Catilina's riddle rsr-3

by Steven Saylor

  '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 towards 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 grey 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 undoubtedly 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 grey 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?'

  '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 labour 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 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 towards 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 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.
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  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 — Bethesda had quietly seen to that — and my neighbours offered no distractions in that vein. What sort of erotic life did Claudia lead, I idly wondered, and then killed the thought stillborn, as I did not really care to know. Ah, Bethesda…

  I recalled a particular instant of our lovemaking, a specific sensation, and smiled, doting on the memory. What had set off the sparks between us? Ah, yes, the visit from young Marcus Caelius with his stylish beard and his elegant tongue. I found myself contemplating his face, and found the image not unpleasant. He was quite handsome, after all, if in a wily sort of way. Too wily for such a young man. Catilina liked to surround himself with good-looking young men, as everyone knew; a lascivious mind might well imagine just how young Caelius had managed to insinuate himself so firmly into Catilina's confidence. What would happen if I allowed Catilina himself to visit the farm, as Caelius desired? What sort of effect would that have on Bethesda? Catilina was well into his forties, barely younger than I, but he was famous for having the energy of a man half his age. And for all the insults that had been hurled at him, no one had ever called him ugly. In his own way he was as good-looking as Marcus Caelius, or had been once, for I had not seen him close at hand in many years. Beauty is beauty no matter what the gender. Beauty brings universal pleasure to the eye…

  These thoughts unfurled and my imagination drifted into a worid of pure flesh, as I find often happens just before sleep. All the words poured from my head like water through open fingers. I lay upon the grass, content to be an animal warmed by the sun, my head full of animal thoughts.

  And then I heard my daughter calling me.

  I sat up — with a start, because there was no plafulness in her voice, but instead an unfamiliar urgency.

  She called to me again, from quite near, and then she appeared over the verge of the hill and came running down to me, her tiny sandals slipping on the lush grass. I blinked and shook my head, not quite fully awake.

  'Diana, what is it?'

  She slid onto her bottom beside me, gasping for breath. 'Papa, you must come!'

  'What is it? What's wrong?'

  'A man, Papa!'

  ‘A man? Where?'

  'He's in the stable.'

  'Oh, not another visitor!' I groaned.

  'No, not a visitor,' she said, sucking in a deep breath and then frowning thoughtfully. Later I would wonder how she stayed so calm, so serious. Why did she run to me and not to her mother? How did she keep from screaming after what she had seen? It was my blood in her, I decided, the blood of the ever-curious, ever-deliberating, dispassionate Finder.

  'Well, then, who is this man?'

  'I don't know, Papa!'

  'A stranger?'

  She shrugged elaborately and stuck out her arms. 'I'm not sure.' ‘What do you mean? Either you know the man or you don't' 'But, Papa. I can't tell whether I know him or not!' 'And why not?' I said, exasperated. 'Because, Papa, the poor man has no head!'

  The body lay upon its back in an empty horse stall How it had arrived there — dropped, dragged, or rolled — could not be told, because the straw all around it had been deliberately disturbed and then patted down; this I could tell from the fact that bits of straw had been littered onto the body itself indicating that the disturbance of the straw had occurred after the arrival of the corpse. Nor were there any footprints or other signs to indicate how the body had come to be in the stable. For all I could tell, it might have grown out of the earth like a mushroom.

  It had, as Diana had observed, no head, but all its limbs and digits were intact, as were its private parts. This I could tell at a glance, for the body was naked.

  I looked down at Diana, who stared at the corpse with her mouth slightly open. I think she might have seen a dead body before, perhaps in a funeral procession in Rome, but she had never seen a headless one. I put my hand on her head and gently turned her around to face me. I squatted down and held her by her shoulders. She trembled slightly.

  'How did you come to find him, Diana?' I said, keeping my voice low and even.

  'I was hiding from Meto. Only Meto wouldn't play with me, so I took one of his silly little soldiers and went to hide it'

  'Little soldiers?'

