That thought brought a smile to Fabiola’s face as she reached the large yard behind the villa. Here, the slaves’ miserable, damp living quarters were a stark comparison to the solidly built storage areas. Something would have to be done about their situation, she decided. There were also stables, a two-storey mill and numerous stone sheds. These last were built on brick stilts to allow continuous airflow underneath and to prevent rodent access. Some were filled to the ceiling with harvested grain and oats, while others contained the estate’s rich variety of produce. Resin-sealed jars of olive oil stood in well-balanced stacks. There were tubs of garum, a popular and strongly favoured fish paste, sitting beside barrels of salted mullet and clay vessels full of olives. Ready to be used over the winter, apples, quinces and pears were packed neatly in rows on beds of straw. Muddy bulbs of garlic were arranged in small pyramids. Dried hams hung from the rafters beside bunches of carrots, chicory and herbs: sage, fennel, mint and thyme.
Wine, one of the premium products, was prepared and stored in special cellars in yet another building. Firstly fermented in dolia, huge pitch-lined jars that were partially buried in the ground, the juice from the crushed grapes was then sealed in and left to age. Only the best vintages were decanted to amphorae and moved to the main house, where they were laid in a special depository in the roof space over one of the main hearths.
Fabiola was fond of checking each of the stores herself, still amazed that the food belonged to her. As a child, hunger had ruled her life. Now, she had enough to eat for a lifetime. The irony was not lost on her and she made sure that her slaves’ diet was adequate. Most landowners barely gave their slaves enough to live on, let alone survive beyond early middle age. She might not be setting them free, yet Fabiola was determined to be a humane mistress. The use of force might occasionally be necessary to ensure obedience, but not often.
The main labour for the year — sowing, tending and harvesting crops — was almost over. Today though, the yard was a hive of activity. Corbulo was stalking up and down, shouting orders. Fabiola saw men re-forging broken ploughs and repairing worn leather harness for the oxen. Alongside them, women and children emptied carts of the late ripening vegetables such as onions, beet and the famous Pompeian cabbage. Others worked in groups on the wool which had been shorn from the sheep during the summer. Now it was being combed out and washed, before being spun.
Corbulo bowed when he saw her. ‘Mistress.’
Fabiola inclined her head gravely, careful to maintain an air of unaccustomed command.
His brown hair shot with grey, the round-faced, stooped figure would scarcely attract a second glance. His clothes were nondescript. Only his long-handled whip and the lucky silver amulet dangling from a thong round his neck showed he was no mere agricultural slave. Seized as a child on the North African coast, Corbulo had lived his life since on the latifundium.
Having a youthful woman as his owner seemed to trouble the old vilicus little. Brutus had made it perfectly clear that in his absence, Fabiola was the mistress of the household. Corbulo was delighted just to have someone to tell him what to do to stop the estate falling into rack and ruin, as it had been for years.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Supervising this lot, Mistress,’ said Corbulo, indicating the nearby slaves. ‘Always plenty of routine jobs to keep them busy.’
Fabiola was intrigued by daily life on the latifundium. She could not imagine her former master feeling the same way. ‘Did Gemellus have any real interest in this place?’
‘When he first bought it, yes,’ Corbulo answered. ‘Used to come down here every few months.’
Fabiola concealed her surprise.
‘He brought in the new olive trees from Greece and had the fish pools constructed,’ the vilicus revealed. ‘Even picked which hillsides to grow the vines on.’
Fabiola disliked the thought of her former master having a creative side. He had only ever shown brutality at the house in Rome where she and Romulus had grown up. ‘What happened then?’ she asked.
There was a shrug. ‘His businesses started to do badly. It started with goods from Egypt. I can still remember hearing the news.’ Corbulo’s lined face grew anguished. ‘Twelve ships sank on the way here from Egypt. Can you believe that, Mistress?’
Fabiola sighed expressively, showing her apparent empathy. In reality she was trying to understand how a man such as Corbulo could care if his master’s fortunes took a turn for the worse. She had been delighted when Brutus revealed the circumstances that had led to Gemellus’ sale of the latifundium. Yet it was inevitable for slaves to identify with their owners in some way, she supposed. Fabiola could recall how proud Romulus had been about safely bringing back a note from Crassus’ to Gemellus’ house, dodging the moneylenders’ men who were always lounging opposite the front door. Yet her twin had hated Gemellus as much as she did. Even those with no freedom had some pride in their lives. So she should not judge Corbulo on that alone. Although he had worked for Gemellus for over twenty years, the vilicus had thus far proved loyal, reliable and hardworking.
Almost on cue, Corbulo barked at a male slave who was sharpening a scythe with slow, indifferent strokes. ‘Put a proper edge on that, fool!’ He tapped the whip hanging from his belt. ‘Or you’ll feel this across your back.’
Hastily the slave bent over the curved iron blade, running an oilstone back and forth along its entire length.
Fabiola smiled approvingly. While not a brutal man, Corbulo wasn’t scared of using force either. It was a good sign that the threat was enough. ‘I thought his fortune was huge,’ she said, probing for more information.
‘It was.’ Corbulo sighed. ‘But the gods turned their faces away. Soon, everything the master did turned to dust. He began to borrow money, with no means of repaying it.’
She could remember the heavies waiting outside Gemellus’ domus day and night and the rumours in the kitchen where the slaves gathered to gossip. ‘Brutus mentioned a venture with animals for the arena being the final straw.’
Corbulo nodded reluctantly. ‘Yes, Mistress. It should have made Gemellus a king’s ransom. He had a third share in a expedition to capture wild beasts in southern Egypt.’bestiarius’
Fabiola felt a pang of nostalgia: her brother had often pretended to be a bestiarius. Grief quickly dissolved her happiness. Instead, Romulus had become a gladiator. Yet no emotion showed on her face. The Lupanar had endowed her with the ability to conceal her feelings from everyone, even Brutus.
Suddenly an old memory surfaced. Not long before they were sold, she and Romulus had overheard Gemellus and his bookkeeper having a conversation. It had concerned the capture of animals for the circus, a venture with the potential for huge profit. The twins had been shocked that the merchant could not afford the initial outlay. As poor household slaves, his wealth always seemed immeasurable. ‘That should have cleared his debts,’ she said calmly.
‘Except the vessels sank,’ Corbulo announced. ‘Again.’