Unnamed Roman Fic, Part IV

Gaius decided, on waking, that he was not going to muck about with the house: Hyperion was perfectly capable of cleaning it up with Julia's supervision, and they could always hire help -- their servant, preferably, to get that out of the way as soon as possible. There was still the problem of Muco to deal with at work, after all, and the longer Gaius stayed away the more depleted their funds became. So as soon as Julia and Hyperion had got a bit of bread for breakfast he hurried them into the city, wasted a precious half-hour buying a bucket, a few good pots for hauling water, and a broom and some rags, and hustled his two charges to the house and opened it for them.

"Here's the key," he said to Hyperion, handing it off, "and for the gods' sakes don't lose it."

"Trouble at work," he said shortly, pulled a denarius out of his purse as well, and thrust it into Hyperion's palm. "Make certain you both have a good lunch. I'll try to hire a servant today, get them started on helping you tomorrow. I'll stop in at evening to pick the two of you up."

"Must go. Watch out for her," he sternly instructed, and darted off, avoiding Julia's dark, startled eyes.

He finally got the authorisation notarised properly, tied it up with Titus' instructions, and trotted out to find the nearest owlery -- the one he usually used, as it happened, just a neighborhood over from Fountain Court. There were no letters waiting for him from Publius (if an owl hadn't found Gaius at his room, it should have dropped any deliveries at the courier-shop), and he was a bit worried: he'd expected to have a reply by now. He took the time to scribble a quick note to the pater and mater, confirming their arrival and giving the address for their new home. (He should have done so earlier, but knew that news of the Circe's safe docking would already have been forwarded through the Rome office of Corvinus Shipping.) And then he decided to check in on his room while he was in the area.

The problem was, it was occupied. He knew that the second he reached for the latch -- he'd warded the door when he'd left, but someone had got in. Given the loud snoring from inside the someone was in residence.

There was a weedy-looking little man sprawled across Gaius' pallet -- sleeping off a drinking binge, if the remains of a wine-jug and a half-full cup were to be believed. He'd been there some time: Gaius' few dishes were dirtied (the remains of an unidentifiable and, by now, very fragrant fish was topmost), litter was scattered all over the room, the piss-pot was overflowing, and the bastard was wearing Gaius' third-best tunic. (Well, fourth-best, now: it looked as though the stains wouldn't come out.)

Gaius did the only thing he could, under the circumstances: he crept out and down the stairs, ran across the court to the laundry, borrowed a water-jar from the laundress and filled it at the fountain, marched back up to his room, and poured it over the squatter's head.

Gaius set the jar down, grabbed the weed by the front of the tunic, and shook him like a dog with a rat.

"It bloody well is not," Gaius said hotly. "I'm Corvinus, and it's my bloody flat. You've been at my scrolls, you liar -- that's how you got the name, isn't it? You've got about two ticks to give me a reason not to throttle you."

"Really? That's hard to believe, as I paid a full month's rent before I left. Who's the landlord?"

The man's beady eyes darted back and forth: he couldn't come up with the right name, so didn't attempt any at all. The game was up, and he was trapped good and proper.

Gaius gave him another good shake (it wasn't hard to do -- he was a scrawny little bastard).

"I want to know how you got in and how long you've been, or I'll call the Watch and you'll be in for it."

"Week and a half," the weed said, teeth (what few he had) clattering from the shaking, and his sharp little nose dripping water and snot. "Got in through the balcony."

"Did," the man whined. "Used to be an acrobat, afore I took a fall. Broke me leg, and it didn't set straight. Can't tumble anymore, but it's good enough for climbin'."

It looked like a reasonable excuse -- the man's leg was crooked. Gaius mentally kicked himself for not thinking to ward the balcony, and he'd warded the door for intrusion, not for anyone wishing to exit: with enough use from the inside the ward would have worn off and the squatter could then easily enter by the door.

"Right, then. You've had a week and a half, you've wrecked the place, and it's time," Gaius said, dragging the man over to the door, "to say good-bye to it."

"Your bits, whatever the Hades they are, are your share of my rent," Gaius said through gritted teeth. "Hang about for a while if you dare, and perhaps I'll fling them out the window. Don't worry about the tunic -- consider it a fare-well gift," he added as he shouldered the door open, dragged the man out, and gave him a good shove.

The weed teetered on the landing, pinwheeling his arms for a few alarming seconds: and then he gave up and reverted, through some sense of self-preservation, to his early training; tucked himself into a ball as his arse hit the stairs mid-course; and rolled like a hoop down the other three flights, nearly ramming someone as he finally hit street-level.

"Oi," someone yelled up at Gaius. "It's common courtesy to call 'Gardy-loo,' you know."

Gaius peered over the railing down into the irritated face and sharp eyes of the shady character who used to live above him: the man had a protective arm about his patrician girlfriend who, it appeared, he'd only just saved from being bowled over.

The weed had uncurled himself and was rubbing at his head, making his hair bristle about: Shady Character gave him a rough nudge with his sandal, and the weed squealed again and jumped to his feet.

"Nothing broken -- pity," Shady Character said, and the weed sneered at him and limped off down the street. "My apologies, I know the feeling," he added to Gaius. "Nice to know someone's keeping up the tone of the neighborhood. Carry on!" And he turned on his heel and escorted his girlfriend across the court.

Gaius didn't bother to glare, as the man knew a good exit line when he said it and had taken advantage of it. He simply turned back to the doorway of his room and surveyed the damage.

He darted over to the corner, fell to his knees, and unwarded and pulled up a loose board.

His stash was still there -- all of Publius' letters, several magical texts, and a small strongbox filled with the little cash he'd possessed before the trip home, just as he'd left them.

He checked his clothes-chest next: the lock was broken and the contents thoroughly rifled. The (formerly) fourth-best tunic was filthy, and his extra cloak was missing. The non-magical scrolls were grubby with fish-grease and other unidentifiable, possibly unmentionable, things (a literate thief -- just his luck). His writing-box had been removed, and its contents -- pens, stylus, tablet -- were flung into one corner, and the blank parchments and ink weren't to be found at all. Probably gone the way of the cloak, to the nearest pawnshop.

