pecking at his heels. As I watched he picked up the waiting bowl of kitchen scraps and scattered that, while the goat came over to butt him in the back and claim a share. He looked back and grinned at me, the very embodiment of a happy man.
I turned to the redheads. ‘You two have settled in?’
For answer they led me to the servants’ sleeping room – an extra building which we’d added recently, between the dye-hut and the front door of the house. It was small and snug, with walls of woven osiers daubed with mud and clay, and a neat thatched roof to keep the weather out – a sort of miniature roundhouse in itself – but I wondered how a pair of Marcus’s slaves would take to it.
However, when I peered inside, I saw that they had made themselves at home. Taking their cue from what the other slaves had done, they had selected a vacant piece of floor, piled it with fresh reeds to make a sort of bed, and spread their woollen cloaks on top of it to create a covering. On the floor was a set of ‘finger-stones’ – five knucklebones which must have come from the villa kitchen at some time and were probably their only possessions, apart from what they wore – with which they clearly had been playing when the cart arrived.
They saw the direction of my glance, and flushed.
‘We had a minute, master . . .’ Maximus began.
‘. . . just before you came.’ Minimus darted forward to put the bones away. ‘This is not a sign of idleness.’
I shook my head. ‘I’ll go and see your mistress. You finish off your game, but be sure you’re listening to hear me when I call. I shall need you in a little while.’
I left them to their knucklebones and went into the roundhouse proper on my own, blinking against the smoky darkness of the room. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I looked around, revelling in the dear, familiar attributes of home: Gwellia’s weaving loom set up against the wall, its stone weights pulling the fabric into shape; the stools set cosily round the fire, and the sides of meat that I had hung last autumn on the beams above, so that the swirling smoke would cure and preserve them for our winter food.
Gwellia was standing with Cilla on the far side of the room, facing away from me. She was clearly unaware that I had arrived, largely because her face and shoulders were muffled in a dress which the maidservant was in the act of pulling over them. Her bare legs were visible right up to the thighs – still very shapely for a woman of her age.
My guess about her preparations for the banquet had been right: there was evidence that she had stripped herself and washed from head to toe. A shallow basin of water was still set beside the hearth, and the robe which Cilla was now tugging down into place was a fine new
stola
from the marketplace. Normally Gwellia wore clothes made from the Celtic plaid she wove herself, but today was a special occasion and she was dressing for the banquet like the Roman citizen that she had become.
The new robe suited her. It was of a pale rose-madder pink, which showed off the natural darkness of her hair and eyes. She looked magnificent.
‘Gwellia?’
She looked round. I had half expected a rebuke for being at the villa for so long, but she was smiling as she turned about, and twirled to show her
stola
to best effect.
‘You like it? You don’t think the colour is too strong?’
I thought of the painted dancing girls and smiled. ‘It is beautiful. And so are you.’
She looked away and picked up a silver pendant that I had given her, and made as if to fasten it round her neck. ‘There was trouble at the villa? You were away such a time. I was beginning to get concerned for you. It is not so long since you were very ill.’ It was her way of offering a mild reproof.
I sat down on the three-legged stool beside the fire, and began to unlace my sandal straps. ‘It’s quite a story,’ I said. I told her briefly what had happened at the house.
She listened, the
I turned to the redheads. ‘You two have settled in?’
For answer they led me to the servants’ sleeping room – an extra building which we’d added recently, between the dye-hut and the front door of the house. It was small and snug, with walls of woven osiers daubed with mud and clay, and a neat thatched roof to keep the weather out – a sort of miniature roundhouse in itself – but I wondered how a pair of Marcus’s slaves would take to it.
However, when I peered inside, I saw that they had made themselves at home. Taking their cue from what the other slaves had done, they had selected a vacant piece of floor, piled it with fresh reeds to make a sort of bed, and spread their woollen cloaks on top of it to create a covering. On the floor was a set of ‘finger-stones’ – five knucklebones which must have come from the villa kitchen at some time and were probably their only possessions, apart from what they wore – with which they clearly had been playing when the cart arrived.
They saw the direction of my glance, and flushed.
‘We had a minute, master . . .’ Maximus began.
‘. . . just before you came.’ Minimus darted forward to put the bones away. ‘This is not a sign of idleness.’
I shook my head. ‘I’ll go and see your mistress. You finish off your game, but be sure you’re listening to hear me when I call. I shall need you in a little while.’
I left them to their knucklebones and went into the roundhouse proper on my own, blinking against the smoky darkness of the room. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I looked around, revelling in the dear, familiar attributes of home: Gwellia’s weaving loom set up against the wall, its stone weights pulling the fabric into shape; the stools set cosily round the fire, and the sides of meat that I had hung last autumn on the beams above, so that the swirling smoke would cure and preserve them for our winter food.
Gwellia was standing with Cilla on the far side of the room, facing away from me. She was clearly unaware that I had arrived, largely because her face and shoulders were muffled in a dress which the maidservant was in the act of pulling over them. Her bare legs were visible right up to the thighs – still very shapely for a woman of her age.
My guess about her preparations for the banquet had been right: there was evidence that she had stripped herself and washed from head to toe. A shallow basin of water was still set beside the hearth, and the robe which Cilla was now tugging down into place was a fine new
stola
from the marketplace. Normally Gwellia wore clothes made from the Celtic plaid she wove herself, but today was a special occasion and she was dressing for the banquet like the Roman citizen that she had become.
The new robe suited her. It was of a pale rose-madder pink, which showed off the natural darkness of her hair and eyes. She looked magnificent.
‘Gwellia?’
She looked round. I had half expected a rebuke for being at the villa for so long, but she was smiling as she turned about, and twirled to show her
stola
to best effect.
‘You like it? You don’t think the colour is too strong?’
I thought of the painted dancing girls and smiled. ‘It is beautiful. And so are you.’
She looked away and picked up a silver pendant that I had given her, and made as if to fasten it round her neck. ‘There was trouble at the villa? You were away such a time. I was beginning to get concerned for you. It is not so long since you were very ill.’ It was her way of offering a mild reproof.
I sat down on the three-legged stool beside the fire, and began to unlace my sandal straps. ‘It’s quite a story,’ I said. I told her briefly what had happened at the house.
She listened, the
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