Chapter XXIV: The Morning Task
The lake glistens, its placid surface casting sunlight in a narrow path to the wet porch, the shallow water over its tiles giving way to the kitchen. A comforting warmth envelops the space from sunrise to sunset, emanating from a majestic oven nestled in the back corner.
Its plump stack extends through the ceiling, and on its face is a masterful carving of Vesta, her arms laden with a bountiful harvest. Below her, the oven’s mouth beckons, where the hearth’s breath forms an uneven glow, and metal grabbers and paddles lean by their long wooden handles.
Stone counters spread from the wall, some crowned with the same pressed woodblock as the cutting boards. Hooks mark their tile frontages, little iron curls that hold spoons, skewers, and tongs, by narrow wisps of twine. Standing between them is a tall oak cupboard, its open levels offering spice cups, oil juglets, and mortars with pestles.
Along the opposite wall, shelves climb like ladders to nowhere, their levels full of earthen crockery, black metal pots, and pans with handles. A few dolia stand alongside, housing beans, oats, and flour. Tall terracotta amphorae stand among them, each with a coat of fine grain dust. Inside them are the kitchen essentials: olive oil, grape must, and wine.
Welle extends his chilly hands over the waist-high stove beside them, carefully avoiding the grilling racks against its green brick surround. Applewood charcoal smolders in its pit, giving off a light aromatic smoke that drifts toward the open window. Behind it looms a black canvas, its darker patches remnants of something flavorful.
Past the pair of deep stone sinks is the episternum, a little room with a marble-capped island where house cook Niko rolls his pastries and kneads his bread. Today, his diligent fingers press dents into a puffy slab of oily dough while his mirthful eyes regard the bossy housemaster.
Mute by nurture rather than nature, the chubby cook of Vila Servi falls outside the Gaul’s jurisdiction, making his attendance at this housekeeping meeting purely circumstantial.
Welle considers migrating to the staff dining table, a timber-top monster that runs along the wall near the wet porch, until the faint sound of fish plunking about in the pond makes him reconsider. He prefers his fish unseen or on a plate—an odd fancy born of a life spent adjacent to one river or another.
Before any further rumination on his part, Hosta and Vibia arrive and drop their sweaty arms onto Niko’s marble work surface. Untidy most of the day, the kitchen mavens take any opportunity to stop working with the utmost necessity.
Caeso and Optus enter the kitchen and linger beneath the suspended lattice, a weighty beast with pots and cauldrons dangling on chain hooks. There, they take turns reaching for the lowest hanger without jumping, a feat Caeso will never accomplish.
With them is Marilla, a flat-chested girl with a large rump. Her dishwater hair appears clean today, though her spotty skin proves the effort recent. Like a raccoon in human skin, she fishes the larger pine nuts from a dolia and jams them into her mouth.
“Are those hands clean?” Welle demands.
The boorish girl’s paw slowly retreats from the floor pot as senior house cleaner Flora whisks past, smiling about something she’s not likely to share.
A woman with an unremarkable figure, her beauty comes at the expense of a dull scar on her cheek, put there by an overzealous dog when she was no more than a toddler. Her brown eyes animate as she sets a flower for the kitchen spirits on the Larium, its shelf overflowing with flowers, nuts, and wheat tails.
The niche sits within the walkthrough to the triclinium, where simple frescoes of plated meals adorn the walls, showing how the food must look before it leaves the kitchen.
“Where’s Julia?” he asks her.
“She’s got her blood,” says Flora.
Marilla huffs, “Again?”
“It’s been four weeks,” Flora laughs. “I’d be concerned if she didn’t have it again.”
Welle lifts his voice to the boys.
“Are you two waiting for an invite from Vesta herself?”
Both young men shuffle over, their faces revealing they would rather be elsewhere. Marilla skirts around them as they arrive, separating her from their Helvetian taskmaster.
Niko grins without a word, as he is a man of no words.
“I have an announcement,” Welle declares. “Starting tomorrow, I’ll be serving as Lord Skipio’s attendant,”
Niko nods to himself while Flora gives a start.
