house of Optimus. If I contracted now to do the work, by setting a date to start and agreeing the fee which Gwellia had so skilfully negotiated, the contract would be binding under Roman law, and Optimus could not change his mind if Fabius did not come.
We skirted past the temple once again, and took the street which ran behind it, past the high priest’s house. There was Optimus’s dwelling opposite. Typical of the man and his constant preoccupation with walking a mile to save a quadrans, he had bought a mansion of the second rank. There it was, a spacious residence, but squashed between a barber and a pot-shop, with a door that fronted directly on the street. Unlike the pontifex’s great house opposite, with its impressive gate and entranceway and glimpses of a formal court beyond, this building was closed in upon itself. Only a few small windows on the upper floor, and the iron grille through which the doorkeeper could peer, relieved the blankness of the wall which faced the street – except where someone had scrawled ‘Vote for Linneus’ in bold black painted letters on the stone.
I threaded my way through the waiting clients at the barber’s shop – the vogue for beards had never really caught on in the province, and shops like these were always filled to bursting with townsmen who had come to have their faces scraped, their nose-hairs clipped, their baldness treated, and their ears emptied of wax and then filled with the latest rumours in the town. There is nowhere quite like a barber’s shop for catching up on the latest gossip. That might be very useful to me later.
I noticed the situation of this one, with approval, before I moved to Optimus’s door and unhooked the iron rod to strike the bell.
Chapter Nine
Once we had got past the doorkeeper we were shown into the receiving room, a small antechamber off the atrium where visitors could sit uncomfortably on a bench and wait. There was a plate of rather ancient apples and a jug of very watered wine, of which we were vaguely invited to partake, but the prospect did not appeal. Optimus – with typical regard for money – clearly did not provide any other refreshment for his callers, unless they were very important, and there was nothing else to do but sit and look around.
My mosaic in the dining room still looked good, I thought, glimpsing it through the inner arch, but otherwise the house betrayed its master’s thrift. It had been built in the old-fashioned Roman style and the centre of the atrium was partly open to the sky. The gutters dripped into a sunken pool beneath, making the room disagreeably cold and damp. (Such pools were falling out of fashion in Britannia: one could see why on such a dismal day.) Under the shelter of the partial roof a fine carved table held a good bronze vase, but the wall decorations had been cheaply done – repetitious patterns in a poor paint which was already flaking.
A few damp pot-plants fringed the atrium pool, but by craning round the doorpost it was possible to glimpse the inner court and the more extensive formal garden there. Even that wasn’t a great deal more decorative, if I remembered rightly. The master had been frugal here as well. I’d noticed on my previous visits that the box shrubs which formed the borders were thin-planted, and what should have been handsome flowerbeds were full of straggling turnips, leeks and other strictly practical additions to the kitchen. I leaned forward on my bench to see more clearly.
It was raining slightly, but someone seemed to have been tending to the garden, for as I idly glanced I sensed a movement. A figure clad in some long bluish garment darted swiftly into the shadow of the colonnade and disappeared into the rear apartments of the house. Some garden slave, most probably, caught in the rain and scuttling out of sight of visitors. Otherwise the garden was much as I remembered. I watched for several minutes but the figure did not re-emerge.
Then someone finally
We skirted past the temple once again, and took the street which ran behind it, past the high priest’s house. There was Optimus’s dwelling opposite. Typical of the man and his constant preoccupation with walking a mile to save a quadrans, he had bought a mansion of the second rank. There it was, a spacious residence, but squashed between a barber and a pot-shop, with a door that fronted directly on the street. Unlike the pontifex’s great house opposite, with its impressive gate and entranceway and glimpses of a formal court beyond, this building was closed in upon itself. Only a few small windows on the upper floor, and the iron grille through which the doorkeeper could peer, relieved the blankness of the wall which faced the street – except where someone had scrawled ‘Vote for Linneus’ in bold black painted letters on the stone.
I threaded my way through the waiting clients at the barber’s shop – the vogue for beards had never really caught on in the province, and shops like these were always filled to bursting with townsmen who had come to have their faces scraped, their nose-hairs clipped, their baldness treated, and their ears emptied of wax and then filled with the latest rumours in the town. There is nowhere quite like a barber’s shop for catching up on the latest gossip. That might be very useful to me later.
I noticed the situation of this one, with approval, before I moved to Optimus’s door and unhooked the iron rod to strike the bell.
Chapter Nine
Once we had got past the doorkeeper we were shown into the receiving room, a small antechamber off the atrium where visitors could sit uncomfortably on a bench and wait. There was a plate of rather ancient apples and a jug of very watered wine, of which we were vaguely invited to partake, but the prospect did not appeal. Optimus – with typical regard for money – clearly did not provide any other refreshment for his callers, unless they were very important, and there was nothing else to do but sit and look around.
My mosaic in the dining room still looked good, I thought, glimpsing it through the inner arch, but otherwise the house betrayed its master’s thrift. It had been built in the old-fashioned Roman style and the centre of the atrium was partly open to the sky. The gutters dripped into a sunken pool beneath, making the room disagreeably cold and damp. (Such pools were falling out of fashion in Britannia: one could see why on such a dismal day.) Under the shelter of the partial roof a fine carved table held a good bronze vase, but the wall decorations had been cheaply done – repetitious patterns in a poor paint which was already flaking.
A few damp pot-plants fringed the atrium pool, but by craning round the doorpost it was possible to glimpse the inner court and the more extensive formal garden there. Even that wasn’t a great deal more decorative, if I remembered rightly. The master had been frugal here as well. I’d noticed on my previous visits that the box shrubs which formed the borders were thin-planted, and what should have been handsome flowerbeds were full of straggling turnips, leeks and other strictly practical additions to the kitchen. I leaned forward on my bench to see more clearly.
It was raining slightly, but someone seemed to have been tending to the garden, for as I idly glanced I sensed a movement. A figure clad in some long bluish garment darted swiftly into the shadow of the colonnade and disappeared into the rear apartments of the house. Some garden slave, most probably, caught in the rain and scuttling out of sight of visitors. Otherwise the garden was much as I remembered. I watched for several minutes but the figure did not re-emerge.
Then someone finally
Similar Books
