brother hired the satyr-players to come in costume and wag their phalli about. You wouldn't remember, you were well into your first drunken stupor, as I recall."

"I wasn't --" Gaius started to argue, and jumped as one of the crowd outside pounded on the door.

"They're not going to go away until I've done my bit, I'm afraid," Drusilla said apologetically.

"Oh." Gaius shot a look at Julia, standing silent and taking in the good-natured ragging between himself and Lucius: he'd almost forgotten about her. "Oh, well I guess we'd... better get on with it, then."

He pushed off from the door, gingerly cupped Julia's elbow in his hand, and escorted her into the atrium and over to the lararium -- the little altar that honoured the Corvinii ancestral spirits (or, in Gaius' sceptical view, their memory).

Julia dipped her fingers in the bowl of water that had been prepared for her, and touched the brass lamp that lit the altar: then she drew a few ases from a fold of her robe and lay them on the altar, next to the miniature nuptial-bed that Hyperion had crafted for them with his own clever hands.

It didn't matter that the marriage hadn't been consummated: Roman law didn't consider that the defining factor. He'd paid the bride price, he'd said the words, and that was all it took.

"All right, you two," Drusilla said briskly "Gaius, why don't you show Julia around the villa, and meet us in the triclinium -- neither of you really had a chance to eat your cake, and Hyperion has to bring in Julia's things. Let's relax for a bit -- you both look gobsmacked." (Julia didn't, but Drusilla was trying to be diplomatic.)

Gaius thanked his stars for his sensible sister-in-law -- and for the temporary reprieve -- and gravely offered Julia his arm as Lucius and Drusilla hurried off.

"It's not as grand as your pater's villa, I'm afraid," he said as they moved into the tablinum. "But then it's much larger than any rooms we'll find in Rome."

"No, it's not as large, certainly, and plainer," Julia said as she looked back at the atrium, where the first rays of the sunset were beginning to gild the edges of the compluvium. "But it seems much more comfortable and welcoming."

"Pater's not much of a scholar," Gaius explained of the messy study, with its many maps tacked over the painted walls. "The main office is in town, of course, but he likes to track the ships as he gets reports of them, even at home."

He steered her into the peristylum, explaining the various rooms -- whose cubiculum belonged to whom, the nursery that both Longinias shared; the cucina -- where the cook, busy with cutting the remains of the wedding cake that Drusilla had nicked, shyly offered Julia a garland of August roses; the bath and toilet, which mercifully occupied a different room than the kitchen (Gaius doubted they'd find rooms in Rome with a toilet separate from the kitchen); the exedra, or garden-room, a grander version of the triclinium -- and, lastly, the terrace overlooking the garden.

"It's not much, but it's home," he finally said, unnerved by her silent acceptance of everything.

It didn't seem right, somehow: she'd been raised in a beautiful home that framed her own loveliness admirably, and here she was, in a rather plain, sensible, glorified farmhouse.

"Yes -- there was a smaller villa rustica here before, and he razed it and had an hypocaust installed for this one. We have braziers for the worst of winter, but the heating system does well until then. It's a bit wasteful, but much more comfortable."

"Sometimes comfort is better than grandeur," she murmured. "Albingaunum isn't nearly as damp as Aquileia was, but it's still too chilly in winter for braziers alone. You were born here?"

"Yes. I used to play up on the hill, in that grove," he explained, pointing. "Hyperion encouraged me to be a regular little hellion."

"Ah." She smiled. "I suppose that was your pater's first mistake, then, letting you run wild. Mine's was teaching me to read. There was no going back, after that."

Despite the implied criticism of the pater -- which should be a shameful thing in a new daughter -- Gaius laughed: he had to admit she was probably right. Lucius Elder had been far too indulgent, intent on letting his children actually have something like the childhood he'd never enjoyed.

"A bit. I was only eight when we left," she admitted -- and volunteered nothing else, and the small moment of ease they'd shared seemed to have evaporated.

"Well," he finally hazarded, "I suppose we'd better go find Lucius and Drusilla...."

She took a last look out at the hills, turned, and took his arm so he could take her to the triclinium.

"It's a nice, cozy little place, isn't it?" Drusilla cheerfully observed to Julia when they entered the room, after hastily breaking off a rather enthusiastic kiss with her husband. "I'm hoping we can manage something like it, soon -- our domus is getting too small." She patted the bulge at her belly where the tenth Corvinus grandchild was making itself known.

"I think it's quite lovely," Julia said as she arranged herself on a lectus and took a cup of wine from the little serving-boy, who stood in the corner. "It's certainly proved felicitous -- our mater hasn't lost any children, has she?"

"No, the family's been extremely fortunate," Lucius rumbled from behind Drusilla, and reached around her to pat her belly as well. "Marcus -- he's in Massilia -- has lost one, but that was during the last plague-visit, may the gods continue to be merciful to us. I hear your pater's had some success treating it?"

"Some. He can give non-magicals potions, of course, but that only really treats the symptoms, and as he can't reveal himself.... He's had a better success rate than usual, in any case."

"You'll have to be careful, in Rome -- all those people crowded together. Gaius, have you thought about where to look for rooms?" Drusilla asked, steering the conversation to more pleasant matters.

