Catilina's Riddle (9 page)

"And how did her cousins respond?"

"Not very warmly, but she did shut them up. Her manner can be rather . . . "

"Brusque," concluded Congrio. "And remember, it was in her home that the family conclave was being held; she is very much the mistress under her own roof. I think that Claudia suffers no challenges to her authority on her own property, even from her blood relations."

I smiled and nodded. "A woman to be reckoned with. A woman who demands respect. Do her own slaves respect her?"

"Of course." Congrio shrugged. "Although . . ."

"Yes? Speak up."

He wrinkled his plump brow. "I'm not sure that they feel much affection for her, as some slaves do for their masters. She is quite demanding, as I have learned for myself. Nothing must go to waste! Every part of every beast must be rendered for whatever it's worth; every seed must be picked up off the floor. Some of the older slaves swear that they owe their bent backs to her and not to old age."

"The very fact that she owns slaves old enough to have stooped backs speaks of a compassionate nature," I said, thinking of all the farms where slaves are treated worse than beasts of burden. A slave's hide, unlike that of a cow, has no value after death, and thus many masters see no reason not to cover it with scars; and the flesh of slaves, unlike the flesh of beasts, cannot be eaten, and so these same masters see no need to feed them more than the bare minimum. Wise old Cato would certainly have had no wizened slaves about his farm; his advice is to cull out the sick and weak and to stop feeding a slave once he grows too old to do his full share.

Done with the slaves, I dismissed them, but as Congrio was stepping through the door (he had to turn a bit sideways, I noticed, to maneuver his bulk through the passageway), I called him back.

"Yes, Master?"

"This family conclave of the Claudii was mostly about the upcoming Actions, I understand."

- 47 -

"I think so, Master, though I imagine they also discussed matters of more immediate concern to the family."

"Such as their unwanted neighbor and what to do about him," I said glumly. "Did you overhear any rumors of how the Claudii plan to vote? In the consular election, I mean."

"Oh, in that they were unanimous. They will back Silanus, though they appear to have no great respect for him. 'Anyone but Catilina,' was the phrase I heard again and again. Even the slaves had picked it up."

"I see. 'Anyone but Catilina.' You may go now, Congrio. Bethesda will wish to advise you about this evening's meal." After he left the room, I sat for a long while with my fingertips pressed together, staring at the wall, lost in thought.

- 48 -

C H A P T E R S I X

or the next few days I put aside thoughts of politics and Rome and the great world beyond the farm. I even managed to banish the troublesome Claudii from my mind. No more messengers arrived from the city; no more insults were hurled across the F stream that bordered my estate. The city folk were busy with electioneering, and my neighbors were no doubt occupied, as I was, with the haymaking. The sun shone bright and warm, the slaves seemed content at their labors, the beasts dozed in their pens.

Meto and Diana seemed to have made peace with each other, at least for the time being, and Bethesda, her maternal nature aroused by the budding spring, took them to gather wildflowers on the hillside. In my idle moments I played at designing the water mill that had been the dream of Lucius Claudius.

The nights were warm but pleasant. I went to bed early, and Bethesda and I made love three nights in a row. (The chance appearance of a handsome young visitor like Marcus Caelius in my household seemed often to have this stimulating effect, but I did not question or object.) I slept well and deeply. It seemed to me that a great peace had descended on my own little plot of land in Etruria, no matter what wickedness was brewing in the world beyond. Thus do the gods sometimes deceive us with a respite before the storm.

The bad news began at mid-month, on the Ides of Junius. Early that morning a slave came running to my library, saying that Aratus wished to see me in the fields. From the boy's uneasy countenance I saw trouble looming.

I followed him to a place at the northern edge of the farm, near the wall that separated my land from that of Manius Claudius. Since this

- 49 -

field of grass was farthest from the house and the barns, the slaves had mowed it last. The grass was all cut, but only a few bundles had been gathered. The slaves stood idly about and became nervous at my arrival.

Aratus stepped toward me, looking glum.

"I wanted you to see for yourself, Master," he said, "so that there would be no misunderstanding later."

