The Gift, Part VII

Gaius' first muzzy thought on waking was that Julia just might have managed to poison him in his sleep; his second was that it served him right.

His third was that he was gratified there were no windows in the cubiculum: he thought his head would split open at the smallest sliver of direct light. The spill through the door-lattice, from the peristyle, was bad enough. Julia was gone and the rest of the household was up: he could smell bread baking in the kitchen -- Fenia Tertulla insisted on baking it herself -- and even that inoffensive, usually-pleasant odour was enough to make his stomach revolt.

Someone with great foresight had left a pot on the table, however, next to the lamp. He fumbled for the pot and vomited into it, head hanging over the edge of the lectus, and when one orifice was done with its purge he took an astonishingly long piss over the side as well, aiming blearily for the pot and hoping he was accurate. (He probably wasn't: he was seeing two pots where there should be one.)

He reckoned that was all he could reasonably accomplish given his condition, so he managed to set the pot down without dropping it, ignored his raging thirst and the sharp sting of bile in his throat, and pulled the blanket up over his head.

He didn't respond, so Julia pulled the blanket out of his resisting fingers: he winced at the light of the lamp she'd set on the table.

"Oh, gods, I'm late.... Oh, fuck work, send Hyperion to tell 'em I'm dying --"

He knew damned well what one was supposed to do when the matron of the house gave a command: one obeyed, immediately, so he did. Carefully.

"Drink this," Julia said, handing him a cup with a suspiciously familiar-smelling potion.

She reached over, deftly pinched his nose shut, and tipped the cup so he had to drink it or wear it.

"I'm not a child --" he gasped when he'd managed to get the nasty brew down, and to keep it there.

"You had your fun last night, and now it's time to take your medicine," she said briskly. "You'll feel a bit better shortly."

He scrubbed at his face a moment, and then stared at her: his eyes were still bleary, and she looked out-of-focus.

"You don't have a receipt for a potion that makes one forget, do you?" A pity, really, that he could actually remember most of what he'd babbled last night.

"Oh. No, I haven't. In the short term, I think Hyperion needs to walk you down to the baths and make certain you get the full treatment. You'll feel much more human, then."

Gaius stared at her: his vision was clearing and she was in focus now, face calm and composed, and ever so slightly amused at his predicament.

"I did. I could hardly miss them, could I? You were quite loud." She glanced down at the pot -- he had missed, quite a lot -- and wrinkled her nose. "But today I have a lot of brewing to do, and I can't spend any more time fussing over you. So off you go, as soon as you can stand without keeling over."

She patted his hand, took the cup from him, wiped a smudge of the potion from the corner of his mouth with her fingers, and left.

Gaius decided -- not for the first or last time -- that he would never understand women.

"If I'd known gettin' you drunk was all it took, I would've done it ages ago," Hyperion observed as he drew the strigil along Gaius' back.

Gaius' only response was a still-queasy grunt, until Hyperion's comment sank in. "What do you bloody well mean?"

"Ownin' up to bein' an idiot, that's what. That poor little girl's thought something's wrong with her all this time --"

Gaius struggled over onto his side and stared at the man. "You nosy old.... You eavesdropped."

"No, didn't," Hyperion said with great dignity, wiping clean the blade. "Hades, Gaius, you made as much noise as Hannibal's forty elephants when you got home -- woke me right up. An' then I couldn't sleep, an' I had to go spend an as. I couldnt've missed all the blather if I'd wanted to, you were that loud."

"You could be tactful and ignore the whole incident," Gaius retorted. "You don't have to throw it in my face."

"Where's the fun in that? Besides, I approve. It's about time," Hyperion said placidly, and pushed Gaius back down on the pallet so he could continue the scraping. "So now the air's clear, an' you can start over, proper-like. She's willin' I think."

"I am not going to take marital advice from you," Gaius said through gritted teeth. "For one, you've no bloody experience."

Hyperion avoided his eyes, and busied himself with cleaning the blade again -- though it obviously didn't need it.

"I had a wife," he admitted softly. "Not official, of course. Another slave of the master's."

