The Fateful Day

THREE

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.

I shook my head. Even a depleted staff would have to eat and — by tradition — cook-slaves do not attend the dead for fear that ill luck might attach to them and somehow be passed on in what they served. So where was everyone?

The slave quarters perhaps? That had been my guess at first. The building was just a little further to the rear and I hurried over there, though my hopes of finding anybody there were dwindling rapidly, especially as I heard no noise as I approached. No whisper of voices, no sound of a lament. It was fairly evident that there was no one there.

The door was slightly open — as it generally was — and I stooped down and went inside. I’d been before and knew what I would find: a long, low building, divided into two — one half for females and the other for males — with the chief steward’s private curtained sleeping-room positioned in between, beside the door. The lesser slaves had only a small sleeping-space apiece, marked by a straw mattress, each with a blanket over it and a little chest beside it for a change of clothes and anything else they happened to possess. I tried the lid of one at random. It wasn’t locked — few slaves have anything that’s actually their own, and if they get tips they tend to hide them somewhere else — and I found only a neatly folded tunic and a hoarded piece of twine.

The room was clean and ordered, too, with everything in place. There was no sign of any struggle, nothing overturned — none of the elements which might suggest a panic or a raid. Certainly no sign of any funeral. Or of any servants, come to that. I shivered.

With that in mind I went out to the gatehouse at the rear, fearing that I’d find a replica of what was in the front, but the place was empty and the gate was duly barred. The whole back courtyard was as silent as a ghost.

No sooner had I thought of ghosts than I wished that I had not. The spirits of murdered are said to walk abroad and haunt the area where they were killed, putting a curse on everything until they are avenged. There is a villa near Glevum where a killing once took place, and which has been famously ill-omened ever since. The family that owned it all met dreadful fates: one brother had been forced to flee abroad, a second to sell himself to slavery, while the third one hanged himself. Such is the power of a vengeful ghost, they say. I only hoped that the gatekeeper’s spirit was not lurking here!

I listened. The sound of my own footsteps seemed unnaturally loud and when I heard a sudden creaking of a gate I felt the few hairs on my neck stand up and bristle like so many hedgehog spines.

I retraced my steps, but it was only the gateway to the inner court, which was open and swinging in a little gust of wind. It was unusual for that gate to be unlatched. It led into the garden courtyard and the house itself. My mouth was dry, but having come this far I controlled my fears and forced myself to go inside to check.

Once again, there was nothing obvious amiss. The peristyle garden looked as pleasant as it always did. The central fountain was not playing, which was unusual, but not all that surprising since the owner was away. Otherwise everything looked much as when I saw it last: the garden quartered by four little walkways meeting at the fount, each section with its own array of flowers, bushes and sweet-smelling herbs, and interspersed with arbours and little statues of the gods.

There was a covered walkway round the whole perimeter, of course — a sort of outdoor corridor connecting all the rooms — with the atrium and other public reception areas at the further end and various bedrooms, guest accommodation and the like, stretching back towards me on either side. There was no sign of human movement — which, paradoxically, encouraged me this time. A single walk around, I told myself. Most of the rooms had windows made of horn, so it was impossible to look inside them from the court, but I would quickly reconnoitre and see what I could see.

Not that I expected to discover anything. By this time I was reconciled to finding the place deserted, and I was already planning the message I would send to Marcus later on. The first thing I’d do when I got into town was go and see the garrison commander and arrange a courier.

I walked along the covered path, my footsteps scrunching on the gravelled ground. I did not want to venture into my patron’s room, but I did try a door to what I knew was a sleeping-room for guests — indeed I had stayed there once myself when I was ill. I pushed the door, which opened at my touch — and there was the neat bedroom complete with bed and stool, just as it had been when I was sleeping there.

I tiptoed out again and went on with my patrol. Over to the corner of the court, through the side entrance, and so into the main reception rooms — the atrium, the study, the triclinium. They were all strangely empty — Marcus had clearly sent away most of his better furniture and expensive ornaments — but they were clean and ordered. Everywhere, the outer shutters had been taken down and the rooms were light enough for me to need no lamps. The floors were swept, and nearby in the servants’ waiting room someone had placed the usual scatter of clean rushes on the floor so that hurried footsteps did not ring so much. But there was no one, dead or living, to be seen. It was as though some magician had come and put a strong enchantment on everybody here, causing them to simply fade away like smoke.

I was standing, thoughtful, in the small reception room, gazing in the direction of the entrance court. The windows in these public rooms were made of stylish glass rather than being simply shuttered spaces like my own. This let a lot of light in, and kept out the cold and draughts but it did make it quite difficult to see the world outside. Could one make out the gatehouse through the blue distortion of the pane? Could someone standing here have witnessed what occurred?

My thoughts were interrupted by a movement in the court — a shadow so swift and immediately gone that I was almost doubtful of my eyes. And there it was again. I cursed the glass that turned it to a blur. But I had seen something, and I was almost certain what it was: a person, or people, moving swiftly in the court — not walking boldly to the entrance as one might expect an honest visitor to do, but skulking like shadows, unwilling to be seen.

Moments before, I had been looking for signs of human life, but now that I had glimpsed them, I was petrified. I stood stock-still — I don’t believe I could have moved a muscle if I tried — and listened carefully, but for several moments I could near no sound at all.

Then it began. A creak — that inner gate again. A footstep on the gravel of the path, so soft I would have missed it if I hadn’t strained my ears. Another. And another. Getting closer now. Then the sound of muffled sandals in the corridor outside. By this time my heart was beating so hard against my chest that it was almost all that I was conscious of. I braced myself, unable even to turn round to face the door, fearful of making the slightest scuffling. No one could have known that I was here, I told myself. No one could have seen me through the window glass. So it wasn’t me that they were looking for. If I could hold my breath — which I was doing anyway — so they couldn’t even hear me breathe, perhaps they’d go away and wouldn’t know that I was here.

It was a faint hope, as I was all too well aware. The footsteps had paused outside this very room. I kept on holding my breath, concentrating hard, but suddenly the door flew open and before I’d even had the time to whirl around, a hand fell on my shoulder and a voice said loudly, ‘There you are, at last. I wondered where you’d got to! What are you doing here?’