The Grain Merchant E-Book

Zara Altair

• Herausgeber: Fervent Crux Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Argolicus Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 381

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Civil unrest and murder. Can a Roman patrician quell unrest and find a killer before politicians knife him in the back?

Italy, 512 C.E. Argolicus would rather bury his nose in a book. But, when he leaves his peaceful country villa to open his long-shuttered town home, he dives into town politics and meets a potential bride. He refuses to stand by when her family’s livelihood is threatened and her merchant father slain.

With the grain supply dwindling and Argolicus fighting incompetent officials, he uncovers a list of high-placed suspects and attracts the attention of a shadowy rival bent on his destruction. And as the citizenry grows increasingly desperate to put food on their plates, he’ll have to risk his reputation and life to hunt down the killer before violence erupts.

Can Argolicus find a hidden killer before he takes a knife in his back?

The Grain Merchant is the engaging fifth book in the Argolicus Mysteries historical mystery series. Fans of Ruth Downie, Steven Saylor, and Lindsey Davis, jump forward in time to meet your new detective. If you like intelligent heroes, picturesque Italian settings, and immersive ancient worlds, then you’ll love Zara Altair’s engrossing mystery.

Buy The Grain Merchant to explore the streets of antiquity today!

5 Stars

Complicated strands coming together into a final solution that is ingenious and satisfying.

Leseprobe

Praise for Zara Altair

A cracking yarn that wears its deep research lightly...

— Clarissa Palmer

This series would make an excellent show!

— Joe McGaha, Writer/Producer

Reader Praise for The Grain Merchant

…a well defined mystery, with many complicated strands coming together into a final solution that is ingenious and satisfying.

— Rosalie

…genuinely impressed with the historical details, the political intrigues and the great characters… a must-read!

— Agna

The Grain Merchant

An Argolicus Mystery

Zara Altair

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by Zara Altair All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover by Patrick Knowles Design

ISBN 978-1-7327225-5-2

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Contents

Tessera - Gold

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Tessera - Chalk

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Tessara - Lime

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Tessara - Cobalt

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Tessera - Red

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Tessera - Saffron

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Tessara - Crimson

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Tessera - Sepia

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Tessera - Ochre

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Tessera - Azure

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Tessera - Amber

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Tessera - Emerald

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Tessera - Magenta

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Glossary

Author Note

Afterword

Also by Zara Altair

About the Author

Tessera - Gold

In the king’s new chapel, every morning, the sunlight through the high windows shone on the gold pieces of the mosaic, the tesserae, around the images and the intricate Eastern garments of Balthasar, Melchior, and Caspar, glittering in splendor. At every Arian liturgy, the congregation chanted, “Long life to Theoderic,” forty times.

The old king ruled his People and the Romans of Italy with impartial care. It was rumored, and probably true, that under the soft cushions on his throne lay a human skin to remind him that his judgment had the power of life and death. His ten-year captivity in Constantinople under the Emperor Zeno inspired his knowledge of palace architecture and dissenting courtiers but had little bearing on his tenuous connection to the present Emperor Anastasius. He ruled Italy from his palace in Ravenna in the North.

In the South, life went on without much care from the king. Few of the king’s People lived there; Italians were Romans, and Greeks, and Syrians. The Church worshipped the Holy Trinity, and bishops raised money with a thriving slave trade. The governor of Bruttium, breadbasket to the North, was young and venal. Occasionally the Prime Minister, a Roman southerner by birth, sent a letter of rebuke from the king, which was largely ignored.

Local patricians lived comfortably and ran the local government through a council that imitated the Senate in Rome. The council selected a magistrate every two years. A treasurer kept track of local monies and duly sent taxes to the governor, who sent them on to the king. Crops and livestock—olives, wine, grain, fresh fruit, cattle, and horses all went north to support the king’s country of Italy.

As long as harvest went well, money flowed, and the area prospered.

1

Argolicus opened the door of the large stone house to memories and seventeen years of dust. He peered into the atrium in the early morning light as if childhood never left, hoping to hear his father’s voice. Dust motes floated above the stagnant impluvium, the pool in the middle of the atrium, coated with green moss. No wonder his mother never came here. The house spoke of his father, despite the dust and years.

Workmen marched past him into the room in a group. The foreman started calling instructions. Men went off to other rooms, leaving Argolicus alone in the room. The early August sun coming through the roof seemed to light up history: business conversations in his father’s study and office and somewhere his mother’s laughter echoed. He pushed those sounds from his head as he strode across the atrium toward his father’s study. A large table, draped with a cloth, stood in the middle. It looked smaller than he remembered. Had it diminished with time? Or was he seeing it as a man rather than a boy?

“Master,” Nikolaos, his boyhood tutor and lifelong companion, came up beside him and interrupted his thoughts. “I’ll prepare a room for you. Which one?”

