Unnamed Roman Fic, Part III

"You stubborn old --" Gaius muttered, and gingerly bent to pick up the brimming pot that sat on the floor, next to the slave's pallet.

"Hang on," Hyperion croaked, and after a fraught moment gave up the fight and spewed into it again.

"Perhaps you'd better go outside for a bit longer --" Gaius said to Julia over his shoulder.

"I'm perfectly all right," she said steadily, and turned to rummage in her chest. "I'd rather stay and take care of him, actually."

"Might've put you off, and I damned well wasn't going to let you go without me," Hyperion muttered.

"I simply would have sent you overland. Of course we wouldn't see you for six months -- you'd stop at every tavern along the route."

"I suspected something like this might happen, and I brought some herbs that should help. I only need to heat water and borrow a mixing bowl."

"No, perfectly straightforward, no incantation involved. I think it will settle his stomach. If he's this ill straight off...."

Gaius took another look at Hyperion's face, considering. Julia was right: good gods, if just sailing out of the harbour was doing this to him, Gaius hated to think what would happen if a storm came up, and he decided it was worth the risk.

Gaius picked up the pot -- doing his best to minimise sloshing -- left the cabin (on-deck, thankfully, so no ladders to negotiate), dumped it over the side, went in search of the Circe's master, and found him at the stern giving instructions to the pilot.

"Started already? Which is it -- your lovely wife, or the old man?" Postumus Gallus asked with a grin and a nod at the pot.

Gallus was one of Corvinus' most experienced captains: a valued company asset, he'd been a frequent visitor at villa Corvinii when he was in port, and Gaius knew him well enough to feel comfortable asking the favour -- particularly as Gallus had seen things that, as a non-magical, he shouldn't, and they hadn't seemed to faze him. Apparently anything that helped get his ship safely into port was fine with Gallus.

"Him. Look," Gaius said, drawing him away from the pilot, "Julia Corvina's father is a physician, and she's picked up a bit from him. She thinks she has something to settle Hyperion's stomach, but she needs to use the cook's fire for a moment."

"Weather looks good, so we're going to risk cutting directly across deeper water toward Portus -- things should calm down in a bit. By the way, congratulations, Gaius Longinius."

Gaius hurried back to the cabin and found Julia curled up at one end of the pallet, with Hyperion's head in her lap.

(Well, it was the least he could do for the old man -- Hyperion had patched him up more times Gaius could remember, and watched out for him during more than a few spectacular drinking sessions.)

"I don't know what you're talking about," Gaius retorted as he settled in Julia's spot and dabbed awkwardly at Hyperion's forehead.

"Yes you do." Hyperion had to stop and heave for a bit -- nothing left to bring up, thankfully -- and lapsed back onto the pallet. "Here you've been thinking she's going to be nothing but a nuisance, and she's already proving her worth."

"You don't know what I've been thinking, you old wretch. And let's see if the damned potion does any good first, shall we?"

Hyperion couldn't reply. He was too busy dealing with another bout of the heaves.

The potion did work, thankfully. By Day Three of the voyage Hyperion was on his feet again, and was able to keep down the simple ship's meals of bread, porridge, and the occasional sausage.

Gaius hoped he never had to make another trip like this again. It wasn't the the sailing itself -- that was remarkably calm, for Gallus had instructions not to push the ship too fast, given the importance of her passengers to Lucius Longinius. It was simply too unnerving for Gaius, trying to sleep on his pallet with Julia beside him, and with Hyperion just a few steps away.

"Don't let me put you off it, boy," Hyperion muttered to Gaius when he was feeling more himself and they were alone. "We slaves have a tendency toward deafness, you know -- won't concern me at all if you want to do your duty."

Gaius glared at him, and Hyperion sniggered. (He was most definitely feeling better.)

Fine. Let the old man think he was a prim, repressed git. It was better than telling him the truth and putting up with the resultant disbelief and lectures.

In truth, Gaius was finding it easier to deal with the more lustful portion of his nature, at the moment. Although Hyperion made an effort to give them time alone -- once he was able to stagger out of the cabin, at least -- there wasn't much opportunity for Gaius' libido to weight in with its opinion. Julia spent every available daylight moment on deck, tucked into a corner out of the sailors' way, with her nose buried in a scroll or watching the distant shores as the corbita flew along.

Gallus must have noticed that her face was looking a bit pink, for by mid-morning on the second day he'd ordered a sailor to rig up a bit of canvas over her little nook to protect her from the worst of the sun and wind. She repaid the favour a day later, when one of the ship's boys slipped and cut his foot on a bit of metal, by insisting on tending to it herself -- there was no ship's physician, not on such a small trading vessel -- and cleaned the filthy little boy's foot, slathered it with something or other from the pharmacopeia in her clothes-chest, and wrapped it well, so the poor little bugger wouldn't lose the foot to infection.

The crew was impressed, and showed it by being on their best behavior (which wasn't terribly good, but far better than usual). Passengers on a merchant ship were a nuisance, and sailors usually made no effort to conceal their disgust with them: Gaius was an exception, as the pater had seen to it that he knew what he was about on a ship, and he knew well enough when to leave the crew alone to their work. But Julia had earned their respect by staying the Hades out of their way and by taking care of the least of them. (Hyperion earned it by drinking several of them under the table, the evening of the fifth day as they were due to sail into Portus. He was nearly back to one hundred percent by then.)

Gaius occasionally bothered to borrow the pilot's map and show Julia their position in relation to the coastline, and found that answering her questions and speaking with her wasn't the chore he'd assumed it would be. She had a decent grasp of geography, and had picked up a fair understanding of basic navigation by listening to Gallus and the pilot. Gaius was rather pleased with that: while on the one hand she was only his wife and would have no earthly use for such knowledge or skills, it proved that she had a quick and logical mind, and could apply what she'd learned in books to practical matters.

He did engage in one rather sneaky and slightly dishonest pursuit, though. One morning, when Julia was safely installed in her little nest on deck and Hyperion was occupied with a game of knuckle-bones with some of the crew, Gaius slipped back into the cabin and opened her clothes-chest to have a look. He reasoned that she hadn't locked it, and she was his wife -- it wasn't as if she had a right to keep things hidden from him.... And he'd been intrigued that she'd had the forethought to pack basic medical supplies, as well. He wanted to see what else she prized too highly to consign to the hold, and what other contingencies she might have allowed for. To get the measure of her mind and how orderly she was, in short.

There was nothing surprising, really. Two extra tunics, a cloak, two stolae and a spare palla, neatly folded; a pair of little fur-lined boots -- she must have thought that it might be cold at night, but the weather had been agreeable, so far; a comb, several tooth-cloths and a jar of tooth-paste; a bundle of rags for which he couldn't see a purpose, not yet having a close acquaintance with a woman's monthly cycle; and a box of funny little bits and bobs -- hair-pins and an old fillet which he hadn't yet seen her wear, shoulder-clasps for the tunics, and an extra brooch for her pallae.

There was something odd about the box, though. It wouldn't have seemed so to a non-magical, but to Gaius' wizard's eye it looked much deeper than it ought be. It was also warded, and he didn't dare try to spring the ward -- he didn't know if he could successfully re-set it, and suspected she might feel the difference in their magical signatures.

That bore looking into. It was probably nothing sinister: perhaps the jewelry that had come to her at marriage, or a magical text that she didn't want to leave about where a non-magical might find it. He'd have to find out later.

The remainder of the chest was taken up with her bundle of herbs and ointments and a few scrolls of non-magical receipts for tonics and the like -- basic, housewifely receipts than any good Roman matron would have. The silk his mater had pressed on her was there, too, carefully wrapped in a piece of linen to prevent it being soiled, and another little box of carefully-sealed ink, a pen, a stylus, and a few wax-tablets.

And there were scrolls. Many of them. He took a quick glance at the titles: they were all literature, almost all fiction and poetry, though there were a few significant histories thrown in for good measure, though seldom a complete set. (They weren't particularly fine editions, either -- they were scribbled in a cramped, slightly untidy hand, and with rather eccentric shorthand, in places. He wondered if she hadn't transcribed them herself.)