"There are decent parts of the Aventine," Gaius retorted. "I just don't happen to live in one."

"Wouldn't want to, even if we could afford it. It's still a mess, after Nero's 'improvements.'"

"That's still not particularly wise, I'm afraid -- there are far fewer investigations now, but they crop up once in a while. Close by is an option, I suppose. I'll just have to contact an agent and see what's available...."

Drusilla launched into a flurry advice to Julia about choosing the household servants: Lucius contented himself with a complicit wink to Gaius, and then concentrated on a piece of cake and his wine.

Lucius' marriage had been arranged, too. Drusilla's pater was a shipbuilder: Longinius Corvinus had guessed that it would be an excellent alliance, and it had indeed proved a good one for both families.

But Lucius the Younger had been very, very lucky. While Drusilla couldn't be called pretty, she was cheerful and competent, and Gaius could count on one hand the times he'd seen her without a smile on her broad, honest face Gaius had been in their home so often that he'd practically grown up with their eldest children, and he'd never heard a cross word pass their lips. They were devoted and loving -- Gaius doubted that Lucius ever looked twice at another woman -- and both seemed content and happy.

They were everything a good Roman husband and wife should be -- precisely why they'd been elected as Gaius' and Julia's attendants.

"All the mistress' things are in, Drusilla Corvina," he announced. "Will you and Lucius Longinius be wantin' the cart or the chariot to go home?"

"I know you are, and we're still taking the cart," he said firmly. "It's been a long day."

"Oh, you -- Oh, very well. He's absolutely obsessed with safety, at the moment," Drusilla explained to Julia. "It's silly, I'm perfectly well, but if it makes him feel better...."

"Have I ever not?" She sighed. "I'd just hoped to get home sooner -- little Longinia will be waiting up, I'm sure, and begging to hear about everything. Come along, Julia, let's get you settled. I'll be back in a bit," Drusilla said to the men as she steered Julia to the door -- and Gaius heard her tell Julia as they walked away, "Now, lesson number one. Things go better if you let them think they're getting their way...."

Lucius guffawed and choked on a bit of cake, and had to wave the boy over for more wine.

"Oh, she's fine," Lucius gasped when he could talk again. "I just try to keep her off her feet when she gets this far along -- it's better for her, and more enjoyable for me."

"Well, you didn't think I was going to miss a prime snogging opportunity, did you? Maybe something more, if Hyperion has the sense to throw a blanket in the back for us."

"Oh, don't get your tunic in a twist," Lucius retorted in good humour. "You've always been such a prim little git, do you know that? If I didn't know Mater better, I'd think you were some Stoic's get, and not Pater's. Just you wait -- you'll see. She's a beautiful girl, and you won't be able to keep your hands off her."

"Well, you'd best change that," Lucius advised. "Take her out, show her around. She'll get your foot in the door of the kind of people you want to meet. Might even impress someone enough to get you a patron, Gaius, and that's what you need. You're not going anywhere, stuck in that piddly little office."

"No," Gaius admitted. "People are still too jumpy. That last purge hit too close to home for too many people."

"Well, give it a little time. Nigellus is known there, so don't be shy about airing her paternity," Lucius said sympathetically. (For he did sympathise with this odd, scholarly younger brother of his. Just because Lucius was content to live as their pater wanted didn't mean he thought Gaius had to.)

"Say, are you going to be all right? Financially, I mean? I have to admit, I don't know what Rome costs on a daily basis, beyond docking and portage fees."

"Just make sure you give her plenty of money to run the household. Seems like she has a good head on her shoulders, so I doubt she'll waste it. No sense in making yourselves miserable -- live a little. And if you get in any difficulty.... Well, owl me a note. We've a nice little bit saved up."

"Just remember. Right, then, here's the bit where I get to give you all the embarrassing advice."

"You aren't? Good gods, and here I thought you kept your nose and everything else stuck in your scrolls! So you've got the mechanics, then, that's good. I mean about tonight. She's going to protest a bit -- that's the form. She'll be shy and try to put you off --"

"-- but just keep at her, gently, and call her 'wife' -- that's to remind her of her duty, but don't make it sound like that -- and compliment her. Well, that won't be hard to do, she's a beautiful girl, Gaius, you're very lucky, there. And if you take the time to be certain she's relaxed and enjoying it, you won't have another moment's trouble."

"Thanks, Lucius," Gaius mumbled sourly. (Lucius was taking far too much pleasure in embarrassing him.)

"As far as everything else goes.... Well, Dru has a point. A smart girl like that's going to let you have your way -- but if you're smart, you're going to ask her advice when it comes to big things, and take it seriously. They're better judges of human nature than we are, I've found. Anyway, they'll let you boss them around in lots of little things, and then someday you're going to run across something they're adamant about, and my advice to you is let them have their way. A woman can stay happy losing lots of little battles if you let her win a big one, every once in a while...."

This went on for nearly a half an hour: Gaius thought he'd die before it ended. He wished he would. He had no idea what he was going to do when left with Julia.

"You may come now, bridegroom," she sang slightly off-key, grinning from ear to ear. "Your wife is in your bed, and she's absolutely gorgeous, glowing like a red poppy."

Gaius glared at him, rose, straightened his toga and drew the tatters of his dignity about him, and marched out of the triclinium and to the door of the bridal-chamber.