“The main bedroom. If I’m taking over my father’s house, I might as well move in as the master.”

Nikolaos nodded and went off toward the rear of the domus, calling to one of the workmen to follow him.

Argolicus wandered through the house. Town. He was in town. No more leisurely country villa life. It was time for him to act as a responsible citizen and throw off the pretense of running a country estate.

The rooms filled with dust as workers swept, shook out cloths, and dusted alcoves and shelves. They covered their faces with cloth to avoid breathing the dust. Argolicus decided to go outside, and reacquaint himself with the town of Squillace just miles from his country villa estate. Now that the family town house was open and people were working, he wasn’t needed.

When he stepped out of the vestibule into the street, the summer sun blinded him. He took a few moments to let his eyes adjust. When he blinked, a man in magisterial robes, all silk, stood in front of him. Medium height, but with a carriage that implied importance. He met Argolicus’ blinking with unreadable eyes. His perfume seemed to expand in the summer air.

“Sura,” he said in a resonant voice. “Caius Larcius Sura, surely you remember me.”

Sura. He remembered a gawky, petulant adolescent, full of pretension and ready to latch on to anyone with a good name.

“Sura, I do remember you. It’s been years. You look well.”

His eyes took in the fleshed-out face with a trace of jowls, squinting eyes that hinted at poor vision, and wrinkles beside his mouth that would soon turn into permanent scowl lines. The man looked ten years older than his early thirties.

“Elected magistrate and chosen civil curator of Squillace just this year. Keeping the town in peace. At least I try.” He glanced to the side, where streams of people were filling the street headed toward the harbor. “Lately, we’ve had this problem.” He nodded toward the people in the street. “We’re having a council meeting tomorrow. You should come. You’ve been up in the hills too long. It’s time you joined us.”

There was no excuse for it. Argolicus had made a decision to enter town life, and here it was, an opportunity on the very first day. One of the marching men in the street shouted, “quod de nos? What about us?”

“I’ll be there. You can all fill me in on the unrest. I see the people are agitated.”

“It’s about the grain harvest.”

“What about it? It was a good year. No rain.” He thought of his fields up at the estate where the grain harvest had ended just two weeks ago. The crop had been excellent.

“You’re right about the harvest. But most of it is going north, to Rome and Ravenna. The estate owners and the grain merchants made money. Small farm owners and laborers made none. And since the grain is leaving, there isn’t enough for the people who don’t own land. Not that it would make a difference. They have no money, so they couldn’t afford bread, even if there were plenty of grain here.”

“When is the meeting? I’ll be there.”

“At the normal hour. It’s good to see you back in town. I hear you went to Rome.”

Argolicus nodded his head.

“And served as praefectus urbi?”

Argolicus nodded again. This time a bit irked. If Sura already knew, why was he asking? Then he understood, an appointed magistrate of Rome was a much more powerful title than the elected magistrate in Squillace.

“Yes, it’s true. But I retired to come back here. This is my home.”

“Ah, it is beautiful here.” Sura waved his hand toward the ocean and then up toward the mountains. “People still remember your father. A wise man. We need men like that.” Then, as if he were late for an appointment, he said, “Well, I’m off. Good to see you back. I look forward to seeing you at the council meeting.” He headed up the street in a swirl of silk and perfume.

It might be smaller here, but politics was the same. Men who jockeyed for position and measured others they met in relation to themselves. Argolicus sighed. Inside the house behind him, a workman was singing as he cleaned. He closed the door to the house and started down the street in the direction away from Sura.

It was still early enough for the shops to be busy. Cooks and slaves bartered with butchers, fruit sellers, and millers. A smith was hammering over an open fire while small boys watched. Restaurants, open since before sunrise, were feeding their last morning patrons.

Argolicus followed the street until he reached the city center. The forum was crowded with more shops, all selling wares to housekeepers and tradesmen. Citizens gathered in small groups, ready to trade gossip. Behind the forum, the town council building loomed over portico columns in front of the entry door. Argolicus briefly wondered why Sura had gone in the other direction and wasn’t installed in the city council performing his duties.

He had a sense that Squillace was a normal town, thriving on trade and hearsay. It was his town, and he would find his place here. He turned around to head back to the house, his house. As he walked back on another street, the stalls were busy with locals, but there were fewer discontents marching. His childhood haunts returned. There was the milk stall where they’d given him cream when he was a boy. But the man in the stall was not the same.

“Argolicus? Young Argolicus? Is that you?” a voice called from across the street. “It’s me, Rufus. Rufus the One-Eyed.”

Argolicus would recognize that gravel voice anywhere. The best fruit in all of Squillace. “Rufus, yes, it’s me. A bit larger now,” he said, laughing. “What do you have today?”