Had Gaius been just a bit more aware of Things Feminine, he probably would have noted more clues. He missed rather a lot, as it happened. He missed the quality of the fabric of her tunics: not the worst, by any means, but plain and unornamented and just a bit less fine than it should have been, given Nigellus' wealth. (Had he looked at the difference between the fabric of the tunics and that of the stolae and palla, he might have made the connection.) That the tunic-clasps, while generally acceptable, were quite old, the enameling chipped here and there, and that the hair-pins and other ornaments were plain and utilitarian. He did not note the absence of cosmetics, but that was not entirely his fault -- she was too beautiful to require much help, and the sun and wind were keeping her nicely pink, at present, despite her little tent on the deck.

The portrait a more worldly man might have constructed from the chest's contents was quite different from that one might expect of the daughter of even a well-to-do, if not actually wealthy, man. Gaius missed, in short, that his mater had nailed the problem down quite precisely, and he had no cause to admit that she was right until much later, when even his bookish, uneducated and inexperienced eye began to see the difference between his wife's accoutrements and those of women of a similar station.

But there was nothing that seemed terribly unusual to him now, except for the scrolls -- and she'd warned him that she was a reader, far more than the usual woman, so he had no reason to complain about them. Feeling ever-so-slightly miffed at not finding anything objectionable -- other than the warded box, which he would withhold judgement on, for the time being -- Gaius carefully re-packed the chest as she had left it and wandered back out onto the deck to attend to his own reading and to gossip with Gallus about the state of the shipping business.

If Julia noticed that her clothes-chest had been picked through she never mentioned it, and Gaius never confessed.

All in all it was a surprisingly easy, and even pleasant, voyage: Gaius felt as if he were in a kind of limbo, suspended between the expectations of duty and obedience at home, and the responsibilities of work and his soon-to-be household in Rome.

Portus Harbour was teeming with ships, and the Circe had to wait a bit before she could be pulled into a slip to initiate the chaos that attended the unloading of the cargo -- some of which were items for the Corvinus household.

Primus was waiting on the dock when the Circe pulled in, and grinned cheekily when he saw Gaius on deck.

"Didn't, really. Got a report from the Heracles when she docked two days ago," Primus bawled back. "Said they'd passed a Corvinus ship on her way in, and Ursus figured you might be on her -- hang on a mo, I'll come aboard."

Primus scrambled up the ladder as soon as it was thrown down, and in an excess of enthusiasm threw his arms about Gaius.

"You look well -- she must be agreeing with you," Primus said after he drew back. "Anyway, look, I'd told Ursus you didn't have rooms yet, and he said if you needed to store anything in the meanwhile to just chuck it in with today's loads -- he'll keep it all in the warehouse until you've found a place."

"Hades, I hadn't even thought of asking. I was going to hire storage down here."

There was, in fact, quite a lot to drag all the way up to Rome. The silk had not been the only thing Gaius' mater had insisted they take with them: she'd seemed determined that Gaius and Julia have decent things to set up house with, even if they were second-hand, and had sent two lecti (one of them the beautiful little bridal-bed, Gaius was embarrassed to note), two crates of pots and pans and dishes, her old loom, and a few tables and chairs that had seen honourable service but were now deemed a bit too shabby for villa Corvinii. Add to that whatever Julia's family had sent along with her -- and Gaius had no idea what, as he hadn't bothered to read the inventory included in the marriage contract or had the gall to open the crate in the hold -- and there was quite a pile of baggage to be hauled away.

But Primus wasn't paying him a bit of attention: his eyes were fixed on the deck-house, and Gaius turned to see what he was staring at.

Julia, of course. She had both Gaius' and Hyperion's bundles, and Hyperion was lugging her clothes-chest out onto the deck.

"Oh, bloody --" Primus said, and dragged his eyes back to Gaius. "You lucky, lucky dog."

"Oh, please tell me she's not, and I'll take my chances with her husband. Damn, Gaius --"

"I do, my man, I do, but that delectable a bit of honey-cake is just...." For once, Primus was at a loss for words, and simply waved his hands about. "Don't worry, I won't tread on your territory. Jupiter, your pater didn't do badly at all, did he?" Primus adjusted his toga nervously, and ducked behind Gaius to spit on his hand and smooth his cow-lick down.

That remains to be seen, Gaius thought sourly. Although, to be fair, she really hadn't been much trouble at all, to this point.

"Primus Eugenus," he said formally as Julia joined them over at the rail, "my wife, Julia." (He managed not to stumble over that word, thankfully.)

"Julia Corvina," Primus said, suddenly standing straight and nervously playing with the edge of this toga. "Welcome to Rome. Or Portus, rather."

"Primus is my junior at Ursus Imports," Gaius explained. "Happened to be down here today to deal with some shipments."

"Wait till you see how much gear we have," Gaius said wryly. "You may not have room for us too."

He nodded to one corner of the dock, where the sailors and dock-workers were separating the Corvinus household goods from the rest of the cargo.

"Might be right, my man -- let me go get carriers and we'll start loading. I'd only hired four wagons, today."

"But a good sort. Not quite our type," Gaius said carefully, giving her the accepted code phrase that warned her of a non-magical. "In fact, we're a very, very small percentage of the population. You'll have to take care."

"Well, let's get on with it, Gaius," Hyperion wheezed. "I want to have land under m'feet again."

Gaius clambered down the ladder with ease, and caught Julia around the waist to help her find her footing on the dock: Hyperion slung down their things and followed with himself, and stumbled about the dock for a moment, getting his land-legs back.

"Off already, are you?" Gallus called down from the deck, grinning. "Are you all sorted?"

"Ursus left instructions to chuck our things in with his," Gaius called back up. "We're fine, Gallus -- didn't want to bother you. Thank you for your hospitality. Send a note to the office, next time you're able to stay in port."

"Where to?" Hyperion asked. (He'd given up trying to walk, for the moment, and was sitting on the chest.)

"We see if Primus has room for us as well as the baggage, and if not, we'll have to hire a cart at an inn."

"How long will it take to get to Rome?" a small voice at his elbow piped up. Gaius started: he knew it was Julia, of course, but it sounded so unlike her usual calm and straightforward self.

She had drawn closer to him and was a bit pale, now, and looked uncertain, watching the mass of humanity swirl about them, busy with unloading and hauling. Gaius took a moment and tried to see it all through her eyes: she was used to seeing a few ships in Albingaunum's small port, not this seething hive of activity. And if Portus was this large and busy, how much larger and more frightening must Rome itself be....

"We'll be there by evening," he said quietly, and unthinkingly put his arm about her shoulders to soothe her, as he would with Longinia or the mater. "And I doubt we'll actually go into the city tonight -- it will be easier to find an inn outside the walls."

"My room isn't in a suitable part of the Aventine for you, at least after dark -- Mater would kill me if she knew I'd dragged you all the way in. So we'll stay in an inn, and tomorrow we can find an agent and start looking for suitable rooms."

Well, it's true -- Mater would fuss. And I really don't want her knowing where the room is....

"Come along, now," he said briskly, and picked up the two bundles. "Let's see how Primus is doing with the baggage."

"But we mightn't be able to find rooms for some time," Julia panted as she trotted beside Gaius. "Aren't inns terribly expensive?"

And he could, at least for a few days. But he might have to stop at the banker's to cash in her pater's note. Soon.

They stopped at the Temple of Portumnus to offer appropriate thanks for a safe voyage, as did most travelers, pushing their way through the crowds that had gathered to celebrate the god's festival (Gaius had lost track of the festival-day -- shameful for someone in shipping, but he had been a bit distracted recently). It was foolishness, really: Gaius certainly believed that there was a power in the universe other than human ingenuity -- he could hardly believe otherwise, being a wizard -- but he didn't think gods had anything to do with it. The gods, he thought, were made up by non-magicals to explain the inexplicable.

