Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  “At 10 and eight years of age?”

  “No, we were only nine and seven at the time. That should not surprise you. We’re Romans!

  “We couldn’t tell our parents or anyone else about the victory. Even at such young ages we knew our freedom would suffer. I decided we should clear the site to mark our triumph. We girdled the trees with our swords and let the path from our property grow over before sneaking up from the neighbor’s the next summer to start our fire.”

  “A little reckless perhaps?”

  “Not as much as it sounds. Quintus has always been a good planner. He was born with a military mind. We waited for a windless night when the dew was thick and our fire was unlikely to spread too far from the trees we had selected. Using pine needles and dry kindling we carried up in rucksacks, we built little fires at the base of each tree and quietly retreated in the moonlight, down through the woods to the neighbor’s fig orchard, which we crossed to reach the street.

  “As was always the case in those days, the wealthy neighbor blamed our family. That the fire didn’t pose a threat to his buildings or stock meant nothing. The city forced the neighbor to pay woodcutters to hike to the summit to assure the fire was truly out and to clear away the unsightly debris. The neighbor wanted Father to pay. He insisted the auxiliary conduct an investigation.”

  “And, what happened?”

  “Nothing. As I said, Quintus made a good plan. We kept our distance for a few months, but were back playing on “Dog Rock” by the Fall, this time with a much better view.”

  Conversation faded as we sat in the warm sun and lost ourselves in the view. While the sights of Rome uplifted me, I think all the grand homes, palaces and gleaming temples did for Tullia was accentuate her family’s financial woes. On the way home, what started as a trickle of worry slowly turned into a torrent.

  After years of economic equilibrium, she said the Vinarius farming and horse-trading businesses were suffering their third straight year of losses. Keeping a decurion in horses, armor and spending money was becoming more than the estate could bear.

  When I asked if she had any theories, Tullia just shook her head. She and Quintus had both been over the books with ivory combs. The number of horses bought, reared and sold has been relatively the same. Taxes have gone up and harvests have dropped slightly, but not nearly enough to explain the losses.

  “I feel like I’m swimming against the current,” she lamented from her saddle as I replaced the log gate and restrung the chains. “You’ve been here for a while now, what do you think is wrong?”

  So much for keeping my head low.

  “May I ask when Quintus will return?”

  “In his last letter he said I might not see him until his birth month, May. Why do you ask?”

  “Quintus shared your concerns. He asked me to be his eyes while he is away.”

  “A spy?”

  “Your spy, my Lady.”

  “Quintus’ spy.”

  “Same thing, I serve the Vinarius.”

  “Well, spy, what have you seen?”

  “You are being robbed.”

  From the log of Hunter

  Ethics Specialist

  64 A.D.

  Lady Tullia insisted on witnessing the thieves in action before accepting their guilt.

  This fidelity, her desire to prove me wrong, is not uncommon among betrayed masters and mistresses. As I have said, after a period of service, domestic helpers become a sort of cross between family and furniture. They are expected to always be there like a chair. Good ones can be trusted to do their work and be true. They keep secrets and protect the family name.

  As the focus of such steadfast devotion, lords easily develop a loyalty and affection for the staff that makes outright betrayal hard to comprehend. And let’s be honest here, it’s difficult for anyone to admit they’ve been hoodwinked–even me. I’ve caught more manky servants and slaves stealing my money and food than I dare count.

  I knew what to look for and it still took me a month to see there was more than simple mischief behind the glances Perdix shared with the housekeeper Ancilla and groundsman Nauta.

  It started with their routine. Every afternoon, my task was to cart muck from the stalls down to the vineyard. For one hour I was to spread manure and pull weeds. It made no difference if the weather was poor or there was not much horseshit accumulated, the departure time and return time were always to be the same.

  “You must learn my ways,” was all Perdix had to offer in explanation.

