Casca Didius originally posted this story at AncientSites. He's given me permission to repost it here at AncientWorlds


Message: A Saturnalia Carol!!!
Author: - Gaius Didius Casca
Originally Posted: December 16, 2000

Stave Primus: The Surviving Partner

Old Marlius was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatsoever about that. This must be clearly understood, or nothing good can come from the story I am about to relate. The register of his funeral was signed by the Medicus, the Scribe, and the Chief of the hired mourners. Scropa signed it. And Scropa's name was good in the city of Capua on anything he chose to put his hand to. Yes! Old Marlius was dead as a doornail.

Scropa never painted out Marlius's name on the old wooden sign. There it stood years afterward "Scropa and Marlius: Lanistae" above the office door. Sometimes people new to Capua called Scropa, Scropa, and sometimes Marlius. He answered to both names. It was all the same to him. Right after Marlius died, Scropa thought about having the sign repainted. But when he was told the cost would be five asses, he almost had a stroke. He grabbed his whip with such vigor, that the would-be sign painter dropped his can of lead white paint and fled the premises on the wings of Mercury.

Oh he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone - Scropa, hard and sharp as flint, which no hand had ever struck off a generous spark. In all his life, no lost waif ever asked directions to such-and-such a place from Scropa. No Capuan ever stopped by to ask him to share a repast. Even blind dogs seemed to recognize him. They would tug their owners up alleyways or across streets to avoid even so much as his shadow. OH, he was a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner.

Once upon a time (all good stories must start this way) of all the good days in the year - on Saturnalia Eve - Scropa sat in his office going over the accounting scrolls. He always double-checked the entries.

He often reminded his scribe that should he find any errors, no matter how small, it would be necessary for them to part company. His scribe, a jolly, rotund, little Greek named Crachicus, sat in a cubbyhole only a few feet away. It was always damp in the office and the cold now added to the misery. Scropa's fire was small, but Crachicus's fire was so much smaller that it looked like, well, it actually WAS but a single coal. Crachicus alternated his time between scribbling numbers onto the vellum and warming his fingers over the candle used to illuminate the page. Nothing escaped Scropa's attention. He told Crachicus that he might find his body temperature rising if he just worked a great deal faster.

Any response that Crachicus might have made was forestalled by the arrival of two men at the office door. They introduced themselves as members of the Capuan Olive Oil Syndicate. Thinking that they'd come to rent gladiators from the upcoming Saturnalia Games, Scropa stood and waved them into his office. The taller man unrolled his scroll, found the correct line, then said: "Scropa and Marlius - Lanistae"? Do we have the pleasure of addressing Aemilius Scropa or Lentulus Marlius?"

"I'm Scropa. Lentulus Marlius has been dead these seven years. In fact he died seven years ago this very night."

"We have no doubt that his generosity is well represented by his surviving partner."

It was. For they had been as alike as two thieves in a chicken coop. At the sound of the word "generosity", Scropa sat down and said: "State your business. I'm a busy man."

"At this festive season of the year, the proprietors of the Capuan Business District are banding together to take up a fund to buy the poor some bread and wine and means of warmth."

"Why, particularly?"

"Because it is during the Saturnalia that want is most keenly felt and abundance rejoices. How much can we put you down for?"

"Nothing!"

"Ahhhh! You wish to be anonymous?"

"I wish to be left alone. I already pay republican taxes, provincial taxes, city taxes, shipping taxes, not to mention bribes to customs officers, the military, the vigiles, and my suppliers. An honest businessman can't turn a decent profit without finding half of the city with its hands in his pocket. So if there is nothing else, please be good enough to leave." With that he got up, walked stiffly to the door, and ushered his visitors out.

As he closed the door, the horns from the nearby walls blared the call for the beginning of the Night Watch and the end of the business day. Crachicus immediately snuffed out the candle and edged past Scropa for the door. He didn't make it.

"You'll be wanting all seven days of the Saturnalia off I presume."

"It is only once a year, sir."

"It's a poor reason for you to steal from my purse every Ante Diem XVI Kalendas Januarius. Just make sure that you're on time on the following day."

After Crachicus left, Scropa made sure that all the windows were barred, carefully locked the door, then headed down to the slave pens to see if the latest buys from Libya had arrived. They were late as usual. He ate his usual frugal meal in his usual melancholy taberna then wondered off to his domus and bed. A heavy fog and a light rain arrived with the darkness. Scropa, who knew every inch of his street like the back of his hand, was forced to grope along by sense of touch until he finally came to his own door.

The knocker on the door was in the shape of a lion's head. Now, Scropa had seen the same knocker, day in and day out, since he had been a young apprentice here. He had only drunk his one cup of wine (mixed one part wine to four parts water). Nor had he in all his life ever succumbed to flights of fancy or vivid imagination. So let any man explain to me if he can, how Scropa, in the act of placing his key into the keyhole, looked at the knocker, and saw, not the lion's head, but Marlius's face!

And Scropa Trembled!


Copyright © 2000-2001, Gaius Didius Casca Longinus Calvus. All Rights Reserved. All copyrighted material is the property of the original author.