"Thanks," he told them stiffly. "I -- I do appreciate it, you know, it's just --"

Drusilla's smile faded, and she pulled him into her arms, or as close as he could get, given her bulk.

"It'll be all right, Gaius," she whispered in his ear. "I know you, and I know this isn't the way you'd have wanted this. But she's a good girl, and she'll do right by you. Just try to be happy."

"Oh, you -- just stuff it, Lucius," she said as she drew away, snuffling. "You were ready for it, but there's hardly a woman who is -- I wasn't. It's terrifying, starting out with someone who's practically a stranger. And I'm not saying Gaius is being woman-ish, but I can understand how he feels."

"Go on, boy," he said gruffly. "Have some fun -- you've ruined it for me tonight. She's going to be crying half the way home, now."

"Remember what I said," he advised, and then grinned. "And try to dock it straight the first time, little brother. Ineptitude does not inspire confidence."

Gaius -- who'd just been about to thank Lucius again, despite the humiliation of the earlier brotherly advice -- decided that the company of the stranger waiting for him was preferable to more ragging, slid the door open, stalked in, and did his damndest not to slam the door in Lucius' face.

They'd left a little bronze lamp on the low table in front of the lectus, and Gaius could see everything clearly: the swags and draperies of flowers, the new paintings on the walls of Cupid and Psyche, Endymion and Selene. He wondered who'd ordered it done: it didn't seem like something the pater would have thought of, though he knew Hyperion must have painted it, and in the last few days. Hyperion, with his clever hands and artist's eye (though in one corner he saw two awkward little stick-figures, labeled "GAIVS" and "IVLIA", and realised that Longinia minor must have 'helped.' The worst the stick-figures were doing was holding hands, thankfully, which was more than he could say for the other paintings -- Cupid and Psyche were behaving absolutely disgracefully.)

But beyond that first quick survey of the the room, he was having a hard time keeping his eyes off his wife.

She was on the lectus, still in the long bridal tunic, but Drusilla had taken down her hair: it suited her much better down, Gaius thought. But it framed a face that was set and pale, and the slender hands he'd only held the first time today were clenched tightly in the blanket.

Gaius heard the crowd -- still outside, still waiting -- roar as Drusilla and Lucius left the front door of the villa. They knew what it meant.

"It's all right," he said quickly. "It's just Lucius and Dru leaving. Everyone will go to bed soon, they won't bother us."

He'd been to some weddings where the groom's friends stayed in the house, carousing, or even worse, clustered outside the door and listened. He'd made certain the pater discouraged any such hijinx tonight.

Drusilla's words had reminded him that he was not the only one with something at stake, here. That while he wasn't thrilled with marriage in general, Julia Nigella -- Corvina, damn it -- was probably terrified. Of him. He was a stranger: he had, literally, wrested her from her mater's arms earlier that day, and while she probably knew what should happen, going through it was another thing entirely. She had no reason to trust him yet, and no idea what kind of man he was -- whether he might be solicitous and kind, or whether he might be brutal.

"I think," he said carefully, "that I might be more comfortable waiting for a while, before we...."

She watched him silently, a bit bewildered, as he slung the toga over a chest and bent to unlace his sandals.

"Well, we only met this morning," he continued, "and there's no law that says we have to... to do anything tonight. It's just a silly tradition."

"Not that I don't -- I mean, you're very beautiful, don't mistake me," he amended (well, he could hardly say he didn't -- his tunic didn't do much to cover the fact that his little centurion was definitely interested). "I just think we should get to know each other a bit more. At least, I'd like to. If that's all right with you."

"It's not a question of that," she murmured, puzzled. "You're my husband, you have a right."

Damn it all, does she want to? She can't really be that intent on getting this over with, can she?

"I think you'll find," he said slowly, "that I'm not much interested in doing what's right for other people. Not if it doesn't feel right to me. I'm only proposing we wait a bit, that's all. Get used to each other,"

"Right, then. Let's, ah... let's get some sleep, then." He crossed the room and bent to extinguish the lamp.

He glanced up at her: closer to the strain was quite obvious on her face, but he fancied there was some relief there, as well.

"You... have to undo the girdle-knot before I can take this off. I thought it would be easier in the light."

He suppressed a sigh, gingerly sat on the edge of the lectus, and carefully reached for the knot.

It took a long time. (It wasn't called a Gordian knot for nothing.) And by the time he was done he was all too well aware of the scent she wore, and that she was having a hard time controlling her breathing: those smallish breasts were very much in evidence, and her hands were trembling in the blanket-folds.

He finally got the knot loose, turned to blow out the lamp, and slid under the covers: Julia wriggled around a bit, freeing herself from the gown, and he heard the slither of it as she dropped it over the neck-rest and it pooled on the floor.

"Good-night, Julia," he managed to say, and anchored his knee against the edge of the lectus to give her plenty of room.

It was a long time before he fell asleep, and he was wakened far too soon in the wee hours of the morning by Hyperion, singing them a drunken serenade in Greek outside the window. Gaius later learned that Lucius the Younger had given him a small jug of Falernian in celebration of his new ownership, and he'd finished it on the long drive back to villa Corvinii: and as soon as he'd unhitched the cart and stabled the ponies, he'd wakened the disgruntled little stable boy, who contributed to the ruckus by throwing the last of the basket of nuts at the window-lattice of the bridal-chamber.

