The Germanicus Mosaic (7 page)

I knew what he meant, naturally. The same thing had occurred to me; that was one reason why I wanted to see the body again. Any political conspiracy, for instance, that wanted to spirit Germanicus away, might well have sent us a dead slave in his stead. But now, of course, I was quite certain. ‘No,’ I said, ‘that is not Daedalus.’

He was flapping his hands again. ‘I should like to be certain, citizen. Crassus would never forgive me if I buried a common slave in his place. I worked for the man, yet I could not swear to it. Daedalus could impersonate him so well his own mother might confuse them. And without a face . . .’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Without a face we have only the evidence of the body. Look at those razor marks on his legs. See how the thick hairs have been shaved off close? Crassus may have shaved his legs to look as smooth as Daedalus, but Daedalus could not grow hairs in order to resemble Crassus. Rest easy, my friend. This is not Daedalus. Daedalus did not need to shave his legs.’

Was it my imagination, as I left the room, or did Andretha look even more worried than before?

I was glad to get out into the sweet air. In the bedroom, despite Andretha’s efforts in burning aromatic herbs, there was still the faint, sickly aroma of mortal corruption. I left him to his ministrations with relief. Outside, Paulus was still waiting timidly. I drained the beaker he had been holding and sent him for more water to wash my hands. I am not usually fastidious, but that body was unwholesome. Not surprisingly perhaps; it had lain a long time in the heat of the stoke room – a hot furnace can take many hours to cool. It was as well the anointers were arriving soon; masking that smell is one of the more practical virtues of their oils.

Paulus was just scuttling off with the bowl when the first of the funeral party arrived. They came on an oxcart, bringing the trappings of their trade with them. Andretha came bustling out to greet them, and I watched him show them in, and cluck anxiously over the items they had brought, like a hen counting her chicks. There was a gilded litter with carrying-handles, so that the corpse could make his last journey in splendid state. Three female anointers arrived, stout, red-faced women with brawny arms – from lifting and pummelling people in heated rooms, they say. They carried whole flagons of scented oil with them now, and winding linens too, to go discreetly under the toga and prevent bits of the deceased from flopping embarrassingly at every jerk in the road.

Then the professional mourners and six musicians came in, with their pipes and long-horns, ready to start their infernal wailing whenever Andretha gave the word. The chief slave was sparing no expense on his master’s behalf.

All the activity seemed to have dispelled his recent anxiety, and he fussed about happily, showing the women into the bedroom, organising the disposition of the litter, and sent one of the house-slaves scurrying to fetch water for the ritual cleansing. He would go to the source for that, to keep it sacred; draw it from the nymphaeum – the temple to the water gods – not from the stream that trickled down towards the house and under the latrine. And it was to the nymphaeum, I remembered, that the ashes would be returned after the funeral. That rather surprised me: I would have expected Crassus to choose a conspicuous spot beside the highway for his memorial, where everyone would see his memorial. But, as I say, private shrines have become the fashion and obviously Germanicus had felt he had to have one. Rather like the librarium, I thought with a smile. Perhaps I would go up to the nymphaeum later, to see what the builders had made of it.

The water-carrier had returned by this time, with his ewer of sacred water, and the rites could begin at last. When Andretha began instructing the musicians to start the lament, I decided that after all I would go up to the water shrine straight away. I have no stomach for professional keening. That dismal noise alone is enough to drive a spirit shuddering to the underworld. Perhaps that is the idea.

Walking to the spring would give me time to think, and besides it would take me as far as possible away from that demented wailing.

It was a little walk to the nymphaeum, out through the rear courtyard and inner gate and up a steep path between thick trees. At first I enjoyed my stroll, glad of the chance to clear my head after the thick air of the death room. But I had not gone many paces before I paused to listen. I could hear sounds. Small things, the crack of a twig, the scrabble of stones, a stealthy rustling. As I stopped, they stopped too. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Someone was following me.

I turned. Nothing. I was imagining things.

I walked on, and there it was again, the unmistakable sound of footsteps on gravel. I whirled around, but there was no one to be seen. I felt my heart pounding, and I also felt conspicuously alone. After a morning when slaves had been drawing water constantly, to my knowledge, it seemed that suddenly the path to the spring was deserted.