The crowd -- many of the participants well-lubricated with wine -- did nothing to put Julia more at ease.

By the time they'd finished and left the temple all the baggage was sorted. Primus had been able to wedge all their things in the last wagon, but they were obviously on their own when in came to getting to Rome.

"No, no, don't worry over it. I'm just thrilled Ursus gave us leave for this. We'll be fine. Look, I need to find rooms tomorrow -- can you let the old man know I'll be in the day after?"

"He said to take all the time you need, you know -- I haven't mucked things up too badly yet."

"I know, but I'll stop in, at least. Let him know how the looking is going, and how soon I can be back full time."

"Right-oh. I'll see you then." Primus pulled himself up on the wagon and grinned down at Gaius. "Don't wear yourself out tonight, my man -- you need your energy to walk half-way 'round Rome tomorrow."

"Thanks," Gaius shot back sarcastically, and hoped Julia hadn't caught Primus' implication. (It was actually quite restrained, for Primus.)

"Not on paperwork, but in execution -- Look, let me hire us a cart, and I'll explain on the way."

She nodded, and Gaius took off for the nearest inn and stable-yard to find transport.

"The problem with Primus," Gaius said as they trundled along Via Portuensis, the three of them snug in the little cart, "is that he jumps on things too quickly. Part of that excitability. The wagons, for example. It's all very well to be in Portus or Ostia first thing in the morning -- you need to be, to check the manifests against the cargo -- but it isn't as simple as getting that done, chucking the things into wagons or barges, and taking off. You want to minimise the cost to your employer, and things like the portage charges eat into that.

"If Ursus had a warehouse on the Tiber, everything would be fine. The barges can go right in and unload on the dock there at any time."

"That's what they're doing?" Julia asked, nodding over toward the channel and tow-path that snaked alongside the road, the oxen and their drivers tiny, plodding dots in the distance.

"Right. You hire for the day if you don't have a standing contract with a company or own a barge yourself, and they're towed up the channel and straight into Rome. It can save on the docking fees at Portus, too, because smaller-drafted boats can come out and load up in the harbour and nip on up or transfer the goods to the barges. But it depends on the cargo -- some things don't lend themselves to that treatment, and there's the disadvantage of having the shipment broken up and losing sight of bits of it for a while. If you don't have a trustworthy portage company on contract, it can be risky.

"This is a moot point for Ursus, because his warehouse is land-locked -- he's not one of the larger companies, and the rents for a warehouse on the river are pretty high. He's got a choice of hiring barges and paying docking fees to the other owners, or of bringing things in overland in wagons. That's usually what we do.

"But you can't just trundle things into Rome at any old time. Wheeled conveyances are forbidden inside the walls in the daytime, unless they're bringing building materials to a site. So the trick is to take possession of the cargo and to arrange for the wagons to pick it up later in the day, so the gates will be open to traffic by the time you reach Rome -- but not too late, so you're not waiting in line and end up unloading in the middle of the night. If you've had to hire extra wagons you don't want to do that, because the blighters will charge you overtime."

"And that adds up, over time," Julia guessed, rasing her voice over Hyperion's snores.

"Exactly. So many big things that you can't control can eat into the profit -- damaged cargo, a lost ship, theft -- that you want to minimise as much as possible the losses you can prevent. The larger companies do so by having their own full fleet of drivers and barges on salary, but Ursus can't afford that. Or he could, but if you have good managers, you don't need to -- and you come out ahead in the long run."

"He's getting there -- he's young, yet, only seventeen, and he hadn't the advantage of being born into the business. I'm usually able to bring the portage in four per cent lower than he can, barring any accidents between the port and Rome, and over the course of a year that adds up quite a bit. He's still learning the subtleties, like properly scheduling the deliveries, but I think as he matures and settles down he'll do fine."

"I'm an asset, certainly. He's actually hinted at bringing me into the partnership, which would mean staying as his manager for five to seven years to pay for a share, rather than investing in it financially, and I don't want to make that commitment. But Ursus has been good to me, so I'd like to bring Primus along and then turn it over to him when he's ready -- and then I can really take the time to study."

Much to Gaius surprise, Julia gave him an approving look and said, "That seems sensible." He'd rather thought she might quibble -- what he'd planned made sense when he had only himself to look out for, when he'd not had the worry and expenditure of a household.

"I suppose, then," she continued, "that a house near the gates would not be particularly desirable, if there's a great deal of traffic at night."

"Exactly," he said, pleased that she'd caught that bit. "Or on one of the main thoroughfares, either. Not if you want a good night's sleep."

She nodded, and turned to watch the tow-path and take in the activity along the road.

They stopped a mile outside of the city walls at dusk, at an inn with fairly exorbitant rates but which also possessed, Gaius knew, a minimum of bed-bugs: Hyperion dragged Julia's chest up to their room and then announced his intention to retire to the tavern next door for his dinner (probably liquid), and Gaius gave him leave. He'd had a rough trip, after all, and Gaius was perfectly capable of taking care of himself and Julia for one evening.

"There's a restaurant across the road," Gaius proposed after Hyperion scarpered. "The food's probably rather more edible than downstairs...."

"I.... I'm rather tired, actually, Gaius," Julia said awkwardly. "I'm not at all certain I could eat, at the moment. You should go ahead, I don't mean to keep you back."

That surprised him. She'd had no problem with meals aboard ship, and had had nothing to eat but bread and cheese at mid-day.

He took a stab at the probable cause, remembering her horror at the mention of dinner-parties and the way she'd been overwhelmed with the activity in Portus.

"You're going to have to get used to this, you know," he said. "The noise and the crowds, I mean. You'll have a lot of responsibility -- we can't afford more than a cook, and I realise that Hyperion won't be that useful. You'll have to go out sometime."

"Yes, I know," she murmured, face pinched with tension. "I'd just.... Never mind, let me wash up a bit, first," she added as she moved to the wash-basin in the corner: all their earlier ease with each other had disappeared, and her voice was tight with formality.

"I don't mean to rush you," he said, and scrubbed at his face, irritated with himself. "I can have the servant bring something up, it's not a problem."

"No, really. It's just as well -- we ought get an early start in the morning. It's going to be a long day. You're right, I'd just thought something more substantial would be nice, but it can wait. Sit down and rest."

He took off down the stairs to order something from the servant, before Julia could object further.

It was a largely silent meal as Gaius fought with his curiosity and his lack of courage -- and then he finally said, "I thought you might be more excited than afraid of it all, you see. You didn't seem worried on the ship. It isn't that different than Albingaunum, it's just on a larger scale. Didn't you ever go into town?"

"Very seldom," she admitted quietly. "Two or three times, perhaps. And the once, when we first sailed in, but I was too young to remember much of that."

"You were stuck all the way out there, at your pater's house, for... what was it, ten years?"

No, by the gods, it wasn't, at least not in Gaius' experience. Longinia minor didn't go into town often, of course, although the pater had been known to take her in to the office so she could see the ships (she really was his pet as well as Gaius'): but Longinia major often went in with their mother, so she could learn to be a good housewife. Almost all girls did, even if their paters and potential marriage partners were wealthy enough to provide servants -- one had to know how the household should be run, including things like haggling over prices at the market, to be certain one wasn't taken advantage of by either merchants or servants.

"I think --" Gaius said carefully, "-- and bear in mind that my family might be a bit unusual -- that it's a bit... extreme. You'll have much more autonomy here," (he almost slipped and said 'freedom'), "and you'll get used to it. You'll have to, I'm afraid."

"I shall," she murmured. "I'm sorry, Gaius, I hadn't expected to feel so... cowed by it all."

"No, don't apologise. And I imagine you'll get over it as soon as you find the nearest library," he said wryly.

She smiled, and concentrated on picking at (but not really eating) the watery stewed fruit they'd been offered for dessert.