Julia was already up when he really wakened the next day, and had snuck out of the bed and the room while he slept on. (He was grateful for that: he had time alone to attended to... well, he took care of the fact that his little centurion was in revolt and did not approve of his abstinence.)

It was very disconcerting. He'd had erections thinking about women, of course, and the usual morning wake-up call, but this was his wife, damn it. No self-respecting Roman should be that aroused by a wife he hadn't even bedded yet.

He found her in the garden, carefully potting cuttings and shoots of some of the plants.

"Mater said I might," she said with an apologetic look. "She thought I might like to start a garden, if we find suitable rooms."

"No, that's fine, then," he said. "She's always been generous about things like that. I'm surprised there's anything here you mightn't already have at villa Nigellii, though."

"Those are mostly medicinals," she said. "Pater said he would send us cuttings in the spring, depending on what we need."

"What I need," she amended. "I'm good with potions, and I'd like to keep on with them. It would be nice if there were space for a workroom.... I suppose we'll have to see, though."

"It should be possible, if we find a ground-floor place. If not it will likely be too cramped."

She seemed far calmer this morning than she had last night: her brow again smooth and unfurrowed, eyes calm, voice level. She looked far more calm than he felt, at any rate. She'd arranged her hair up this morning, as befit a married woman, and the sun picked up the blue sheen in the black. (He'd only seen that deep a blue-black on the Asians in the slave-market, and wondered if that rumour about Medea wasn't true.)

He didn't quite know what to say: conversation still seemed awkward, so he knelt and helped her, holding the little pots close as she nestled the cuttings in and patted the earth down.

"What would you care to do today?' she murmured. "Mater told me they wouldn't be back until tomorrow."

"I've no idea. I need to go into town and make certain the ship's still leaving on schedule, but other than that...."

They would be leaving for Rome in another two days' time, on one of the pater's smaller corbitae. It wouldn't do to put it off longer: it looked as though the stormy season would start early, this year.

"These will have to go with us, to be watered. Most of my chests can go now, I think. I only need the one with my every-day clothes. I don't imagine there will be room in the cabin for much else, will there?"

He watched silently as she worked on, those slender, fragile-looking fingers deftly pinching off shoots and then tenderly patting them into place in the pots, the dull iron of the wedding-ring occasionally pinging against the edge of a pot.

Gaius hadn't known that an ever-so-slightly sweaty female could smell so good. (Perhaps kneeling beside her hadn't been a good idea....) Or that she could look so lovely even with dirt crusted under her nails and a streak of it across one cheekbone.

When they'd done, he ate a late breakfast while she sorted out her boxes: then he left for town with the baggage as soon as possible, alone but for a hung-over Hyperion -- who occasionally chortled and made attempts at bawdy suggestions until Gaius lost his temper and told him to shut it.

He stayed in town as long as possible, until there were no more excuses not to return to the villa; and after dinner he holed himself up in the tablinum, reading, and only went to bed well after Julia had extinguished her lamp.

Hyperion had made plans for him the next day, however. The old fart had got the cook to pack a basket-lunch, and got Gaius out of the house on the pretext of all three of them picnicking up on the hill overlooking the villa, to discuss the arrangements for Rome.

Then he promptly abandoned Gaius with Julia, saying he'd forgot some important work in the stables.

Gaius glared at him as he stumped his way down the hill. He was beginning to regret his sentimental gesture in asking for the old man.

"Is Rome really as grand as they say?" she asked as she set out the basket's contents.

"Parts," Gaius admitted. "The buildings -- the public buildings -- are splendid. There are many theaters. Arenas, of course, though I've never been to one. And there are several libraries, but the two largest are the Apollinis Palatini and the Porticus Octaviae. I don't know if women are permitted inside, but I suppose Hyperion or I can fetch things for you if not."

"I'm looking forward to that. Pater's been generous, but I'd like a wider selection. I've never been to the theater, either...."

"Other than that," Gaius said, ignoring the hint, "it's often rather squalid. Too many people crowded in too little space. The insulae can go up six, even seven floors -- in some places you feel as if you can't get enough air, and the buildings practically block out the sky. You won't see many single-level domus. In fact, we'll be very fortunate to find anything on the ground level, or at least anything affordable."

"Absolutely. Fire's a constant problem with that many buildings smashed together, even with the vigiles," he said, staring out over the valley. "What they've done is, around what used to be a family domus they've built upward, and stuck shops all around the exterior. So most ground-floor apartments have no windows -- just light from the compluvium and, if you're lucky, the peristyle. Many of the upper apartments and rooms have windows, but they don't do you much good in a fire."

It took him a second to realise that she'd already cut him bread and cheese, and was patiently holding it out to him: he took it and muttered "Thanks," and hoped she'd leave him in peace.

"Much the same as I would for Pater, actually," he said wryly. "It's another shipping firm, but on a smaller scale. Pater may be the owner of Corvinus Shipping, but my brothers are his managers. In this instance, the owner is the manager, and I'm one of his clerks. It amounts to the same thing, though. He trusts me with a great deal."

"On the contrary. At least twice a week I have to travel to Ostia or Portus, check the ships as they come in, get reports from them."