“Look at these figs. Oh, no, they’re not good enough. Hold on.” He bent down under the stall table and pulled out a golden peach. “The last of the harvest, but ripe and very, very tasty.” He handed the fruit to Argolicus.

“Rufus, you’re still the same, always a cheerful word for everyone and a surprise for the boys. You do still give treats to the boys, yes?”

Rufus chuckled. “Of course. They grow up to be men who are willing to pay, just like you.” He chuckled and then asked, “Have you moved into town? Come down from the hills?”

“Yes, I’m opening up the house. The men are there now blowing dust around, but soon it will be livable.”

“And Nikolaos? That feisty tutor, is he still with you?”

“Nikolaos is still with me. Feisty as ever and just as wise.”

Rufus nodded.

Argolicus asked, “Are you content here in this stall?” And before he could think, he added, “Would you consider moving?”

Rufus paused. “Moving?” Then his face broke into a smile. “You are inviting me to take up my old stall at your domus?

“Yes, the stalls are empty. The house is open.”

“I pay for my space here. Let me think about it,” Rufus said. “My old spot.” He grinned. “I’ll see what I can do. Who is your housemaster?”

Argolicus was not ready and laughed. “I don’t have one yet. It’s time I found staff for the house. In the meantime, you can talk to me.”

Argolicus cradled the peach in his palm and started back to the house.

* * *

The afternoon August sun beat down on the slave market as Argolicus and Nikolaos entered the crowd. Some people were eyeing the slaves; others were bidding on the men and women on display. Several slave masters lined up their goods on platforms proclaiming strength, or youth, or beauty depending on the slave.

Nikolaos stopped as if frozen. Argolicus turned to him. “What is it?”

“Joram!” Nikolaos said under his breath, nodding his head toward the farthest platform. “He is not a good man.”

The slave master, a large man whose powerful muscles were hidden by the flesh of overindulgence, was describing a pubescent girl standing naked in the blazing sunlight. “…she will grow into a delightful companion or a sturdy worker.” He brought his arms down, defining imaginary curves. “Turn around. Let them see all of you,” he said to the girl. Tears ran down the girl’s cheeks. An involuntary shiver ran down her back as she turned on the platform.

Argolicus noticed nothing different about this slave master from the others, but he caught Nikolaos’ distress. “There are plenty to choose here. We don’t have to deal with him.”

“He was…,” Nikolaos started. He tried again, “When your father bought me. It was from him.”

Argolicus thought of the young Nikolaos, imported from Greece. A fifteen year old in the large man’s stable of slaves.

“I was treated well,” Nikolaos said as if reading his master’s thoughts. “I was educated and valuable. But girls like her had rough treatment with only enough food to keep them alive. They slept crowded in tiny rooms. Look at that girl there, probably fresh from the farm. The way things are these days, her parents probably sold her to make ends meet.”

“We’ll find a housemaster, a doorman, and a cook from someone else,” Argolicus said.

2

Argolicus slid onto a bench in the council hall amid nods from fellow town members. The long stone bench was one of two that edged the walls of the meeting hall. The town principals sat in chairs arranged against the far wall on a slightly raised stone dais. Sura was in deep conversation with a graying man with squinting eyes. Argolicus tried to remember the man’s name but couldn’t.

During the years he had been away in Rome, it seemed as though the membership had dwindled. There should be close to a hundred men here. As he did a quick headcount, he noticed fewer than fifty men in the hall, including the principals up on the dais. Wide spaces on the benches testified to members who were not there. He understood now why Sura had invited him.

Sura was waving at Argolicus, gesturing for him to come up to the principals’ dais, mouthing, “Come, come.”

Argolicus hesitated, thinking he would just watch and observe in this meeting. But, Sura was right; he was a principal of the township and belonged on the dais. He rose. As he mounted the dais step, all eyes followed him as he made his way to Sura. Not the beginning at the council he had imagined. He was in the thick of politics. All his misgivings from his time in Rome as Praefect swirled inside his stomach. Father would not have been hesitant. But, Father had not experienced the Senate in Rome.

And now he was his father's heir, and it was time to take his place.

Sura smiled. “You remember Donicus. He was our taxman before you left.” Argolicus now remembered the man who was grayer and squinted more than before.

“Donicus,” he said, “keeping track of everyone and everything?”

Donicus looked up, squinted, and said, "Argolicus, has your wisdom grown in Rome? Did you bring back knowledge you can share? I'm the last to hear any stories. Tell me you are here now in Squillace.”

“I am. I am. As you can see, this is my first time at the council since I left. Today I'm here to observe and learn. I have years to catch up. But I’m wondering, why are so many seats empty in the benches?”