  The afternoon following my hilltop ride with Lady Tullia, I snuck back to a clear view of the house. From behind an oak tree, I watched strutting Perdix and shambling Nauta, a former sailor who always dresses in canvas no matter how hot the day, walk together across the yard and enter the kitchen through a side door. A half hour later, the pair emerged with the housekeeper to stand chatting on the stoop for several minutes. Perdix shifted the bundle under his arm to give the woman a peck on the cheek before descending the stairs and making a determined line for the barn.

  Within a week I was able to confirm the afternoon teas–or whatever it was they were doing–were a daily occurrence. I had never been inside the house, but knew the kitchen because that was the door where I dropped off the hens’ eggs I gathered every morning.

  “My Lady, if I may please ask, what is happening inside the house at duo post meridiem?” I asked at our next clandestine meeting.

  “Nap time. It’s a family tradition to take a short rest after the midday meal.”

  “What does the staff do at this time?”

  “They don’t take naps, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “No, I’m just wondering what they do.”

  She explained it was all well organized. To keep from making noise that could disturb those resting, her two maids and housekeeper were relegated to the downstairs sewing room. There they could quietly tend to mending and needlework. The outdoor crew had similar protocols. There was to be no tree chopping or any other work around the house for an hour.

  “You say it is a tradition. Who devised this schedule? Was it your parents? Quintus?”

  “Father had already passed into the hands of Jupiter before the naps started. He never would have tolerated wasting an hour of the workday. Quintus also doesn’t understand, but he’s never here.”

  “So, who started it?”

  She paced the empty stall while pondering the question. Dressed sensibly for riding, she had her shoulder-length bob tied back in a bun. The minimizing of her hair accentuated the similarities between her and Quintus. Sadly, she did not lie when she complained their athletic builds, large hands and strong jawlines suited Quintus better. Though Tullia would never fit the traditional mold of Roman feminine beauty, she was attractive in her own way.

  “It began when Mother became ill the first time. Quintus was off with the cavalry and Father had been in the ground two years. Mother and I were so tired trying to keep operations running smoothly. I believe the idea came from the housekeeper at the time. She was married to the previous headman, the man who found us Perdix.”

  I asked her to describe the kitchen to me. Admitting she spent as little time in the room as possible, she sketched a rough outline of where the tables stood and where the cups and plates were shelved.

  “Is there an iron grate or vent hole near the ceiling?”

  “For smoke?”

  “No, for viewing. Many homes have secret–”

  “The peep crack! I forgot all about that. Quintus and I used to sneak out of bed and spy on the staff as they made bread and cooked breakfast. I once put my eye to the crack and found a groom rutting with the upstairs maid on the flour-strewn table.”

  “My Lady, may I suggest you forgo your nap tomorrow? If you care to tiptoe quietly to the crack, you may find the evidence you seek.”

  A servant cannot force a mistress to make a promise, it’s beyond the pale to even ask, but I did my best to counsel her to keep quiet no matter what
she observed. It must not have been easy for she was angry enough to throw a saddle against the wall of the barn while describing the scene later that day.

  Bypassing her bedroom and making straight for the back stairs, she sat on the second step and pressed an eye to a well-sighted gap in the shiplap paneling. Ancilla the housekeeper breezed into the kitchen singing Tullia’s new version of the Persian bird song. With no sense of haste, she set the table with plates, cups and utensils for three.

  With practiced ease, she sliced hard-boiled eggs, onions and pickles before going to the hamper and removing the family’s last length of sausage and wheel of cheese. After cutting generous portions of each, she returned the forbidden goods to the hamper and began assembling an antipasto plate.

  The housekeeper was filling the cups with red wine when Perdix and Nauta entered the kitchen without knocking. Pulling up chairs, the three thieves tucked in with gusto. It incensed Tullia that the men guzzled two cups of wine each. No wonder Perdix and Nauta seem to sleepwalk through their afternoon duties, they’re drunk!

  She hit the barn intent on having the three scoundrels arrested and brought to trial, even if the standard punishment of having their hands cut off seemed too lenient to her. Vengeance was what Tullia desired above all else.