He swore loudly and inventively for a very long time before finally getting to his feet and beginning a superficial clean-up: the rancid food went into the borrowed jar (the bastard had broken his own water-jar), anything soiled or now potentially harbouring vermin went into a pile to take over to the laundry, and everything else was hurried into some kind of order, the pallet thrown over the table to dry. Then he dumped the smellier mess on the dust-pile in the back alley, rinsed the borrowed pot in the horse-trough and returned it, and took the cloth goods and the piss-pot over to the laundry as well -- the former for a good washing, and the latter as a contribution to the laundress' bleach vats.

It took the better part of an hour, and Gaius finally had to give up and get back to Ursus Imports. The dishes would have to wait: he could only hope they wouldn't draw too many rats. It would likely be a few days before he could return.

He warded the door and started down the stairs -- and then stopped dead and backtracked, unwarded the door, marched over to the bloody balcony and warded it -- thrice -- and finally left after making certain that no non-magical could possibly get in, and that a magical would have a bloody bad time of it.

He was thoroughly shaken and enraged. If the squatter had found his magical texts Gaius might well have been in a great deal of trouble -- enough to get him exiled if he was lucky, and dead if he wasn't -- and Publius would have been implicated as well.

When Primus interrupted Gaius later that afternoon with a quite innocent and wholly appropriate question, he nearly snapped the boy's head off.

Julia and Hyperion had had a more productive day, it seemed: when Gaius reached the little domus there was a pile of litter and debris stacked outside the door, and Hyperion was fishing muck and silt out of the bottom of the impluvium with his bare hands and flinging it into one of the new pots.

"Get one tomorrow," Gaius said absently. "I suppose she'll want one for the garden, anyway. How did you shift all the water? You didn't unplug the cistern-drain, I hope."

"Down the loo, 'course," Hyperion said promptly. "Flushed out proper, now. Cistern's dry as a bone, and I intend to keep it that way until this is sparkling. Have a look here, Gaius." He bent and scrabbled in the mud, and uncovered what might be a mosaic of a god on the bottom of the impluvium.

"I figure. Bit damaged where the trident should be. Well, if he wasn't Neptune before, he will be when I get done with 'im."

"Peristyle," Hyperion said with a nod. "Bit worried about her, boy -- she's been going all out today, looks knackered."

"Couldn't stop her, boy, she refused to sit about and watch me work. Did you find anyone to come in tomorrow?"

"Horrid day," Gaius explained defensively. "I went 'round to my old room and found a squatter -- he'd rifled through my things, and I had to sort him out."

"Oh, Gaius, is anything missing?" Julia asked from the fauces -- she must have heard his voice and stopped her work -- and Gaius glanced up at her: she had discarded both palla and stola and was in her tunic only, and had tucked it up into her girdle so the hem was above her knees. Her hands and feet were filthy, her hair stringing about her face -- and she still looked lovely, gods damn it. And tired.

"My extra cloak," he admitted, "and he wore one of my spare tunics out the door --I didn't care to strip him of it, considering. And some clean parchment. That's about all there was, actually," he added in a sudden burst of inspiration. "Nothing else worth dragging all the way over here."

"Anyway, by the time I'd got through that, I'd forgot about hiring someone. There's a bit of a mess at work, and I wanted to get back...."

"Well, there's tomorrow," Hyperion said practically, and slogged his way over to the edge of the impluvium and rinsed his feet and hands off with fresh water. (Gaius felt a pang, at that: they must have lugged clean water -- lots -- from the fountain down the street.)

"Are we stopping for the day, then?" Julia asked. "There's still a lot of daylight left --"

"Let's," Gaius said. "In fact, I think we should stop by the balnea before we go back -- you two look as filthy as I feel."

"They'll have it there," Gaius said. "We can manage a few extra ases. Clean up a bit, and let's go."

He wandered through the house as they tried to get the worst of the dirt off, taking stock of the progress: cobwebs cleared, one of the cubiculae scrubbed from top to bottom, the broken pottery cleared from the cucina and the hearth cleaned out; Julia had made headway on the floor of the peristyle -- the bucket and dirty rags still sat at the edge of the cleared space, where she'd left them -- and it looked as if it might even be a pleasant space, someday soon.

He should feel guilty about leaving it to them alone, he supposed, but on the other hand the problem with Muco was so important that he couldn't justify taking more time from work. Ursus had been exceptionally kind, and he didn't like to take advantage of him.

The balnea was too close to justify a litter, so Gaius and Hyperion pushed through the crowded streets with Julia tucked in protectively between them.

"I can wait, you know," she murmured to Gaius. "They probably shan't allow me in, in any case --"

"Separate side for the ladies," Gaius said. "This isn't the largest or nicest bath in Rome, granted, but you won't have to wait."

Nor did she: Gaius left her at the womens' side of the building with plenty of money, and he and Hyperion debouched to the mens' side.

It took her rather longer, though -- Gaius was getting quite impatient by the time she finally came down the steps.

"I fell asleep," she explained, embarrassed, "and the attendant let me lie for a while. Terribly sorry."

Hyperion chuckled, and Gaius let it pass -- she did look done in. In fact, she fell asleep in the cart (for Gaius couldn't find a free litter and had to resort to hitching them a ride when they'd reached the city gate), and on the way back to the inn she fell asleep again, her head bobbing against Gaius' shoulder at every jolt.

"She's not the strongest little girl in the Empire, you know," Hyperion chided softly, and Gaius blushed in embarrassment.

"I truly forgot, things were such a mess," he grumbled. "I'll take care of it first thing, tomorrow."

"Hmmmph. I hope so. With six hands, we ought to get it all prettied-up by next week."

"I think I ought see about sending the things over, tomorrow. The warehouse is going to be busy in the next week, with everyone trying to get as many runs in before the bad weather hits."

By the time they reached the inn Julia was so deeply asleep that it was hard to wake her: so Gaius carried her upstairs and tucked her into the pallet, and awkwardly held her while Hyperion wriggled her out of her her palla and stola, and unpinned her hair with surprising delicacy. They tucked her in and then spent the rest of the evening down below, discussing the repairs to the house over cups of wine.

Gaius left Julia and Hyperion at the house again the next morning, with strict instructions to Julia not to work herself so hard -- there was plenty of time, now, as he'd got the funds from the settlement (though he didn't tell her so). He gave Hyperion plenty of pocket-money for their luncheon and for the purchase of a shovel, and then left them to find a servant-of-all-work.