Donicus shook his head. “Too comfortable in their country villas to come into town for business. Almost everything is left to us to decide.” He waved at the group of principals on the dais.

“Everyone's role seems different now,” Argolicus said. “Look at Sura. He's a magistrate.”

Sura expanded under his silks. Then he motioned for Argolicus to sit in an empty chair next to Donicus.

Donicus nodded his head. “Indeed. We need strong leaders. This year we have, Vespasianus.” He nodded his head toward the central chair on the dais. A tall man in a richly embroidered, fine linen tunic sat with pomp surveying the room. He turned his head covered with dark, almost black hair, cut in a fashionable Roman-style cap, to survey the room, frowning at the empty seats on the benches.

Donicus continued, “You see, we have leaders, but now we have…”

He was cut off as Vespasianus rose with pomp from the chair to begin the session.

“Citizens, we have several issues to discuss today. I’m hoping we can get through them all with a minimum of discord. Vopiscus Aurius Macro, our treasurer, will explain the new tax levies and how they will be paid to our governor, Venantius, as well as the funds to improve the warehouses and ongoing maintenance of our city streets.”

Donicus pulled out several vellum sheets and began reviewing columns of figures.

Vespasianus continued, "Caeso Rabirius Donicus, our curator civitatis, will report on the success of the markets in general and the success of the grain harvest this year. We can all be grateful for our harvests.”

Donicus gathered the sheets of vellum and prepared to rise, but Vespasianus continued, “Missing from us for several years on his appointment by the king in Rome, we welcome back Gaius Vitellius Argolicus.” Head turned toward the dais, searching for the new face. “The town of Squillace is grateful for the leadership of his father, Gaius Vitellius Maximinus, and looks forward to continued guidance from Argolicus.”

Men nodded in agreement and then burst into brief but hearty applause. Argolicus rose and then sat.

A man swathed in silks rose from the benches and walked toward the dais to address the principals. Argolicus cringed at his neighbor Bartholomaeus, a man of strict principle and growing wealth. Bartholomaeus nodded toward Donicus and Macro and then addressed the room, standing with defiant widespread legs.

“We have an urgent situation that must be addressed today. More immediate than warehouse improvements or even taxes. I am speaking of the unruly rabble disturbing our streets, defacing property, and causing civil unrest. In spite of our foreign king, we have our eternal Roman laws.”

Argolicus noticed heads nodding agreement along the benches. But the principals on the dais seemed inured to tirades like this. Bartholomaeus continued his impassioned rhetoric.

“We need the town warden to keep peace in the streets, so we can go about our business undisturbed.”

There were a few murmured calls of agreement on the benches.

“Most importantly, we need to hear from the arbiters of grain supply like Pompeius Severus Quintinus. We need to know why the town is short of grain when the harvest was good. Not only good, one of the best in years. Why are we short of grain? Who will quell the hungry mob? Where can we get grain now? I call on Quintinus to speak.”

The heads on the benches turned toward the dais. There was a hum of voices and then silence. Argolicus recognized the empty chair was not for him but for the missing town principal Quintinus.

Around him, the principals muttered and exclaimed in sotto voce. “Where is Quintinus?” “Not like him to miss a town meeting.” “Just when we need him.”

While the principals flustered, Argolicus knew that he might see Quintinus this very afternoon. He had an appointment at his house. He would ask him then about the grain and why he wasn’t at the town meeting.

A scrawny man stood on the dais. His angular face held the trace of Greek ancestry not uncommon here in the south. “Perhaps I can give a brief explanation.”

Vespasianus waved his hand for the man to continue.

“Citizens, Vibius Horatius Bartholomaeus, I am not Quintinus, but I speak with him often about these matters. The grain harvest was plentiful this year. The weather was kind to the fields. There was suspicion about normal shipments to Ravenna and Rome from Egypt. Quintinus stepped in. He brokered almost all the grain from here in the south to meet that demand in the north.”

Men grumbled on the benches. Several stood up to speak.

Vespasianus turned his regal head from one side of the hall to the other. He held up his hand. “Let Sextus Gabinius Pennus continue.” Bartholomaeus frowned. The men at the benches sat down.

Pennus continued. “Quintinus knows best where the grain comes from. He is in communication with the growers — the large estates and the small farms. We’ll need to wait for him to let us know if more grain is available.”

Bartholomaeus interrupted. “We can wait. Meanwhile, something must be done. If we can’t appease the people… the hungrier they are, the more they will turn to disruption. I call on the principals to settle this matter as quickly as possible.”

All the men on the benches stood. Cries of “Now” and “Stop them!” rang through the large hall. Some raised their fists in anger others ran toward Bartholomaeus and stood next to him in front of the dais. On the dais, the principals began whispering questions and shaking their heads.

