‘Not even a fire,’ I said to Minimus. ‘And I don’t believe that there is anybody in.’
My servant shook his head at me and gestured to the barn. I glanced around and realized that we were not, in fact, alone. A skinny child in ragged slave’s attire — who looked no older than five or six, but was so undernourished he might have been far more — had sidled from the doorway of the shed and was watching us suspiciously with bright mistrustful eyes.
‘I am a neighbour from the roundhouse down the lane,’ I told him, hoping that this explanation would allay his obvious fears. ‘You belong to Cantalarius, I suppose?’
A sullen nod was all the answer I received.
‘I’m looking for your master,’ I prompted, hopefully.
The boy made no response to this at all, so after a moment I added, ‘Is he not at home? Can you tell me where I could look for him?’ I took a step towards him.
The effect was startling and immediate. The boy began to gibber something, though to me — at least — it made no sense at all. It was not another language, either, as far as I could judge — just a rush of guttural noises while he waved his arms about and backed away as far as he could go, against the wall.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ I implored him. ‘I intend no harm. I have come about …’ But I got no further. The boy had slithered past me, made a sudden dart for it and was running as fast as his skinny legs would carry him away from the farmyard to the hill beyond.
I stared at Junio. ‘If that’s the only servant Cantalarius has left, no wonder his wife believes that the household has been cursed. Let’s hope this morning’s ritual went off well and has helped to change their luck.’
Minimus, behind me, had hastened to the house. ‘Well, the priest has clearly been here. The offering has been made.’ He gestured to a little garden shrine beside the door — built in the Roman fashion and looking out of place inside this sorry Celtic farm. There was a plinth behind it — no doubt intended for that hideous statue that I’d seen — but now containing only a small bronze figurine, a portable image of the household Lars. However, the altar had clearly been in use: a pile of half-burnt feathers on the top and a pool of fast-congealing blood around the base, suggested a very recent sacrifice.
‘Probably that ram that he was promising,’ I said.
Minimus nodded. ‘And not very long ago. I can still smell the smoke. Of course the celebrants can eat it afterwards. Do you suppose the priest may still be here?’
I shook my head. ‘That isn’t burning pigeon or sheep that you can smell. That is something else.’ I glanced around, trying to locate the direction of the faint but pungent odour in the air. It was strangely familiar, though I couldn’t for a moment work out what it was.
Minimus was wandering here and there around the court, but suddenly he stopped and beckoned me. ‘You’re quite right, Master! There is a fire on the hill. Look, you can see from over here.’ He gestured past the shed towards the slope behind the house. ‘Up there, where that peculiar slave boy went — that must have been what he was running to.’
I walked across and saw what he was pointing at. From somewhere just behind the summit of the hill, a dense black smoke was curling slowly up and — though the winter air was very crisp and still — the distinctive aroma was getting stronger all the time. Now there was no mistaking that remembered smell.
‘A funeral pyre!’ I said. ‘Oh, dear gods! Poor old Cantalarius, the curse has struck again. He told me that his last remaining land slave had been taken ill with that fever that killed the other slaves. It doesn’t seem as if the sacrifice has helped. Poor souls. I suppose now that poor gibbering slave boy is all that they’ve got left — and what use will he be, if it comes to working fields?’ I turned towards my own slave with a rueful smile.
Minimus, however, looked ashen-faced. ‘So perhaps it’s not the moment to ask to hire the mule? Don’t you think we ought to leave our errand for today?’ He was already backing up the path.
I’d forgotten that my little red-haired slave (who had been raised in Roman households till he came to me) was likely to have this superstitious attitude. It was not the proximity of the corpse which worried him, of course — one often comes across dead bodies on the road and public cremations take place every day — I knew it was the mention of a curse, and the possibility of our offending the angry underworld.
I gave him my best reassuring smile. ‘On the contrary,’ I told him cheerfully. ‘There could not be a better moment to propose this deal. The blood of sacrifice is hardly dry and someone has come to offer a good price to hire a mule! Cantalarius will be sure the gods are giving him a sign. In his position, would you not feel the same?’
Minimus nodded rather doubtfully. ‘I suppose you’re right, Master. Do you want me to go up there and let them know we’re here?’
I shook my head. ‘I think the slave has managed to convey the fact, somehow. That looks like Cantalarius climbing back across the hill — wearing his toga too. Obviously he’s been officiating at the rites.’ I said this in some surprise. He didn’t have to do that for a simple slave, or indeed provide a proper funeral at all — he must have taken the death of this one very hard indeed.
‘And there’s a woman with him,’ Minimus agreed. ‘That must be his wife. It seems they’ve finished the important rites and left that peculiar servant behind to tend the pyre.’
I watched the pair with interest as they walked back down the hill. I hadn’t met the lady — only heard of her — but even from this distance I could see that she was young. She wore a long belted tunic, in the Celtic style, with a plaid cloak over it, a dark veil draped across her upper face and hair, and she walked soberly enough — but the ankles were shapely and the waist was trim. She was strikingly tall and athletic as she moved — in contrast to her husband’s squat, misshapen form — all of which was rather a surprise.
I knew from Cantalarius that he’d married recently but I’d not expected his wife to look like this: men of his appearance were lucky to find a bride at all. No wonder he was so much in her thrall. Of course, it was possible she had an ugly face, or had survived some youthful scandal, or possessed a biting tongue. The latter, probably, I decided with a grin: remembering that the ill-fated Janus sacrifice had been at her demand.
Yet one had to have a certain sympathy for her, I thought, surveying the decaying remnants of the farm and the crooked ugly husband by her side. Who could blame her for believing in a curse? What a marriage she must feel that she had made! I was glad that I was bringing happier news. ‘Cantalarius!’ I raised my voice and waved.
He peered towards me, shading his eyes against the winter sun. ‘Citizen Libertus? Is that really you?’ He began to hurry down towards me, slithering from time to time on the uneven slope. ‘What brings you to my farmstead?’
I smiled and patted my purse to indicate the reason for my call.
He reached me, breathing rather heavily — probably from the exertion of his abrupt descent — and stood staring disbelievingly at me. ‘Surely you haven’t come all this way, simply to pay me what you owe?’
I nodded. ‘I knew that you would be in want of it. But I confess that there is another reason, too. Something has arisen and I have to go to town with some despatch.’ I had adopted my best official tone. I was not about to tell him about Genialis and the search — the more he knew about my needs, the more he was like to charge me for the mule — when it occurred to me that he might already know. In fact it was more than probable. Cantalarius had been to town the day before and had presumably received a visit from the priest today — and news of the disappearance would be common knowledge now.