“Peter can’t abide a dirty kitchen and neither can I, mistress. But when there are no women in a house, such matters often get neglected.”
Drawing up a stool, Cornelia leaned her elbows on the table and asked what Hypatia was preparing. “Is it a sauce? Shall we have chicken tonight?”
“Oh no, mistress. Peter insists on overseeing all the cooking and I am uncertain what he plans.” Her face clouded. “I’m making chelidon to treat his eyes. They’re causing him distress and I’m afraid he may lose his sight. It is said that swallows dropped chelidon juice into the eyes of hatchlings born blind and it’s certainly a wonderful cure for eye problems. It really should be cooked in a brazen pot, but the only one I could find needs repair. I don’t suppose it makes much difference, providing the ingredients are mixed to the correct proportions. That’s the vital point.”
Cornelia expressed concern for Peter. She started to ask Hypatia about the poultice she had mentioned, then stopped. She felt awkward. Hypatia and Peter were servants, it was true, but had become more or less members of the family. How would the estate workers perceive such a state of affairs? Might it encourage lax work if they saw the mistress of the house chatting companionably with a servant? Or to be more accurate, would it encourage them to be more lax? As John had indicated, even a brief glance around the estate revealed they had not been closely attending to their duties while it was in the hands of the previous absentee owner.
As if summoned by the thought of estate workers, a big, bare-armed young man in a short laborer’s tunic thumped into the kitchen. Tanned almost black, he was broad in the chest. His inky hair hadn’t been cut for a long time and then badly. Yet his features might have been sculpted by Praxiteles.
He set the wooden stave he carried beside the door, cheerily asked Hypatia if there might be bread and cheese for a hungry watchman and, without waiting for a reply, helped himself to what was sitting on the nearest shelf.
“I see you’ve been hurt, Hypatia.” He spoke through a mouthful of bread. “Obviously you can’t rely on your grandfather for protection. I’d be happy to accompany you next time you go into town.” He clapped a powerful hand around the stave and inclined it in Hypatia’s direction, showing its wickedly sharpened point. “A taste or two of my stout friend here always persuades ruffians to be polite.”
Hypatia glared at him. “How did you know Peter and I have been to town? Did you follow us?”
“I’m one of the master’s watchmen, so it’s my business to notice comings and goings. At least think about my offer, Hypatia. I wouldn’t want to see you come to further harm.” He took a bite of his cheese and addressed Cornelia. “Now, mistress, would you send a young woman into town with no escort but a tottering old man?”
“I think it is time you returned to your duties,” Cornelia snapped.
Philip bowed awkwardly, grabbed his weapon, and fled, muttering apologies.
Hypatia looked at the ceiling and let out an exasperated sigh.
“That young man seems to be on very familiar terms with you,” Cornelia observed.
“Philip’s the tenant farmer’s son. He’s in and out of the kitchen constantly. Just a growing boy, always hungry.”
“A growing boy? He must be in his mid-thirties. Your age.”
“Well, he doesn’t seem to recall it, mistress. Men have a habit of being younger than their age.” She made a show of measuring out a spoonful of honey from the terra-cotta pot next to her mixing bowl.
Cornelia left shortly thereafter in a thoughtful mood.
Perhaps Hypatia tended to see men as younger than they were. That would explain much. On the other hand, she doubted that bread and cheese were the only attractions the kitchen held for Philip.
Chapter Three
John stepped into the courtyard as the dazzling edge of the rising sun appeared over the barn roof. Wisps of fog steamed from the tiles. There was a chill in the air of the type that often presages a hot day. The front of the massive barn across from the house delineated the far side of the open space. House and barn were joined by extended wings housing servants’ quarters, storage rooms, and animal pens.
John shaded his eyes from the glare and looked around.
The blacksmith, a short, powerfully built man with a good-natured face and snub nose had already arrived. He was enveloped in a leather apron reaching past his knees, as if he were working at his forge rather than lounging in front of the pigsty. His punctuality impressed John.
“Petrus, sir, my name is Petrus. How may I be of assistance?”
“I want you to deal with these first.” John indicated the equipment piled next to the barn door.
The blacksmith strolled over and hunkered down over a broken plow, taking a closer look with his hands, tapping and fingering, knocking off bits of dried dirt. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “I’m surprised the fields could get tilled at all.” He stood, slapping his soiled hands on the leather apron. “I can take care of these, but it might be better to simply replace them.”
“Have you spoken about this to the overseer?”
“No, sir. Diocles hasn’t consulted me about repairs for months.”
“Has he ordered any tools from you? Pitchforks, spades, hoes? Much of what I’ve seen needs replacing or is in short supply. I’ve only found a single pruning hook for the olive trees.”
“It’s been a year since I’ve made any farm tools, sir, and I could certainly use the work. Not to speak ill of a fellow laborer, but Diocles doesn’t run the estate as he should. A workman is only as good as his tools, that’s what I always say. A dull sickle makes a hard harvest. A pitchfork with no handle is worse than a hammer with no head, for a nail can be pounded with a brick but what can replace a pitchfork?”
John concealed his surprise at sensing neither enmity in Petrus nor wariness of his new master. Hadn’t the town’s opinion of John and his family come to the blacksmith’s ears? Had he heard the rumors and dismissed them? Or was he merely being polite to the owner of the estate on which he lived as a tenant?
“Certain items for the kitchen are needed. Consult Peter on that. I understand a large bronze pot needs repair, for a start.”
Petrus smiled. “You know what the thrifty say. Make whole your pot and save more than just a cooking vessel.”
Before John could reply he was interrupted by Cornelia calling urgently from an archway leading into the courtyard.
“John! Come quickly!”
“What is it?”
She had vanished back inside. He found her standing beside a large amphora in the enclosure where the olive oil was stored.
“A mouse, John! A dead mouse floating in the oil!”
John patted her shoulder. “Since when are you afraid of mice?”
“I’m not, but it gave me a shock and…” she paused, composing herself, “Do you think someone was trying to harm us? Was it put there on purpose…?”
“I’ve never heard of anyone being poisoned by a mouse.”
“No, but we aren’t in Constantinople now. Everyone here hates us. Can we trust the estate workers? The mouse might have been tossed in there just out of malice.”
John looked down at the half-submerged rodent. Small glassy eyes stared back. He noticed Petrus looking on from the archway, hiding a smile behind his hand.
The blacksmith let out a stifled chuckle. “I beg your pardon, mistress. I know it must be difficult for a city person to come to grips with country ways. You’ve got to try and see the humor in them. He who smiles at ill fortune will conquer it, you know.”
Cornelia glared at him. Obviously he had misunderstood the cause of her discomfiture.
“Don’t worry about it spoiling the oil,” John said “On such occasions my mother would add a handful of some plant or other and it purified the oil.”
Cornelia gave him a puzzled look. “I thought plants didn’t interest you.”