"So," she said thoughtfully, "rooms on that side of Rome might be advantageous. The Aventine's closest, isn't it? No matter what your brother thinks of it?"

Gaius was surprised that she'd made the connection (it was, in fact, precisely why he'd chosen the Aventine when he'd moved to Rome.)

"I looked at your pater's maps, yesterday afternoon," she said apologetically. "I was curious, given what Lucius said."

"Yes, that's closest," he admitted, and cursed silently. He'd hoped to put a bit of distance between the home he was supposed to share with Julia Corvina and with his room, which he fully intended to keep.... But then, the Aventine was so crowded that it probably wouldn't make much difference. You could live a block away from someone you worked with and never realise it, if you hadn't asked.

Julia seemed content enough with his answer: she settled back against the tree and finished her bread-and-cheese, and then -- much to Gaius' surprise -- she dozed off. He couldn't think why: as far as he could tell, she'd slept like a stone last night. At least he'd thought so. She hadn't moved or made a sound when he'd finally gone to bed.

He rooted in the basket, found a handful of figs, and slowly ate them as he observed her.

Her composure unnerved him, he admitted it. She'd greeted him this morning with the same calm courtesy she had the day before and in her father's house: he hadn't seen any more of the tension or upset she'd demonstrated that first night, and didn't seem at all concerned that he hadn't touched her. She hadn't come looking for him when he'd disappeared after dinner last night, even to say good-night.

Probably play-acting that first night, then, as Lucius said, he thought suspiciously. Or she's decided to play hard-to-get.

Eyes narrowed, he looked at her more closely. Would she be the type...? But no, she looked perfectly innocent, face relaxed and unfurrowed, dark lashes lying still above faint purplish shadows under her eyes.... Perhaps she wasn't sleeping well.

If she was playing coy, she was doing a damned good job of it. Not overdoing it, like so many of the girls Gaius had grown up with.

He finally gave up the musings as a lost cause -- too many possibilities, and he couldn't pin the right one down without asking her, which he damned well wasn't going to do.

A plume of dust on the road leading up to the villa caught his eye: he tossed the fig-pits out into the meadow, and stood to get a better look.

She scrambled to gather the things together, and Gaius had the sense to offer her a hand up off the ground. (He was acting like a sullen bastard, he knew, but he wasn't a total failure as a gentleman.)

He took the basket from her and strode off down the hill, with her trotting at his heels.

The family beat them there, as it happened, and everyone made a fuss over Julia -- including the pater, who declared himself proud to have such a lovely and intelligent new daughter. (She promptly got his attention by asking about the business, which he thought a grand thing -- even if his son was an inattentive little sod, his new daughter knew about filial duty, and he came right out and announced the same. Gaius wasn't impressed.)

Longinia major was stand-offish, as usual -- although she took the time to sniff and note "Perhaps she'll make something of you," but Longinia minor went wild.

And Gaius was impressed with the way Julia handled her: she didn't seem inclined to talk down to the lively little chit, but answered her many questions honestly and intelligently. Even the highly embarrassing ones, like what it felt like to be a married woman and did Gaius still snore. (Gaius took great pleasure in informing his little sister that she shouldn't throw stones.)

They all stayed up quite late, and no-one, thankfully, made comment when Gaius stayed up to talk with the pater long after Julia had gone to bed.

The next day was almost pleasant: Gaius' mater was determined to spend as much time with Julia as possible, it seemed, and monopolised her company, freeing Gaius to do other things -- mostly with his pater, oddly enough.

The marriage seemed to have eased things between them, for some reason. The old man actually asked Gaius' opinion on the advisability of changing one of the shipping routes, and they'd spent a good hour and a half debating the pros and cons of the plan before there was an interruption -- his mater, with Julia in tow.

He tore his eyes away from the map he and the pater were arguing over, and found his mother in the doorway -- next to a highly-embarrassed Julia, who had two long lengths of silk draped over either shoulder.

"It's true," Gaius seconded, hoping to settle the whole silly matter at once. "You must have seen the chest -- she's got scads of the stuff, and she never wears any of it."

"I say she takes both," Lucius insisted. "Girl with that colouring can pull anything off."

Gaius had enough sense to prevaricate: he thought his head should split open if this went on much longer.

"I think the wine," the mater promptly said. "Though I do wish she'd take both."

"The wine it is, then," Gaius said, feeling more than a little pity for Julia. She looked as though she wanted to sink into the floor.

"I -- I really don't -- They're lovely, and it's a lovely gesture, Mater, but I really don't know where I should wear them. I'm sure there won't be an occasion for something this fine --"

"Of course. We have an invitation from my employer, in fact, shortly after I get back."

"Oh. You didn't say," she said, a bit indignantly. "Well, in that case, the wine."

"There, I told you. You find a good seamstress as soon as you get settled in. It'll look lovely."

Claudia shooed Julia back toward the family rooms, and Gaius heaved a sigh of relief.

Lucius chortled, and Gaius did his best to ignore him -- until Lucius elbowed him.

"Good lad. You just keep doing that. Doesn't matter if she ends up with an arse like an hippopotamus -- just keep telling her she's beautiful, and you'll do fine for the rest of your life."