"See what?"

He indicated a bundle of dried grass. His jaw was clenched, and I saw a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"I see nothing wrong," I said, "except that this bale of hay has been cut open, and these men are standing around when they should be bundling the rest."

"If you will look closer, Master," said Aratus, bending toward the open bale and indicating that I should do likewise.

I squatted down and peered at the mowed grass. My vision at a near distance is not what it once was. At first I did not see the gray powder, like a fine soot, that spotted the hay. Then, having perceived it, I saw mottled patches everywhere within the bale.

"What is this, Aratus?"

"It's a blight called hay ash, Master. It appears every seven years or so; at least, that's my experience. It never manifests itself until after the grass is mowed, and sometimes not until much later, when a bale is cut open in the winter and you find out that the hay within is black and rotted."

"What does this mean?"

"The blight makes the hay inedible. The beasts will not touch it, and if they do, it will only make them sick."

"How extensive is the damage?"

"At the very least, all the grass within this field is almost undoubt-edly ruined."

"Even if there is no blight on the blades?" I looked around at the mowed grass and saw no sign of the sooty spots.

"The blight will appear in a day or two. That's why it's often not seen until the winter. The hay is already bundled when the blight appears.

It works its way from the inside out."

"Insidious," I said. "The enemy within. What of the other fields?

What of the hay already baled and stored?"

Aratus looked grim. "I sent one of the slaves to cut open one of the first bales, from the field up by the house." He handed me a blade of hay covered with the same gray soot.

I gritted my teeth. "In other words, Aratus, you're telling me that all the hay is ruined. The whole crop that was meant to sustain us through the winter! And I suppose this has nothing to do with the fact that you waited so long to cut the grass?"

- 50 -

"The two things are unrelated, Master—"

"Then if the grass had been mowed earlier, as I wanted, this blight would still have found its way into the hay?"

"The blight was there before the mowing, unseen. The time of mowing and the appearance of the blight have no connection—"

"I'm not sure I believe you, Aratus."

He said nothing, but only stared into the middle distance and clenched his jaw.

"Can any of the hay be saved?" I asked.

"Perhaps. We can try to set apart the good and burn the bad, though the blight may keep appearing no matter what we do."

"Then do what you can! I leave it to you, Aratus, since you seem to think you understand the situation. I leave it to you!" I turned around and left him standing there among the other slaves while I stalked across the shorn fields, trying not to calculate the waste of time and labor that had given me fields upon fields of hay that was good for nothing but kindling.

That afternoon great plumes of smoke rose into the still air from the bonfires which Aratus organized in the fields. I went myself to make sure that only the visibly blighted hay was being destroyed and found bales that appeared to be untouched mixed among the kindling. When I pointed this out to Aratus, he admitted the error, but said that saving any of the hay was only a postponement. I found this a poor excuse for destroying hay that might, for all I knew, be perfectly good. I had only Aratus's word and his judgment that the good hay would yet be blighted.

What if he was mistaken, or even lying to me? A fine thing that would be, to be deceived into destroying a whole crop of good hay on the advice of a slave in whom I was beginning to lose all trust.

Plumes of smoke continued to rise into the air the next morning, when Aratus separated more bales of blighted hay and made them into bonfires. Not surprisingly, a messenger arrived from Claudia. The slave was shown into my library, bearing a basket of fresh figs in his arms. "A gift from my mistress," he explained. "She is proud of her figs and wishes to share them with you." He smiled, but I saw him glance sidelong out the window at the pillars of smoke.

"Give her my thanks." I called to one of the house slaves to fetch Congrio, who seemed a bit startled at being summoned so early in the day. He gave Claudia's messenger an odd look, which made me think something untoward must have transpired between them during his stay at her house; slaves are always fighting with one another. "Congrio," I

- 51 -

said, "see the fine figs Claudia has sent to me? What might we send her in return?"

Congrio seemed to be at a loss, but at last suggested a basket of eggs. "The hens have produced an exceptional batch of late," he assured me. "Yolks like butter and whites that stir up like cream. Fresh eggs are always a treasure, Master."

