If Caelius had been to see moneylenders in the capital, it seemed he had been successful. The noble was in excellent humour organising work parties in the courtyard each morning. Tarquinius was picked for the harvest, as he had been every summer since arriving on the estate eight years previously.
Huge areas of ripe oats and wheat had to be cut and stacked. It was a backbreaking task, lasting from dawn till dusk for a week or more. Already tanned from days on the mountainside, Tarquinius' skin was burnt a deep mahogany colour. To the delight of some female slaves, his long hair grew even blonder. Its length helped conceal the birthmark.
Fulvia was now too infirm for physical labour and ferried food and drink to the fields with the older women. Caelius had tried before to make the men toil all day without pause, but too many had collapsed from de-hydration in the hot summer two years before. One had even died. The noble realised a short daily break was cheaper than dead labourers.
By the fourth day, the sun was beating down with a malicious intensity. Fulvia's arrival in the early afternoon with a mule-drawn cart full of water, bread and root vegetables was most welcome. She parked it in the shade of a large tree and everyone crowded round.
'I've got a bit of cheese here,' Fulvia whispered, patting a cloth-covered package by her side.
Tarquinius winked in reply.
The whole group was stripped down to loincloths and sandals, shorthandled scythes shoved into the leather belts that Caelius provided. To prevent attempts at escape, the slaves among them wore heavy iron manacles round their ankles. Like any big landowner's, Caelius' workers were from all over the Mediterranean. Judaeans, Spaniards and Greeks sweated beside Nubians and Egyptians. Conversation was limited as the famished men ate, and soon each basket of food was empty. Only a few crumbs had fallen for the sparrows pecking hopefully round their feet.
Maurus, one of the Greek slaves, chewed the last of his bread wistfully. 'What I'd give for a piece of meat! Maybe we'll get some at the Vinalia Rustica.'
'Caelius is too stingy! And he 's got real money worries at the moment,' snorted Dexter, the
Rome, 70 BC
Not far from the Forum, seven young nobles picked their way along a dusty side street. Expensive white togas were stained with wine, the result of a prolonged drinking bout. Half the taverns across the seven hills had been visited that day. The men talked in loud, arrogant tones, uncaring who might hear. Slaves armed with cudgels and knives paced behind, torches in hand.