"No, no. I came to him with the first wife, Quintus's mater. It were her pater." Hyperion sighed. "Lovely little thing she were, Silene. Sweet-natured like yours, but without the temper."

"Couldn't. She were dead by the time Lucius Corvinus come along. Childbirth," he said, and the cloth on the blade slowed and then stopped as he stared across the room.

"Weren't mine, it were the master's. So at least I didn't lose two." He looked at Gaius then, grim-faced. "He weren't a kind man, the first mistress's pater. The type who'd beat you for a disappointment over a lost wager, or who'd fook whichever slave was around when he got the itch. So I reckon your pater did me a service by taking me on. I'd have killed the man else, given the chance."

"Naw. I'd had time to think it all through then, hadn't I? No sense in gettin' attached to someone, not so long as I were a slave, it'd mean more grief in the long run. And I'll say this for your pater, he never pushed me to mate, not like some masters would. I told him straight off that I'd serve him best as I could, but I wouldn't make more slaves for him or the Empire -- I'd sooner lop my own stones off."

"'Well, what man with half a brain would want to breed for someone else?' he says, surprised-like. And then he joked as having to find a blind woman to take on my ugly face would be impossible, anyway."

"No, that were your pater's way then," Hyperion said doggedly, pushed Gaius back down flat, oiled his back again, and began to massage it in. "He were too... open, then, too unusual in his views -- just like somebody else I know -- an' he'd get flustered an' try to cover it with insults, like."

Gaius pondered over this a while as Hyperion worked away. He couldn't imagine his pater having the least bit of sensitivity, much less toward a slave.

But then it was a long time ago. Nearly sixty years, I suppose.... Must have been not long after he married Quintus's mater.

"Erm, Hyperion..." he finally ventured. "Quintus talked about his mater a bit, when we visited. About all her pregnancies, at least --"

"Ah. Would, wouldn't he? I figured he an' Lavinia Corvina'd heard about the mistress's potions, and sure enough --"

"Right, but.... My point is, why did they – Quintus and Lavinia, not to mention Pater and the first wife -- have so many? Shouldn't they have.... Well, Lucius and Dru have managed it a bit better, haven't they? And so did Mater."

Hyperion was silent for a long time, seemingly concentrating on a knot between Gaius's shoulder-blades, and then said, "Don't know about Quintus, but your pater.... Thing is, boy, you don't always think those things through at first, an' you're not allus prepared for bad times. Especially if you're over the moon in love, and everyone expects you to --"

"I'd bet my last as on it, Gaius. An' it were before all the purges, before all that muck happened in Ravenna and the Wizard's Council came down on everyone. People were careless an' carefree, like. I reckon your pater figured he could cope with such a big family an' still look after her proper, but then.... Well, he lost almost everything, boy, an' they had to move so many times that it took a thundering great toll on her. She was in a bad way with the last baby – that'd be the second one after Quintus – an there weren't a healer around, an' not much I could do. Just about killed him to lose her, I reckon."

"So," Hyperion said, taking up his strigil once more, "I'm gladdish that you've waited, in a way. You've seen enough things now to think serious-like on them, and to make better decisions than he did. Now that you've got over your stubbornness, at least," he added pointedly.

Gaius longed to retort, but managed not to. It was best not to argue too strenuously with anyone who had a blade at your back, even a blunt one. "I wonder," he contented himself with thinking aloud, "If he loves Mater that way."

"Second time's often differnt, from what I've seen," Hyperion muttered. "But more to the point, he respects her, Gaius. He don't take her for granted, an' he never has. Those things is summat rare, an' it's a wise man as learns that afore he has to live it in the worst way."

Gaius knew, from his own shameful experience, that those could be very rare commodities indeed; and he resolved that he should not repeat the pater's early mistake.

Daybreak on Veneris morn found Gaius struggling with the folds of his best toga, and cursing that he couldn't simply throw a cloak over his tunic. It was quite impossible, though: the Regio he would visit today definitely called for something tonier. It wouldn't do to show up looking like a lower-class plebe.