“You’re no longer overseeing us?” Marilla asks, a bit too cheerful as the boys smirk openly; at least the kitchen mavens have the sense to hide their happiness.
“Oh, I’ll still be watching,” he assures. “But after tomorrow, you’ll all be answering to Flora,”
“Are you sure, Master Welletrix?” Flora asks. “Julia Paulina’s been in this house longer than I have,”
“Yes,” he says. “And Julia retires to her room on blood days, and here you are, standing here, rag in place,”
Flora spins around, frantic, craning her neck to see her backside.
“Do I have a spot?”
“No, your tunic is unstained,” Welle says as Niko nods.
Flora gazes at the lofty Gaul. “How’d you know I—”
“-I grew up with eight sisters, they all shared rooms and, eventually, blood days. You will keep the staff on schedule since you work through your pains every month,” Welle then mumbles, “and Julia takes to her bed at the first drop,”
“I don’t get the blood anymore,” Vibia offers.
Hosta says, “I get a spot now and then, every few months,”
A portion of Caeso’s upper lip rises as he turns to Marilla.
“Are you wearing the rag right now?”
“Can we please talk about something else,” Optus begs.
Welle claps once, silencing them. “We have a busy day ahead,”
“Yes, we should focus,” says Flora. “Since Julia’s taken to her bed, Marilla, me and you can divide the first floor,”
“I do the dining room already,” Marilla moans.
“And this week, you’ll do as Flora tells you on top of that,” Welle scolds. “Starting with those two heads in the study,”
Two lifelike busts rest upon green marble plinths. One is of the villa’s builder, Lucius Rufus Servius, a ruddy man with a hawkish nose and a head of reddish coils that match his gnarly beard. Across the archway sits his raven-haired wife, Claudia Vita Servia, born Clawa Vitalrix, whose brilliant green eyes contrast her Roman husband’s shit-brown orbs.
“I can’t clean the founder,” she mopes. “Dust gets in his curls and never gets out,”
“You need more than a stick of feathers for him,” says Flora. “A damp cloth is best, and I’ll help you,”
“What time are Cassia’s boys getting here?” Marilla eagerly rebounds, and Niko partakes in her happiness with a close-lipped smile when she adds, “They’re washing the hounds today,”
“You two,” Welle focuses on the boys. “Jog down to the village and intercept them before they climb onto the carriage. Tell their minder, Portos, I need an extra delousing satchel,”
“Sweet,” says Optus. “Portos got a cow being born today,”
Caeso crinkles his nose. “Remember the last one?”
“You two will come back on the carriage,”
“Why?” Caeso whines. “We don’t wash the hounds,”
“You’re going to help me wash that druid,”
Optus gripes, “The druid pees on us if we get too close,”
“You two will always be someone’s piss target,” Welle says. “So get used to it,”
This rather cold observation adjourns their meeting.
*
Unlike the lush and inviting side yard, with its shade trees and comfortable chairs, the plot behind Villa Servi is a barren scape, save for a few stubborn tufts of hardy mountain grass.
Muddy paw prints cover the concrete ramp sloping down to the larder, its thick timber door a barrier that keeps the underground cold from escaping. Yellow foam dots a path to the lakeshore, remnants of the cakes used to scrub the hounds.
On higher ground, the giant sliding door to the kitchen stores stays open long after the village cart deposits the day’s eggs and produce. Through it comes the heady aroma of roasting pork that overpowers the wet dog stink. Unfortunately, this delicious smell cannot mask the earthy scent of the granite-rich soil.
Cassia Valentina, the stout village forewoman, sends her sixteen-year-old twins to the villa monthly to wash the plantation’s Cretans. A common breed on both sides of the Alps, their heads and bodies are slenderer when untainted by mastiff blood.
They bask in the sun, circular tails bobbing joyfully as the twins dry their damp fur with herb-infused towels. The eldest, Phobus and Romula, one-time protectors of the orchards, now guard over the villa and her side yard.