He couldn't avoid going to bed at a decent hour that night, due to the early start the next morning: but he'd thought Julia was already asleep when he got under the covers.

"Oh. They're decent sorts, I suppose. Most of them. I told you Mater was generous -- don't even bother to argue, next time, it's much easier that way."

"I won't. I'm just not used to.... I like her very much...." she murmured, dropping back off to sleep.

Lovely, he thought sourly. Just what I need -- a wife taking Bossy-Boots Matron lessons from the mater.

Not that he didn't adore his mother: like almost every other Roman he'd ever met, he did. She was just so.... Well, if the pater was Emperor of his business and his children's adult lives, she was Empress of her home, of her husband's welfare, and her children's early lives.

The idea of Julia becoming even remotely like her and trying to take charge of his life was terrifying.

As much as he wanted to get away from home and his mater's sharp, watchful eyes -- and the possibility of Julia letting slip that all was not as it should be -- leaving was wrenching. He would have been happy never to leave Albingaunum, had that been possible: had the opportunity existed to study as he wanted, and had the pater not made such a total nuisance of himself. He'd missed the mater and Longinia minor, and Lucius and Dru and their brood, and the peaceful hills up beyond the villa

And, too, when they left, he'd have to face "It." "It" was being really alone with Julia, as the head and master of a household (or would be, when they found a house). To have to deal with her all on his own, with few available distractions.

He didn't have time to brood over it, though: Longinia minor made certain of that. He'd fully intended to sneak out of the house that morning -- they were leaving well before daybreak -- and had, in fact, cuddled Longinia for a long time the night before, and stolen in to the nursery to kiss her good-bye as she slept, leaving a funny little note for her on her pillow.

The problem was, she woke just before they were ready to leave -- and she was currently plastered against Gaius, sobbing her heart out. He was terrified to pry her arms off him for fear of hurting her.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Gaius, peel her off," the pater bellowed. "You're going to miss the tide, at this rate."

Gaius shot him a filthy look, struggled with Longinia a bit, and gave up as she dug her fingernails into his back and squalled louder.

"Come along, Lucius," Claudia said firmly. "Let's go make certain Hyperion hasn't forgot anything."

"I know, I know. Come along," she insisted, and dragged him out the front door.

Nanny started to reach for Longinia, and Julia shook her head and quietly said, "It's all right. We'll bring her to the nursery -- why don't you go back to bed?"

The woman stared at her a bit suspiciously -- no-one was good enough to deal with her baby properly, not even Gaius (especially Gaius) -- but she knew her place and shuffled off.

Gaius had no idea what Julia was up to, but he bloody well hoped she'd do it soon: they really were in danger of missing the tide.

She walked over to the lectus just outside the tablinum, and motioned for Gaius to come over and sit: he did, awkwardly -- Longinia's legs were clamped around him.

"Longinia," she said gently -- when she'd got control of herself -- "I know you've missed Gaius very much, haven't you?"

"I don't blame you. I think he's missed you, too. Not many brothers are so kind to their little sisters."

"And so much of this visit was taken up with silly things, too. It's probably never long enough, don't you think? When you love someone very much?"

"No, it's not," Longinia declared, and turned her face to Julia. (Maybe one of these stupid adults actually knew how she was feeling....)

"Right. So perhaps the trick is to be as happy as you can be for as long as you have, and part sweetly, so there are no regrets or unhappy memories."

"You'd miss your mater, then. I would," Julia said calmly, ignoring him. "She seems a very nice mater. And Gaius will be very busy with work and his studies -- it really shouldn't be much fun for you, just hanging about the house with me. There are always letters, you know -- I know you're a clever girl and you read well. Hasn't Gaius written you before?"

"Sometimes," Longinia said sullenly. "Not enough. And he never tells me about the things I really want to know."

"Oh, I see. Well, he's a man -- he can't always tell what girls are interested in. Perhaps if you write him straight off and tell him exactly what you want to know, he might do better?"

"I'll make certain he writes, I promise." She reached over and wiped Longinia's cheeks with gentle fingers. "I'll make it my first priority."

"Yes, sweetheart, I will. As often as you like. And I'll be sure to tell you all about Rome. It's going to be quite an adventure for me, you know -- and I may notice things that Gaius takes for granted. All right?"

Longinia finally released her death-grip on Gaius and reached for Julia, kissed her soundly, and gave her a massive squidge for good measure: Gaius felt very awkward, with Longinia still on his lap and Julia's smooth, dark head leaning down into the hug, practically against his chest.

"You'll take good care of him?" he heard Longinia ask Julia, still glued to her. "He doesn't have a bit of sense, mater says."

Julia finally extricated herself, murmured, "I'll be outside," to Gaius as Longinia snuggled back into his arms, and left: and Gaius staggered to his feet and took Longinia back to the nursery and tucked her back in bed.

"Yes, Pet, I will. I'm sorry I haven't much, before -- I thought you were perfectly happy, and I was so busy...." he managed to say quite patiently (Julia had, it seemed, managed to calm him down as well as Longinia). "I'll try to do better."

He snugged the blanket up under her chin and about her shoulders, kissed her forehead, and hurried out to the wagon before the pater had a massive explosion.