He badly wanted a cup of undiluted wine to steady his nerves, but didn't dare. The memory of his prodigious, post-drunk misery was still enough in and of itself to be sick-making, so he made do with a heavily-watered, lower-quality Falernian. But there was nothing for it, so he girded his loins and set out before Julia and Hyperion rose. The Esquiline was not too terribly far from the Aventine, but even at that early hour he had to sidle past all manner of undesirables, at great risk of soiling his toga; so it was with great relief that he finally reached a far better part of the great, sprawling city, where -- although only marginally less-congested -- his best duds were far less likely to be despoiled.

Honoratus's domus he found with a bit of difficulty, despite the clarity of the man's instructions. Its facade was surprisingly plain and unornamented, unlike the mansions that surrounded it, and not entirely befitting someone who held the exalted position of city commissioner. The entry was heavily barred with iron grille-work; a slave took Gaius's name and left him sweating on the doorstep for several long minutes. (Sweating more from nerves than anything else: late October cool had, blessedly, at last sent the heat and flies of Rome summer packing.)

His first impression of the domus, however, was quite wrong, for when the slave saw fit to admit him he noted that all the expense had gone into the inside. It was all of the highest quality and best taste, and well-wrought, to boot: Gaius doubted that even the Emperor had such fine marble and murals. (Quintus, while obviously insisting on the most ostentatious materials, had cheated a bit on workmanship.) Even the Honoratus lararium, that humble staple of every Roman atrium, was exquisitely painted.

The atrium was also incredibly crowded. Ten or twelve other petitioners occupied the four benches that flanking the walls: a senator's son (whom Gaius recognised from an altercation over the unfortunate shipboard death of his Hispanian stallion) glowered at the indignity of sharing breathing-space with an elderly and disreputable-looking Hebrew; a scrawny water-carrier, his yoke and buckets carefully tucked beneath his bench, sat next to a fat and prosperous merchant.

There was, in fact, no room at all for Gaius on the benches, and so he perched on the low ledge that bordered the impluvium. (It was purely ornamental, here: nothing so mundane as a cistern in Honoratus's public rooms.) This had its advantage, however, for the pool was stocked with an odd sort of carp with wonderful variation in their gauzy fins. (One of the oddities wriggled over to Gaius's edge of the pool and gazed at him with its huge pop-eyes, pushing its snout above the surface and working its jaw in an obvious bid for crumbs -- of which, alas, Gaius had none.) He was fascinated by these creatures: he had never seen one in the flesh before, but Gallus had once brought back a curious sort of scroll from an eastern trip which depicted just such a fish, as well as strangely-dressed Easterners, with their uniformly black hair and queer, slanting eyes. (Pater had kept the scroll, and had lusted after the unusual fish, but as Gallus had no idea what land was depicted -- having got it off a nearly-barbarian trader -- it was a fruitless desire.)

Honoratus must have spent a packet to acquire these. He was obviously a man of significant, if not astounding, means.

Gaius, mesmerised by the beauty and boldness of the carp, barely noticed the wait and the to-and-froing of the other petitioners. He came to his senses only when someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he looked up into the broad, honest face of Vatia, who beckoned him to follow.

The senator's son didn't care for that at all, and rose. "I say, old chap, I've been here loads longer than that blighter --"

Vatia -- still silent -- gave the whelp such a venom-filled look that the idiot shrank back down onto the bench, heedless that he smirched his toga against the Hebrew's dusty robes. Vatia himself continued imperturbedly into the tablinum, and drew the door closed behind Gaius before fetching a tablet from the desk and moving to the adjoining door, gesturing for Gaius to follow.

Honoratus, it seemed, did not conduct business in the tablinum, but in the peristyle behind it. Gaius strode along as Vatia trotted down the arcade of columns until they reached the man himself, lounging in a shaft of weak October sunlight, perusing a scroll and making the occasional, idle notation on it. (Again. Honoratus seemed to have his head in a scroll as much as Gaius had in his manifests.)

