The Baby and the Battlefield

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Cinnamon's Problem

Cinnamon was glad to be home. He had breakfasted this morning with his own mother, as he used to do as a child. He had met the morning messenger, as he always did when he was at home, collecting messages from the master's clients. Then he had helped other slaves to decorate the villa for the upcoming holiday, hanging strings of crabapples in the atrium and dining room, and tying ribbons around the cypresses in the courtyard. Then he had been permitted to have lunch, again with his mother, who had allowed him to eat the same fine lamb stew as had been placed on the master's table.

Now, he was trying to find Vitus. The only problem with being the assigned slave of one man was that the man in question was often difficult to find. Cinnamon tried the dining room, of course, but the family was already gone, slaves cleaning up the table behind them. Next, he tried the courtyard, and then Vitus' bedroom, but to no avail. Finally, Cinnamon tried Vitus' study.

Vitus had been assigned a study back when he and Cinnamon were both boys doing schoolwork. Vitus had been taught history and rhetoric and mathematics, while Cinnamon had been taught the rudiments of arithmetic, memory techniques for remembering the names and titles of guests, and how to write in a fine, artistic hand. He had always been intended to become Vitus' personal secretary, and had been instructed accordingly. Both boys had spent hours in the pleasant, well-lit room, and now that they were grown, Cinnamon always felt a little calmer just walking into the familiar space.

Vitus himself was nowhere to be seen. Last night, Vitus' blue cloak had been left draped over the chair, his favourite cloak pin - a flat representation of a silly-looking little deer - poking into the seat. Cloak and pin were gone now, no doubt worn by their owner, wherever he might be.

As was usually the case when he had been working without Cinnamon's help, Vitus' desk was strewn with documents, books, and small wax writing tablets. Figuring he might as well neaten the desk while he waited for Vitus, Cinnamon began to straighten up, piling the codices and tablets neatly, placing scrolls in their storage buckets. A folded slip of poor-quality papyrus, its wax seal already broken, caught his attention. Vitus' name was written on it in a neat, feminine hand, very much like that of his fiancée. Cinnamon did not remember Vitus receiving such a letter this morning.

Tempted badly by curiosity, Cinnamon tried to ignore the letter. He pushed it to one side of the desk as he worked, then to the other. Then he tucked it under the pile of books. But, finally, the curiosity won out. Cinnamon fished out the papyrus and began to read.

It did appear to be a letter from Vitus' Miss Aemilia, albeit a very short one, written in very faint, almost illegible ink. The faintness made Aemilia's writing look oddly foreign, somehow different from the writing Cinnamon had seen in a thousand of Aemilia's previous letters. It seemed that, through some miracle, Vitus and Miss Aemilia were in the same city at the same time, for once. The very short note suggested a meeting; no wonder Vitus couldn't be found at home. Cinnamon folded the letter back up, feeling jealous, and placed it in the middle of the desk. Then he picked up one of Vitus' books, a thick popular history codex, and settled into a comfortable chair to read.