He left for a while after they'd eaten, popping in at the tavern to check on Hyperion: it was packed and excessively loud, and it didn't bode well for a good nights' sleep for the travelers next door. Hyperion had, of course, found interesting activity -- a game of dice. (He was winning handily, and the other players didn't look pleased: Gaius wondered if Hyperion might actually have a bit of magic, after all. He was exceptionally lucky at games of chance.)

"Never you mind me," Hyperion shouted over the noise. "I'll get a pallet in the hallway or sleep in the stables. Give you two some privacy."

"No, boy, I'm fine -- get along with you. I'm on a winning streak, and I don't know how late I'll be," Hyperion shot back with a grin.

Gaius left him a sestertius, just in case. The old reprobate would probably lose all his winnings well before morning.

Julia was already tucked in and asleep -- despite the noise from next door -- by the time Gaius went upstairs, and he undressed as quietly as he could and slipped in beside her.

He'd got used to that in an alarmingly short space of time: used to sharing a bed, used to the sound of her steady breathing next to him, to the occasional jostle as she shifted in her sleep or unconsciously wriggled her cold feet closer to his, for warmth. He couldn't manage to be upset about it -- it was actually pleasant, at least when he didn't have to worry about her noticing his morning arousal, to wake with her beside him (although that hadn't happened often -- she was an earlier riser than he, in general).

He carefully shifted to his other side so he could watch her face in the moonlight that filtered through the window-lattice, and unthinkingly reached over to move a lock of hair out of her eyes: she was so vulnerable in sleep, and he'd begun to fight unexpected waves of tenderness toward her, then. It was strange, at these times, to feel toward her as he did toward Longinia, and at other times to have to fight a physical hunger for her that had nothing to do with love, and certainly not the kind of affection he felt for Longinia.

She possessed such an odd combination of traits, this woman. So straightforward and confident in her manner with him and her pater -- especially with her pater; so calm and collected, and yet a crowd of strangers, or even the thought of such, could evidently unnerve her, make her start and shrink away. She seemed unaware of how lovely she was, and uncomfortable with the stares of men who were. She was perfectly capable of carrying on an intelligent conversation, but didn't often initiate it herself. She felt strongly about some things -- her insistence on riding next to Hyperion in the cart, for example, rather than in the back with her things -- but she didn't often air her opinion, and Gaius wondered how many thoughts and wishes she'd bit back and not shared with him over the past week. Tonight she'd been tired and frightened, but rather than stating it outright, she'd apologised, confessed it like a naughty child admitting to breaking a bit of pottery, as if she felt she wasn't entitled to the normal human frailties of exhaustion and uncertainty and that Gaius' wish, as trivial as it was, took precedence.

Well, I suppose that's what some men expect, he thought. But damn it all, I'm not interested in forcing her to do anything. Can't she see that? Haven't I made that clear enough, from the very first second we met? By not forcing myself on her, even though it's my right?

She was going to need minding, obviously. His mater had got that in one, and not just in the sense she'd meant. They were going to have to start from the ground up -- Gaius was going to have to teach her about shopping and haggling with merchants, reasonable expectations on prices of any number of goods and services; to make certain that Hyperion went out with her to battle the crowds and help her be assertive with the many people who might try to take advantage. And then there was the whole matter of making certain she felt secure enough to do the things she wanted, as well as what she needed to do: he'd as good as guaranteed her that she'd be able to read and study -- and if he was judging things rightly, at this point she'd neglect that in favour of staying stuck at home, wherever that ended up being.

He found himself regretting many of the things he'd thought earlier -- the hope that she might be distracted by someone else, that she might grow tired of his indifference and his unwillingness to bed her and leave, of her own volition. (He doubted she would, she seemed so biddable and accepting about the whole thing. That might change in future, of course....) She might look like a woman, and a very desirable one at that, but she was still a child and an innocent about many things -- her pater had apparently seen to that quite efficiently -- and she was in Gaius' care. He might do great damage if he ignored that responsibility to her as a human being, and if there was one thing Gaius tried to avoid, it was doing harm to anyone but himself.

He owed it to her to put the time in, and to do it willingly and without a fuss. He'd gone into this with his eyes open -- about his own plans, at least, if not this unexpected shyness and fear of hers -- and if he wanted those plans to go well without having to live with a great deal of guilt, he was going to have to put the work into it to make it possible. Intentional neglect of the type he had proposed was one thing -- that was a defiance of the duties and expectations of the State and of his family, and it was a sacrifice he'd proposed for the greater good of the race: but now he had become very aware of Julia as a person, not simply as a bargaining-chip in his pater's idiotic deal. He didn't intend to make her miserable and leave her utterly at her own devices now, as she seemed so ill-equipped to take care of herself.

It was going to be very difficult, to find that balance -- to treat her justly, even if he couldn't treat her properly ("properly" implied giving in on the whole marriage and children issue, to his way of thinking), and yet to feel he'd done justice to himself and his goal.

He pulled the warm, soft, very nice a bit closer despite some grumbling from it, shifted his hand off it to adjust the little centurion that had waked before he had -- it was at an awkward angle -- put his hand back where it belonged, and tried to drift back off to sleep, wishing damnation on the rooster that crowed in the courtyard.

It wouldn't shut up, so he cracked open his sleep-caked eyelids and took a survey of the situation.

He was still on his side of the pallet, but Julia had moved in the night, curling up against him, her head tucked against his chest: he'd wound up facing her again, with one arm tucked under his head and the other thrown over her waist, and his penis had decided it very much liked snuggling up against her belly.

"Yes -- go back to sleep, we've plenty of time. I'm.... I'll get dressed and go get some bread, or... something, so we can start as soon as you're ready."

Gaius fumbled on his toga and left -- tripping over Hyperion, who'd slept outside their door -- and made his way to the privy-hole out in the courtyard. And then proceeded, under the cover of his toga, to wank off in record time. (He had to -- trying to have a pee had been futile, in that condition.)

He gave himself plenty of time to calm down, cleaned up at the horse-trough, and chivvied a frowzy servant into finding some bread and water for them before going back upstairs. (Hyperion had disappeared -- probably to dunk his head in the horse-trough to clear it for a fresh days' drinking.)

Julia was only just really waking, hair dishevelled and her tunic falling off one shoulder as she sat up in the bed.

"Well past second hour, I should think. There's no real rush, I don't expect any agents will be open before fourth hour."

She slowly climbed out of the bed and changed into a fresher tunic and her stola -- Gaius considerately kept his back turned to her as he ate his portion of the bread -- and she finally came to sit with him at the scarred table, pinning her plaited hair up into a knot at the nape of her neck.

"Doubt it," Gaius said, and pushed a chunk of bread over to her. "But we'll get an idea of the going rates for the different parts of the Aventine. And if we're lucky, the agent may be able to talk down the price with the landlord."

"No, not the type I'm thinking of. It's not really an organised thing. More like finding an exceptionally nosy loafer who makes it their business to write down the rental notices they see go up."

"Time," he said painfully. "I'm not paid for my days off, and I don't like being out of the office this long."

She curled back up in the chair, chastened, and chewed listlessly at the warm bread as if Gaius had rebuked her.

He almost -- almost -- snapped at her, and then managed to remind himself that she was trying to help: she couldn't know the situation, as he hadn't bothered to tell her -- and he was doing a bloody bad job of teaching her, as he'd resolved to do only the night before.

He stopped himself, ran a hand over his face -- gods, he needed to go to the baths, he'd practically grown a beard in the five days aboard ship -- and amended the thought.

"-- rather, I'm not always aware of what's reasonable for you to know or not," he said patiently, "and I'm not used to thinking about it. I'm used to dealing with that blockhead Primus, and I've got in the habit of taking his head off when he asks things he should already know. So, I'll try to be more careful. And if I do slip, try not to take it personally. Bear with me."

"I don't know why on earth you should. I can't expect you to know how things are done in Rome, can I? So stop apologising and finish your breakfast, or I shall think you foolish," he said, and added an encouraging smile.

"Anyway, it'll be worth it, I think -- the agent won't charge that much, I'm sure," he said calmly.

