WHO: Gaius Gracchus
WHERE: The Storehouse and the Inn, 6I
WHEN: 21 February
OPEN TO: All, with a starter for Kate
WARNINGS: Violence, possible mentions of human and animal sacrifice

The Storehouse & The Inn

OTA

Although he has no crowd of clients to greet in the dawn ritual of all men of the Roman political class, Gaius still wakes with -- often before -- the sun. It's the habit of a lifetime, in a city where being out after dark carried risks and where the business of the day started with the daylight. He's not the only person who lives by the sun here, either; often as he carries out his morning prayers to the guardians of his family, he hears others at work around him.

This morning, when Gaius enters the front room of the Inn, carrying his now near-empty bottle of wine and his libation bowl, there's already something on the corner of the desk where he has his makeshift lararium, a rectangle of paper with his name written on it. When he picks it up, the seal on the back is immediately recognizable as the one used by the mysterious people in charge of this place. That letters have been sent to people here is no secret, nor is the nature of their contents.

The proposition is simple enough: make a sacrifice to be returned home. Almost like a visit to a temple, or a priest's advice to appease the gods' disfavor. Not that Gaius has ever relied on sacrifice to turn his luck, and that luck had been as bad as it could be in the months up to his arrival in this place. But home carries so much with it, and home is clearly something that can be done here. Home means his family, his mother, his wife, Flaccus, if Flaccus is still alive.

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply. No. Home means archers turned against Roman citizens by their own consul, means the Senate lending its authority to murder, means fear and loss and disappointment, and death, if not his, than of his clients, his friends, his supporters. But it's hard not to long to be back in Rome, whatever the outcome might be.

He's unusually quiet during breakfast that morning. Usually, he takes an active interest in the conversation, both as a way to practice his English, and to learn more about the people who live in this place with him. But today, unless someone speaks to him, he doesn't participate. He helps to gather up the plates and take them to the kitchen to wash, but not long later he leaves for the storehouse.

He has no toga, and therefore no sinus in which to hold the letter, but he carries it in his pack, reluctant to leave it behind, still uncertain about what it's asking him to to. He starts his regular stocktaking of the village's stores; they're dwindling as the winter draws on, and knowing how much they have of what and how much they're using is going to be the key to making sure they have enough to last.

For much of the day, he's at work in the storehouse, and if anybody comes in looking for supplies, he'll greet them, tablet and stylus in hand, to ask what they need. Later on, though, he'll be sitting on the steps, cloak wrapped tight around his shoulders and the letter in his hand, staring into empty air as he tries to decide what to do.

The Inn

locked to Kate

Gaius returns to the Inn later in the day, carrying with him a small amount of grain to add to the supplies for the communal meals the Inn hosts. Before he can make it to the kitchen, though, he finds another thing addressed to him, this time in the main room. He sets down the container of grain and bends down to examine the box.

When he opens it, it turns out that there is more wine, another pair of boots similar to the ones he'd been wearing when he came out of the fountain, some wax to melt onto his tablets, and under it all, something soft and dark blue. He carefully lifts the fabric out of the box, and his hands close on soft wool, like the finest woven garments he'd had at home. There's a lot of it, several arms-lengths, but when he unfolds some of it, it's not a garment, just a length of unsewn dark-dyed fabric in the same color as the garments he'd had when he arrived.

He's so engaged in looking at it that he doesn't notice anyone else enter the room.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Could I help?" She pretends to think about it for a moment, all obviously dramatic like an actor on a stage. "Well, now, I dare say you're a useful man with your hands, Mr Gracchus, and this here situation's been all kinds tests on your ability to do manual labour. But I'm afraid, to be honest, I have little faith in your ability to sew neatly. And this," here she gestures, "this is too fine a fabric."

She's teasing, and obviously so. But only because she's fond of the man.

"I'd be happy to help, as long as you're willin' to give me the right instruction. A toga shouldn't be that complicated, right?"

There are many things that are unfamiliar to him here, but there are also many other things that are the same, and any orator, even any spectator, in Rome knows the effect of overblown irony used for humor. He'd been the best orator in Rome before he'd been relegated here, and effective rhetoric is rare in this place, so even the passing use of one of its techniques makes him smile.

"I would not know what to try," he admits as he sets the fabric down back on top of the box it came in. "It would be much better if you did it," he agrees, lightly. Once he'd have been something like offended at the suggestion; it's work for a wife and a mother, not for the son of a consul. It's work that his mother or Licinia would have done well, and of all the people here, it would be Kate Kelly he'd trust with it, because he knows she sews, and she's a skilled housekeeper, cook, and manager.

"I do not believe that is is complicated," he agrees, "though I do not know how my wife and mother did it. It is a large piece of fabric made in a particular shape," he says, drawing in the air with one hand, the shape like a long truncated triangle on one side and a semicircle on the other. "For a simple toga it needs nothing else added."

There are man who, even now, would resist such a suggestion. Who would stamp their feet and claim insult. Such men are used to the pampered life and being in command, and more than once Kate has reflected that they are all likely not to have been saddled with any of those. There'd been the man to gift her that lingerie, but he'd been more lazy than arrogant. Mr Gracchus could have been one of them, but Kate's got a measure of the man by now.

He adapts well, he has that going for him. She suspects the stint in the Roman army has helped with that.

"Hmm, just one piece?" Kate asks, watching his gestures carefully. "That should be simple enough. Come down tomorrow morning, just after I've washed the floor here. Then it should be clean enough to spread the fabric out and cut it."

"Thank you," he agrees, nodding. "I will bring it to you tomorrow."

He could have had an easy life. He'd had the money, the name, the friendships, the clientele, the father, grandfather, ancestors, marriage and family connections. But it was never going to be that way from the moment Tiberius and his supporters died. The Senate had made their choices and their enemy, and he'd been guaranteed he'd need to fight for his entire career, a fight that he'd lost. The letter he'd received had promised a return home if he made the demanded sacrifice, but he'd been about to lose everything he had, and he's still not sure how he hadn't died.

He'd forgotten about the letter until now, distracted by the gifts he'd received. It's still in his pack, which he'd set down to open the box. He's still not sure what, if anything, to do about it, the practicality of the danger of returning to Rome sitting uneasily with the thought of ignoring a request for a sacrifice.

So far, here, he's found home where he can, and Kate Kelly's offer gives him another piece.

"It does not feel right, being without a toga. I appreciate your help."

Kate's attention moves from his hands to his face. For a long moment, she doesn't say anything. She's just looking at him, almost as if she's never seen before.

Then, she smiles.

"I understand," Kate says. "Possibly more than you realise. I dress like this," and she gestures to her blouse, her long skirt (and, without saying it, the corset that holds her back straight and supports her muscles), "because it is how I dress at home. When I arrived... it all felt wrong."

Those strange clothes, equally strange to him, she thinks.

"So, I'm more than happy to help you with this."

† qui primum, ut impio dignum fuit

The Storehouse & The Inn

The Inn

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