The Germanicus Mosaic (12 page)

That was true, too. It was to be hoped that Marcus did not fall down dead – although, of course, he had peeled his plums.
My
plums. ‘Her potion seems to have sharpened your wits, at least,’ I said.

He grinned again. ‘More than you think. While I was gone I asked Andretha to show me the spot where you were found. Aulus discovered you, it seems, face down on the barber’s bedding pile.’

‘Aulus? What was he doing there?’

He shrugged. ‘Who knows? On the way to the slaves’ latrine, perhaps? Or gone hoping to beg a clean tunic from the women who wash the slave linen?’ That was possible. Crassus, like most rich men, might send his own linen to the fuller, but a quick rinse in the stream would suffice for his servants’ clothes. Junio laughed. ‘Or maybe he was just snooping. He is a spy after all! Andretha had sent him a relief, because he will be needed tonight to carry the bier. He has the strongest shoulders in the villa.’

I nodded. Perhaps it was the result of Faustina’s herbs, but the pain was less already.

‘I asked myself,’ Junio said, ‘what
you
were doing there. Looking for something, I guessed. So while Marcus was talking to you I went back and looked myself. It was easy to see which was the barber’s bed – there was a cabinet beside it with his tools on a tray. So I investigated. It was well buried in the bedding straw, but I found this.’

He handed me something long and hard, wrapped in a piece of stained leather.

‘What is it?’

‘I have not looked. I had just found it when a slave came in, so I got up quickly and hid it inside my tunic. Naturally I didn’t want him to see me. It was just as well. It turned out to be Paulus himself. He was obviously terrified to find me there.’

I nodded. ‘Paulus spends his whole life in a state of terror. It is one of Crassus’ legacies.’

‘Poor fellow,’ Junio said. ‘Anyway, I tried to reassure him. I said I had come to see where the accident happened. Paulus fell over himself showing me the spot, but of course I knew already. I felt rather treacherous, with his secret in my pocket. I don’t know how Aulus does it. I would have searched further, but Paulus said he had come out looking for me because Faustina had your potion ready. So I fetched that, and then came straight here. I haven’t opened it. I thought you would prefer to do that yourself. The leather seems sticky, it has stuck to what’s inside. I was afraid to damage it.’

It was sticky, the dark leather stained with darker patches. I eased it open.

‘A shaving knife!’ Junio exclaimed. ‘Great Jupiter!’

It was indeed a novacula. A recently sharpened one, for the blade showed the marks of the whetstone. A man would not need much oil to soften his skin with a blade like that at his hair-roots. Yet it was not the sharpness of the blade which had caused Junio’s startled exclamation, it was the thick red-brown substance which still lingered on the base of the blade and the handle. The same substance which – slightly diluted it seemed – had discoloured the leather in which the razor was wrapped.

I did not need to sniff my fingers, although I did so. I recognised blood when I saw it. So too did Junio.

‘Is that human blood?’

‘Presumably! One does not go to the trouble of concealing a blade because one has skinned a rabbit with it.’

‘Could it have been used on . . . him?’ He nodded in the direction of the lament which seemed to have struck up anew.

I thought for a moment before answering. ‘I suppose it could,’ I said. ‘Since the face is burned, it is possible that the throat was cut. But there would have been so much blood.’

He looked at the knife. ‘Perhaps there
was
so much blood. Someone has rinsed the edge of the blade.’

I voiced the question which was troubling me. ‘What happened, do you think? Yes, someone tried to rinse the knife, in the stream perhaps, but there must have been blood on his hands besides. Look, you can see the mark of a finger here. It makes no sense. Why would he not stop to clean the handle too?’

‘Perhaps he was in a hurry,’ Junio said. ‘Especially if there was a lot of blood. Perhaps he even had to wash the corpse. Was there blood on the body?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘None on the body or the arms. A little dried blood on the legs – they had not been washed. And none on the armour.’

‘Then perhaps it was his own blood, whoever he was. Certainly it has cut through flesh. This knife is sharp enough. If only fingermarks and blood were like hairs, so that one could start to match them with their owners! That would give us some help.’

‘There is a hair here,’ I said, removing it carefully from the leather cover. It was short, dark and curled. It reminded me of the lock of hair I had found in Rufus’ mattress.