"That's all I shall see today, Vatia," he murmured without bothering to look up. "Corvinus and I require some privacy. I shall send him out when we're done."

"You've noted the scarf he wears about his neck," Honoratus said, unrolling the scroll to the next panel.

"And that he did even in summer? You don't consider it odd, a man wearing such a thing year-round?"

Light dawned, and with it came a frisson on horror. "Don't tell me his voice has been --"

"Not intentionally, no. A throat-slitting gone wrong, that damaged the mechanism rather than opening his veins -- the more important ones, at least. It was a blessing in disguise, really. I'm not ungrateful that they botched it, of course," he added, "for Vatia has ever been a stout-hearted and loyal companion, but he was always an incessant prattler. I much prefer him this way."

After a moment's shock, Gaius said -- quite unwisely -- "A private secretary who can't divulge your secrets -- how convenient."

"Smooth your hackles," Honoratus commanded, finally granting Gaius a glance so sharp it might have cut through a hide. "It's nothing less than the truth. And most employers would have turned him out. I take it you have no information on the Muco business?"

"And you too stubborn to send me the description, as I advised.... Time wasted, Corvinus. You shall have to learn to swallow your pride."

That stung, all the more so because Hyperion would undoubtedly second the opinion.

"You might," Honoratus suggested as he laid aside the scroll, "engage the Private Informer, at least. I believe one of your neighbours in Fountain Court is highly regarded in the field."

"He's good enough to work for Vespasian, apparently -- I should think that recommendation enough. Why haven't you done either?"

"The simple dissemination of information," Honoratus interrupted him, "is very different to the costly hire of an Informer. You have my offer of the incidental help of the frumentarii, Corvinus -- I suggest you avail yourself, whether Ursus wishes it or no. It shan't cost him an as, and I shall otherwise begin to think you don't want to track down Muco."

"Good. On to other business, then," Honoratus continued, folding his arms over his chest. "You've decided to take my offer for a patron, I see."

It was true, of course, and there was nothing to be gained by working himself into a snit: but Honoratus's arrogant assurance got up Gaius's nose no end. "Perhaps I've decided that the refusal to such a generous offer should be delivered in person."

"I think not – you've simply put off accepting as long as you could. I've put you down as an avoider, Corvinus, particularly when you are uneasy with something, and I certainly make you uneasy. You wouldn't have shown at all had you intended to let the opportunity pass."

Gaius's face began to burn. "An avoider? How the Hades can you make such a --"

"You avoided contact with your family for years merely to subvert your pater's wishes. You've avoided giving me information which might aid me immensely in solving Bubo and Cato's murders. And you've certainly avoided – through omission – divulging certain facts about yourself, and Ursus, until questioned directly and specifically."

"No, no sport, you," Honoratus said coolly. "Quite a well-respected magical family, once. And it's quite impressive, how Lucius Corvinus rebuilt his business --"

"Of course. Only sensible when considering a potential employee. This avoidance seems to extend mostly to personal matters and not those of work duties, however, and for that reason I am still willing to consider you worthy of employment and patronage."

Gaius stewed over that for a moment, and then grudgingly admitted, "Yes, I would like to acquire a patron. But I'm not altogether resigned to helping you with the other matter."

"Neither am I, as it happens," Honoratus retorted dryly. "First I shall want your patron to assess your probabilities of safety and success. I've no intention of sending you in as a sacrificial goat, no matter how useful you might be."

That was surprising. Gaius had the impression that Honoratus might cheerfully lose scores of men without a second's remorse, given his attitude toward Vatia.

"At any rate, I have another iron in that particular fire at the moment," Honoratus said, dismissing the concern with a lazy wave of his hand. "Your cooperation is not vital -- yet. Now that we've dispensed with that difficulty --"

"But what if I never see my way to accepting it?" Gaius objected. "You said yourself, you prefer agents willing to do the job."

"Oh, I think you shall be," Honoratus said steadily. "I think you shall, once you realise the stakes involved -- for the issue," he added pointedly. "My words should not be construed as a threat. For the time being, let's assume that I'm content to take the risk that you shall come round, and if you don't, then you've diddled me quite neatly and there shall be no more said about it."