Damnation, but this was difficult. Had she really always been this sensitive to his moods? He hadn't noticed it in Albingaunum -- but then he had to admit that he hadn't really taken the time to look at her, there. To note how she reacted to him, rather than merely listening -- with only half an ear -- to what she said. She'd been around his mater there, too, who had chivvied Julia and encouraged her, made her feel at ease: but they were alone now, just the two of them, with only Hyperion's dubious company as a buffer.

Chalk another one up to Mater, he thought wryly. Just think where the Empire might be today if all Romans listened to their mater's advice.

When Julia had breakfasted, Gaius hired a litter to take them into Rome. (He left Hyperion behind, on the grounds that they needed someone to guard their belongings -- and Hyperion was in no shape to accompany them, in any case.) He also resolved to relax a bit and to try to enjoy the day, as tedious as it promised to be: no point in upsetting Julia with his impatience.

The bearers took them through the Porta Portuensis and into the Transtiberim, and Gaius had the grace to grin at her and say, "You see? That simple. Welcome to Rome, Julia Corvina."

Julia couldn't help it -- excitement finally overmastered the misgivings -- and she smiled back at him.

She seemed to make an effort too -- she dropped the hesitance (or at least appeared to), and when she had questions about the shops and buildings they passed, she went right ahead and asked them: about the temples and schools, at the bewildering number of pedestrians and tradesmen and merchants (weavers -- she seemed inordinately intrigued with weavers, of all things), and seemed to be taking precise mental notes as to where certain shopkeepers were located before Gaius thought to tell her that they weren't actually in the Aventine, yet, and she probably shouldn't have to come this far for purchases.

She blushed and nearly went back into her shell before Gaius nudged her foot with his -- and then she gave it up and laughed.

"Yes, of course," he said. "It's just over the river. If we'd come up through Ostia, we'd already be there. Didn't check the pater's map of Rome, did you?"

"No. He didn't have one on the wall, and I didn't care to snoop," she said indignantly -- but her eyes were sparkling again. He liked that very much, he found: a beautifully-proportioned face was all well and good, but he enjoyed seeing her light up from within, as well.

She settled back to enjoy the trip, and Gaius congratulated himself on keeping her on an even keel. It wasn't that difficult, really: much like trying to keep Longinia minor in a good mood, except that with Longinia one was usually trying to avoid a tantrum or to rein in excessive liveliness, not encourage a reasonable amount of it.

Soon they were crossing the Tiber at the pons Aemilius, and Gaius gravely looked at her and said, "Now," and the whole process of question-answer started all over again, with Julia anxiously peeking out the window to search (often vainly) for road signs.

After making inquires in a nicer quarter of the Sector -- much nicer than the scruffy-verging-on-dangerous quarter where Fountain Court was located -- Gaius found a resident busybody eager to be of service: Florius Crispus, a small, nattily toga'd man, who was very excitable and rather... twee. (Primus or Publius would call him effeminate, though they'd use a rather stronger word.) He ran a household goods shop -- bronze lamps, cooking utensils, and useless gee-gaws, mostly -- and seemed utterly unconcerned about leaving it to help them.

"Ooooo, newlyweds," he gushed after peering out the door, into the litter where Julia waited. "I love being useful to newlyweds. Just a moment, let me get my notes --"

He darted upstairs and left Gaius with his jaw hanging open -- he hadn't even got a chance to ask the man's charge for the service or ask how he'd determined they'd just married.

Crispus seemed partial to carrying lamps of very questionable taste -- especially hanging lamps catering to the Roman cult of the phallus, where the oil was replenished in the... sack, for lack of a better word, and the wick peeped out of -- Well, never mind. (Gaius had certainly seen such lamps before -- and worse -- but never in a nice house and never in this quantity.) He didn't doubt that the man had a back room full of similar, possibly more incendiary, items -- like those disgraceful tintinnabulae over in the corner, sprouting penii all over -- and he was grateful he'd left Julia in the litter. No telling what she'd think of them.

"Spartacus?" he heard Crispus yell in a shrill voice as he came back down the stairs. "Spartacus? I'm stepping out for a while, you're to mind the shop. Do you hear me?"

'Spartacus' grunted an acknowledgement from the back room, and Crispus took Gaius by the elbow and propelled him out to the pavement in front of the shop.

"Good morning, madam," he said brightly to Julia. "Florius Crispus at your service, and my congratulations on the recent nuptials. Now, sir, what are the two of you looking for? A nice domus down by the river? Something a little closer to the Palatine?"

"Oh, that. A one-time payment of five percent of the agreed-upon rent. But --" he said hastily as Gaius paled, "I offer newlyweds a rate of four percent, payable in two very reasonable installments. Get you off on the right foot in a nice house, and make it easy on the purse as well." He giggled. "I know it's a bit rough, just starting out."

Well, there was nothing for it -- nothing but losing face in front of Julia and the litter-bearers, and Gaius wasn't about to do that.

"Oooooo, a businessman! Well.... I suppose it's acceptable, seeing as you're such a nice-looking couple," Crispus said (far too easily -- Gaius had probably been had). "Now, let's get back to your needs. Perhaps you have a price range?"

"Oh, here's one over by -- no, no, that's too near the Horreae.... Here's -- no, that's near a tannery --"

"We might go a bit higher," he said cautiously. "But I'm not anxious to do so if we needn't."

"If I might suggest, Florius Crispus," Julia suddenly said, quite gently, "perhaps you could show us those nearest -- it seems a nice neighborhood -- and we could discuss the possibilities. Then you'd have an idea of our needs, and we can adjust them to the available properties."

Crispus beamed at Julia: it was an eminently sensible suggestion, and Gaius mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it.

"Lovely and bright," Crispus tittered. "The gods have smiled on you, young sir. Let's see, let's see.... Aha! Here's one, just up the hill -- it's a first-floor apartment, but it's in your price range. Shall we?"

Gaius climbed back into the litter and Crispus trotted on ahead of it, up the Clivus Consconius and into a somewhat shabby neighborhood. Gaius helped Julia out of the litter as Crispus darted into the vestibulum of the ground-floor apartment and got permission to go up.

"It's empty, and it's newer construction," he panted as he led them up the stairs, "and there's only been one previous resident, so it should be in nice condition."

It wasn't bad, by any means: but Gaius could sense Julia's shock, though she kept her face impassive. It was very plain indeed, with white plaster walls, and there were only five rooms (though they were large, as such things went): two cubiculae, a catch-all dining/study/living room, a tiny vestibule with barely enough room for a lararium, and what passed as a cucina although there was no hearth.

"It's clean and bright, though," Crispus trilled. "More than enough windows. The facilities are available under the stairs." (Meaning, the owner allowed the residents to empty their piss-pots in a larger vat at the base of the staircase. The apartment would be a stinky proposition, come the middle of next summer.)

Gaius was tempted to say "yes," and have done with it. It really wasn't bad at all: Julia should simply have to get used to it.

"Six hundred and ten," Crispus shot back. "Quite reasonable, for a decent neighborhood."

"Over the hill, halfway down the Clivus Capsarius," Crispus said, looking doubtful. "Rather a low quality of neighbors. But we can take a look."

They did. It was a ground-floor domus in very poor condition with a single, tiny compluvium (perhaps it was a good thing it was dark -- while the unit had a toilet, it was rather whiffy, and Gaius feared for the state of the plumbing).

"Right," Crispus said. "It's terrible, don't know why I bother. They won't come down on the rent, and it can't be shifted. Onward!"

This went on all day -- the bearers trudging along, all over the Aventine, and the three of them poking their noses into all manner of rooms -- some marginally acceptable, some still occupied by sullen, tired-looking women with noisy babies, and many with nonexistent or, worse, faulty plumbing.

Gaius wasn't sure what he wanted more: to give up and take the first place, or to wring Crispus' neck for his unrelenting cheerfulness and energy.