  “Saddle my horse,” she shouted as she breezed into the barn. We had agreed to meet after nightfall to discuss what she witnessed, but her Roman blood was boiling too hot. “I must ride to the auxiliary and lodge a complaint.”

  Motioning her to please lower her voice, I led her to a stall where the painted mare was quietly munching a bag of oats. In whispered tones, I did my best to dissuade any rash action. This family was knee-deep in debt. If moneylenders sensed weakness or got wind of improprieties, credit would dry up fast. It could also start a run by creditors who had thus far shown patience. Without an injection of borrowed money this spring there would be no seeds, no crops and no new horses.

  “My Lady, are you familiar with the proverb ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold?’” To her nod, I continued. “I promise you will have your vengeance, we just need to be patient. The thievery has been going on for years, at least since the last headman and housekeeper retired. The farm can stand the abuse for another day or two.”

  She asked what I would have her do. I told her.

  Two days later, Tullia returned from a trip to the city with wonderful news. As she had no family to share with, she confided in the housekeeper and headman. An uncle long thought dead had sent a scroll announcing he was returning from the Orient a wealthy man. Spice and silks had made him rich. Now he wanted to put the Vinarius businesses in Rome to rights. There was no finer place to begin, he said, than investing in the horse farm of his brother’s children.

  “Word must be delivered to Quintus,” she thought out loud. He needed to know to start buying horses again. The only person she trusted to carry the note was Perdix. As headman it was his duty to take Nauta and find the master. Within an hour of Tullia’s happy return, Perdix and Nauta were saddled up and headed out the front gates. The dogs Romulus and Remus tugged at their leashes and howled as they watched them go.

  “I told him Quintus would probably put a gold chain upon around his neck for conveying the good news,” Tullia said ruefully as the two men disappeared up the tree-covered lane. “I still can’t believe your silly tale fooled them. I was so angry I was shaking.”

  Through long experience, I’ve learned the Achilles’ heel of greedy people is greed itself. Avarice blinds them to warning signs they otherwise would not miss. I’ve seen quite foxy thieves tripped up this way.

  “You’re sure Quintus will understand your message?” I asked as I followed her back to the barn.

  “He should. We saw the play years ago, but we’ve discussed it many times since.”

  Aware that anything she secured in the leather scroll case was sure to be read by Perdix, no matter how clever its secret compartments, Tullia drew upon the decurion’s love of word play to craft her message. The first sentence contained a code word from their childhood signifying danger. Their fictitious uncle was given the name of a rival of Quintus and Linus who had been booted out of the cavalry for stealing from his brother soldiers.

  After regaling Quintus with all the things she hoped to do with the influx of family money, she mentioned a play they saw together while visiting southern relatives who lived in the heel of Italia’s boot. She said loyal Perdix and steadfast Natua reminded her of the main characters and hoped he would lavish them with the same rewards the heroes received.

  Twelve days later, a cavalryman I recognized from Quintus’ squad arrived at the gate. The man was leading the horses Perdix and Nauta departed upon, as well as three other swaybacked mounts that had seen better days. Romulus and Remus kept them at bay until I was able to lure the monsters back into their stall in the barn with hard cheese and stale bread.

  Tullia wore a sword belt around her waist as she shoved the housekeeper through the kitchen door and into the barnyard. The rest of the staff was assembled and ordered to attention. Accepting a clay pot from the cavalryman, Tullia placed it upon an outdoor table.

  “Hunter, fetch me a whetstone,” Tullia said coolly.

  Upon my return, she drew the gladius from its sheath and slowly began sharpening it with the flat pumice.

  “Ancilla, sit. Not in the dirt, sit here at the table before this pot. I have a treat for you.”

  Tullia leveled her hate-filled, Roman eyes on the quivering housekeeper.

  “Ancilla, you so enjoyed eating the last of my cheese and smoked meat, drinking my wine down to the dregs. While the rest of us starved! You pig! The cavalryman has brought a special treat, just for you, pig.”