But Gaius was not quite such a fool as to question him further. "Very well," he mumbled.

"Oh. I suppose it... it will take time to make the arrangements. For the patron..."

"Already made," Honoratus murmured. "You'll discover them in due course. I should caution you, however, not to judge by appearances -- not through jaundiced Roman eyes, at any rate." He took up his scroll, a clear signal to Gaius that the meeting was adjourned.

He was halfway to the tablinum door when Honoratus stopped him with the observation, "It has occurred to me that you made an excellent point in our last official interview."

"Bubo and his killer. Specifically, why Cato should have let them on the premises to begin with."

"As much as you'd like to ignore that for Ursus' sake, yes -- more on that point later. But firstly, when Cato's body was recovered he had a gold aureas in his purse. That's a bit rich for a night-watchman, don't you think?"

"Bubo, undoubtedly. His purse held more of the same. There is, however, a more compelling and logical explanation that persuaded me. I wonder if you can come to the same conclusion as I?"

Gaius thought for a moment, and said quite confidently, "If it were the killer's aureas, he would have retrieved it off Cato's body before dumping it."

"Exactly -- My, Corvinus, I might bring you along in this line of work after all...."

"Furthermore, he couldn't have missed Bubo's purse if common robbery was his intent, so that's out as a motive -- oh, blast," Gaius swore as the implication hit him.

"Yes, definitely a crime of passion rather than straightforward greed -- as if the violence of the scenes hadn't convinced us already."

"So that's why you still consider Ursus a suspect? Because it wasn't a property crime, but done in anger?"

"It's why he might have done it," Honoratus said gravely, his dark eyes hooded. "But the entire episode also illustrates why it is unlikely to be him. Think on the bribe further, Corvinus."

"Because.... Because," Gaius blurted excitedly as he caught on, and absent-mindedly took a few steps back toward Honoratus, "if Bubo was meeting Ursus, why should he have to bribe Cato for entrance? Why not simply wait outside for Ursus? Or why didn't Ursus make a prior arrangement with Cato to admit Bubo, or simply set the meeting for elsewhere?"

"Precisely. Ursus might have stumbled across Bubo trespassing and taken the opportunity to kill him, of course, but why, then, murder Cato? It's Ursus' warehouse, his property -- he had every right to be there no matter the hour. He could have turned the situation to his advantage. Claim he'd mistaken Bubo for a thief, for example, and then called Cato in as a witness -- assuming he'd arranged the body properly, but he hadn't, of course. Then again, Ursus might have seen the bribery occur, but I somehow doubt he would find that sufficient justification for murder -- at least, if both your and my assessments of him are correct. He might have lost his head, though."

"I don't think so -- he can be slow at times, but he's not stupid or panicky. So you don't seriously consider Ursus a suspect."

"Of course I do -- but those arguments are significant points in his favour. The dog, unfortunately, is another point against."

"Cato's dog? I wonder whatever happened to it. When I saw Cato's wife, she hadn't any idea where it was -- and it hasn't returned to the warehouse."

This was such a far-fetched deduction that Gaius couldn't restrain a snort. "Would the killer really have taken the time to destroy the dog?"

"A more dispassionate killer intent on simply getting away, no. But given the overall violence.... It's a most curious incident, really."

"That the dog did nothing, Corvinus. I enquired, and none of the neighbourhood residents heard barking, none at all, and only one -- the old porter who lives in the insula next to the warehouse -- thought he might have heard a howl, very brief and then cut off."

"It could have been anyone that works at the warehouse, then, if the dog recognised him. Are you determined to pin this on Ursus?" Gaius demanded.

"Not at all, but he does not have an alibi. He was not at home on that night, you see, and cannot satisfactorily account for his whereabouts."