His plan had been to find one who lived out: that seemed safest, as it wasn't precisely done to say, 'By the way, we're wizards -- are you? No? That shan't put you off, shall it?'

It didn't work out that way. Gaius found the pickings slim when he reached the market-square where job-seekers congregated: labourers, mostly, a few slaves whose masters allowed them to hire out when not needed, and a few haggard old women who didn't look as though they could lift a turbot, let alone do a bit of heavy work and cleaning. There was, however, one sour-faced woman who looked as though she could wrestle bears in the stadium, assuming the poor bears didn't take one look and run.

"Good, plain country cookin'," she snapped. "None o' that fancy muck with snails or larks' tongues."

"Pay me decent, give me a room, one day off a week, and we'll have no quarrels. But I don't mind no babies, and I won't take no back-talk from the other servants," she said loftily.

Well, that last might be a problem: Hyperion didn't mince words. On the other hand, she looked as though she could give as good as she got.

"No. Unless you count that stuck-up little chit my boy married, and that wouldn't be good," she said with a sniff. "I kept house for him for five years, kept him in nice clean clothes and well-fed and the apartment spotless, and soon as she's through the door it's 'Oooo, Gnaius, I want this,' and 'I want to change that,' and 'How can you live with such shabby furniture?' No respect for her mater-in-law, I tell you, and he's wrapped 'round her little finger. I can't take it no more --"

"I've got to live in," she retorted. "I'm not goin' to stay in that place, not with that chit about, and that's that."

It appeared to be a deal-breaker: Gaius couldn't afford to pay her enough to live out on her own. He took a deep breath.

"It's only my wife, myself, and my slave," he said firmly. "Hyperion's a bit rough, but he's been with the family a long time, I'm fond of him, and I should expect you to try to get on with him. My wife is young and this is our first home, and I'll expect you to respect her and help her -- gently -- as she learns to runs a household. If these are a problem, say so now."

"Shouldn't be," she shot back. "Workin' for hire's differnt -- part of the job." Her eyes narrowed. "The slave's not a groper, is he? 'Cause I'll wallop him one if he tries anythin'."

Gaius tried not to eye her dubiously -- it was very hard not to -- and said, "I don't think that will be a problem."

"Shall we give it a try for a week, then? As there's room and board involved, say, half a denarius a day, and if we're both still agreeable after the trial, five per week?"

"A week," she finally agreed. "And if I stay, I want a good stola, your expense."

"Naaaw. Got to pack up today, ain't I? I'm bloody well not leavin' my clothes and my good spoons for her to paw over. Termorra. Where do I go?"

Gaius gave her the directions, and watched as she lumbered off toward the Circus Maximus.

Work was blessedly calm: after checking with Ursus on the borrow of a wagon and driver to take their things to the house and seeing it off, Gaius immersed himself in going over all the routes and accounts that Primus had covered in his absence. He found remarkably few errors. Primus was, it appeared, learning -- or perhaps covering Gaius' work as well as his own had impressed him with the need to buckle down and concentrate. (Then there was his sudden interest in Ursus' niece: it was entirely possible he had decided to impress Ursus in hopes of finagling a marriage into the family -- and a secure place in the business, with it.)

Ursus had apparently picked up on this, and appeared to be weighing his options.

"How does your pater do it, Gaius?" he asked late in the afternoon, staring out the window in Gaius' office.

"Hmmmm? Oh." Gaius laughed. "Have six boys, chivvy them into an interest in the business, and throw them in the deep end to founder about a bit before you ship them off to the far corners of the Empire."

"Quite a dynasty," Ursus sighed. "Such a pity that Livia and I never had children. And Aemilia doesn't appear to be breeding, either...."

Gaius suppressed a sigh of his own, wiped and put down his pen, and sat back to listen: he knew the signs. Ursus was in a philosophical mood, and wanted to talk.

"He'd got quite a system going, yes -- he's rotating them through all the stops. First step is working in the Albingaunum office with his clerks there, and then Narbonne, close enough to home to make no difference. Then normally he'd send one to Carthage, but.... Well, it seemed best to leave Marcus in Narbonne, so Titus went on to Carthage. Julius is in Ephesus -- he's furthest away, and he took over from Lucius. I do believe," Gaius said thoughtfully, "that the pater's considering retirement. Calling Lucius back, and all -- and he's just bought a vineyard."

"And then," Ursus prodded a bit, with a smile, "there's Quintus. He still glares at me when we see each other at the guild meetings. He'll never forgive me for taking you on."

Gaius wryly returned Ursus' smile. Quintus rabidly supported the pater, had tracked Gaius down when he ran off to Rome, and had tried to verbally bludgeon him into submission before Gaius told him precisely what he could do with the tactic.

They hadn't spoken in three years. Gaius hadn't so much as set foot in Quintus' fine house in Ostia.

"Britannia, eventually," Gaius said promptly. "He wanted to set up a proper office in Londinium."

"Sweet Minerva! I don't blame you at all, my boy, not at all. His loss, my gain."

Of course, if Gaius had known Publius would be posted to Britannia he might have seen things differently. But it was too late now.

"What I mean to say, Gaius," Ursus continued, attempting to be delicate, "is that perhaps now you might be on better terms with Quintus. Now that you've married the little gel your pater wanted you to, and all."

"Is that what you'd suggest, Marcus?" he said softly. "I realise that my absence caused a bother, but are you ready for me to leave?"

"Oh, good -- No, I'm not. In fact, I'd be happy if you -- Well, the offer of a partnership still stands, my boy. It always will," he blurted out. "But I can't compete with what Longinius Corvinus can pay, you know, and now that you've a family...."

Oh, thank the gods. How humiliating, to acquire a house and promptly be sacked.

"That's not an issue," Gaius said. "The marriage settlement was more than adequate."

"Oh, good. I'd worried for you on that score. Didn't feel I had a right to keep you here, if you needed to move on."

"But you will be someday, my boy," Ursus said calmly. "I wouldn't say so, but.... It's just that I know you're not happy here. Well, not that it's here, it's the whole business, really. Not that you slight your work or haven't done miracles for me -- far from it -- but your heart's not in it, is it? You'd take the partnership, otherwise."

