me, after all?'
I smiled. Let him think that. 'First, quaestor, I shall place my carriage at your disposal to return you to your father's estate.'
'Of course; you must be sick of me. I'm sorry to be a burden. I've been looked after splendidly!'
'Think nothing of it,' smiled Helena. 'But I can't possibly take your carriage.'
'Well you can't ride Prancer again.' That demon! I ordered Optatus to put him down-' Prancer does not belong to Optatus,' I interposed coldly. His owner is Annaeus Maximus, and his current trustee is me.
He threw you; that is what horses do. You were hurt; that was your risk when you mounted him. I'm no horseman, but Prancer never gave me any trouble. Maybe you upset the beast.'
Swift to back off, he answered quietly, 'As you say, Falco.' Then he turned to Claudia Rufina. 'If I'm leaving, I can easily take you home at the same time.'
'I wouldn't hear of it,' I told him. If Rufius Constans had known something about the cartel, whoever wanted him silenced might wonder if he had talked about it to Claudia. If Claudia was correct in thinking her brother had been murdered, then she herself needed to be guarded-even from suspects with firm alibis, I was not having her left alone with the son of the man who was running the cartel. 'Quadratus, you need to travel the shortest way, for the sake of your sprained back. Helena and I will escort Claudia in her grandfather's carriage-'
'Maybe Tiberius would be more comfortable in that one,' suggested Claudia suddenly. 'It has a seat that can be pulled out flat so he can lie at full stretch.'
I accepted the arrangement. Helena and I would escort Claudia in our own carriage. We would be going by way of the scene of the accident-though I did not tell the charming Tiberius
We all set out together in a procession of two carriages, but I had instructed the Rufius driver to maintain a dead slow speed, in order to protect the wounded gentleman. That enabled Marmarides to move ahead and lose them. I felt better after that, even though for much of the journey we were driving through the spreading fields of the Quinctius estate. I had ridden on top with Marmarides, leaving the women together, though Helena told me afterwards they had made a silent couple, with Claudia Rufina staring numbly into space. She had probably run out of energy and been overtaken at last by shock.
The scene of the young man's death had been marked by a portable altar. It stood at the roadside, so nobody could pass without taking note of the tragedy. On the slab stood flowers, bowls of oil, and wheaten cakes. A slave we found slumbering in the shade of a chestnut tree was supposed to be on guard at the sad shrine.
I remembered the place. The Rufius oil presses were in a yard before the main house; it was attached to what would have been the original farm, a villa rustica in an older style that had been abandoned when the family became prosperous and opted for a larger, more lavish and urban home. The old house was probably now occupied by bailiffs and overseers, though in the daytime it was normally deserted as they were all out in the fields and olive groves. That was how it must have been yesterday when young Rufius came out here.
I jumped down quickly as Marmarides pulled up. The main estate road ran through this yard. Marmarides made the mules wheel and parked the carriage on the shady side, where a horse was already tethered; I patted the animal as I went past and found its flanks warm from a recent ride. A flock of white geese came strutting towards me menacingly, but the slave who was guarding the shrine took a stick and drove them away.
There were various outbuildings into which I glanced: stables and plough stores, a wine cellar, a threshing floor, and finally the oil production area. This was roofed, but the wall that faced the yard comprised huge folding doors, presumably to allow access for carts; in summer they were left standing open.
Two rooms were used for oil production, which was normal on most farms. The outer one contained two presses, as well as vats let into the floor. Here there was no sign of Constans' death. The vats would be used for ladling out the pressed oil, allowing it to rest and separate from its other liquid as many as thirty times. Giant ladles were hung on the walls, along with a large quantity of esparto bags. I was examining these when somebody ducked in through the arch from the adjacent room and said at once, 'Those are used to hold the pulp as it is pressed.'
It was Marius Optatus. Having seen his horse outside I was expecting him, though I wondered what in Hades he was doing here. He went on quietly, 'About twenty-five or thirty bags are piled up, with metal plates between them occasionally to hold them firm-' He gestured to the further room from which he had come. 'Constans died in there.'
Behind me in the yard I could hear Helena and Claudia dismounting slowly from the carriage, Helena trying to delay the girl so I would have time to view the scene alone. Optatus heard them too and looked concerned at their presence. I stepped into the yard and called to Helena to stay outside. Then I followed Optatus into the inner room.
Light struggled to infiltrate through slits in the north-facing walls. I stood for a moment, accustoming my eyes to the half-dark of the small room. A faint rich smell remained from last year's olives. The confined space was quiet, though we could hear the remote sounds of voices from the yard. The boy's body had been removed. It looked as if everything else had then been abandoned as it was.
'This is where the first crushing takes place,' Optatus explained. 'The fruit is picked, and carried in deep baskets to the farm. It is washed, sorted, and stored in heaps on a sloping floor for a couple of days. Then it comes here for malaxation. The olives are crushed in this mill, to form a rough pulp, evenly mixed. After that they go next door for the oil to be pressed out.'
The crushing mill consisted of a large circular stone tank, into which whole fruit would be dumped. A central column was supposed to support heavy wooden arms which ran through the centers of two vertical hemispherical stones; these were kept slightly apart from each other by a strong rectangular box into which the wooden arms were fixed. It was plated with metal and formed part of the pivotal machinery which turned and supported the grinding stones.
'Poles are attached through each stone,' Optatus explained in his steady unemotional way. 'Two men walk around the vat and turn the poles slowly, churning the fruit.'
'So it's not quite the same as grinding corn?' No; cornmills have a conical base and cup-shaped upper stone. This is the opposite-a basin into which the stone rollers fit.'
'They move quite loosely?'
'Yes. The aim is to bruise the olives and free the oil, to make a slippery paste. But you try to avoid breaking the stones; they taste bitter.'
We fell silent.
The old worn grinders were propped against a wall, one flat side out, one convex, both stained dark purple and badly misshapen. Pale new concrete had been used to improve the basin. One new stone stood within it in position, already fixed upright to the central pivot though it was held fast on blocks. Both stones had been supplied with brand-new turning poles, their wood still white from the adze.
'You see, Falco,' my companion continued levelly, 'the roller fits fairly loosely. In use the pole acts merely as a lever to move the stone around in the vat. The stones revolve almost of their own volition, due to the pressure of the fruit.' Although the grinder still had wedges beneath it, he leaned on it to show me there was free play. Leverage on the pole would move the stone and tumble the olives against the sides of the basin, but not so tightly that the kernels were split.
I sighed. I fingered a collar, fitting tightly around the pole. 'And this washer-which I presume is adjustable-is fixed here on the outside to keep the stone on?'
'It should be.' Optatus was grim.
'Then I suppose I can work out what happened to the boy.'
'You will!' Presumably Optatus had already thought through events, and did not like the result.
The second grinding stone lay on the ground. A pole had been partly thrust through it, but then smashed by a fall. Even in the dim light I noticed dark marks on the earth floor next to the stone; they looked like dried blood.
'So what do you reckon?' I asked Marius.
'The new grinders arrived two days ago but Licinius Rufius had not yet made arrangements for fitting them. I