Thoughts and questions ran through Argolicus’ head. Was Bartholomaeus doing this as a play to become a principal? He was richer than some men on the dais, like Pennus, the wine merchant. But he was not from an established family. Although he had property, much of his wealth stemmed from the slave trade.

Argolicus was surprised by the crisis in the council. He had never seen the citizens of Squillace so out of order. They were as disruptive as the people in the streets, just in a different way. It seemed as if the entire town was erupting in chaos.

Vespasianus rose from his chair and raised his hands. As he turned his head to look out over the town membership, the men on the floor grew quiet. Those at the benches lowered their fists and hung their heads. One by one, the men around Bartholomaeus returned to their places. Finally, Bartholomaeus walked to take a place on a bench.

Vespasianus lowered his arms and said, “Citizens, nothing will be solved without order. We can discuss our situation rationally and reach our conclusions. Grain distribution cannot be solved until we hear from Quintinus. Let us, for the moment, continue with the other issues of today’s meeting.” He turned around and motioned toward Donicus.

Argolicus stood. “I have an interim proposal.” Donicus tugged at his tunic, waving his sheets of numbers in his other hand. Argolicus turned, “In a minute,” he said.

Vespasianus frowned, sure that Argolicus wanted to prolong the discourse. Men on the dais looked on with shock. On the benches, men murmured and furrowed brows.

“Citizens,” Argolicus continued, speaking to everyone in the hall. “In the matter of the grain shortage, I will speak with Quintinus. I have an appointment at his home later today. I recently returned from Rome, where I settled disputes regularly. Correct information is the basis of sound decisions. Let me gather facts from Quintinus, our grain merchant. I will report back to the magistrate Vespasianus. If we need to confer with other principals of Squillace, we can do that once I have the facts. Then we can set up grain dispersal for the people. Once they know they have food, I am sure their fractious behavior will subside.”

The men on the benches settled back. Heads nodded. Everyone on the dais turned to Vespasianus. Bartholomaeus frowned but finally nodded in agreement.

“A reasonable solution,” Vespasianus said. “Once we calm the populace, we can return to regular town affairs and the prosperity of Squillace. We look forward to your answers.” He nodded to Argolicus. “Now let us turn to the matter of the tax levies…”

Argolicus listened with half a mind through the tax levies, dickering over the warehouse improvements, and Donicus’ explanation of the markets. He was focused now on how to approach Quintinus about the lack of grain for the region when the main purpose of his visit was to meet Quintinus’ daughter. His mother had arranged with the woman’s mother for the two to meet. It wasn’t quite an arranged marriage since both were adults, but a maneuvering to unite two families—the wealthy grain merchant without old Roman family ties and the established principal family whose representative was Argolicus.

His most difficult concern was how to approach Quintinus. If the merchant had oversold the local harvest leaving no grain for the town, then the council would be pressed to find the grain. Would they pressure their most important merchant to make arrangements? Would Quintinus make good to the citizenry for his zealous bargaining? Was the local shortfall truly due to the merchants overselling the entire harvest? So much of southern Italy’s grain went through the warehouses of Squillace. Even if Quintinus were to blame, how would the town provide for the people? The grain came here from all over the South. It wasn’t as though the town could call on the next valley over to provide grain.

Vespasianus was bringing the council meeting to a close. Donicus turned to Argolicus. “Congratulations on your resolution. That Bartholomaeus causes a stir at every council meeting.”

“Well,” Argolicus said, “it’s not resolved yet. I don’t know how the town will make up for the shortfall. It seems that Quintinus is the one who brought us all to this dilemma.”

“Remember that Quintinus is a bargainer. You will have a hard time getting a straight answer from him, especially if what you ask costs him.” Donicus squinted into the emptying hall. “You can trust only his prices, nothing else.”

“I’ll keep your words in mind,” Argolicus said, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Thank you for your warning.”

He left the hall, nodding to those who were still in the council room. Men grouped in clusters of two or three talked in low voices. Some nodded back while others ignored him. Ah, politics. Always the same. And he had voluntarily stepped into the middle. As he headed back toward his house, he hoped he would maintain his father’s good name.

3

Argolicus shifted on the bench in the entertainment room of the vast town residence. His mother’s choice for a new wife sat across from him. Her name was Proba. She was small and delicate with brown eyes framed above by graceful eyebrows. And, she was the daughter of Quintinus.

Her father, Pompeius Severus Quintinus, was obviously well off. Multicolored rich mosaics covered the floor in intricate weaving strands of leaves and geometric patterns. The bright frescoes on the walls were themed with musicians playing harps, flutes, and drums. The slaves moved easily around the room, bringing various tasty snacks. A plate with thin bread rounds and a bowl of honeyed herb apricot sauce sat on the table by the side of his bench.

