I went across to look more closely at the fire. One or two of the larger half-charred logs were still giving off a glow. I set down the torch-bundle, put some tinder on the hottest portion of the hearth and began to coax the fire back into life with the leather bellows which my wife had made. After a minute, a feeble flame arose, so I thrust the pitch-torch in it until that caught alight, then bore it in triumph back out to the gig. The little victory had somehow cheered me up. ‘I’m sorry that this took a little while,’ I said. ‘There’s no one in. I had to coax the fire.’
The driver put the lighted torch into the rack. ‘I thought the place looked empty. I wonder where they’ve gone? You don’t want to go back into town again? I’d only have to charge you half the price, seeing that I’m going that way in any case,’ he added hopefully.
I shook my head. ‘I am sure there is some explanation of all this, and they will soon be back,’ I said with more conviction than I felt. ‘They’ll expect to find me here.’
He nodded and, saluting with his whip, turned the gig around and trotted off into the gloom. I watched the bright flare of the pitch torch out of sight, then turned back to the house. I lighted a home-made taper at the fire and looked to see if there was a note or any demand to ransom Minimus, but there was nothing of the kind. Not even a communication from my wife to me as there would usually have been if she had been called out unexpectedly.
I found a crust of bread and a small piece of cheese, and prepared to eat them squatting by the hearth, washed down with half a beakerful of water from the jug. I felt suddenly and dreadfully alone.
Then a thought occurred to me. Junio’s roundhouse was only a little further up the lane — his enclosure was right next to mine — and though Junio was out, his wife and child would certainly be there. And, of course, if my urchin had delivered the message that I’d sent, Gwellia would not be expecting me so soon, since she would suppose that I was walking home.
Perhaps she had gone to sit with Cilla and the child, and help with the preparations for the naming day, and taken Kurso with her. Of course that’s what she’d do. Cilla and Junio did not keep a separate slave — indeed, at one time they had been our slaves themselves — and we combined our households for most purposes. Though no doubt we would soon have to think of buying extra help, I thought. Marcus was coming and would want his servants back — supposing I could produce little Minimus, that is — and, with the new child, Junio and Cilla would want attendants of their own.
I hurried to the door and thought I could detect the welcome whiff of woodsmoke drifting down the hill. Absurdly grateful for this evidence of normality, I seized my cloak — for it was getting very cold — lit another pitch-torch for myself and set off in the direction of Junio’s home.
The wind was rising, whistling in the trees. I devoutly wished I hadn’t left my winter cape — a warm woollen birrus with a useful hood — hanging in the workshop when I set off this afternoon, and I was glad of the torchlight on the rocky path.
I soon caught the glimmer of firelight through the thatch and the delicious smell of something cooking on the hearth. Preparations for tomorrow’s feast, no doubt, I thought. More than usually anxious to see my family, I speeded up my steps and was soon outside the door, half-expecting to find little Kurso there awaiting me as makeshift doorkeeper. (He was not by nature suited to the task, but he was more hindrance than help when it came to cooking and was renowned for dropping things: his previous owner had treated him so harshly that the lad still shook with nerves and could even now move faster backwards than forwards.)
But there was no sign of him or of my wife when I peered around the door. It had been left half-open to let the steam and smoke escape, and I stood for a moment taking in the scene. The baby was sleeping in a hammock on the wall, and my daughter-in-law was standing with her back to me, bending over something bubbling in a pot, from which the appetizing smells were rising even now.
So the first that Cilla knew of me was when I said aloud, ‘Greetings, daughter. Where is everyone?’
Perhaps I should have given her more warning that I was standing there.
The effect of my words was truly startling. She whirled around and screamed, dropping the spoon that she was holding into the boiling pot. The infant, woken by the sound, screamed louder still.
She snatched up the swaddled baby and clutched it to her breast, crying as she did so in a sobbing voice, ‘Creature of darkness, leave this house at once! I command you! Go back where you belong.’
Ten
‘Cilla, what is it?’ I thrust the torch into a holder by the door and strode across to her.
But, instead of being reassured, she gave another shriek. She put down my screaming grandson in his hammock-bed and stood in front of it, taking up a sharp knife from the kitchen bench. She brandished it at me. ‘Keep away from us.’ Her voice was low and strangled, scarcely like her own — even the child had sensed her fear and stilled to whimpering.
‘Cilla!’ I said reproachfully. ‘You know you wouldn’t kill me or stick that blade in me!’ But I was not so sure. Her eyes were so wild that I feared she’d lost her wits and at any moment she would slash at me. My heart was thumping hard against my ribs. Slowly, very slowly, I reached out and gently took the hand that held the knife. I was intending to prise the weapon from her grasp but there was no need for that. She dropped it as though my touch had scalded her.
‘Cilla, whatever is the matter?’ I exclaimed, feeling more confident now she was disarmed.
She didn’t answer, only shook her head and moaned, turning her face away and shutting her eyes tight as if she could not bear to look at me. She tried to snatch her hand back, but I recaptured it. I could feel that it was trembling. I squeezed her fingers gently in my own.
‘What’s been happening? Something’s frightened you.’ I reached down with my free hand and picked the knife up from the floor and laid it on the table safely out of reach. To my surprise, I was trembling myself — I felt I had barely escaped without her stabbing me. This day of surprises was getting ever more bizarre.
However, it was clear that she was truly terrified, and the only way that I could think of soothing her was to ask, in as normal a voice as I could muster, ‘Where is Gwellia? With Kurso, I presume? I thought she would be here. I sent a message that I would be late, but I was hoping for a bite of hot supper all the same. All I could find was a bit of bread and cheese, and it has been a very tiring day. I was bending over for at least an hour laying that Apollo piece in place.’ Perhaps these mundane details would bring her to herself.
It seemed to work. She opened one eyelid and said uncertainly, ‘Libertus, father, is it really you?’ She squeezed my fingers briefly, then reached out an exploratory hand and touched my face.
It was my turn to be startled. ‘But of course it is. Who did you think that it was going to be?’ A sudden dreadful thought occurred to me. You sometimes hear of people blinded by the gods. I held her fingers close against my cheek and added quickly, ‘Nothing terrible has happened to your sight?’
She shook her head and disengaged herself. ‘I saw that it was you.’ She sat down very heavily on a wooden stool. ‘That was the trouble. I thought that you were dead. . and the torchlight made your eyes look glittering. .’
‘Dead?’ For a moment I was incredulous. Then I understood. ‘You took me for a ghost?’
She looked at me and laughed — a little sheepishly — then gave a wobbly smile. ‘I can see that I was wrong. You are quite warm and solid and obviously real. And I doubt a spirit would complain of eating bread and cheese.’ There were tears of relief in her eyes, though she wiped them briskly on the corner of her robe and said in something more like her normal voice, ‘I’m sorry, Father. I would offer you some stew, but you gave me such a fright I’ve dropped the serving spoon into the cooking-pot.’