  Removing the lid and upending the clay pot, Tullia dumped four severed hands onto the table. The gold rings and abundance of curly black hair on two paws marked them as once belonging to Perdix the Greek. The cavalry officer stated the other pair was taken from a “smarmy-looking kid dressed in sailcloth.”

  Pointing the tip of her sword to the suddenly fly-swarmed hands, she ordered, “Eat!”

  The housekeeper’s pleading look brought the flat of Tullia’s blade slamming onto the table.

  “Would you rather me take your hands? This blade is not the finest. It might hurt.”

  Resigning herself, the housekeeper picked up a gruesome, greenish paw and began gnawing the rotting meat from its bones. Perdix’s tendons made crunching noises as they ground between the woman’s teeth. She was down to Nauta’s left hand when Tullia discovered Perdix’s rings had gone missing. A quick search of the woman found she had stuffed them into a pocket.

  “Get up,” Tullia growled. “I offered you a chance and you steal from me once again? You are a pig!”

  To her governess’s lunge and primal scream, the housekeeper raised an arm as if it could block the sharpened blade. The first slash took her hand cleanly off at the wrist and continued to bury into her neck. Yanking the blade free with mumbles of “Pig, pig,” Tullia cocked her arms, spun 360 degrees and delivered a two-handed swing that sliced through the wretch’s neck as if it was an intestine skin filled with soft lard.

  One moment the woman was standing and begging, and in the next her body was walking toward the gates while her head tumbled and rolled beside her feet. This is something you see with chickens, not generally humans. Ancilla took two full steps before crumpling.

  I felt an elbow to the ribs and turned to the cavalry soldier’s wide grin.

  “That’s how it’s done, mate.”

  From the log of Hunter

  Ethics Specialist

  64 A.D.

  Lady Tullia paced before the line of employees as if she was an army sergeant addressing a unit that had shamed itself in battle.

  “If any of you are caught stealing from the Vinarius family, the punishment will be much worse. Ancilla got off too easy. I planned to take the bitch apart piece by piece. I wanted to inspire death songs we could savor forever
. My temper granted Ancilla a mercy she did not deserve. May the gods piss in her eyes for all eternity.”

  The cavalryman suggested we bury the housekeeper in the fig orchard to nourish the trees. Tullia rejected the advice in favor of something far more Roman. While she and the man from Napoli retired to the house to wash and share a meal, the staff was ordered to carry their co-worker to the far back of the property. Near the base of the hill, inside the fence line, we were to draw and quarter the woman and spread her remains as boar bait.

  Once that grisly task was accomplished, we were to retreat 200 paces, find cover and watch. The first pig, a black sow with a handful of piglets in tow, was first to arrive. They tore into the flesh knowing their opportunity to dine in peace would be short. Within 10 minutes, the smell of blood and sounds of pigs gorging drew in more than a dozen adults, including two large males sporting tusks a foot long.

  Alerted by a low whistle from the trees along the wall, I found Tullia and the cavalryman standing with two muzzled dogs. With hand signs, Tullia signaled that I was to join them. Safe in the trees, I saw the soldier’s arm was wrapped in bloodstained rags.

  “Take these,” Tullia snapped, handing me the dog leashes and a rusty sword. “You’re the only one these idiots listen to these days. Romulus about killed this man.”

  “I should have killed him,” the soldier snapped. Though it came as a whisper, there was no mistaking the venom in the man’s threat.

  “Quintus will reward your restraint. Can you still draw a bow?”

  “Of course.”

  “Hunter, unmuzzle the dogs and wait. Release them only after we’ve let our second volley fly. They know what to do.”

  “What do I do?”

  “You better bloody well stay with them. We can’t afford to lose a dog.”

  There was no use wasting my breath asking if she could afford to lose me. They had already notched arrows and disappeared into the trees. Though the boars were out of my sight, I could hear them grunting and fighting. I had no clue how I would know when the arrows were launched, and was trying to decide if I should risk moving the dogs, when the glen erupted with the squeals of two wounded pigs. Half a beat later, two more pigs began to scream.