Proba broke off a tiny piece of bread, dipped it in the honeyed apricot sauce by her side, and chewed silently. The silence was the cause of Argolicus’ shifting. His mother had spoken to Proba’s mother about a possible marriage match. The two of them now sat opposite each other without a word to say. Each time Argolicus asked her a question, she answered with a polite yes or no and let the question drop into the pervading silence.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t good-looking. The light green tunic with embroidered strips down the front and on the sleeves revealed a shapely form. The idea of spending days—the rest of his life—with someone with nothing to say dismayed him. What was the point?

Proba broke the silence. “I’m going to be honest. Here we are sitting together in a moment arranged by other people. The purpose is marriage and I’m not interested in marriage. Our family has money. I’m comfortable. My mother, discontent as she is, thinks I would be happier married. I’m not unhappy.”

Argolicus felt his body relax. Not only was she not trying to trap him into a marriage he didn’t want, she was not interested in marriage.

“I’m not unhappy either,” he said. “My mother was happy in her marriage and wants the same for me. My father died seventeen years ago. She doesn’t want to marry again. We’re both old enough to know what we like in life. Can we agree that this marriage idea for the two of us is not a good one?”

Her composed face lit up with a smile, and her eyes glowed with warmth. She broke her silence with a stream of chatter. Her opinion on all those people in the street flowed into the importance of guarding wealth, and that changed into the responsibilities of principals toward the general populace.

Argolicus burst out laughing. She stopped and frowned. “No, no. I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at myself. I agree with your ideas. It was just that minutes ago, I was wondering how we could have a conversation about anything.”

“So was I,” Proba said, smiling. “Look how just the idea of marriage kept us from talking. Now that you’ve heard my grandiose ideas on the principal's role in civic life, tell me about you. How do you spend your time?”

“I don’t know how to answer that. My life is changing. Just yesterday, I left our villa in the hills to move into town. I went to the town council meeting this morning. I don’t know what my routine is yet but I do have one thing I do every day.”

“Oh, what is that?” Proba tilted her head and raised her delicate eyebrows into arcs.

“I read. I have a book collection and spend time reading each morning before I begin the rest of the day. Then, in the evening, I read out loud, often in Greek, to practice.” Argolicus shifted again, leaning forward. “My slave has been with me since I was a child. He was my tutor and now supports my daily activities.”

“Oh, I had a tutor when I was young. He is long gone to another family. I read little. I prefer numbers. I like numbers. They give you answers.”

“Answers? I never thought about mathematics that way. What do you mean, answers?”

Proba’s eyebrows lifted again, this time in surprise. “It’s simple. They add up. Sums give you information. Then you act on the information. That’s why I love working with my father. We check the numbers and then make decisions.”

Well, here was a way of approaching numbers different from the squinty-eyed Donicus. Proba found them useful while Donicus just kept track.

“What kind of decisions?” Argolicus asked. “I’m used to people like Donicus who keep track and make reports of totals.” His evaluation of this slight girl was changing.

“Donicus,” Proba said. “He keeps columns.”

Argolicus smiled. “Indeed, I saw his lists this morning.”

“Well, Father makes arrangements all over Italy. With the grain trade, he has to make predictions. Then he bases his offers on the predictions he makes. It’s quite simple, really. How much grain was harvested this year? Compare that to how much grain last year? Who were the biggest buyers last year? Then match them up.”

“It would make my head swim. I thought it was a matter of knowing the right people.”

Proba smiled. “That, too. It takes years. That’s my father’s special skill. I do the numbers, and he manages people.”

“You do the numbers?”

“Yes, what did you think I was talking about?”

Argolicus dropped his eyelids and nodded. He had underestimated Proba. It was as if he had opened a spigot to a woman he didn’t understand, and out flowed someone completely different from his first perception. Her mind worked in a way opposite to his. He had thought he had a grasp of logic and reading people, but she lived in a different world.

“I’ve never met a woman who worked with numbers.”

“Not until today,” Proba said with a grin. “I can tell you are a philosopher at heart. But you are also curious. If you like, I can show you. First, you examine numbers. Then, you talk about them.”

She smiled and held out her hand.

“Come, I’ll show you. It won’t be like mathematics with your tutor.”

Argolicus tried to remember the last time he had taken a woman’s hand. Some dinner in Rome, he decided. He reached out and took her hand. She led him from the entertainment room, across the warm garden sunshine of the peristylum, through a hallway, across the atrium, to her father’s study.

The room was much like his father’s study in the town home with shelves and shelves of journals. The large table was stacked with neat piles of vellum and several open journals. Proba let go of his hand and stood behind the table.

