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.

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.