"Right," he said. "It's never been my first choice of vocation. And while I appreciate everything you've done for me, Marcus -- and I mean everything, because I know bloody well you needn't have taken a chance on me -- I'm not going to lull you into thinking I'll be around forever. Not that I'll leave soon. Perhaps in a year or two. But I won't take on a partnership and then leave you in the lurch."

"I know you won't. It's just that I need to start thinking about the future, what with no children and that feeling that I mightn't be passing the business on to you." Ursus grimaced. "I'd rather, you know. I'd know it was in safe hands, and you could take it so much further than I have. Help it grow."

"Thank you, Marcus," Gaius said quietly. "But I can't, I just can't. I think the regret of not following my... my passion would eat away at me until there was nothing left of me at all."

"Very well." Ursus sighed and shifted his bulk in the chair. " 'Spose I'm stuck with Primus, then."

"I thought that might be it," he said. "Been lobbying for your niece, has he?"

"Yes," Ursus said gloomily. "And it looks like the little blighter's her only option. Poor girl -- not her fault she takes after my side of the family."

"Phhhht," Ursus pronounced decisively. "No bloody way -- it's the business I'm concerned for, not the name. No, I wouldn't, but I shall have to work him upward, you know. Up from Junior, and a rise. You shouldn't feel slighted, should you?"

"Why? It's my decision not to go forward. And I think it would do him good -- he handled the past two weeks well, or at least I haven't found any problems yet beyond the Muco business, and that's not entirely his fault."

"I think that's wise. Do it now, let the new one work with me, and let Primus concentrate on his new responsibilities."

"Very well, then. Don't say anything to him yet -- let's see if he backslides again, now that you're back. Blast." Ursus gave Gaius a wounded look, like a kicked puppy. "I'd hoped to talk you 'round. You're a good man and a damned fine manager, my boy, but you're just a bit odd, you know? It's such a waste."

"That's what Pater thinks, too," Gaius said dryly, returning to his paperwork. "You're not alone in that."

Gaius worked at his accounts until he couldn't ignore the afternoon sunlight's drunken list across the office wall, and then closed up, stopped at the baths, and then walked to the little house on the Vicus Caeseti, reaching it an hour before dusk. Hyperion was out front, fitting a new strip of wood into the lattice of a door, and nodded to Gaius as he approached.

"Yes," Hyperion said, quite shortly. "Got some things placed, but I need help with the lecti. Didn't you find anyone, today?"

"Did, but she couldn't come until tomorrow," Gaius said indignantly. (He knew the signs: Hyperion was irked about that situation.) "She'll be living in, unfortunately. On approval, for a week."

"Oh." Hyperion relaxed a bit. "Sorry. It's just that Julia Corvina pushed herself again, today."

"I gave her a proper dressing-down, I did, and she got a bit haughty with me, so there wasn't a blasted thing I could do. I got a good lunch in her today, though."

"Nestin', boy. Every female in the world does it, human or animal. She's anxious to make a proper home for you, and soon as possible." Hyperion popped the lattice-strip in place and gave it a proud, satisfied pat. "She was sound asleep in the tablinum, last I checked."

"Look, Gaius, I think I'd best stay here tonight, now that the things is here. So help me get this inside, quiet-like, and then take her back to the inn and tuck her up. And don't lecture her, mind -- she's only doin' what her nature tells her is right."

"Fine," Gaius said gloomily, and helped Hyperion wrestle the door back inside. (He supposed it was silly of him to take advice on dealing with women from Hyperion, of all people, but on the other hand, he didn't have a better idea.)

Julia and Hyperion had made more good progress, it appeared: the atrium was sparkling, now, even in the poor, late-afternoon sun, and the impluvium looked ready for the first good rain.

"Here's fine," Hyperion grunted, and they leaned the door against the wall of the spare cubiculum.

There she was in the gloom -- in a chair, back bent over his pater's old, scarred desk, and her head resting on her arms. Hyperion had fetched her palla at some point, and had carefully tucked it in around her shoulders.

"I tried to get 'er down on a cushion," Hyperion said softly behind Gaius, "but she didn't want it pullin' any damp up from the floor."

Gaius quietly thumped his head against the door jamb several times, and then carefully slid the door closed.

"Look, there's no point in dragging her all the way out there, not if you're staying tonight," he said. "You'd cleaned the back cubiculum yesterday, right?"

"And mater packed us some blankets. Somewhere. So let's put the lectus together, if we've enough light, and shift her over to it. I'll sleep at the inn tonight and fetch our things back in the morning."

They moved to the peristyle, where the crates and much of the furniture had been left until they could be sorted: and after some bunging about in the crates they located the blankets -- and a small lamp, which Hyperion managed to fill in the near-dark without spilling too much oil from the jug the mater had tucked in next to it. They wrestled with the lectus for a good half-hour, finally got it together, and then Hyperion got the cushion and blankets sorted while Gaius went to fetch Julia.

"No litter tonight," Gaius said firmly as he navigated his way past the inner door of the tablinum. "Hyperion's staying and we've got the bed together, so you don't need to come with me."

"Oh. Damn," she muttered sleepily, surprising him. "Wanted to be with you, first night.... Everything nice...."

He snorted, and resisted the urge to plant a brotherly kiss on her forehead. (Her disobedience of his order was a bit endearing given what Hyperion had said, even if it was annoying -- but Gaius wasn't about to reward it.)

He and Hyperion repeated the drill from the previous night -- although she was able to help a bit, this time -- and then she snuggled down into the blanket and abruptly fell back to sleep.

"Can't blame 'er. She's been a little whirlwind, the past two days. Even more than your mater when she's on a cleaning spree."

Gaius' mater had an unusual inclination to sudden cleaning binges in which she was the chief agent, despite having plenty of help from the house slaves.

"All right," Gaius whispered, stepping out of the room and rooting about in his purse for Hyperion's dinner-money. "Lock up and nip 'round to that pie shop around the corner, and get yourself some food. And see if you can wake her in a bit and get her to eat as well."

"I don't want to leave the things unattended overnight. And I need to settle up out there in any case, and I can't afford to waste the morning," he said, handing over some coins. "The woman should show up tomorrow.... Ah, she's a bit of a harpy. I'd keep your paws off -- not that you'll be tempted, once you see her."

"Right. Off with you, then," Hyperion said, unperturbed by the restriction (probably undeterred, as well) and they quietly left the house and went their own ways.