“Father is gone most of the time, creating his connections and setting prices. This is officially his office, but it has been my domain for almost ten years. I have a system. I keep track of the numbers for his business dealings here,” she tapped a vellum sheet with columns of numbers. “I list the name, the place, the amount of goods, usually grain, the source, the transportation method, usually by ship, its cost, the name of the ship and the captain, the port warehouse, the delivery, and the delivery date. Then I make a note here,” she pointed to the bottom of the sheet, “of where the agreement is stored.”

“I think I understand,” Argolicus said. “Each sheet represents the transaction for his business. The actual agreements are stored separately. Where?”

“Oh, those are kept in these journals.” She pointed to a row of leather journals on the shelf. Then she swept her arm up and down. “All these shelves are copies of agreements organized by date and name.”

“No wonder your father is out sealing agreements. You are the backbone of his operation. He can negotiate costs at every step of the transaction from buying grain to delivery.”

Proba did not blush or simper, she just nodded her head.

“It more than keeps me occupied. I enjoy keeping track and organizing. I know most women don’t have a ‘vocation,’ but this is mine. I couldn’t give it up. That’s why marriage seems impossible for me.”

Argolicus nodded. “I understand. You are a unique woman.” Then he decided it was time to change the topic. The promise he had made this morning at the town council meeting tugged him to action.

“I was hoping I could meet with your father while I’m here. Something came up at the town council this morning.”

“Well, if it’s about business, I’m sure he will want to meet with you. My strength is numbers, not making the agreement.”

“Yes, well, is that possible? Could I meet with him now?”

“Oh, no. As usual, he is traveling.” A small frown furrowed her brow. “But, he was due back last night. He planned to attend the same town meeting. Some terms of agreement must have delayed his return. He doesn’t stop until he’s reached the terms he sets. He is quite the bargainer. That’s why we make such a good partnership. He is firm with people, and I’m solid with numbers.”

“If you could…”

“Oh, I’ll tell him.” Then she actually winked. “I’ll tell him to give you a special rate.”

“No, no. It’s not about a transaction. The overseer at the villa makes all those arrangements. I need to talk to him about…”

“Oh, Proba! What are you doing?” A woman’s voice cut him off.

Fabia, Proba’s mother, scurried into the office. “This is no place to entertain a patrician. You must learn to…”

Argolicus could see where this was going. He cut her off.

“Fabia Pompeia, I asked to see what Proba does. She was showing me the system she developed. I’m quite impressed.”

Fabia gave him a huge smile. “Oh, I’m so glad the two of you are getting on. It was my idea to talk to your mother about a marriage. It’s good to see the two of you together like this.” She gave an approving smile to Proba.

“Mother, we’re not getting married. We both agreed that it wouldn’t work.”

“Oh? I’m sure you can iron out little difficulties. That’s what all couples do. The differences fade with time…”

“Mother. We are not getting married. We both agreed.”

“But, but,” Fabia spluttered. She turned to Proba and spoke with approbation. “Take him back to the entertainment room. Honor our guest. Let go of business for one afternoon.”

She turned to Argolicus. “My daughter is headstrong even if she is tiny. I apologize for…”

“No need to apologize,” Argolicus said. He looked over to Proba, and she winked again.

“A good idea, Mother,” Proba said. “Tell the kitchen to send us more food and some honeyed wine.”

She strode out of the office back toward the entertainment room. Argolicus followed, leaving the perplexed Fabia wringing her hands in the office, hoping for a marriage that would not happen.

Once they were back and seated, Proba laughed. “She doesn’t understand. You handled her so well. I usually end up in an argument.”

Argolicus smiled. “Years in Rome. I’m sure she thinks she has your best interest at heart. Mothers want what they think is best for their children. Sometimes that means overlooking who their children really are.”

“You are a remarkable man.” Proba spoke without thinking the words, then shook her head. “No. I mean you are, but I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that. I don’t spend much time in the company of men. I’m sure you can tell.”

Servants entered with a new platter of gustum, clear glasses, and a pitcher of wine. They set down the platter with a bowl of melon pieces cooked in spices and two small omelets filled with tiny fish, raisins, and oregano.

When Proba took a bite of her omelet, she smiled. Argolicus wondered at how quickly she had gone from the earlier glazed look to her smile now. It was only a matter of minutes.

“Without giving your mother false hopes, I think we could be friends,” he said.

“I like that idea. Mother’s life is full of female friends. They gossip. I have no interest in gossip. I don’t have friends. You know, friends to just talk and spend time with.”

Argolicus nodded. He remembered how he’d had similar thoughts about himself. Friendship was hard to find. Except for his neighbor Ebrimuth, of the king’s people, he relied on Nikolaos for companionship.

“Good,” Argolicus said, thinking he had just made his first friend in town. “These melons are delicious.”

He nibbled while Proba talked. He decided that moving to town was a positive action. Not only that, he wasn’t a dealer like Proba’s father but he knew he wasn’t cut out to manage a country estate.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in friendship.