I looked around. The path here was hidden from the villa, and with the household busy with funeral preparations, any cries for help would go unheard. And Crassus had after all been murdered. It would be ironic, I thought, to discover the murderer’s identity only by becoming the next victim.

I moved swiftly, diving behind a nearby tree and waiting silently. At least I would discover who it was. I waited a long time. Nobody came. My pursuer, it seemed, had given up – or had never really existed. I emerged, feeling rather foolish, and at that moment a dark-haired figure hurried round the corner. Paulus. He looked startled to see me.

‘Ah, citizen!’

‘Paulus! What brings you here? You have not come for water. You have no jug, I see.’ On the other hand, I noticed, he had no weapon either.

He smiled weakly. ‘No, citizen. I came to look for you. Andretha said you had come this way. Aulus, the gatekeeper, wishes to see you. He has information, he says, which he forgot yesterday – and he cannot leave his post.’

Aulus. Marcus’ spy. That seemed a plausible reason for coming to find me. Was it a real one or had Paulus been following me? Or, again, by coming this way himself, had he frightened away my pursuer? I did not know. I could only say, ‘Very well, tell him I will come. I will go up to the spring later.’

I did not go directly to the gatehouse, however. I walked around the side of the villa, on my way, to look in at the stoke room by daylight. I was not followed this time, but one glance into the furnace room was enough to tell me that I was too late to learn anything there. The whole area had been swept and cleaned, and even the pile of fuel had been removed. There was a faint, rubbed line on the trodden earth of the floor, as if something had been dragged across it from door to furnace. I thought of the graze on the dead man’s foot, but there was nothing further to be proved from that. A glance towards the back gate showed me why. Half a dozen slaves, under the supervision of Andretha, were already engaged in dragging garden sledges laden with logs from the woodpile towards the farm cart standing in the lane. For the funeral pyre no doubt. Any of the sledges might have made the mark.

It also explained how Andretha knew where to find me. He must have seen me go towards the nymphaeum. Why else would anyone seek me on that path? I gave myself a little shake. I was becoming unreasonably suspicious.

I turned away and went to find the gatekeeper.

He was sitting vacantly on a stool in his cell-like room beside the gate, watching the road through an aperture in the wall and looking even less prepossessing than yesterday. He was the right build for a country gatekeeper, I thought, tall, strong and swarthy, with lank hair to his tunic-collar, muscles like a gladiator and a stout club at his belt. A man to deter unwanted visitors, beggars, pedlars and wolves. He certainly deterred me. I eyed the club nervously.

‘Libertus!’ He crossed the room in three strides. ‘So you got my message. Come in, come in.’ He seized my arm, with an air of uncomfortably confident chumminess.

I winced. The man had the strength of a bear. Yet, yesterday, when we had interviewed him, he had seemed edgy and nervous. I was on my guard. Nervous bears are dangerous.

I gave him an encouraging smile. He released me, dropping his voice and bending his head to mine as if we were in a conspiracy. ‘Have you heard from Marcus?’ He smelt of onions and sour wine.

‘Not yet.’ I almost found myself whispering back. It must be always like that for spies, fearing the very walls are listening. I went to the window – away from the onions – and pretended to look out of it. I said, in a normal voice, ‘We shall see him tomorrow at the funeral. He will come at least to hear the oration read.’

Aulus made a knowing face. ‘Thank Bacchus for that. I have things to tell him. At least we won’t have to trudge halfway to Glevum to see him, though naturally the pyre is in the furthest field. No doubt Andretha will have four of us slaves carrying the litter all the way – and in the darkness too. Why do funerals always take place at night?’

I shrugged sympathetically. I would have to follow the procession myself, and that was an unpleasant prospect in the cold and dark, even without the weight of Crassus on my shoulders. ‘There will be torches,’ I said.

Aulus scowled. It was not an encouraging sight. I attempted a joke. ‘I wish the torches would shed light on my enquiries.’ I was uncomfortably aware of his physical presence, large and loutish. He looked big enough to carry a funeral litter singlehanded.

He didn’t smile.

‘But,’ I prompted, appealing to his professional pride, ‘you have something to tell me, too.’

That was better. He breathed conspirational onions at me again. ‘I should have told you before, my friend. You and Marcus. But I feared trouble. It concerns someone in the villa. Someone who did not stay at the procession the whole time with the others. I wanted to speak to him before I told you, but . . .’ He shrugged and did not finish the sentence.