Gaius hoofed it all the way out to the inn, unwilling to pay for a litter just for himself, and took the time to sort through his thoughts about Ursus and Primus -- and Julia's unexpected desire to "nest," as Hyperion had put it: and though he was thoroughly exhausted by the time he reached the inn and had what he'd assumed would be the blissful luxury of a pallet to himself for the first time in two weeks, he lay sleepless for a very long time.

Gaius rose quite early the next morning, unaccountably grumpy, and tried very hard to ignore the fact that he'd woke with the blanket -- Julia's side of it, which smelled faintly of her -- clutched to his face. He didn't bother with breakfast, but rushed to settle up with the innkeeper and hire a litter to take himself and their things directly to the house.

He'd hoped to dash in and out, badly needing to stop by a vendor's stall on the way to work for a bit of breakfast, but the household was already up -- and very noisy, with a raised voice coming from the peristyle.

The litter-bearers dropped the chest and bundles in the atrium and departed, unnoticed by the irate individual in the back of the house. As soon as Gaius walked into the peristyle he found out exactly who it was, by a process of elimination: neither Hyperion nor Julia had an arse of such considerable dimensions, while the woman he'd hired yesterday had. The rest of her was buried shoulder-deep in one of the crates, and she was talking loudly, nonstop, and to nobody in particular because no-one else was apparently there.

"-- don't know what they were thinking, house not ready, nothing to bloody cook in. Nothing to bloody cook. How do they bloody well expect me to --"

"As we only purchased the house two days ago and it was filthy, how do you propose we have everything ready and convenient for you?" Gaius said coolly.

She stopped abruptly, tried to haul herself up, and knocked her head on the edge of the crate. More swearing issued from the depths. (Gaius took an indecent but understandable pleasure in her pain.)

"Wot are you sneakin' up on me for?" she asked with a glare when she'd finally got free.

This wasn't going terribly well. Gaius decided he ought start looking for a replacement, and soon.

"I wasn't aware a man could sneak up on someone in his own home," he said. "As to things not being ready, I warned you there would be some work. Where are Hyperion and my wife?"

"Market," she said shortly. " I won't be rushed. Told 'em if they wanted any lunch, they'd have to get the things now."

"Rufia Docila. An' I won't answer to nothin' else, neither -- none o' that fancy 'Cook this' and 'Cook that' muck. I'm not callin' you two master and mistress, either. I'm a freedwoman, I am."

Oh, I am so very definitely finding someone else. Even if I have to scour all the fourteen Regio to do it.

(Not that Gaius objected to calling her by her name: her pugnacity simply grated on his nerves far too much. He was the master of the house, damn it all, and neither servants nor slaves ought reply in such a manner -- barring Hyperion. It was hard to be masterful with someone who'd wiped snot from your young face and taught you and your best mate the fine art of the impressive belch.)

"Well, Rufia Docila, I think," Gaius said deliberately, and indicated one of the boxes with a stab of a finger, "that if you check that crate -- the one clearly marked 'Cucina' -- you'll find the cooking-things."

She glared at him indignantly, opened her mouth to retort -- and then snapped it shut, moved to the crate, and started working away furiously at the lid.

Gaius didn't bother to help the nasty old bitch, and didn't feel the least bit guilty about it.

He took the chest and bundles to the back cubiculum, instead -- as it was clean, Rufia Docila would have no earthly reason to poke about it in, and Julia or Hyperion would notice if she should -- and checked to be certain the chest was still well-warded. And then, as Julia and Hyperion still hadn't returned from their shopping, he took off for work, leaving the unpleasant woman alone to her mutterings over the eclectic collection of pots and pans his loving but scattered mater had packed up for them.

It didn't occur to him until well after noon that perhaps the poor woman couldn't read, and that it wasn't kind of him to have been so snarky. On the other hand, she was a thoroughly unpleasant old wretch: he should have sacked her immediately for her impudence. He was well within bounds to rebuke her, even it had been oblique and not quite what he'd intended.

Gaius finally caught up on the backlog of paperwork, left work not much past a reasonable hour, and spent what he felt was a well-earned two hours at the balnea before heading home that evening. (It seemed odd to think of it that way, considering he didn't intend to spend much time there once things settled down: but he was now the signatory on a one-year lease for a rather respectable domus, so he supposed it was accurate.)

Hyperion was scraping the loose paint off the walls of the atrium when Gaius arrived, and shot him an aggrieved look.

"Where've you been?" he complained in a whisper. "You stuck us with that -- that --"

Gaius couldn't help it: he choked back a laugh. He could hear the She-Daemon in the cucina, shifting pots and pans around noisily.

"Not really," Hyperion said, sounding not entirely certain. "Bossed us around a bit this morning, though. And then," he added indignantly, "she fussed about the lecti in 'er room, and insisted on putting my pallet on it. The cushions weren't good enough for her, oh, no."

" 'Spose," Hyperion grumbled. "Better than anything since Albingaunum. But nowhere near as good as your pater's cook."

Hyperion snorted his opinion of the likelihood of that and returned to his scraping.

Gaius wandered off to locate Julia, and found her in the empty, first cubiculum off the peristyle, seated in a chair, surveying the empty room.

"Good evening, husband," she murmured, and Gaius -- feeling ridiculously pleased to see her more rested -- managed to smile back.

"Hyperion says Rufia Docila wasn't precisely pleasant today," he said, moving closer so he could keep his voice low. "Do you think she'll be a problem? I didn't have much of a selection from which to choose."

Julia considered it for a while, and then said, "We should give it some time, I think. We had a bit of a run-in earlier today, but I sorted it."

"She's used to a better-equipped kitchen, I believe. She took an inventory and gave me a list of what she considered was lacking."

"And I told her I didn't think we needed separate pans for fish, chicken, and beef. much less a roasting-spit, and if she had any reservations about my opinion, that she should apply to you." Julia's eyes sparkled. "She gave up after that. You must have put her in her place, this morning."

"I think she's used to cooking very large meals for her son -- I had to convince her that our needs weren't quite that great. She's right about a few things, though," Julia added, "and we could do with a few more cooking-pots, when we're able."

"Well, I'd -- I'd been expecting you home today, you see, so I hadn't thought to ask you about shopping-money. Hyperion had a bit left over from the meals yesterday, but I'm afraid he paid for the remainder from his own pocket."