"And the testimony of 'that weed,' as you call Vespasian's Informer. He recalls seeing you at the Fountain Court local drinking yourself into such a stupor that you barely made it up to your room." Honoratus leaned forward and confided, "I cannot afford to dismiss Ursus as a suspect until I have very clear evidence of his innocence. I do not have the luxury of allowing feelings and loyalty to cloud my logic -- and neither will you, Corvinus, if you are to succeed in the task I may eventually set you."

The part of Gaius which admired such cool philosophic reasoning -- the part which constantly questioned the whys and wherefores, and that longed to find answers for them -- agreed completely, and even admired Honoratus's tenacity: but he simply could not ignore that small, still voice within himself which insisted Honoratus must be wrong, about Ursus, at least.

"How do you suppose," Honoratus continued, heedless of Gaius's inner turmoil, "that the killer removed the bodies to the Tiber?"

"Cart," Gaius said dully. "A large hand-cart -- they're kept in the far corner of the yard, for deliveries to the smaller and more local merchants. Big enough to cram a body into, if necessary. And it would be just another cart or wagon in the streets during night-time, even if it was quite late. Nobody should have taken it amiss at all."

Blast.... "I wouldn't know. It's Primus' job to periodically inspect the equipment," he admitted.

"Ah. Perhaps you ought to ask the young dolt for his last accounting," Honoratus suggested dryly. "But I suspect you'll find one missing now, for I saw no evidence of blood on any still there – as opposed to the paving-stones where Cato was murdered. Despite washing them down, the killer couldn't get all of it out of the join. Unfortunately, the cart shall have been dumped somewhere, and probably appropriated by someone else by now. Congratulations, Corvinus, you've discovered another point in Ursus' favour."

"Can you really think that a man of Ursus' over-weight and shortness of breath could have hauled cart, corpse and dog all the way to the Tiber?"

"Not without dropping dead himself, no. He can barely make it up the stairs to his office without passing out."

"So it's quite unlikely that he should have been able to dispose of the bodies, unless he had an accomplice...."

"And if so, why didn't he take Bubo's as well if he was intent on covering things up? And why bother to dispose of Cato's body if not?"

Honoratus seemed on the verge of divulging whatever-it-was to Gaius, and then shook his head. "It's pure conjecture, and I shouldn't tell you as it might prejudice your observations. Moreover, Motive is far less important than Who. Once we know Who, we shall learn the Motive soon enough.... Good afternoon, Corvinus." And with that, Honoratus spread the scroll open again and pointedly ignored Gaius.

Gaius turned and stalked to the tablinum and drew the door open in a temper before he remembered that Vatia would probably be there – but the man wasn't, so Gaius indulged in a sharp and petulant scrape-and-slam of the door; he took a moment to compose himself before exiting through its mate into the atrium (wouldn't do for the snotty senator's son to think he'd been put off by Honoratus). The atrium was, however, empty of everything but the red-gold flash of the Eastern carp darting back and forth in the impluvium. Vatia and the senator's son had left by the front door, it appeared. Even the servant who opened the grille had vanished.

Gaius wandered over to the impluvium to take one last look at those remarkable fish.

It was only a whisper, and oddly slurred at that, but it was enough to make Gaius start and look about. He wasn't alone after all; the ancient Hebrew still sat on the far bench.

"Young master," croaked the Hebrew again, scooted to the edge of the bench, and crooked a gnarled finger to beckon Gaius over. Gaius did what his mater had pounded into his head for politeness' sake, of course: strode over to the man, and bent his head the better to make out the man's strange speech.

"Tomorrow night," the Hebrew interrupted him; Gaius struggled to sort through the man's heavily-accented Latin. "Go to the butcher's nearest the Capena Gate. Two doors down, next to a goldsmith's, is the home of Agathon --"

"Silence, boy," the old man said softly, and shook his head. "Listening will be a problem, I see.... Knock and you will be admitted. Wear the hood of your cloak up and don't draw attention to yourself. And above all else," he added waspishly, "do not enter the quarter before sundown." He wriggled further back on the bench and waved Gaius off quite placidly, and then tucked his hands into the folds of his robes and his chin onto his chest.