Many prefer the tricolor pair to their golden son, Draco, and his auburn mate, Virtus, a moody duo rarely seen around the villa. Those two patrol the plantation’s outer walls for intruders while their grown pups, a couple of sandy noisemakers named Robor and Arte, guard the groves from hungry invaders too clever for the traps.
Welle changes out his winter tunic for something with a thinner weave, then ties back his blond locks with a scarf. A hefty concrete block awaits near the water, its round mooring made of the same iron as the chains that bind the druid.
Through the larder’s opening comes Caeso and Optus, each latching onto a kicking leg while the twins maintain brutal custody of the writhing druid’s arms. Watchers gathering near the lake road fall quiet. Even the dogs go still when the four drop the gangly Celt onto the mud before Welle.
One of the twins quickly secures the primary chain to the mooring, yet Welle laments that he must remove those wrist and ankle cuffs if he wishes to bathe the thing properly.
A lifeless glare confronts him, along with the foulest smell.
“Good morning, Aedan,” he says, standing over him. “We can continue in Greek, or we can converse in Latin,”
The druid slowly rises to his feet, eyes consuming the area without words.
“Greek it is then,” Welle decides. “Look at me. I will bathe you today, and as much as I would like to remove your binds, I cannot trust you won’t hurt me or anyone else.” He holds the narrow shearing blade between them. “I’m going to remove this rag you’re wearing, understand?”
The druid’s head dips and rises in a blink.
Welle grips the filthy tunica’s hem and runs the blade upwards, splitting it with one swipe. The grimy frock falls away, revealing the pale Celt’s manhood, a girthy monster hanging long from the blackest bush.
“By Jove,” says of the twins, while Optus releases a long and low whistle. Caeso huffs in admiration, and soon, everyone titters like children.
“We’re going to mind our manners,” Welle charges, aiming his words at the house staff lurking on the wet porch. He jerks his head at the boys. “Douse him with warm water,”
Optus dunks a bucket in the steamy trough, the wood fire beneath its iron belly hissing when his sloppy collection drops water on them. Caeso does the same, and the pair chuckles before pulling back their buckets and heaving them forward.
The druid turns away from the splashes, water colliding with his chest and back before sluicing down to his legs. One last bucket drowns his hair, and he exhales hard enough to send water in Welle’s direction.
“Does that make you feel better?” Welle asks, wiping his face.
One side of the druid’s mouth rises.
Welle enters his territorial bubble and drags the foamy sponge down one leg, revealing a streak of pale skin and strands of wiry black hair. He dunks the porous scrubber in a nearby soapy bucket, wringing out the brownest swill.
Soon, the legs come clean, as do the tops of the feet and the backside. Laughter rings out when a wet fart sends Welle’s hand upside the druid’s head. Giggles follow when, while cleaning the druid’s manhood, it jumps before the Helvetian can pull the foreskin back and rub it properly.
“When I was young, we did this naked in the rivers,” he says, catching the druid’s stare. “Our lives were not so different, I suspect,”
Welle pulls up the man’s arm and scrubs the black hairy pit.
“I can clean myself,” says the druid.
He repeats his actions on the other side. “If you were willing, Aedan, I wouldn’t be here.” He orders a fresh bucket to rinse the back.
“Your nape is covered with bites.” Welle pulls aside those longish curls and examines the druid’s pinnae. “Your ears are flea-bitten, too,”
Arte approaches with her tail wagging and licks the druid’s foot. They regard one another for a moment, mutt to mutt until Caeso drops water over the druid’s head. An angry elbow strikes the lad, quelling his laughter yet stirring Arte.
“We’ll have to cut this hair off,” says Welle to himself.
Without warning, the druid falls to all fours and, with one kick, sends Optus skidding across the mud. The older dogs part and watch him pass as a foot stabs Caeso in the gut, drawing a cacophony of growls and snarls from the other hounds.
Thick with lather, his feet slip from the braces, and he yanks free of his wrist cuffs as Arte jumps playfully back, her tail-curl bobbing madly. Dogs bark dire alarms as the twins fall onto the druid, hugging his upper body and clamping his legs together.