"Oh, good gods." Gaius rubbed irritably at his face. "I hadn't thought to leave any this morning."

"Good -- give it to me later, and I'll see to him. And I suppose we should discuss things like the shopping as well. I've no idea what it will take on a weekly basis, not for four people."

"I took notes this morning," she said. "I think I've got the measure of it, at least for the basics." She smiled again. "I learned quite a bit today, actually. Hyperion is a good teacher."

Dinner was actually pleasant (or would have been, had Rufia Docila been a more congenial server), and it was Gaius and Julia's first meal in the triclinium together. Alone. (Hyperion and Rufia Docila would be expected to eat later, and most certainly not in the triclinium.) And triclinium couldn't be taken literally, as they only had one dining-couch: Gaius did his best to ignore Julia's physical proximity and to concentrate on her words, instead.

Conversation was no problem at first. Gaius kept to the hard, solid facts of the cost of food in Rome -- money and budgeting were his forte, after all, even if his previous needs had been more spartan than they should be in future -- and he and Julia settled on a budget, to be administered by her, with a strict account kept and turned over to Gaius at weeks' end.

And with that done Gaius fell silent, unable to settle on a suitable topic. How interesting could Julia's day have been, after all? Shopping with Hyperion, dealing with Rufia Docila.... The household was her purview, and he wasn't really in the least interested.

"I did mean to ask you," Julia finally ventured delicately, "about your work schedule. We expected you here for lunch, you see."

"Oh. I'm afraid it's not convenient to come home for lunch -- I often work straight through it," he said, reaching for a piece of chicken. "I might even miss dinner some nights. I have to go to Ostia tomorrow, for example. Ships and weather are no respecters of regular schedules."

Good gods, this was much more difficult than he'd thought. He understood completely why she needed to know: little point in wasting food, after all, as meat wouldn't keep well once cooked. But it meant that he'd have to be much more accountable to Julia than he'd anticipated, at least if he wanted to keep expenditures down.

"The furniture. Hyperion really needs a bed -- I know a pallet is usual, and he hasn't complained, but with his old bones.... You'll need a clothes-chest. And I should like a worktable, I think. For potions."

"Well, that depends on whether you want new, and how fine. There are auction houses -- it's possible to pick up decent things reasonably."

"Oh, I'm not set on anything extravagant, as long as it's sound. Whatever you'd like, Gaius."

He managed not to sigh. He couldn't care less about picking out furniture, but he supposed he should have to. It was the master of the household's job to make the more weighty purchases.

"We've one less thing to worry over, at any rate," Julia said. "A lamp for the tablinum. You'll be able to work at home straight away, if you like -- it's much brighter, now."

"Oh, no, I mean one of the hanging type, Gaius," she said brightly. "We had a very nice present from Florius Crispus today -- it's lovely, a nice, big bronze one --"

"-- and Hyperion put it up and filled it this afternoon. You'll have plenty of light in that room, at least --"

He tore into the tablinum, fumbled on the desk for the flint so he could light the smaller lamp that rested on it, and held it high, scanning the room.

It was totally innocent. Simple but well-wrought, and with no disgraceful ornamentation.

"Shouldn't I have accepted it?" Julia asked anxiously. "His note said it was a welcoming gift, and I didn't think there was a problem --"

"No," Gaius said, and snorted in a vain attempt to keep from laughing. "No, you were perfectly right to accept it."

He put the small lamp back on the desk, blew it out, and, vastly relieved, put his arm about Julia's shoulder to guide her back to the triclinium.

"However," he added dryly, "I should be very wary of any decorating advice that you accept from him in future. And please do not visit his shop, even with Hyperion. Especially with Hyperion."

He refused to elaborate further despite Julia's prodding, and took a great deal of satisfaction in her innocent puzzlement.

Julia had snuggled up to him when he'd joined her, and her boldness had extended to a shy kiss of his cheek and a murmured 'Good-night, Gaius.'" He was grateful she'd left it at that: he hadn't had to protest tiredness or reprimand her for forwardness.

Gaius was highly alarmed by the development. Julia had never before made a conscious move to touch him, not in two weeks of unavoidably-close living.

Was it my laughter that set her off? Or that foolish touch? Jove's balls, it's not as though I held her.... Or is it being safe, now, with a roof of our own over her head?

His panic was idiotic, he knew. She'd dropped right off: it wasn't as if she'd flung herself at him. But he still worried.

Don't be stupid. I'm making too much of this. She's too quiet and biddable to try to start something. I don't think she wants me, in any case.

What, is it inconceivable she'd want me? another part of his brain chimed in indignantly. Even if only out of duty?

Disgusted with his sudden insecurity, Gaius scooted closer to the edge of the bed and put himself to sleep by mentally listing the ships and captains under contract to Ursus Imports.

It was raining when Gaius had awakened on dies Solis, the morning after his first night under their own roof: he'd heard the fat drops pattering down in the peristyle. (It was just starting, then, gods damn it -- he'd likely be drenched before he could reach the office and join up with the wagoneers. Even staying in bed with Julia had seemed preferable.) He'd slipped from the bed, dressed, and filched what was left of the previous day's bread from the cucina before wrapping up in his cloak and starting the miserable walk to Ursus Imports. He'd spent all day in Ostia, and only returned to the house well after midnight, rousing Hyperion from sleep to let him in.

Dies Luna, however, had been a market day for the entire city (as was every eighth day): the city was crawling with peasants from the outlying regions. It was, more importantly to Gaius, the day that many auction-houses held their sales. He managed to acquire two beds, and a table that might be suitable for Julia, but declined to bid on lecti for the triclinium (they didn't really need them, after all, with only the two of them -- he didn't think it likely they would entertain.)

Julia seemed flustered when he brought the goods home -- at least, when he informed her that the extra bed was for him.

"Mater and Pater have their own rooms, after all," Gaius said in the most carefree, reasonable tone he could manage. "Have to -- Pater snores like a pig, and I probably do as well."

Hyperion, who was clearing out the garden (and obviously eavesdropping, as they stood in the door of the spare cubiculum) snorted, and muttered, "Give him a year or two."

"I'd thought it would be more restful for you," Gaius added, ignoring Hyperion. "Then I shan't wake you when I have to return late, as I did last night."

