The mistress, Henti, emerged from the big house, with the young priest Palla who so often seemed to hang around here, evoking much ribald speculation from the slaves. Henti walked to the fields and passed among the workers, speaking to them softly. It seemed to be the end of work for now. The slaves were told to gather in the courtyard, a square of beaten earth before the big house, while the hired hands laid down their tools and began to drift off towards the city. They muttered, looking confused, distressed; none of them could afford to be without a day’s pay.
The squad of soldiers drew nearer. Pimpira, in his hole, stood on tiptoe, balancing on his good leg, squinting to see them better.
The punch in the back caught him completely by surprise. He was knocked forward into his pit, banging his head on the hard-frozen wall. Winded, he lay there, submissive. He had been born and raised a slave; you just accepted whatever was done to you.
‘Don’t move.’ It was his father’s voice.
Dirt rained on his back, and heavier lumps. He turned, squinting up. ‘Father?’
His father had taken Pimpira’s shovel and was frantically scooping the pile of lumpy, still-frozen earth back in the hole. ‘Shut up,’ he said, panting, glancing up. ‘Don’t move.’
‘What are you doing? Must I hide here?’
‘Yes, you must hide.’
‘How long?’
‘You’ll know. Then dig your way out.’ His father kept shovelling. The rubble was building up on his chest, his legs. Soon he would be buried. Pimpira, shocked, saw tears stream down his father’s face. ‘Remember us. Now put your hands over your face.’
The next shovel-load came raining down on Pimpira’s head. He huddled in the hole, curling around big blocks of frosty earth. Soon the rubble had shut out the light, and he was covered. But the weight was not great; he would be able to climb out. He heard frantic scuffing. He imagined his father kicking dirt over the storage pit, to conceal it. Then running footsteps, receding.
And then the soldiers arrived, with a tramp of marching boots, a clink of scabbards knocking against greaves, wagons trundling to a halt. Pimpira longed to see them! But, as his father had ordered, he lay curled in the hole.
More footsteps. His mistress’ voice. ‘Zida. I hoped it would be you.’
‘I told you I’d do it for old Kassu. I take it he’s not here.’
‘Working on the round-up in the city. He knows in his head what must be done here, but his heart would explode out of his chest if he were forced to dispose of his own slaves.’
Dispose of?
‘That heart of Kassu’s is his big trouble, for all he’s a stickler for his duty. And if not for the generosity of his heart, lady, you might not be alive to see this day. Or that streak of piss standing beside you.’
‘The blessing of the Carpenter be on you too, Zida.’ That was the voice of the priest, Palla. He sounded good-humoured.
‘I asked Palla to be here,’ Henti snapped. ‘He’s good with the slaves. I’ve seen him comfort them. They’re not animals; they deserve consolation when it comes to the end.’
Zida said sourly, ‘You’re a big bucket of consolation, priest, while the rest of us bloody our hands with the killing.’
Palla said evenly, ‘I think Jesus will understand what’s to be done today, and He’ll see the grain of goodness in you even as you slaughter, officer. You’re here to commit a terrible act — and yet you have come to spare your friend the pain of doing it himself.’
Zida snorted. ‘We’ll have time to discuss it when we’re all down in the Dark Earth. Let’s get on with it. I’ve a dozen more farms to visit before this day is done. I see you’ve got them separated. Good. We find it’s best to get the able-bodied out of hearing range before we start with the rest, because-’
‘I think we know why, Sergeant,’ said the priest.
‘You’re sure you sorted them properly? There are to be no nursing mothers on the March, no child under five, nobody over forty, no invalids, no lame.’
‘I read the instructions,’ Henti said. ‘I did what’s been asked of me.’
‘There aren’t many, are there? What, a dozen able-bodied?’
‘It’s not a big farm.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘The lie I was told to repeat. That the able-bodied are being taken off for a few days to build new grain stores in the city. They believed it, I think.’
‘Umm. Well, the disposal has been going on for a few days already. We started in the city. We wanted to get as many of the able-bodied out and the rest finished off before the news started to leak out. The last thing we need is a revolt.’
‘There was a runner,’ Palla said. ‘Came through the farm, not long before you.’
‘I sent a couple of lads after him. Won’t get far. Look, it will take a bit of time before the walkers are shackled and taken out of earshot.’
Palla said, ‘I will talk to the rest.’
‘Good. Distract them. Just don’t get them stirred up before we’re ready to process them.’
Process?
Henti said, ‘You may as well come to the house, Zida. Bring your officers. I’ve some food and drink we won’t be able to carry that needs using up. .’
The voices receded.
Pimpira stayed in his hole, hungry, thirsty, cold, listening to the rattle of shackles being attached to ankles and wrists. He did not know what was going to happen, but he understood the meaning of the basic separation of the slaves into healthy and not healthy, lame and not lame. He knew which group he would be in. This was why his father had hidden him, so he could not be put with the lame and ill and old and very young. He stayed in his hole, and waited, and thought about his father.
After a time he heard singing, a wistful hymn to Jesus Sharruma, led by the priest’s clear voice. Pimpira mouthed the words.
Then he heard a rumble of many voices, barked commands from the soldiers, and a shuffling tramp, a clink of iron that settled into a steady, slower rhythm. Shackled slaves being marched away. The line passed by his pit, and he cowered, fearful of discovery. There was a lot of weeping. He strained to hear his father’s voice, his mother, but the weeping drowned them out. The shuffled steps, the rattle of the shackles, the occasional crack of a whip, receded.
Now there was only the soft murmur of voices from the group that was left. A child crying. The priest’s steady voice. Pimpira imagined him walking from one to the next. Maybe Pimpira’s grandmother would be cradling Mira, his baby sister. But the voices were sparse sounds against a greater silence. It was a spring of silence, no frogs croaking in the ponds, no songbirds calling for mates.
Then it began. He heard the sigh of steel, swords being withdrawn from scabbards.
The priest’s voice again. ‘Kneel. That’s it. Gather in a circle. Hold hands if it helps. No, Nala, it doesn’t matter that Mira’s crying. Just hold her. You’ll see, soon she’ll be smiling for you in the afterlife, in the eternal light of Jesus Sharruma, and bathed in the tears of the Holy Mother Mary. No — don’t struggle. It helps if you just kneel up and keep still. The soldiers know what they are doing. .’ The little children were crying, afraid. ‘Now, I would suggest, Sergeant.’
And there was a noise like a pig being gutted, like meat being sliced. Harsher scrapes, like a butcher’s cleaver on bone. People tried to cry out, to pray, but their voices were drowned by a kind of gurgling, as if they were drowning. Somebody screamed, and Pimpira heard running footsteps. ‘Oh, no, you don’t-’ Heavier footsteps, a tumble, a brief struggle, a hiss of steel.
Soon it was done, it seemed, and he heard swords wiped on cloth and slid back into scabbards. Low soldiers’ voices — a rumble of laughter.
Henti stormed, ‘How can you laugh? How canyon laugh? The bodies at your feet — the children-’
‘Hush, hush,’ said the priest. ‘They did it so you didn’t have to. It’s the Emergency Laws, remember. Think of it as a kindness. It’s not these soldiers’ fault, Henti. It’s not anybody’s, save the winter’s. Now they will burn the bodies for you, and tidy up.’