"Very well. Take this man to the kitchens and supply him." As they were leaving the room,
I
called for the slave to come back. "And in case your mistress should ask,"
I
said in a confidential tone, "the plumes of smoke she sees rising above the ridge come from a blighted crop of hay.

Hay ash, my steward calls it. She may tell this to the other Claudii if they come asking her, as
I
doubt that they will send messengers onto my property to inquire for themselves."

He nodded in the same confidential manner and withdrew with Congrio. Supplying him with eggs should not have taken long, but even so it was at least an hour later when
I
happened to be strolling around the house and saw him stepping outside through the kitchen door, holding a basket full of eggs and whispering something to Congrio over his shoulder. When he turned toward me, I saw the reason for his tardy departure, for he reached up with one hand to wipe a bit of custard from his lips.

Who could resist tarrying for a while to sample a bit of Congrio's cooking?

The slave saw me and gave a guilty start, then recovered himself and departed with a crooked smile.

The next day I had more evidence of Aratus's incompetence. Near the end of the day, when I escaped to the ridge to brood in solitude over the loss of the hay, I saw a wagon drawn by two horses turn off the Cassian Way. The heavily loaded vehicle lumbered along the road, sending up a small cloud of dust, and finally stopped alongside the house, near the kitchens. Congrio emerged from within and began to oversee the unloading of the wagon.

And where was Aratus? It was his job to oversee such work. I made my way down the hillside and came upon Congrio huffing and puffing as he helped his assistants unload heavy bags of millet and wooden crates stacked with clay cooking pots. The afternoon had cooled a bit, but Congrio was drenched with sweat.

"Congrio! You should be inside, tending to the kitchens. This is work for Aratus."

He shrugged and made a face. "I only wish that were so, Master."

He spoke with an anxious stutter, and I could see that he was as upset as I was. "I have asked Aratus over and over to order certain provisions

- 52 -

for me from Rome—you simply cannot get such clay pots anywhere else this side of Cumae. He kept promising he would do so, but then he always put it off, until finally I ordered the things myself. There was adequate silver in the kitchen accounts. Please don't be angry with me, Master, but I thought it best if I took the initiative and avoided confronting him in your presence."

"Even so, it's Aratus who should oversee the unloading. Look at you, as red as a clay pot and sweating like a horse after a race. Really, Congrio, this kind of exertion is too much for you. You should be inside."

"And let Aratus drop a crate and ruin my pots from spite? Please, Master, I can oversee the work myself. I prefer it that way. The sweat is only the price I pay for carrying a bit of extra girth; I feel quite fine."

I considered for a moment, then relented with a nod.

"Thank you, Master," he said, relieved. "It's really for the best.

Bring Aratus into this, and I'll never hear the end of it. He gets in my way enough as it is."

"And in my way as well," I muttered under my breath.

First had come the respite and then the storm, or so I thought, believing that the burning of the hay was disaster enough for one season.

The next morning I rose early, in a good mood despite my troubles.

I grabbed a handful of bread and my wax tablet and stylus, and headed for the site of my imaginary water mill. I sketched for a while, but as the day became warmer I grew drowsy. I lay back amid the high grass on the sloping bank. The water rushed and gurgled. Birds twittered overhead.

Dappled sunlight played across my closed eyelids, and the same play of cool shadow and warm light delicately caressed my hands and face. Despite the bothers of running a farm, despite having to deal with squabbling slaves, despite the ill will of the Claudii, life was quite good, very good.

What had I to complain of, really? Other men had lived much harder lives than I had, and had nothing to show for it. Others had more to show, but to what ends had they gone to acquire it? I was an honest man at peace with the gods, I told myself, and as much at peace with other men as a free man could expect to be in such times.

The late-morning warmth was delicious. I felt utterly relaxed, as if my body glowed contentment from within. My thoughts drifted to Bethesda. Three nights of lovemaking in a row! We had not had such an appetite for each other in years. Perhaps it was another benefit of country living. In my new surroundings I had certainly never been tempted to stray from her. There was not even a pretty slave girl on the farm—