Gaius might as well not exist; the Hebrew totally ignored him, staring vacantly at the other side of the atrium as if Gaius wasn't there at all.

There was nothing for it but to take himself off, so Gaius did. But when he risked a backward glance as he closed the grille behind him, he saw no-one at all in Honoratus' atrium; nor did the rasp of the tablinum door – or the absence of such, rather -- explain how the old Hebrew might have disappeared so neatly and quickly.

It was a slow and distracted walk back to Ursus Imports: Honoratus' at-home had certainly provided food for thought, much of it distressing, and all the more so because Gaius was torn between rage and consternation. He realised that he should be grateful to Honoratus, of course, but it was difficult to be properly appreciative when you knew you'd been outfoxed.

Then there was the matter of the Hebrew himself. Of all the sorts of person Honoratus might have thrust on him, Gaius hadn't expected that.

It wasn't that he held an animus toward Hebrews in general – far from it: the few Hebrew merchants he'd dealt with on Ursus' business had been hard bargainers, but ultimately fair, and prompt payers to boot. (Gaius rather wished more Romans were like them in that respect.) But he had never had personal dealings with any of them, and he should now, theoretically, have to call one "master."

He would get over that, though, he decided (at least, if he really wanted to learn from a mage, as he claimed), and set the matter aside to worry over tomorrow. (Tomorrow, before his after-sundown appointment in one of Rome's more notorious ghettos, if he reckoned rightly the quarter the Hebrew meant.... Ye gods.)

He knew quite well why Honoratus had called him back at the last moment to discuss the murder – murders, rather: not only to catch him off-balance, but to persuade Gaius round to his point of view on Ursus, to gain an ally – a spy – in the warehouse.

Gaius halted dead in the street, earning him jostles and snarls from other, more hurried pedestrians, and then stumbled over to the fountain at the crossroad and sat.

It was probably totally innocent – as innocent as a fool who shirked his duties could be, at least. Probably. But if not, why would Primus hide from him the knowledge of a missing cart?

No, no, that was utterly ridiculous. Why should Primus harm Bubo, assuming that he could have done? He was such a scrawny little sod, in any case – no muscles at all. He couldn't have killed Bubo, much less dragged a laden cart nearly a full stadia to the Tiber.

Of course, a woman who would stoop to selling her body probably wouldn't have the least compunction about selling her word, either. Primus might have bought his alibi....

There was something there, thought, some bit of inspiration just out of reach, if only he could catch hold of it.... Gaius ground the heel of his palms into his eyes and cursed a blue streak.

"Here now," a shrill female voice assaulted Gaius' ears -- just before its owner assaulted him with a smack on the shoulder. (The owner of voice and hand was a thin, elder, exceedingly upright female slave -- obviously from one of the better area homes, judging by her tunic.) "This is a nice neighborhood, this is, and you oughtn't use language like that -- nor loiter about our fountain, either. My mistress's girls might hear you."

Gaius glared at the slave: if she were a man, he'd have knocked her down for daring to touch him. "If they hang about the fountain, I'm sure they're no better than they ought to be," he said shortly; and, his patience and politeness exhausted, he added, "And you may take your bloody-minded old-maid morality and go bugger your dried-up arse with it," before stalking off down the clivus.

Gaius's experiences that afternoon at work improved neither the day nor his mood: Ursus was surly and snappish with everyone (including Gaius, complaining about his tardiness even though he'd given permission for the whole day off, if necessary); Primus was even more scattered than usual and seemed unduly terrorised by Ursus's behaviour.

The idiot had, it seemed, neglected to inventory the carts, along with half the other equipment.

"Why?" Gaius demanded. (He could feel the blood rising to his face, reckoned he was going about as purple as Ursus was normally, and made an effort to control himself.)

"Well, I just.... That commissioner fellow said not to touch anything out there until he was done," Primus said weakly. "And he wouldn't allow it for nearly a week, and by then...."

Gaius mentally filled in the blank: And by then, Primus had probably got distracted by something-or-other.