"Oh." Her face fell, and then she softly continued, "I'd... just thought to put the loom in there."

And that was that: the master's wish was law. (Although after Julia had turned away, Gaius caught Hyperion staring at with a skeptical, disapproving look that he couldn't quite decipher at the time.)

Dies Martis had had some interesting developments: the first was the arrival of a packet of documents from Carthage -- a rather thick one, in Titus' neat hand, proving conclusively that Muco was, indeed, pulling a fast one. Titus' discreet inquiries among the other shippers in the region turned up errors in their records attributable to the same clerk who'd signed off on the manifest in Carthage.

"They've taken the clerk into custody," Gaius informed Ursus, "and they're investigating his finances. Titus thinks that if the magistrates can break him, they might get him to peach on the captains who were involved."

Meaning that if the clerk could not explain any money reasonably beyond his salary, the magistrates might well force him -- by whatever means necessary -- to divulge the names of his co-conspirators. Roman justice was often rough, but effective.

"By Jupiter's balls, that's good," Ursus said bluntly. "I think we'll hold off on sacking Muco for a bit, then, and give them time to finish their investigation. I think I'm up for prosecuting the beggar. Why let him skulk off and rob someone else?"

"But he's scheduled to ship back out to Corinth two days after he returns. You won't let him make that run, surely --"

"No, let's come up with something to keep him here.... If he's late coming in that's easy, we'll just send another ship out first, and if not, we'll say there's been cancellation of part of the shipment -- that it won't make it worth the risk of going all the way to Corinth in September with only part of the cargo. We'll just nip it all onto a different ship, do a bit of juggling. Dexion's done that route before -- perhaps you can get him to come back for a run, as a favour to me."

Gaius had pulled the necessary paperwork and drafted a letter to Dexion, one of Ursus Import's most highly-respected captains, who'd gone into semi-retirement only six months before. (Gaius wouldn't tell him the route yet, of course. Information like that had a tendency to become public knowledge from a chance comment made to the wife and overheard by a slave; gossiped about in one Ostia or Portus tavern; and passed 'round at the next tavern or hot-pie shop until everyone in either port knew the business of everyone else.)

Gaius was becoming used to that, now, though he still chafed at not being able to study. It was too dangerous to do so at the house, for much the same reason as the gossip at the port cities: although the master's time in his tablinum was sacrosanct, one could never be sure when certain servants (Rufia Docila, for example) might indulge in a fit of nosiness.

But despite that niggling little worm in the apple, the last few days at home had actually been pleasant. Gaius decided it was rather nice, not having to fend for yourself and being pampered: a quiet evening meal that you hadn't had to buy or prepare yourself, someone else seeing that you always had a clean tunic; conversation with your bright and attractive wife when you wanted it, and the quiet of the tablinum or cubiculum when you didn't. (Which was, actually, quite often, especially when he caught himself thinking of Julia as "attractive.")

And said wife was proving adept at running the household, at least the little managing that Gaius saw -- even at keeping Rufia Docila and Hyperion from killing each other, it appeared. Martis evening the calm of the house had been ripped apart by a sudden crash and the sound of splintering pottery, and Rufia Docila's shrill voice shrieking imprecations at Hyperion. (Gaius, startled, supposed Hyperion had ignored his advice and groped the She-Daemon: but when he pulled open the door of the tablinum, he'd found that they'd had a collision in the peristyle. The plate of gustum in her hands had gone flying, Hyperion's paint-pot and brushes had followed, and they were glaring at each other.)

"You clumsy beast," Rufia Docila howled. "You've done it now, you have. Look at that -- the master and mistress' food all over the floor --"

"I've been workin' on this panel for an hour. You barged around the corner without looking, you stupid bitch," Hyperion shot back. "Why don't you watch where you're going?"

"A stupid bitch, and I'm about to move on to 'dried-up old cunt,'" Hyperion shot back.

"Why, you -- How dare you say such a thing to a freedwoman, you -- you arse-buggered piece of Greek shite," she retorted.

(Gaius had been right -- Rufia Docila could give as good as she got, and the incident looked likely to escalate to a full-blown physical brawl. He was, on the whole, amused -- it was the liveliest thing he'd seen in a long time, and he was rooting for Hyperion.)

Hyperion responded with a torrent of insults -- in excruciatingly explicit Greek -- and in the midst of his rant, Rufia Docila darted into the cucina, returned with a saucepan, and had just raised it to give him a good cosh.

All three of them stopped and stared at her: none of them had ever heard her raise her voice, and they'd certainly not heard that tone of command in it. It wasn't desperate or alarmed, by any means -- not even cross: she simply assumed that she would be obeyed, and there would be no arguing with it.

"B-- but Julia Corvina, he's ruined the gustum --" (Rufia Docila, in her ignorance, had apparently decided to argue).

"The peace of this house is more important than a few olives, Rufia Docila," Julia said calmly, "and I imagine Gaius Longinius will be more upset if the rest of dinner is delayed because I have to stitch Hyperion's scalp back together. Put the saucepan away, clear up the mess, and call us when mensa prima is ready."

"He has his paints to clean up as well, and you should have been more careful," Julia said, a note of steel creeping into her voice. "Clear up your part of the mess and get - back - to - dinner."

Ye gods. It was suddenly very, very easy for Gaius to see something of Julius Nigellus in his daughter. He hoped he'd never have to hear that tone directed at himself. It had even finally cowed Rufia Docila.

"Yes, Julia Corvina," she muttered, and bent to pick up the shards of pottery and to track down the errant olives scattered across the floor.

Hyperion glanced at Gaius, bushy eyebrows nearly reaching his hairline; mouthed 'Sweet Jove's balls!', and winked; and then set to cleaning up the spilled paint.

Against his better judgement Gaius closed the tablinum's inner door, exited through the atrium door, tiptoed over to Julia's workroom, and tapped at the lattice.

She'd got it organised to her satisfaction, though the loom still sat, in pieces, in the corner. She had quite an impressive assortment of pots and jars lined up along the back of the new table -- they must have been packed in the crate her family had sent -- and she was bent over the table, carefully mincing something by the light of a small, flickering lamp.

"They haven't been going at it like this while I'm away, have they?" Gaius asked.

"No, not this badly. Picking at each other, a bit. I think it's just mounted up over the week," she said, still intent on her work.