"Perhaps I should've taken the first," Gaius said, sighed, and pushed the stewed fruit away across the table (leftovers from yesterday, obviously). Hyperion looked at him, pulled the bowl over, and tucked in -- he wasn't particular.

"We knew it might take a bit of time," Julia said encouragingly. "Shall we give it another day or two?"

"I suppose. We'll have to start after noon, though -- I really must go in to the office, even if I knock off early."

"So we'll keep looking," Hyperion said around a mouthful of fruit. "You go in to work, I'll take the mistress to this fellow, and he'll take us around."

"Are you certain you want to try that? You don't know Rome any better than she does."

"She knows it better," Hyperion chortled, "she's been. Just ward the chest well, and we'll be fine."

"I think I remember where the shop is," Julia seconded. "And if I don't, the bearers can find it. He's fairly memorable."

If he didn't know better, Gaius would have thought she was joking -- that was a vast understatement. But he didn't think she possessed a sense of humour.

Against his better judgement, Gaius agreed to let them go. It would keep them busy, after all.

"Send me a note at noon -- Ursus Imports, west of the Ostia Gate -- and let me know what quarter you'll be headed to next, then."

"But I could tell you wanted to. It would have been quite easy to, and have done with it."

"'S'not that terrible a.... Look, don't worry over it. Go to sleep. Need to keep your eyes open tomorrow, even with Hyperion there...."

Gaius felt much better after a trip to the balnea early in the morning, on his way to work. A brief sit in the hot room to open the pores, a good oiling and scraping-off of the grime of the sea voyage and a dip in the pool, and a shave set him to rights.

He knew he'd need all the good-humour he could muster: Primus had likely spilled his guts to Ursus about Julia.

"Gaius, my lad," Ursus boomed when he walked into the office, "I hear she's a bit of all right!"

Ursus was aptly named: a fat, expansive man -- much more jovial than the average bear though, Gaius assumed -- with a huge, unkempt beard that spilled onto his toga-front. (When he lost track of his folds and the toga slipped, one could see that his back was nearly as hairy as his face, and he didn't bother to have it plucked.) He was older -- much -- in his late forties, childless with a much-younger, second wife, and the good living that his business allowed him didn't sit well. He was badly out of condition.

Gaius allowed the sudden wave of affection he felt for the man to spill out, and he grinned.

"I shall. Thought I'd best pop in and see if there were any fires to put out, though."

Aha. Gaius had suspected as much. Ursus had got out of the habit of watching his juniors -- he didn't need to, with Gaius there -- and Gaius reckoned that Primus had bolloxed up something royally.

He hadn't though, or at least not more than usual. It was one of the ships' captains who was the problem: Justus Muco, an old employee who'd been put on a new route under Primus' supervision. The first discrepancy took a while to track down.

"There," he muttered to Ursus, stabbing at the manifest with his forefinger. "Right there, do you see?"

"Look at the enumeration for the amphorae," Gaius said, holding the document up to the window. "Do you see how the parchment's a bit thinner, there?"

"'Clerical error, my arse!" Ursus said indignantly. "And here I thought Primus had mucked up the accounts."

"No, but he trusted Muco too much. That's the second problem we've had with this fellow, you know," Gaius said frankly. "There was the shortage in the pepper measures last year, on the Ephesus route. He's skimming the cargo, Ursus."

"No, he's probably got a clerk in Carthage doing the actual jiggering, and splitting the profit. I don't suppose we can recover the evidence -- probably sold it in another port, on the way in. You're going to have to sack him."

"Blast," Ursus said, and plopped down in a chair. "I was mates with his pater, when we were both starting out...."

"I know, sir, I know, but he's not repaid you well for your loyalty," Gaius said. (Ursus had an alarming streak of kindness to all, not just to Gaius.)

"Who knows?" Gaius said, and shrugged. "Debts, greed. He knew he couldn't slip anything past me -- I'd given him fits over the missing pepper, so he knew he couldn't get away with it, but when we turned the route over to Primus.... Have Primus pull the manifests from his ship for the last year and we'll have a look at them tomorrow -- if we find more problems, he can't wriggle out of it --"

"Message for you, sir," said the warehouse foreman, Glaucus, as he stepped into the room. "The boy said it was urgent. He's waiting for a reply."

Gaius took the tablet from him and flipped it open, scanning the unfamiliar writing.

Gaius looked up, took stock of the way the sun was slanting across the office, and swore. He hadn't intended to stay past noon, and Julia hadn't bothered to send a note earlier.

"Go on," Ursus laughed. "I'll have Primus pull the manifests when he gets back and sort through them myself, and you can check tomorrow morning, if you must."

Gaius shot him a grateful look, tore off down the stairs past Glaucus, and badgered the bogey-nosed little message-boy into leading him to Vicus Caeseti before he would consent to pay him.

He found the three of them -- Julia, Hyperion, and Crispus -- waiting at the caupona around the corner from the property in question, having a cup of wine: Julia smiled tentatively, and he panted, "Sorry -- hadn't intended to stay that long," to forestall any apologies about disrupting him.

"Oh, we've been having a lovely time," Crispus chirped. "Actually.... Why don't you sit for a moment, Longinius Corvinus. I'll tell you a bit about the property."

Gaius wriggled onto the bench next to Julia as Crispus waved over the proprietor to bring another cup.

"I hadn't thought of this one," Crispus said in a low voice when the man had come and gone, "because it hasn't shifted for years. It's a very nice place, mind you, but...." He stopped and chewed at his lip. "The former occupants -- they owned it, in fact -- were caught up in that witchcraft mess, in Nero's time --"

"-- and no-one's wanted to take it on, you see. I've brought a few people in to see it, and they always shy away. Said they felt there was something spooky about it -- after they'd asked around and found out about the people, of course," he tittered. "I told Julia Corvina this, but she said she didn't think you were in the least superstitious, and we should give it a look. And she likes it, and thinks it would suit admirably."

"Very good, considering it hasn't been lived in for seven or eight years. More than a little old-fashioned in the decor, but that's easily fixed, I'll be happy to help you on that," Crispus said. (Gaius had visions of phallic lamps in every room.) "And there are only three stories above it -- that's much less noisy for you. So let's go have a look -- no, no, this is my treat," he insisted of the wine as Gaius reached for his purse, "-- and you can judge for yourself."

Gaius gulped down what was left of his wine, and they rose and followed Crispus around the block. He struggled with the lock for a moment, and then let them into the vestibulum.

Well, the non-magicals had been right: there was something there, but it was nothing to alarm a wizard. Magic had been done on the premises, true -- but Gaius couldn't feel anything negative or dark about the lingering essence.

"Twenty years, all told. A shame, really -- I heard they were such a nice family, or at least they looked it. Shocking allegations, but apparently true. Plotted mischief against Nero himself."

Yes, Gaius could imagine it. A decent, magical family minding their own business -- doing nothing but the most acceptable and helpful of magics, caught up in the idiocy and terror of Nero's political purges. The allegations might well be true, of course -- they wouldn't have been the only Romans to actively plot against Nero (half the current Senate was guilty of that). But he doubted they'd done it here. The phantom traces of magic seemed too clean and above-board for that.

He glanced at Julia. She gazed back at him levelly, and he got the message. She could feel it, and she thought the same. They wouldn't likely feel unwelcome here.

"Let's have a closer look, then," Gaius said, and strode forward into the atrium, where the late-afternoon sun was weakly filtering down: it didn't reflect into the room as it should, seemingly sucked into the murky water lying stagnant in the impluvium (the outlet to the cistern must have got clogged). Crispus hastily pulled an old torch from the wall, pulled a flint from his purse, and lit it so they might see better, for there were no windows in the interior rooms.

The place was old-fashioned, true, and dirty with the filth of neglect: but underfoot were some decent, if plain, mosaics, and the walls had once been brilliantly painted. Two cubiculae stood to either side of the atrium, and in one of the arae the former owners' lararium still stood, paint peeling from the surface. Two additional rooms flanked each other at the far end -- the triclinium and an additional cubiculum, perhaps.