‘But he would not pay?’ I suggested. I tried to sound world-weary and matter-of-fact, as though taking bribes was all in a day’s work to me, too. It was a risk, but even if he took it ill Aulus could not well attack me in broad daylight when I was under Marcus’ protection. At least, so I told my pounding heart. Besides, I must not let him frighten me. Bullies are often cowards.

Aulus looked at his sandals and toyed with his cudgel.

I made a mental note to tell Marcus that if he wanted to choose a spy, he would be better served by one who did not fidget so openly when asked an awkward question. His uneasiness, though, gave me a little more confidence.

‘So,’ I hazarded, ‘Paulus left?’

‘Paulus?’ He sounded genuinely surprised. ‘Not that I know. He is a cowardly youth. I should have thought he was too frightened to have risked the lash again by leaving without permission. He is often beaten, as it is.’ He gave me a knowing leer. ‘They say he has joined the Druids, to seek revenge.’

Paulus was right, I thought. It had not taken long for that rumour to reach me. ‘So I have heard,’ I said dismissively. ‘I should have thought the Druids would frighten him more than Crassus does.’

He scowled, annoyed at having his gossip forestalled. He was probably hoping to be paid for that snippet of news. He rallied, though, enough to ask, ‘Why do you suspect Paulus?’

‘Paulus was not present for the whole procession. He told me so himself.’

‘Really? I suppose we must believe it. Did he say why he left?’

‘I hoped you might tell me that. And how long he was absent.’

Aulus glowered, but he looked uncomfortable.

‘Andretha said nothing about it,’ I went on, conversationally, ‘but you are a paid spy. I had imagined you might have noticed a thing like that?’

Aulus fidgeted again. ‘The truth is, citizen,’ he said shiftily, ‘it is not easy to watch everyone. Once we had got to Glevum we were not necessarily together all the time. People moved to get a better view, or buy things from the street sellers. Besides, when the procession passed, everyone was looking at the marchers . . .’

‘Where did you go yourself, gatekeeper? No – don’t deny it. If you had been there you would have noted Paulus’ absence. You were in Glevum, I presume? You were not left behind to guard the gates?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I was there. Only . . . I was following someone else. This man I told you about.’

‘And who was that?’

He hesitated. Perhaps he was still hoping for money, but I had none to give him. ‘It was Rufus, the lute player. I saw him slip away, and naturally I followed.’

‘Where to?’

‘That is the trouble, I don’t know. I could not follow him for long – I had others to watch. He went out towards the South Gate, hurrying, that is all I know. I think he saw me, because he dived into a shrine. I could hardly follow him there. I thought he had gone to meet that slavegirl of his, but there was no sign of her. I waited a little and then came away.’ He shrugged. ‘I tried to challenge him this morning, but he would not answer me.’

So, I was not far wrong with my guesswork. Aulus had tried to extract a bribe. And probably not for the first time. I had noted the smug smirk when he mentioned the slavegirl.

‘A slavegirl, you say? A secret love affair?’

‘Yes, citizen. Though it was scarcely a secret. Half the villa knew about it. I think even Crassus suspected.’

Aulus had told him, I surmised, hoping to make trouble. Rufus was a slave, and a slave was not entitled to have relations with a woman without his master’s consent. What is more, if the slavegirl belonged to Crassus she was his personal property, and any man who took her without permission was a kind of thief. I was surprised that Crassus had let theft go unpunished, even theft of something as trivial as a slavegirl.

Aulus was watching me. ‘They used to meet,’ he told me, a salacious smile touching his lips, ‘whenever Crassus did not need their services. That was not often, but sometimes he did leave the villa overnight, to attend a banquet, or a gaming feast.’

‘At night?’ I said. ‘Surely the gates are locked?’

‘They are. Anyone coming to the villa would have to knock and wake me. But anyone could unlock the back gate from inside and slip out unobserved. They do not even have to pass this window to do it. But of course, on those occasions I was always awake, waiting for Crassus to come home. They did not know I saw them, but I did. They used to slip up the old lane. Going to the abandoned roundhouse, I imagine. I’ve seen soldiers go that way occasionally with their women, presumably for the same purpose.’