‘It looks like Crassus’ own,’ Junio said. ‘That does not assist us much. If this razor was used to shave him, that hair might have been there since full moon.’

I had to agree.

‘So,’ Junio sounded disappointed, ‘my discovery hasn’t been a great help, after all.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘We could try asking Paulus. He hated his master. This novacula was found in his bed. He is the barber slave. Presumably he put it there.’

Looking back on it, I must have been more dazed from that blow than I thought. If I had had a quarter of my wits I should have seen the fallacy in that. Obviously, whoever used the knife, it wasn’t Paulus who hid it in the bed. The reasoning didn’t occur to me then, however, and I was feeling quite triumphant as I said, ‘Let’s have Paulus in here, and see what he has to say.’

Paulus, however, was nowhere to be found.

Junio came back apologetic. ‘I am sorry, master, I cannot find him anywhere. And why are you not on the bed, resting?’

I was asking myself the same question. While he was out of the room, I had clambered unsteadily out of bed. My head spun and my legs were strangely reluctant to hold me. They seemed to have turned into river eels. Nevertheless, years of slave life had taught me harsh habits. If I could stand up, I preferred to do so. One is less vulnerable on one’s feet.

‘You can thank Faustina’s herbs,’ I said, as cheerfully as I could manage. ‘I think they are working.’ There was some truth in that. I
was
feeling better. Groggy, but better. ‘Anyway, Marcus expects me to attend this funeral; I should like to practise walking and standing a little first. A little fresh air perhaps? A short stroll up to the nymphaeum?’ I did not mention my previous venture in that direction, or the mysterious footsteps which had followed me. Junio would have deduced that the footsteps belonged to my attacker and, fearing another attack, prevented me from going – or rather (since he was a servant and couldn’t personally prevent me from doing anything) he would have told Marcus, which came to the same thing.

So I kept my counsel and went to the water temple, glad of the fresh air against my face. Junio accompanied me, grumbling all the while.

‘If you should fall, now, what would become of you? And what would Marcus say if he heard that I’d brought you out here and you collapsed? He’d have me whipped.’

‘I shall have you whipped myself,’ I growled, ‘if you don’t stop jabbering. Look down there and tell me what you see.’ I felt feeble enough, without his dwelling on it.

We had reached the nymphaeum by this time, a small semi-circular temple on pillars, enclosing a clear pool. The back wall was of natural stone, and from its base the water bubbled up, fresh from the spring, under the gaze of a slightly ferocious stone deity on a plinth. Beside the statue I could see the funeral niche, ready prepared, with room inside it for the urn and the feeding amphora – though putting food and drink into that on the anniversary of death was likely to be a damp business, given the position of the spring. There was also a space, I noticed, for a large carved stone over the niche. No doubt Crassus had left instructions for the inscription.

‘I can see the little side gate, and the lane,’ Junio said, making me jump. I had forgotten asking the question. ‘And the villa – at least, the back and side of it. There is nobody there, only the slaves – eight, nine, ten of them.’

‘What are they doing?’

‘The usual things – fetching wood, sweeping the court, two of them tending the gardens, a couple of kitchen slaves with a chicken, someone coming this way with a jug, Andretha looking important . . . you can see all this for yourself; why do you ask?’

‘I was thinking,’ I said. ‘The path which leads up here is invisible from the house. I noticed that yesterday. That is interesting. It is difficult for a man – especially a rich man – to be alone and unobserved in a villa. Nobody there, you said – and yet there are ten of them.’

‘Eleven now,’ he said. ‘There is Paulus, at last.’

‘Then you can help me back to the house,’ I said, ‘and go and fetch him to me.’ I would be glad, in fact, to sit down again. Faustina’s herbs were good, but they were not magical. And I had seen all I wanted to see. I had examined the path carefully coming up, and I did the same going down, but there was no hint of my pursuer of the day before: no tell-tale little pieces of cloth or unexplained footprints. I didn’t really expect there to be. Slaves must have been coming and going for water all day. The lad with the ewer, for instance, arrived again as we were leaving.

It took me longer than I expected to get back to the villa, even on Junio’s arm, and I tried to divert his attention from my difficulties by telling him everything I had learned about the household. Then when, at last, I was lying back on my cushions again, he went off to find Paulus. He was back in a trice.

‘I found him just outside the door, master,’ Junio said, ushering in the barber. ‘He says Andretha posted him there, ready to serve you.’