There was a small tablinum straight ahead: and beyond it he could just glimpse a peristyle -- a true peristyle, rare in a small Rome domus, with the sad remains of a little garden in the middle. He walked into the sunlit-space, Julia tagging along a few paces behind.

Some plaster problems here, true -- from the exposure, probably, not settlement, don't see any cracks, so that's easily dealt with....

Off to the sides of the peristyle were two more cubiculae, on the left, and to the right a storeroom and the cucina -- with a toilet partitioned off to one side.

"Only one way to find out," Hyperion said gruffly, and snatched up a cracked pot that stood on the hearth, went out to the atrium for water, and returned to test it. Properly. Julia, embarrassed, wandered back toward the garden, and Gaius joined her and Crispus.

"It could be quite nice," Gaius admitted, but added gently, so as not to hurt Julia's feelings, "But I'm afraid the rents will be too high in this quarter."

"Seven-fifty," Crispus said, "Or it was when I last showed it, and that was nearly a year ago. I think I can talk him down to seven-twenty-five, at the least. Newlyweds, not letting it sit empty any longer, et cetera. The new owner hadn't realised he was getting a pig in a flammeum, the poor man. And if I can assure him you'll make some improvements to the property, I might even get him down to seven."

Julia looked ready to jump out of her skin. Gaius could imagine what she was thinking: nice, very nice neighborhood; plenty of room, although it would take some cleaning and repair; new decor (although with Hyperion about the painting wouldn't be hard to accomplish); the light from the peristyle, and the garden space; an herbalist, just around the corner.

Gaius himself decided the many cubiculae were a plus. They could each have their own bedchamber: that should make it easier, for the nights he felt obliged to stay. Although -- come to think of it -- it might be tolerable to hang about more, providing he didn't have to share Julia's bed.

Hyperion finally finished with his prolonged test of the facilities and sauntered out to join them.

"Seems sound," he said. "It could use some flushing-out, but it's not awful. Regular use will help."

"Are you certain?" Gaius said cautiously. (Bad drains were nothing to be casual about, not this close to the Tiber.)

"Go have a sniff yourself," Hyperion said -- so Gaius did. And although he could tell that Hyperion had given it the full test, so to speak, he couldn't smell much else beyond the must of disuse: no noxious gas rising from the outlet to the Cloaca Maxima, and no tell-tale staining of the floor and walls from back-ups.

"What do you think?" Crispus asked anxiously when Gaius returned. "Shall I approach the owner, see if I can talk him down for you?"

Gaius -- feeling very uncertain (it was a big step) but trying very hard indeed not to seem so -- looked at Hyperion, who said softly, "Don't think you'll find nicer, lad," and then at Julia, who was struggling to keep a cool face. He could tell she liked it, very much, although she was doing her best to be a good wife and leave the decision up to him.

"There's no rush," Crispus said. "It's lain empty all these years, after all --"

"No," Gaius said impulsively. "No, I'll take it. Seven-twenty-five is acceptable, but do your best."

It would take more of the allowance than he'd hoped, but it was manageable: they'd simply have to be careful with other expenditures. The very least he could do was give Julia a home she would be comfortable in and happy with.

"Wonderful! Oh, how marvelous -- you'll do lovely things with it, I'm sure. I'll contact the owner directly -- How shall I get hold of you, if I have a contract for you soon?"

Gaius gave him directions to Ursus Imports: Crispus ushered them out, doused the torch in the impluvium, carefully locked the door, and they parted.

"How ever did you get him to show you the place?" Gaius asked Julia when they were alone, as the litter took them back out to the inn (Hyperion ambled along beside them up to the gate, to get his bearings, and then had fallen behind).

"We hadn't seen anything in that neighborhood yet, and it seemed nice -- quiet, but not nearly as grand as those houses at the top of the hill," she said. "So I asked if there wasn't something there. He didn't want to show it, of course -- gave me the whole story -- but I insisted."

Gaius was pleasantly surprised by that. He'd expected a list of possibilities when he'd caught up with them, but not that she would find such a little gem -- or that she would be assertive with a near-stranger.

"You do realise, don't you," he said with a grin, "that he's made quite a packet off it."

"The boy brought me 'round the other corner of the building -- the corner with the stairs to the apartments. He's got a sign up. 'Rooms occasionally to let -- see Florius Crispus, Crispus Lamps and Implements, Clivus Consconius, Aventine.'"

"Then why on earth didn't you settle today? And do you think the other places he showed us were his, as well?"

"No, I doubt it -- not all, at any rate. Some of them -- landlords, I mean -- like to get the measure of you before they want you treading all over their property. And if they play poor, they think you won't make a lot of demands on them."

"So he'd getting the commission as well as his rent?" Julia said indignantly. "That's -- that's --"

"Bloody good business," Gaius chortled. "No law against it that I know. Look, he's happy to have it let -- he's the fool who bought the pig in a flammeum. Probably snapped it up when the owners were.... Well, he'll probably knock nearly that amount off the rent, so we come out even. He may even confess, tomorrow -- I just wanted to give him time to think about it and come up with a good figure."

She sniffed and drew her palla closer about herself, and Gaius couldn't restrain a laugh.

Dinner, though inedible, was quite nice: and Gaius didn't even mind when he woke the next morning to find Julia snuggled up beside him again.

Gaius stopped at the banker's first thing next morning, to present his letter of introduction (there was much muttering and comparison of the seals on the letter, and those on the drafts Nigellus and his father had sent ahead), and finally drew on the monies needed to pay Crispus should an agreement be reached.

He applied for the other funds as well -- on the note Nigellus had given him privately -- and quietly put it on deposit elsewhere. Not that it mattered, really: all the funds were in his name regardless. He simply didn't want to muddy the two together, for some reason.

He barely had time to tell Primus and Ursus of yesterday's success: Primus was off to Ostia, and Ursus was incensed by other irregularities he'd found in the ships' manifests he'd pulled, so they got right down to work.

"Two more problems," Ursus said grimly. "One was that government shipment that we took the hit on. Muco claimed the stuff went missing when they'd docked at Paestum to ride out a storm, but I think he bloody well dumped it elsewhere."

That was bad news, indeed. The government got rather nasty when there were irregularities, as well it should, and that little incident had nearly cost them a contract to ship more in future: had it been ore, rather than grain, they probably should have yanked the contract. Ursus had only hung on to it by reimbursing the government for the loss, and paying a hefty fine.

"On his way to Corinth -- a straight shot, no scheduled stops in between. It's a private shipment, and the owner sent a copy of the manifest on ahead on a packet -- stood right there at the dock, and it tallied with Primus' figures exactly. If he tries anything we'll have him, but I doubt he will -- these problems are popping up when he stops in at other ports."

"All right," Gaius said slowly. "Here's what I propose. It's unusual, but I don't think Pater would mind -- theft and skimming drive him wild, and he'd be happy to have thieves off the dock so they can't hurt his business. My brother Titus manages the business in Carthage. If you authorise him as your agent, he can make inquiries into the shipment there, perhaps track down the clerk we think is helping Muco. By the time he's back in port we should have the news from Titus, and you can decide whether the evidence is enough to prosecute as well as to sack him."

"Will we get the report back in time? Muco had a short turnaround -- he's probably left Corinth already."

Gaius wouldn't send the message on a ship, though -- he'd backdate the documents and send them via owl, though he couldn't tell Ursus that. Titus would simply put any evidence on the fastest ship heading for Rome, so barring accidents it should arrive well before Muco did.

Titus certainly was trustworthy, and would be glad to help Gaius. (Marcus would have been another matter.)

Gaius spent the rest of the day going over all Muco's manifests for the past year, since Primus had taken over the route -- catching a few minor things that Ursus and Primus had overlooked -- and in writing to Titus and drawing up the appropriate documents for Titus to present to the authorities.

He wasn't able to stop at Crispus' shop, despite a letter from the man at mid-day, until he was on his way back to the inn.