"Why on earth didn't you stop them?" she said, just the tiniest bit crossly, and vigorously scraped the minced herb into a mortar. "You were out there longer than I."

"Well, they're under your direct supervision, not mine. And I was enjoying myself too much," Gaius admitted.

"He wouldn't have let her get close enough," Gaius assured her. "And I.... Well, I was rather hoping she'd give me cause to cut her loose."

"Oh." Julia thought about it a second and then muttered, "Blast. I wish I'd thought of that."

"I take it we're of the same opinion?" Gaius asked -- after suppressing a laugh.

"Yes. Very much the same, I think. She's a good cook, but she's so shrill and unpleasant. And I won't have her abusing Hyperion, I won't," Julia said, in a surprising burst of passion.

"I'll simply tell her to leave after Veneris, then. I'll start looking around for a replacement tomorrow."

He left her to her work, returning to the tablinum to waste another fifteen minutes until the mensa prima was ready. He didn't even mind the bother of having to find another cook, in the long run.

Mercuris evening promised to be quiet, though. By that afternoon Hyperion had managed to re-paint both the peristyle and atrium, quite nicely -- he'd restrained his preference for the more erotic subjects, and kept to purely decorative devices in the public atrium, and to the more innocent mythological themes in the peristyle -- and now when the sunlight shone down into either room, the walls glowed with bright, jeweled colours and the gleam of fresh paint. Gaius had given him a night off in recognition of his hard work of the past week, and he was preparing to leave for a glorious binge at the tavern.

Gaius was on the cusp of confiding the problem with Muco to her. It certainly wasn't her business, but there wasn't that much to talk about, now that much had been sorted in the little house. But speaking of that....

"Have you found the library yet?" he abruptly asked, instead. "It's not far. I thought perhaps you'd passed it during the shopping."

"No," she said, startled. "There's been so much to do, and I hadn't felt comfortable leaving those two alone...."

Gaius felt a bit guilty. He couldn't afford the time to take her into the library himself -- or at least he told himself that: but he could at least be certain that she knew where the closest was. What she did with the information was up to her.

"If you can be ready first thing in the morning, I'll walk you and Hyperion over. It's not hard to find --"

There was a shriek from the cucina, and both Gaius and Julia bolted up from the lectus and ran that way, followed by a half-dressed Hyperion: they found Rufia Docila plastered against the partition to the loo, and a very puzzled and irate owl shifting uncomfortably on the end of the kitchen-shelving.

Rufia Docila groped about, found a pot, and lobbed it at the poor thing, and it fluttered off into the peristyle.

"Wait -- hold on, now," Gaius said, alarmed, as Julia and Hyperion scrambled to chase down the owl.

Damnation. Hadn't thought of owls finding us here, not with a non-magical in residence. What is Pater thinking?

"Filthy little -- That's what you get for all this open-air silliness instead of living in proper rooms," Rufia Docila huffed. "Animals all over, nearly taking peoples' heads off --"

"Probably someone's pet, I imagine," he managed. "It must have smelled the fish, and come looking for a meal. It's quite all right," he added with a glance behind him: Julia and Hyperion had cornered the frightened bird and were soothing it. Gaius hoped Rufia Docila hadn't seen the message tied to its leg.

Rufia Docila sniffed, glared at him, and bent to pick up the pot-shards, so Gaius loped over to Hyperion and Julia, and muttered, "Is it all right?"

"She missed," Hyperion said with a curl of the lip as Julia worked at the leather thong around its leg. "Poor little blighter's shaken, though."

"There's cheese left from the gustum," Julia whispered. "Give it a bit, and then take it to the atrium and tell it to nip off."

"The owlery's four blocks eastward, you silly little beggar," Gaius told the owl under his breath. "Tell the rest of your lot to hold any messages there, for the time being."

The owl hooted indignantly -- it was only trying to do its job, after all -- but let Hyperion carry it into the tablinum for its treat.

"My friend Publius," Gaius said. "A centurion. I'll, ah... I think I'll read it later. It won't be urgent."

"I told her it was someone's lost pet," Gaius said, steering Julia back to their dinner. "I don't think she noticed."

"Hmmmmph. That's two pots down, you know," Julia said. "I'll hold off buying any more for a few days, shall I?"

They settled back down, and Gaius tried to put the near-disaster out of his mind, but it was difficult. Ye gods. He hadn't thought to warn Publius -- or the family, for that matter -- not to send owls directly to the house. And he was anxious to read Publius' letter: although he tried very hard to pay attention to Julia's conversation and to behave normally when Rufia Docila was in the room, the scroll tucked under his tunic-fold was very distracting.

(Actually I know you're married. There was a letter from Mater waiting when I got back, too -- she was quite miffed at not being invited. She wanted to see the infamous Julius Nigellus with her own eyes, and she should have liked to see you again. Drop her a note when you get a chance, will you?)

(That made Gaius start guiltily. He hadn't written Longinia minor, yet. He'd have to do that tomorrow.)

I suppose your pater or one of your brothers gave you the whole lecture, so I won't bother. And you've probably worked it out for yourself, anyway. Just ignore all that idiocy about dark rooms and keeping her clothes on. What's the use of being married, if you can't enjoy yourself when and how you want? Fortunately for me, the girls around here -- the natives, at least -- don't believe all that muck.

Damn. Gaius had hoped for a bit more sympathy. But then, Publius almost always took things in stride, and in some ways that made Gaius fearful for him. Publius proposed to dabble in strange barbarian magics, and that put him at as much risk as facing a non-magical barbarian horde.

He was tempted to write back immediately -- he probably should have, if the little owl had still been about: but it was getting late and he was tired, and he'd have another long day tomorrow, between showing Julia the library and looking (yet again) for a new cook. He re-sealed the letter, and -- as he hadn't yet acquired a clothes-chest or strong-box for the house -- he took it to bed with him and slipped it under his pillow.

He dreamed that night of Publius and the barbarian Druidii -- waking from a nightmare, at one point, in a cold sweat.

Gaius knew Caesar's writings on Britannia inside and out -- he'd read heavily on the subject, when Publius had been posted there -- and the vision that had waked him was of Publius trapped in a monstrous, burning figure, sacrificed to the fires of the strange Hibernian gods.

The Gift, Part IV