The Grain Merchant, page 1
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
Your Free Book is Waiting
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 he
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.