"That was quite a trick," he mumbled to Julia as the wagon jolted down the road. "Once she's in the middle of a full-blown fit it's almost impossible to get her to see reason. I'd think you'd entranced her, if I didn't know better."

"No, you just have to look at it from her point of view," Julia said calmly, "and once she understands that you're not dismissing her concerns, she'll listen."

"Totally spoilt, both of you," the pater muttered gloomily. "I shouldn't wonder if she goes the same way as you, Gaius. I'm packing her off to you two, when she does."

Julia merely laughed, and Gaius tried to ignore it when his mater reached over, clasped Julia's hand, and didn't let go until they reached the port.

Albingaunum Port was rather sleepy, despite being the base for Corvinus Shipping. Most of the perishable goods the town needed came overland from the Ligurian interior and Cisalpine Gaul, so there wasn't the rush and tussle of many ships trying to deliver them before they rotted in the holds: but there was a certain urgency to those departing with their amphorae of oil, wine, grain, and the occasional shipment of barrels of the more highly-prized shellfish or of snow for the tables of Rome's epicureans.

The Circe, however, was taking passengers and oil only on this trip, and its captain was in no particular rush providing they caught the morning tide: so Lucius took great pleasure in showing Julia about the ship as Hyperion stowed Julia's clothes-chest, Gaius' bundle and his own, and the box of cuttings.

The mater, standing at the rail amidships, seemed nervous: so Gaius slipped his arm about her for a cuddle.

"Julia said she didn't think her family would come into town to see her off, that's all."

"They're not that far from town," his mother said, sniffing her disapproval. "They might have made an effort."

"Why didn't you have them to dinner again, then, if you're that upset about it?"

"I offered. That man said he 'didn't want to intrude on your time with her.' Meaning all of us, I mean, not just you."

"Well, that's reasonable...." Gaius said after sorting through his mother's typically-cluttered language. "What do you mean, 'that man'?"

His mother bit her lip and finally admitted, "I don't like him at all. And not just because he's an arrogant sod. There's something... not right, there."

Gaius -- despite his own conviction of just that -- laughed and hugged her tighter.

"Mum, you're imagining things," he said, "that, or you've been listening to Publius' mater too much. Nigellus has spoilt her as much as Pater's spoiling Longinia, with all that education. And Julia's said he'll be sending plants in the spring, so it's not as though he's abandoning her. Gods know he's provided for her financially."

"No you haven't," Claudia said stubbornly. "I'll wager I know more about her than you."

"Nothing -- that's the point. Every single time I tried to ask about her family, she answered me in generalities. Polite, and she managed to be graceful about it, but I could tell she was treading very carefully."

"No, don't you dare tell me I'm a silly old worry-wart. You listen to me on this," she insisted, and clutched at his arm and forced him to look into her kind, worried eyes, "I've a great deal more experience than you when it comes to figuring out people. She hasn't been raised as you have -- not that I'm saying she's been treated badly, but I think she's not used to being treated kindly, do you see the difference? She was shocked, absolutely shocked, when I wanted her to take those silks -- one of them, never mind both. It was like she was overwhelmed that someone should want to give her something beautiful for no reason at all other than enjoying her pleasure with it."

"She didn't expect it of you, that's all -- though she should have, after you gave her leave to take half the garden with us. Maters-in-law don't usually go as wild as you --"

"If you'd use your eyes you'd think differently, you blockhead. Did you even look at the contract?"

"Really. Wouldn't you say that a man as wealthy as that should provide a daughter with something more than a few bits of jewelry, four tunics, two cloaks, and three pairs of shoes?"

"Oh, Gaius. Even little Longinia has a better wardrobe than that," Claudia scolded. "And I happen to know that those atrocious earrings and her pallae were wedding-gifts from that nasty old auntie of hers. I'll wager that wedding-dinner was the finest she's seen, too."

"You'd best make your point, Mater," Gaius said, eyes on the dock. "That man is coming, after all."

Claudia whipped 'round, waved cheerily at Nigellus -- who sent a curt nod back -- and then turned back to Gaius and spoke more urgently.

"Alone -- I should have guessed, couldn't be bothered to bring the poor girl's mater," she hissed. "What I mean to say, Gaius, is that you need to take great care with her. She's not used to speaking up for herself or looking out for her own interests -- not that she won't take care of you properly, but I don't think she'll be very careful with herself. She'll just tuck herself up in a corner with all those books and she won't even try to enjoy herself, because she doesn't know how -- so you'll have to encourage her. Take her out a bit, get her some pretty things -- show her you care for her, all right? And for the gods' sakes, don't hold what your pater's done against her."

"I will be, I think. Just -- pull your nose out of your scrolls and really look at her sometime, Gaius. Try to make her happy, and I think you will be too."

"You have a fine day for it, Gaius Longinius," Nigellus called over to them, picking his way across the piles of ropes along the deck.

"I hope it stays that way," Gaius said. "It can turn suddenly, even in the Gulf."

"Was Antonia Nigella unable to come, Nigellus? I hope she's not ill," Claudia said brightly.

"No, but her aunt is rather unwell," he said. "The excitement of the last week, I think. Antonia thought it best that she stay with her."

"What a pity -- I think Julia should have liked to see her again before the trip. Shall I fetch Julia? Lucius is talking her ear off -- probably whittering on about hull construction if I know him, the poor girl. I'll be back with her directly."

