Rosemary Rowe - The Fateful Day

But in that case, what about the other servants in the house? Had they not realised there was something wrong? Even if someone (or those several someones) had got in through the gates — perhaps admitted by the gatekeeper himself — and murdered him without raising the alarm, surely the other servants in the house would finally have come out here to look for him, if only to bring him something for a meal? I thought back to the silence I had noted in the court.

I glanced up at the dead man, still swinging from his noose, and decided that I wanted witnesses. In any case he was too high and heavy to manage on my own. If I could find the servants, they could come and help. If not …? I didn’t know exactly what I would do, in that case.

But there must be servants, surely? The land-slaves had been here until shortly after dawn, and did not seem to have noticed anything amiss. Perhaps the indoor staff had only found this body later on, when someone came to call him to break his morning fast. I shook my head. If so, would they not have checked the gates and raised some sort of immediate alarm — by sending to my roundhouse, for instance? It was not far away and Marcus’s servants all knew where I lived.

Or was it possible that they — or some of them, at least — had strung him up themselves? That would explain why nobody had told the land-slaves anything. And it was vaguely plausible. The man had been chosen for his brute strength and bullying qualities — once, when he thought that he was unobserved, I’d seen him bullying a page. No doubt he had made other enemies among the staff, especially now that his owner was away.

So, suppose that they had killed him, carefully leaving the outer gate unlocked to suggest that this was the work of an intruder? There were certain to be callers — like myself — who could ‘discover’ this and be relied upon as impartial witnesses. I brightened. Perhaps the remaining servants were all busy, even now, sending for the slaves’ guild to provide the funeral and collecting wood to build a pyre on the estate.

That was a possible explanation and once I’d thought of it, I felt a good deal better about going in search of them.

Assuming that there was anybody to be found. Otherwise …?

I shook my head. That was something I would face if I was forced to it.

I left the body swaying there, and — with some trepidation — set off for the house.

I was further encouraged, when I reached the villa door, to find that it was bolted on the inner side — as one might expect if there were no slaves on duty in the interior. If it too had pushed open at my touch, I think I would have fled, but when my gentle tapping brought no response at all, I convinced myself that my theory had been right and that I would find the servants gathered at the outbuildings beyond, making preparations for their colleague’s funeral. The slaves had their sleeping quarters in a separate barn-like building at the rear, so if that was really where they were, of course they could not hear a caller thumping at the door.

My next thought was to go round and find out. There was another entrance to the villa from the back — in fact, off the farm track that ran through the estate. There was even another gatehouse with its own man on guard. However, that was a considerable distance, even on a mule, because the road wound all the way round the estate. Perhaps I’d take Arlina and ride there, all the same. It wasn’t easy to reach the slave-barn otherwise from here because the entrance court was screened off from the remainder of the grounds, partly by the villa building itself, and then by a high wall which ran all the way across from either wing to meet up with the garden and orchard walls each side. This arrangement was intended to offer some privacy by providing a framing feature for the gardens at the front while cutting off the inner courts from casual visitors.

However, just as I was about to go out and clamber on my mule, I remembered that there was one unobtrusive gateway at the left-hand end — screened from view and very small indeed — so that the gatekeeper could go and visit the latrine, and the slaves who stoked the hypocaust could carry through the fuel without needing either to walk the long way round or to traipse through the villa every time. When it was not in use this gate was generally bolted from within (as part of Marcus’s insistence on security) so it was likely that I’d find that it was barred today. But it was probably worth the short stroll over to find out.

In fact, I found it had been left upon the latch, so I pushed it open and walked through, calling as I did so, ‘Is anybody there?’ There was no reply. I was in an inner courtyard used for storage purposes, a place that I had been in only once before. I was alongside the long, blank side wall of the villa here, right outside of the handsome guest quarters, but none of them had window-spaces looking out this way: they were all designed to command a view of the pleasant inner garden court, not this unprepossessing area, which was reserved for tradesmen and slaves.

I picked my way across the little court with care, skirting around the heaps of stockpiled wood, and taking care not to step in any of the huge amphorae in the ground. This was where the household generally kept its stock of oil and grain. There was a heavy outdoor hand-quern for grinding any home-grown corn and rye to household flour, and the subterranean storage pots not only kept these staples dry but also safe from rats and other thieving animals. However, with the owner and his wife away, several amphorae were clearly not in use. They were empty and currently without their fitted lids, making them open to the sky and therefore traps for the unwary passer-by. Presumably they were in the process of being cleaned and aired.

But there was no one cleaning anything today. I left the court and made my way out through the further arch towards the kitchen block. This small stone building was set back on its own a little way apart from the remainder of the house — as these things always are in case there is a fire — and with its own convenient access to the storage area. I was vainly hoping that there, at least, I might find slaves at work — the kitchen is always a very busy place — but that too was as empty as the court had been.

I stuck my head around the kitchen door. There were signs of recent activity in here: bunches of cut herbs were standing on the bench, together with a half-empty barrel of dried beans and a basket full of leeks. A single crust of bread and a small end of cheese suggested that these items had been the ingredients of a meal not long ago. A mortar and pestle had clearly been in use — some half-ground substance was still lying in the bowl — and someone had evidently been shelling nuts as well. Apart from that, there was no sign of life. The usual array of pots and implements were neatly stacked for use and half a pig had been suspended to smoke above the cooking-fire — though it wasn’t doing so. The flames had been permitted to go out. Some time ago, as far as I could judge.

This was extremely odd. No one permits the cooking-fire to die. I picked up a handful of ashes from the grate, and ran them through my fingers — which only confirmed what I already knew. They were completely cold. I lifted a cloth from a baking iron nearby, and found unleavened bread dough neatly shaped into a loaf but it had not been set to cook. In fact the handsome domed ‘clay’ bread-oven on the farther wall — an unusual luxury for a private house — had not yet been swept out and relaid with fresh twigs. The bake-stone on the bottom wasn’t even warm. (It was called a ‘clay oven’, as Marcus’s chief cook had once explained to me, because once it was hot and the fire inside was raked away, whatever was baking was inserted in the space and the opening sealed with clay to maximise the heat.) But there was no heat today.