Crispus presented the contract: he'd knocked it down to seven hundred. (Gaius decided he wasn't that annoying, after all.)

"To let for one year at seven hundred," he said cheerfully. "Although he reserves the right to raise it to seven-twenty-five the next, depending on the condition of the place."

He triumphantly held a pen ready for Gaius -- who took his time scanning the lease, just in case.

"You are an authorised agent for the owner, I presume?" he finally said, lifting an eyebrow.

"And under the circumstances, I think two and a half per cent will do nicely for the fee --"

"Are you certain?" Gaius said dryly. "To be fair, you ran yourself ragged for us that first day."

"Oh, absolutely. Such a nice young lady, your wife is -- charming, just charming. So reminiscent of earlier times, when young ladies knew how to behave. And quite lovely."

Crispus handed him a pen, tapped at the bottom of the contract with a heavily-ringed finger, and Gaius dipped the pen and signed.

"Wonderful. Now, as soon as you can give me the first month's rent, I'll turn the key over and you may take possess--"

Gaius stilled him by simply drawing the coins from his purse, counting out the required amount, and the finder's fee in full.

"Well, that will change, if you take that lovely thing out and about. Wait, let me get the key --"

"That's a bad place, that is," someone grunted into the quiet room, and Gaius jumped.

"Shhhhh. That's a bad place he's got you in, sor, and I do hope you won't regret it," the hoarse voice whispered from the back room, and Gaius found himself staring into a rheumy-eyed face that was peering around the curtain. He could make out a faint 'G' incised in the man's forehead: the end of an abbreviation of FVG. Spartacus was a slave, had run off and been captured, and been branded fugitive.

"Don't matter. I'm telling you, there was nasty people there before, there was -- 's why he couldn't shift it for long. Had two families in there before now and both of 'em took off in less'n a month. You'd best have the priests over to bless it, first thing."

Nasty people. Well, that was marginally better than the usual: Evil people. Horrid, evil people who would sooner curse you -- literally -- than look at you. Witches and wizards. Defilers of all that was good, and probably baby-eaters, to boot.

Gaius was used to this, or should have been. It was the price of living in a non-magical city full of so-called "normal" people: "normal" people who couldn't see that there were only good people and bad people in the world no matter their talents; "normal" people who feared what they couldn't understand, and who chose to vilify and destroy what they feared. It was why many wizards kept apart -- why men like Nigellus kept their families isolated, and why men like Gaius' pater had to tear up their roots and move their families halfway across the Empire.

"Wot I mean to say, sor," Spartacus said hastily -- for they could hear Crispus mutter an 'Aha! There you are,' and head for the stairs, "is that if you should have any trouble -- any funny goings-on, like -- you shouldn't put up with it. Find yerself another place and make 'im cough up the balance --"

Gaius reminded himself that the old servant, or slave, was trying to do him a favour. He couldn't know that he was dealing with one of those nasty people.

"I think," Gaius said deliberately, and with every bit of acid at his command, "that you ought mind your bloody business."

Gaius was by no means as imposing a figure as, say, Nigellus: but when he was angry, you knew it. And although he did his best to control the power that all too easily made itself known when he was enraged, it must have pushed against the barriers a bit, for Spartacus started in fright, made the sign against the evil eye, and stumbled back into the other room as Crispus came tearing down the stairs, totally oblivious to their exchange.

"There we are," he said brightly, and formally presented the key to Gaius. "May you have good health and much happiness, Longinius Corvinus, and your wife. And be certain you come see me for any little bits and bobs the lady would like, while she's kitting out the house."

It would have been far better to ignore the old wretch, or play along in the blasted, demeaning game -- control his temper and that regrettable lapse that the old man had, apparently, felt. To appear as "normal" as he seemed at first glance. To pass.

But, damn it, this was the very thing he fought against -- this unthinking, casual bias. He didn't practice it, or at least he tried very hard not to: he didn't think Primus was a dolt because he was non-magical, he thought so because the silly fool was. Ursus was a decent fellow with more than a few human flaws, but that was the point -- he was human. Some wizards -- like Nigellus, Gaius assumed -- thought the non-magicals were inferior, but Gaius didn't. Yes, wizards had an advantage: yes, they could accomplish things the rest of the population couldn't. But that didn't make them evil as a matter of course, and it didn't make the non-magicals inferior. It made them different, and that was all.

He was in a thoroughly foul mood by the time he reached the inn, and brooded through dinner: Julia was puzzled by it, not understanding why he wasn't happy at securing the lease, and he wasn't inclined to explain for her benefit.

Hyperion knew, though. He'd seen this reaction in Gaius before. He simply jollied them both along at dinner -- better than usual, as he'd liberated some decent olives and cheese from the tavern -- and as Gaius returned from the privy later, he heard Hyperion mutter something to Julia about Gaius' "moods," and how she should bear with him and let him sort it out himself -- that she'd done nothing wrong. He swiftly changed the subject when Gaius came back in, asking Julia what supplies and help they'd need to begin the clean-up of the new house.

The problem was that even if Julia hadn't caused the upset directly, it did have something to do with her. It went beyond Gaius' doubts of his ability to keep her safe: it was the fact, again, that she was here at all. That although it was none of her doing, he'd had to literally abandon his studies for several weeks, and it was unlikely that he would ever be able to spend much time on them at all, now. He now had a wife ignorant of the ways of a big city and shy to boot, requiring minding; the expense of a home; had to continue working for Ursus to be certain he could put food on the table.

Damnation, should have taken that first, bloody place -- much more reasonable. Losing that hundred is going to make a big difference. Whatever possessed me?.

He'd come to Rome with great hopes -- of attaining an apprenticeship, refining his skills, proving to everyone that magic was not in and of itself dark or evil or dishonest. He longed to regain for the craft its former respect among magicals and non-magicals alike -- because once, long ago, it had been accepted and revered by all; to redeem it, and show that it could be used for good and for the good of all.

There would always be fools who would prey on the fears or avarice of the ignorant -- who would perform dark rituals regardless of the harm it did to others for a bit of coin: he knew it was pointless to try to stop them. He'd wanted to come at it from the other angle -- study it, unearth and apply the writings of the old masters, convince the intelligent that there was no divide or schism between the life of the scientist and that of the wizard: that magic was, in short, just another way to master ones' environment by calling on the power in and under it, the power that had started it all and kept it spinning along.

He'd known it probably couldn't be accomplished in his lifetime, but it had to start somewhere -- and he'd hoped that it would start with Publius and himself.

He'd beguiled himself with the now-undeniable pleasure of Julia's company; he'd tried to tell himself that he could serve two masters, and could come to some kind of compromise between them. (Three masters, if truth be told -- there were Ursus' demands on his time and energy, as well.) But that was foolish. He'd have to decide, now, which would take precedence.

It wasn't a terribly hard decision. He needed to rededicate himself to the original goal.

He'd taken on the responsibility of a wife, and he couldn't back out of it now: but he could stop trying delude himself that it was possible to assuage his guilt over Julia's dilemma by being overly kind and solicitous. He was soft and weak -- he understood that, now, and accepted that the fault was his, no one else's, and that he would have to fight very hard to be stronger, even if it meant seeming like an uncaring husband.

He'd fulfill his responsibility as he'd first intended, then. The blasted lodgings were out of the way, at least, and once they were past getting them cleared and habitable, he could cut loose of that tie. As for Julia.... Well, she'd proved yesterday that she could look out for herself, if she had to. She wouldn't be alone: Hyperion would look out for her. He needed to break with Ursus as soon as possible, too -- not easy, given the outlay today and future costs -- and then he could truly concentrate on his work. The real work.

The goal was more important than some wretched alliance between families. And it was certainly far more important that the feelings of one untried, unworldly girl or the promises Gaius had made under duress.

By the time he drifted off into an uneasy sleep Gaius had almost convinced himself that this was true: and by the time he waked the next morning, he was certain of it.

The Gift, Part III