"You look rather more composed than when I last saw you," Nigellus noted, leaning against the rail. "Julia is being agreeable?"

"Certainly," Gaius said. "Mater's quite taken with her, and I think it's mutual. And Pater adores her."

"Good. She can, occasionally, be obstreperous. Just a word as to that -- if she ever behaves badly, simply take the books away for a time. That usually works."

"I really came down to see you," Nigellus continued, unperturbed, as he drew a square of parchment from his purse. "I've had a draft drawn up for the remainder of the agreement. The banker's name and the address is above the seal -- it's not the same we deposited the allowances with. I thought perhaps you'd like to keep the transactions separate."

"Thank you," Gaius said. "I can't give you a receipt at the moment, all my things are packed --"

"Send it later if you must, when you've found rooms," Nigellus said lazily. "I'm perfectly comfortable with a gentlemen's agreement."

They stood silent for a few uncomfortable moments: Nigellus apparently had no other words of wisdom to offer (for which Gaius was grateful).

"I, ah, I will do my best to take care of Julia," Gaius finally said awkwardly.

"Oh, I'm certain you will," Nigellus said quickly, "not that it should be difficult. She's been raised to be obedient. Do not," he added, "be afraid to discipline her, if necessary. I rather imagine she might kick up her heels, a bit." He pursed his lips and tapped at the rail with impatient fingers -- Claudia was apparently taking too long and setting him behind schedule.

It wasn't so much that Julius Nigellus apparently thought of his daughter as a child: that was a given. That's what women were, after all -- you had to look after them as if they were children, and they had the same legal status. But for Nigellus to speak so casually of disciplining her, as if she were a dog or a horse.... And he obviously expected Gaius to do just that. It was a disturbing change, for a man who just a few days ago had referred to her as "precious cargo."

Lucius suddenly poked his head out of the hold, clambered out, and bent to help Julia up the ladder (so he had been rhapsodising about the hull, after all, but she looked none the worse for it, although much more solemn than when Gaius had last seen her, laughing at the pater's attempts at wit.)

Nigellus pushed off the rail and walked over to them as Lucius helped Claudia up.

"Julia Corvina. Your mater couldn't come with me, but she sends her love," Nigellus said. "You're well?"

"Good. Write me as soon as you're settled. Take care of your husband, and obey him as you would me," he demanded, eyes hard on hers.

She met his look steadily: Gaius was quite impressed. It wasn't easy to stare Nigellus down.

"Very well. May fortune smile on you both," he said, and bent and kissed her cheek. "Corvinus, I'll see you at the next meeting?"

And with a nod to Claudia and Gaius, he left, carefully climbing down the ladder to the dock and striding off.

"Julia," Lucius said carefully and with no little puzzlement as he put an arm about her, "don't take this the wrong way, my girl, but your pa's an odd fish."

"He's very reserved," she said quietly. "He doesn't care to show his emotions in public."

"Hades, I hope we haven't shocked you, then. We're a bloody raucous lot, we Corvinii."

"Not at all," she said, smiling -- the difference was amazing: it was as though the sun had come out from the clouds. "I don't mind at all."

"Good," Lucius said, and bussed her soundly on the cheek. "I'm afraid it's time to go, now. Claudia, best get it over with --"

"He's in the cabin, boy, already green about the gills. Forgot to tell you -- he's a puker. All he has to do it think about sailing and he's gone."

"Thanks, Pater," Gaius retorted sourly. "You might've said before -- I'd have waited until there was a ship with an extra cabin...."

In his haste to get back to Rome Gaius had taken the first available ship -- a corbita rather than a passenger-packet -- and there was no room for Hyperion unless he slept on the floor of their cabin.

"Well, it'll keep him out of trouble when you land, for a few days at least," Lucius said. "You'll thank me for that, later." He stepped over to Gaius and, much to his son's surprise, clasped his arm and shook it heartily.

"The gods go with you, son," he said under his breath. "I've warded her from stem to stern and done everything I can to see you get there safely. From there on it's up to you -- for Jove's sake, don't muck it up. Take care of each other, and be happy."

Claudia had flung her arms about Julia -- rather as Longinia had done to Gaius earlier, but without the leg-lock, obviously -- and was close to blubbering. Poor Julia was bewildered by the outburst, and patted at Claudia's back.

"Come along," Lucius said, and gently disentangled them. "Give her a kiss and let's be off."

Claudia kissed Julia's cheeks and adjusted the girl's cloak more snugly about her: then she darted to Gaius for a quick hug -- and then Lucius chivvied her down the ladder and they stood watching as the ship cast off and pushed away from the dock, heading out of the harbour.

Julia moved close to the rail and watched as they grew smaller and smaller, and waved back at them until the ship breached the breakwater and made for the open Gulf.

"Well, we don't want to go to the cabin yet, not until Hyperion's lost as much of his breakfast as possible. Do you want to see before us or behind us? The bow is the front, and the stern --"

She thought about it a moment, cheeks flushed, and then said, quite decisively, "The bow, I think. Yes, the bow. I want to look ahead."

He escorted her up to the bow and they watched the sun pinking the underside of the clouds as the little ship gobbled up the stadia, until Gaius reckoned Hyperion had finished his grand purge.