“Enough,” screams Welle, hand on his hip.
All combatants freeze. Every dog falls quiet.
“You listen to me, you fetid little welp,” he confronts the druid’s eerily calm fury. “You’ve got lice, and the easiest way to get rid of them is by removing your hair.”
The twins relax their hold as Welle closes in with the shearing blades, but the druid tucks his knees and rolls backward, twisting his arms and legs free of them before rolling over the mud like a wheel. Draco and Robor race after him, nipping and growling until he unfurls near the water. It takes three of them to drag him back while one tosses rabbit bits at the hounds for their capable work.
This meaty reward settles their agitation.
“Nik—” Welle startles as Niko materializes beside him, a leg-long pepperoni stick in hand. Welle snatches it from him, his heart racing as Niko returns to whence he came.
“You know what this is?” he says, waving it before the druid, whose dark eyes follow its every move as he crouches, suddenly obedient. “Cured meat, something we Alpine people created and that these Romans turned into an art form.”
Romula and Arte come alongside the druid, their eyes filled with a piggish hunger, and all three watch as the Gaul cuts a sliver from the top.
“Clearly, you wish to keep your hair.” He tosses a slice to the druid, who catches it in his mouth. The bitches whine softly for their share while Welle kneels again, meat stick in hand. “That’s better. If I give you this—”
The ravenous druid snatches the stick, bites off two chunks, then tosses them away for the bitches to retrieve.
“Look at me,” Welle demands, but the druid gnaws away at the cured meat. “Boy, you will look at me when I speak to you,”
The druid’s head rises as if struck.
“I’m going to cut SOME of your hair,” he says as the druid’s jaw rolls. “I must expose your neck and those ears. Those bites need treating.”
The druid takes another bite, his attention set on Welle.
“When the cutting is done, I’ll douse your head in apple vinegar and lather it with a paste of grain alcohol and oils. One of those oils is peppermint, and it will feel very good on those bites,”
The druid’s shoulders drop, and he sits cross-legged, munching away at the reddish-brown stick while the Helvetian trims the hair from his neck and then exposes his ears.
“Caeso,” he says, hand out. “Give me the largest nit comb, first,”
“You’re going to use them all?” the young man asks.
“I’m going to need every comb we’ve got,” he says before spotting Vibia and Hosta at the larder door. “You two, scrub that slab in there with citron and vinegar, then burn his sheets and pillow in the rubbish pit,”
Optus calls from the wash trough. “Hot water’s ready,”
“Master Welletrix,” Flora yells from the wet porch. “Lady Vita wants to move that broken lectus into the larder,”
“The one without a leg?” he asks, pulling the druid’s head back and pouring apple cider vinegar onto it. “Have these two break the legs down and then put her old mattress on it,”
“What about linens?” she yells back.
“Do not use the good ones,” he cries. “Take some from the gone-bad batch,”
“What does that mean?” one of the twins asks. “Gone bad?”
“They’ve got blood stains on them, or worse,” Welle explains. “But there’s no holes or rips, and they’re clean and don’t smell sour,”
The twin nods at his brother, who shrugs.
Welle lathers up the man’s hair, then holds his forehead steady before dragging the first tight-tooth comb through it. He begins in front and mows back to the man’s crown until bug-laden froth piles atop the comb’s teeth.
“You hear that, Aedan?” he asks, dunking it clean in the bucket. “You’re getting a bed,”
The druid sucks his finger clean, the entire pepperoni stick gone. Niko again appears before Welle calls, startling the Gaul, who notices the sweating jug he carries.
“Is that water from the ice stock?”
Niko nods as the druid snatches it and begins gulping with abandon.
“Drink in moderation,” Welle advises. “Or your sinuses will freeze,”
The druid doesn’t listen, and soon, his brow creases with a seizing ache.
Welle reaches under his chin and pulls his head back.
“Learned that the hard way, didn’t you, dung for brains?”
Murky eyes beam up at him with ornery amusement.
XXIII – XXV