‘You were not there a little while ago,’ I said, though I remembered that at other times Paulus seemed to make a habit of being close outside my door.

Paulus smiled weakly. ‘I have just come from the lament, citizen. Andretha arranged a roster. It was my turn to wail.’ Ironic, I thought, to be obliged to mourn a man that you hated. ‘When I had finished, I was to wait outside your room again in case you wanted anything. Of course you have your own slave now, but those were my orders.’

‘Very well,’ I said, feeling very clever and devious. ‘I do want something. Marcus wants me to attend this funeral this evening, and I have not trimmed my hair or had a shave for two days. I am in danger of looking like Hadrian.’ That wily old emperor had sported a beard, and set a brief fashion, years ago. ‘You are a barber. You can do it for me.’

Junio shot me an astonished glance. I do occasionally visit a barber shop in Glevum – it is almost as good as the public baths for hearing the town’s gossip – but on the whole I prefer to avoid their nose-hair tweezers and their bear-fat-and-ashes treatments for thinning hair. A simple piece of Roman pumice and a dab of oil suffices me, or for special occasions, a painful scrape with a sharpened blade from Junio himself.

He had enough wit, however, to say nothing.

I watched Paulus carefully. Would he betray anxiety? Make excuses? Go and rummage for the knife?

For a moment it seemed promising. Paulus clearly was both flattered and terrified. ‘Yes, citizen. At once. I need only to collect my tools . . .’

I produced my masterstroke. ‘Go with him, Junio. Help him to carry them.’

Junio nodded. I did not need to tell him what I wanted – someone to watch Paulus.

The barber looked startled. ‘I have a carrying-tray, citizen. There is no need . . .’

‘All the same,’ I said. ‘I would prefer that he went with you.’ I was improvising wildly. ‘Someone hit me on the head yesterday, close to your bed. If Junio looks carefully he may discover something which will tell us who or why.’

‘Citizen, there will be nothing there. I can promise that. The sleeping spaces are cleaned and swept daily. Andretha insists on it. Truly, there is nothing to be found. In any case, Junio has examined the place already. I found him there earlier.’

‘I will come with you anyway,’ Junio put in quickly. ‘I can tell you which oils my master prefers – and I have this drinking-cup to return to Faustina. But I will see that Marcus leaves a guard posted outside this door this time. The citizen keeps ordering me away but he does not require another blow on the head.’

Faustina’s brew, I thought, had improved my head – but not enough. I should have thought of that danger myself. I should have thought of others, too. Was it safe, for instance, to let Junio go to the slave quarters with Paulus?

It was too late now. The two young slaves had gone.

Now I did come to think of it, I felt in no real danger myself, especially with one of Marcus’ guards at the door. That blow on the head had been hard, deliberately hard, but it had not been meant to kill. Surely a killer would have struck again? I had been helpless. A second blow could have finished me, but it was never given.

Suppose the attacker had intended to strike again, but was prevented? Because he was surprised in the act, perhaps? Or because spending too long at that time and place would have betrayed him? Andretha was outside, supervising the loading of the logs. He would have noticed anyone coming to the building.

Who had hit me? Aulus had ‘found me’ lying there. Was that because he himself had laid me low? A sharp tap with that cudgel would be an effective sleeping draught. Or Rufus? Marcus had mentioned, now I came to consider it, that Rufus had left the mourners to restring his lute. Had he found a handy weapon somewhere and seized the moment? Or wasn’t it a ‘he’ at all? If my attacker was a woman that might explain why the blow had not been mortal.

Or was it never intended to do more than stun? To prevent me searching? I did not know. My addled brain refused to reason clearly. I could only wait on events. I was very interested in what Paulus, for instance, would do now.

And then, of course, the obvious occurred to me. Of course Paulus would not hunt for the novacula. It made no sense. Why should a barber hide a razor in his bedding, when all he had to do was place it on his tray, where it would excite no interest whatever? He might have hidden it, certainly, if it were bloodstained and he had no time to clean it – but Paulus had prepared a tray of toilet accessories for me only yesterday, and the blood on the handle was older than that. It would have been simplicity itself to clean the knife. Besides, I was found face downwards on his bed, obviously I had been searching his bedding. Anyone might wonder what I was looking for – as Junio had. A man with a guilty secret would not leave it there.