Primus darted out of the room and returned a quarter-hour later, admitting sheepishly that there was a cart missing, and should Gaius like him to send some of the errand-boys out to look for it?

Gaius decided to send not only the errand-boys, but Primus himself: let the fool wear out his sandal-leather as punishment for his carelessness. (Who knows, they might actually turn the damned thing up in an alley somewhere.) Sending Primus out had the added advantage of getting him out of Gaius's sight: he found he was utterly incapable of looking at the boy without wondering if he might, indeed, have been involved in Bubo's murder (or of thieving from the company, or both). Only Gaius's guilt over suspecting the young idiot kept him from reporting the problem of the cart – and Primus's negligence -- to Ursus.

It was with considerable relief that he locked up the offices and warehouse, and took himself off for a long bath and a quiet, suspicion-free evening at home; and Julia, seemingly sensing his mood, shooed Fenia and Hyperion off to their separate beds as soon as possible after dinner, and excused herself to her workroom to leave Gaius in peace.

He – sensible, for once – elected for an early bed-time, and despite his worries and frustration, was out nearly as soon as he blew out the lamp.

He woke from the middle of an unexpected and exceedingly pleasant dream: so pleasant and vivid, in fact, that the little centurion was ready for marching orders, and it took Gaius a long time to realise he wasn't alone in his bed.

"Oh." Gaius wriggled closer to the wall to give her room. She followed, snuggling closer.

He was certain of it, now -- beneath the caution and hesitance there was a sly note of teasing in her voice; and then the thought occurred to him that Damn it all, she can relight the brazier with her Lumos --

The thought fled when Julia utterly shocked him by wriggling closer and running her hand up to his hip – under his tunic.

"I think that's the problem," she said thoughtfully. "We have different expectations."

He slithered around to face her in the dark. (Her hand left him briefly, and then quite disconcertingly, she slipped it right back onto his other hip.) "What are you up to?"

It was costing her a lot to do this, he imagined – Julia, usually so quiet and reserved, to take the initiative -- when she had no expectation of really enjoying it herself.

He couldn't quite ignore the possibility, though. "Is this really about us, Julia?" he asked her. "Or is it about doing your duty?"

He tripped over his own tongue for a moment, stuttering, and then spit out, "Ridiculous. I don't expect that of you. I haven't changed my mind, you know -- I don't want children. At least, not now. I'm not certain that I ever will."

"I'm not ready either," she retorted. "I expect I might someday, but.... Never mind, it's not wise right now, I know that. Have you forgot you're married to a student of potions and medicines? I've taken care of that."

"As nearly as it can be. Nothing's foolproof except your foolish abstinence, and look where that's got you. Gaius.... if I can concoct a decent contraceptive for Lavinia, I can certainly do it for myself, you know."

"You weren't doing much to solve the problem logically – too distracted recently, I think." He felt her shrug her shoulders. "So I did."

"You're telling me," he said slowly, "that if I hadn't been such a fool and had told you the truth from the start, we wouldn't have gone through all this bother?"

"More or less. I never said I didn't want to... to bed you, Gaius -- and you never asked," she said gently. "I never said I didn't want you."

"But I was.... I practically forced you, Julia, and I was a clumsy idiot in the bargain. I hurt you more than was necessary...."

"You surprised me, that's all. It happened too fast, and I was so stupidly proud of that gown. And I really was worried Hyperion might come in -- he's a dear soul, but I'm not prepared to give him a show." Her hand left his hip, and found and caressed the side of his face. "I'm glad we waited, though. I'm glad that I grew to care for you as a person, and not just as my husband, before we.... You're a good man, Gaius -- you can't help it -- no matter what you think of yourself, and no matter that you've acted foolishly. I think it's time we started over and gave it a proper try, don't you?"

He took her hand and kissed the palm, and then closed the distance between them, fitted himself against her -- she'd shucked off her tunic before slipping into his bed, and he cursed and wriggled out of his (she laughed at him, gently), and pulled her to him again -- and found her lips.

Reality, while more awkward and prosaic than the dream, was far more satisfying.

The Gift, Part IX