  She turned and ran to a corner of the stall. She reached down for something in the straw, darted a wary glance at the corpse, then hurried back. She held out her hand, which cradled a little bronze figure of a Carthaginian warrior with a bow and arrow. It was from the board game called Elephants and Archers. After he was elected consul, Cicero had handed out specially minted sets of the game to dozens of guests at one of his celebrations. I had passed the gift along to Meto, who treasured it.

  'I might have taken one of the little elephants, but I knew that would make him even: angrier,' she said, as if the distinction were important for her defence.

  I took the bronze archer from Diana and nervously fingered it. 'You came to the stable alone, then?'

  'Yes, Papa.’

  'Was no one else here?' 'No, Papa.'

  The stablehands, I recalled, were up at the northern end of the farm helping Aratus repair a broken section of the wall. Aratus had asked me the night before for specific permission to take them away from their usual tasks. They had fed and watered the horses at daybreak and then gone off to work before the day became too hot. If they had seen the body, they certainly would have informed me. The body had appeared after daybreak, then — but that seemed impossible. Who could have smuggled a body into the stable in daylight? Perhaps, lying low as it did amid the straw in an empty stall, it had simply been overlooked.

  But I was getting ahead of myself. I didn't even know who the man was, or had been, or how he had died.

  'Whom else did you tell, Diana?'

  'I ran straight to you, Papa.'

  'Good. Here, let's step away, back towards the door.' 'Shouldn't we cover him up?' said Diana, looking over her shoulder.

  At that moment Meto came running through the open doorway. 'There you are!' he said. ‘Where did you hide it, you little harpy?'

  Diana suddenly burst into tears and hid her face in her hands. I squatted down and put my arm around her. Meto looked abashed. I handed him the little bronze soldier.

  'She took it,' he said haltingly. 'I didn't start it. Just because I have better things to do than play hide-and-seek with her all morning, that's no excuse for her to take my things.'

  'Diana,' I said, holding her by the shoulders and speaking softly, 'I have a job for you to do. It's very simple, but it's important I want you to go and fetch your mother. Don't say a word about why, especially i
f there are any of her slaves about. Just say that: I want her to come here to the stable right away, alone. Can you do that for me?'

  The crying stopped as abruptly as it had begun. 'I think so.' 'Good. Now run along. Be quick!'

  Meto looked at me in consternation. 'But I didn't do anything! All right, I called her a harpy — but can I help it if she's such a cry baby? She took my game piece, and she knows that's wrong.'

  'Meto, be quiet. Something terrible has occurred.'

  He drew an exasperated breath, thinking I was about to lecture him; then he saw how serious I looked and wrinkled his brow.

  'Meto, you've seen dead men before. You're about to see another.' I led him to the empty stall.

  Be careful in choosing your own vulgar exclamations, for your children will say them back to you. 'Numa's balls!' he whispered hoarsely, his voice abruptly breaking.

  'Not old King Numa, I think. Better to call him Nemo — Nobody — though a body is not what he's missing. But Nemo it will be, until we find a better name for him.'

  'But what is he doing here? Where did he come from? Is he one of the slaves?'

  'Not one of our slaves, of that I'm pretty certain. Look at his build and colouration, Meto. You know the slaves as well as I do. Could this body belong to any of them?'

  He bit his lower lip. 'I see what you mean, Papa. This man was tall and rather heavy about the middle, and hairy.'

  I nodded. 'See the hair on the back of his hands, how thick it is? Of our slaves, only Remus has hands like that, and Remus is a much smaller man. A younger man as well; see the grey hairs mixed in with the black, especially on Nemo's chest?'

  'But then how did he get here? And who did this to him?'

  'Who killed him, you mean? Or who cut off his head?'

  'It's the same thing, isn't it?'

  'Not necessarily. We can't be sure that he died from having his head cut off.'

  'Papa, I should think that anyone would die if you cut off his head!'

  'Are you baiting your father, Meto, or merely being obtuse?' I sighed. 'I see no wounds to the front of his body, do you? Here, do you think you can help me roll him over?'