'No, those were his words, exactly: "Leave a bit of blood on the ground"'
'And he said this where you could hear?'
'I don't think he knew what household I came from. I don't think any of them knew, except Claudia. They really didn't seem to notice us at all. Also, there was a lot of wine drunk that night and Gnaeus drank his share’
'But you should probably know, Master,' said the other slave, 'that Claudia spoke up in your defence. She answered each of these insults and threats, and told the others that there was no point in nursing their animosity because everything had been settled in court'
'And how did her cousins respond?'
'Not very warmly, but she did shut them up. Her manner can be rather…'
'Brusque’ concluded Congrio. 'And remember, it was in her home that the family conclave was being held; she is very much the mistress under her own roof I think that Claudia suffers no challenges to her authority on her own property, even from her blood relations.'
I smiled and nodded 'A woman to be reckoned with. A woman who demands respect. Do her own.slaves respect her?'
'Of course.' Congrio shrugged. 'Although…'
'Yes? Speak up.'
He wrinkled his plump brow. 'I'm not sure that they feel much affection for her, as some slaves do for their masters. She is quite demanding, as I have learned for myself. Nothing must go to waste! Every part of every beast must be rendered for whatever it's worth; every seed must be picked up off the floor. Some of the older slaves swear that they owe their bent backs to her and not to old age.'
'The very fact that she owns slaves old enough to have stooped backs speaks of a compassionate nature,' I said, thinking of all the farms where slaves are treated worse than beasts of burden. A slave's hide, unlike that of a cow, has no value after death, and thus many masters see no reason not to cover it with scars; and the flesh of slaves, unlike the flesh of beasts, cannot be eaten, and so these same masters see no need to feed them more than the bare minimum. Wise old Cato would certainly have had no wizened slaves about his farm; his advice is to cull out the sick and weak and to stop feeding a slave once he grows too old to do his full share.
Done with the slaves, I dismissed them, but as Congrio was stepping through the door (he had to turn a bit sideways, I noticed, to manoeuvre his bulk through the passageway), I called him back.
'Yes, Master?'
'This family conclave of the Claudii was mostly about the upcoming elections, I understand.'
'I think so, Master, though I imagine they also discussed matters of more immediate concern to the family.'
'Such as their unwanted neighbour and what to do about him,' I said glumly. 'Did you overhear any rumours of how the Claudii plan to vote? In the consular election, I mean.'
'Oh, in that they were unanimous. They will back Silanus, though they appear to have no great respect for him. "Anyone but Catilina," was the phrase I heard again and again. Even the slaves had picked it up.'
'I see. "Anyone but Catilina.'' You may go now, Congrio. Bethesda will wish to advise you about this evening's meal.' After he left the room, I sat for a long while with my fingertips pressed together, staring at the wall, lost in thought.
VI
For the next few days I put aside thoughts of politics and Rome and the great world beyond the farm I even managed to banish the troublesome Claudii from my mind. No more messengers arrived from the city; no more insults were hurled across the stream that bordered my estate. The city folk were busy with electioneering, and my neighbours were no doubt occupied, as I was, with the haymaking. The sun shone bright and warm, the slaves seemed content at their labours, the beasts dozed in their pens. Meto and Diana seemed to have made peace with each other, at least for the time being, and Bethesda, her maternal nature aroused by the budding spring, took them to gather wildflowers on the hillside. In my idle moments I played at designing the water mill that had been the dream of Lucius Claudius.
The nights were warm but pleasant. I went to bed early, and Bethesda and I made love three nights in a row. (The chance appearance of a handsome young visitor like Marcus Caelius in my household seemed often to have this stimulating effect, but I did not question or object.) I slept well and deeply. It seemed to me that a great peace had descended on my own little plot of land in Etruria, no matter what wickedness was brewing in the world beyond. Thus do the gods sometimes deceive us with a respite before the storm.
The bad news began at mid-month, on the Ides of Junius. Early that morning a slave came running to my library, saying that Aratus wished to see me in the fields. From the boy's uneasy countenance I saw trouble looming.
I followed him to a place at the northern edge of the farm, near the wall that separated my land from that of Manius Claudius. Since this field of grass was farthest from the house and the barns, the slaves had mowed it last. The grass was all cut, but only a few bundles had been gathered. The slaves stood idly about and became nervous at my arrival. Aratus stepped towards me, looking glum.
'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 allthe 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.