4

Outside, the evening air encouraged people in the street, but they were not happy. They jostled and shouted. Clusters of men yelled in angry voices. Over and over, Argolicus heard What about us? Low murmurs to loud chants. Even though it was not dark, some carried torches. The feeling was fierce and eruptive.

Events like this didn’t reach the peaceful villa in the hills. Argolicus understood that in whatever form—town meeting, an afternoon of talk, or out in the street—contact with people was a new element in his life. As he was lost in thought, a group of young men pushed him. They made it seem as though it were unintentional, but their looks told him the action was deliberate.

He found himself in a small alley between two large homes, a passageway for slaves to carry goods in and out. A stack of boxes was piled up against a wall, waiting to be taken inside.

He heard a sobbing noise behind the boxes and took a step into the alleyway. At first, he saw nothing. Then a pair of red-rimmed eyes peered at him above tear-stained cheeks. The young girl cringed and pulled back against the wall. Her brown hair was matted. Her tunic showed worn seams.

“I won’t hurt you,” Argolicus said, thinking she was a slave from one of the buildings. “Just go back in. Everything will work out.” He knew that wasn’t always the case, but it seemed the right thing to say to get her to stop crying. Children baffled him. They seemed to turn emotions on and off in minutes.

She stopped sobbing. “There is no go back in. I have no place to go. I don’t belong anywhere.” Then the sobs erupted again.

Argolicus started with the simplest, most straightforward thing. “What’s your name?”

“Severa,” she said, wiping tears off her cheek and smudging her face in the process.

“Severa, you don’t have a home?”

She shook her head. “They… I heard them… they… slave master.” She looked up from her incoherence. Her eyes were deep brown filled with pleading. “My parents. They found a slave master. I heard them. I heard them talking. They weren’t going to tell me. They were going to take me into town and then hand me over. I know what happens to girls. It’s worse than being poor on a small farm. That’s just work.” This time the tears rolled down silently. Her shoulders trembled.

“Your parents were going to sell you, so you ran away? Is that right?”

She nodded her head. “Don’t take me back home. I won’t go. A place where they sell their own children is not a home.”

“Would you like a home? A place where you wouldn’t be sold and nothing bad would happen to you?”

She nodded again, then stopped in thought. “But where would that be?”

“Up in the hills. I know a very nice woman who can always use help.”

“Oh, I can do so many things. I sew. I clean. I work in the kitchen. I harvest crops…”

“I can take you there tomorrow. First, have you eaten? Would you like something to eat?”

She nodded and wiped her cheeks again. “I’m very hungry.”

“Good. I know just the place where we can go and get you food. It’s not far from here. My new home. I just moved in yesterday.” He reached out his hand. “Come on, I’ll take you there.”

She hesitated, then stood up, and reached out her small hand. When she stood, Argolicus realized she was older than he had first thought. Her tiny breasts pushed against her tunic. No wonder she was afraid. He took her hand and led her back into the street.

“Stay close to me. There are many people in the streets tonight.”

Severa tightened her grip on his hand. “What is your name?” she asked in a small voice.

“Argolicus, Gaius Vitellius Argolicus. We’re going to my father’s house. I’m trying to get used to thinking of it as mine. It’s safe in there and there’s food.”

He heard the sound of horse hooves on the street and made sure they stayed to the side. The horsemen were calling, “Disperse. Disperse.” The street crowds pushed Argolicus and Severa forward as the horsemen approached. The girl tightened her grip even more if that were possible and pressed against Argolicus. He could feel her trembling.

“Don’t be afraid. The horsemen are trying to clear the streets of all these people. Just stay close and follow me.”

As the horses drove the people forward, the street filled with the people urged on by their shouts of “Disperse.”

Argolicus said, “We’ll stay to the side of the street, out of the way of the horsemen. We’ll be there very soon.” Severa nodded her head, but her eyes were wide with fear.

Argolicus could hear the horses panting now. The crowd pressed on every side. Suddenly, a voice called, “Argolicus.”

He turned his head. The horsemen were right behind them. In front was a large, muscular man with a wild mane of blond hair, guiding his horse with his thighs. He pulled on the reins and signaled the men behind him to keep going.

He hopped down from the horse, sword and long fighting knife hanging from his belt, and gave Argolicus a hug. Then he pushed back and said in a burst of energy, “What are you doing here? Look at these crowds. Where are you going? Who is this?”

He turned to survey the crowd while Argolicus answered.

“I’m moving to Father’s house. I’m going there now. This is Severa, she’s coming with me.”

Ebrimuth towered over her and smiled. “Severa, a nice name. You’ve found one of the best men in all of Bruttium.”

Severa nodded her head but kept her eyes down.