Black Gruel, part 2

I forgot about the scratching animals and instead opened a pouch I’d filled with dried food – a sardine, a few figs and a tuber. I didn’t eat it, but just wanted to look at my supplies. Good for about a week. I would have to start relying on my hunting skills. I carefully tied up the material and stowed it in my tunic above the belt.

I sat on the ground for a little while, arms hugging my knees while I thought of what to do next.

I had surveyed the farm for a week now, and ascertained that the farmer was a helot. He was taller than a Spartan, and his movements were more fluid and dance-like. He had two assistants who looked like deformed Greeks – perhaps they had been foundlings.

I’d watched long enough to know that he had a set routine, from which he rarely deviated. At dawn he would rise and toss food to a holding of about seven large pigs, and a few piglets. They would come running, grunting appreciatively, then the farmer would footle about making repairs, tending to a vegetable garden and feeding a mess of chickens.

At lunchtime the whole crew would go inside, probably for lunch and a sleep. Then later on, around sunset, they’d feed the pigs again.

So far I had been very careful not to steal from the garden – I wanted to scope out the area first. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to slip into their garden without leaving footprints and to take a [lettuce/beet]. I refrained because I didn’t want to rouse anyone’s suspicions.

Today I was planning to make my move. My plan was to be as bold as possible, to kill all three farmers under the cover of this mist, then to empty the house of valuable supplies. The house was in such a remote area of the valley that I was tempted to move into the house myself, but I knew that would be unforgivably foolish. Some time or other a visitor or wayfarer would pass and news would spread of my occupation.

My stomach was empty, but I felt my limbs filling with the strength that comes from Mars before any daring venture. My eyes were given greater clarity of vision and I heard the beat of drums in my ears. My fingers tingled with a lust for action and I set off for the direction of the farm, using landmarks I had marked out in my period of surveillance: there was the grove of laurels, there was the pile of old cups, there was the goat carcass – it must have had mange because the skin and silky hair was left on it – and finally I was so close that I could see the black flank of a small pig that was rooting about in a pile of vegetable shavings.

Its eye glinted like a small obsidian bead and I could not tell if it was aware of my presence or not. I had tried to accustom him to my smell and motion by visiting the pig pen in the evenings. If it was aware of me, it didn’t care at all or make any indication of it.

The mist was so thick that I couldn’t see the farmer, though I could tell he was fairly close because he was whistling through his teeth and humming. I moved stealthily around the perimeter of the pigpen and approached the wall of the house, taking care where I put my feet so that I would make no sound.

At last I was within a couple of metres of him, and could make him out. He was about ten years older than me, northern looking, with light brown hair and a tall frame and leathern skin. He had a blade in his hand and was trimming a shrub whose branches were straggling out untidily. I knew that at any moment he would turn around and see me, so it was necessary to get it over with quickly.

I was about to leap out from my hiding place, when one of the Greek servants appeared armed with a club.

"Whar ye going wi’ that club, lad?" Asked the man.
"Oi’m gonna get a lion. Arfes said there are loins ‘round here – ’e ’eard them prowling and growling last night."
"Oh, is that right?" The man said laconically and turned back to his pruning.
"You be careful that the loion doesn’t get you."
"Oi will," said the dope and hobbled bravely along the path. I waited until he’d passed me for the right time to strike and then carelessly stabbed him in the neck, so that he died instantly, with not even a yell of surprise.
Even so, the farmer knew something was wrong because the body made quite a thump when it hit the ground.
"Pires?" The farmer asked, then, sensing something was wrong and perhaps starting to believe the lion story after all, ran towards the bush where I had again ducked. The fool ran right in front of me and I finished him off with the club I’d taken from the first victim.

When I was certain they were both dead I ransacked their clothes and mouths for valuables. Neither of them had any money and they both let off a rank stink involving pigs, manure, sweat and lard. The old man wore a brass ring with the crude signature of a winged man. I didn’t care for it but thought it might serve as a keepsake so I hastily stowed it in my purse.

Now that they were dead, I had the problem of the third man.

I realised that it would be to my advantage to keep him alive to care for the pigs. So for now, I resolved to hide these two bodies and earn the friendship of the survivor. I hastily dragged the farmer’s body to a spot behind the pigpen and a hillock, then I got the other man and piled him on top. It was hard work and by the time I’d finished covering the men with clippings, I was dripping sweat and stained with blood.

Thinking quickly, I leapt into the pigpen and cut the side of one of the sows with my knife. She squealed and snorted, which alarmed the others and suddenly I was in the middle of an ear-splitting cacophany.