The Germanicus Mosaic

by Rosemary Rowe

  The slaveboy misinterpreted the gesture and hastened an apology. ‘I am sorry, citizen. We did not like to . . .’ He trailed off.

  Light the boiler for the bathhouse, he meant. It had not occurred to me. Even in my slave days I had never lived in a villa grand enough to have its own bathhouse. But of course Crassus had one. It was the kind of display of wealth and Romanness which he particularly enjoyed – and which, since he was ambitious, he probably needed. A citizen who possesses property in excess of 400,000 sesterces is, of course, eligible for election to the ranks of the equites and Crassus would have loved to become a knight. A display of expensive possessions was a first step on that ladder.

  Hence the famous librarium pavement, of course, and the inlaid table I had seen in the atrium. That alone must have been worth a chief’s ransom. It probably was a chief’s ransom. After what Marcus had said about Crassus’ reputation in the army, it was not hard to form a shrewd suspicion about how the centurion had amassed his wealth. Strictly illegal of course – serving officers are not permitted to take private bribes – but then, technically the inlaid table was probably not a bribe at all, but a ‘gift’. With a sword at their throats it is astonishing how generous people can suddenly feel, especially if Germanicus’ reputation for ruthlessness had gone before him.

  I realised that the slaveboy was still staring at me, like a nervous mouse.

  ‘Of course you could not stoke the furnace, in the circumstances,’ I said lazily, as if a luxurious bodily dip in hot and cold water was a normal daily occurrence for me. ‘In any case, I would like to look at the stokehouse again, and see the body before it is moved. There are one or two little details I would like to confirm.’

  The boy shook his head apologetically. ‘It is too late, citizen. Andretha has had the body brought into the house, to be anointed and washed for the funeral.’

  That news brought me out of bed abruptly. ‘Already?’

  The slave took a step backwards, as if I had offered to strike him. ‘Your pardon, citizen. Andretha asked permission last night, and his excellence Marcus Aurelius Septimus agreed. It was done at once. Andretha thought it was unfitting to leave the master in the stokehouse overnight, even under guard.’

  I could see his point. It was undignified. And with the stream running near the villa there was always the risk of rats. Or worse. Even this close to Glevum there were sometimes sightings of wolves or bears. One of them would make short work of a corpse, especially a tastily toasted one.

  I nodded doubtfully. ‘All the same . . .’ Surely Andretha must have guessed that I would wish to examine the place in daylight, with the illumination of the morning sun? Or was this hurry to remove the body because he knew that I would want to view the scene?

  I looked at the scented rainwater. Of course, this was a matter of life and death to him, so naturally Andretha was over-anxious to please. But was it my imagination, or was he trying a little too desperately, like a man who has something to hide? ‘All the same . . .’ I said again. I slipped off my under-tunic and began to pummel myself enthusiastically with the oil, thereby preventing the slaveboy from offering help, as he had obviously intended.

  He began to offer explanations instead. ‘There is much to arrange, citizen. Funerary libations, the funeral litter, musicians – professional mourners and an orator even, since there is no family to do it.’

  ‘No family?’ I queried, remembering the librarium pavement. ‘There is a brother, surely?’

  The boy nodded. ‘Yes, citizen, there is. His name is Lucius. He was here a week or so ago. Andretha has sent a messenger after him already, but it is doubtful that he will come.’

  I paused in my oiling to prick up my ears at this. ‘They quarrelled?’

  ‘No quarrel, no. Only they had been apart for years, and Lucius has changed. Completely. Crassus was . . .’ He trailed off nervously, as if he had said too much.

  ‘Crassus was what?’ I demanded.

  He dropped his voice, and whispered guiltily, ‘Disappointed. He had been boasting for weeks about his brother’s visit – the drink, the women, the banquets he would hold . . .’

  I nodded. I had been a guest at one of Crassus’ banquets. He had held it in Marcus’ honour – another move in the game of seeking preferment. Marcus, knowing he wanted a pavement, had taken me as part of his retinue and gained me the commission. I had vivid memories of what Crassus’ banquets could be like.

  ‘But Lucius was not interested?’ I prompted.

  ‘The fact is, citizen, he has joined the new religion, the Christians, and he has given it all up – gambling, drinking, swearing, fornicating, everything Crassus was looking forward to. Dresses like a hermit and lives on alms. He spent his time here trying to persuade Crassus to repent.’

  ‘That would not please Germanicus,’ I said, keeping a straight face with difficulty. ‘Sharing his villa with a fasting aesthete.’

  Even the timid boy could not restrain a grin. ‘Not quite that,’ he said. ‘Lucius has eschewed gluttony, but he praises God for good food, and is a trencherman yet. No rich sauces and conspicuous greed, but give him a suckling pig and fresh herbs and he will make a good meal of it – and wash it down with fine wine, too. He must have been a big man once, and he looks more Bacchus than beggar still. Crassus is no wraith, and there is nothing to choose between them.’

  ‘Yet Lucius lives on alms?’

  ‘Those who give them know, I think, what form their alms should take. Fresh-baked bread and honest oatcakes, and he has learned to feed himself with fish and fruits. The bounty of God, he says, though he will eat nothing that has been offered to idols. Refused a meal here – wood pigeon and partridge breast – because it had been offered at the household shrine. Crassus used that in the end as a way to get rid of him. He wouldn’t attend a funeral where food was left for the afterworld, and libations made to the gods – especially imperial ones.’

  I whistled. ‘A dissenting Christian, eh? Be careful the emperor doesn’t get to hear of that.’ I was serious. Commodus takes emperor worship very seriously. He hasn’t even waited to die: he’s already decided that he is an incarnation of Hercules. Seems to believe it, too. Not like poor old Vespasian, exclaiming on his deathbed, ‘Alas, I am becoming a god.’

  I added aloud, ‘There have been several Christians thrown to the beasts recently, for speaking out against the imperial cult.’

  The boy nodded. ‘Crassus knew that. He could not wait to get his brother out of the house. My master always wanted to become a knight, but if that sort of news got about, it would be the end of his preferment.’

  ‘But they parted on good terms?’

  ‘Crassus gave him money, and I even heard him promise help to found a church, once Lucius had found a site and patron. I think he’d have promised anything to get his brother away from here.’

  ‘But you did not believe he would honour his promises?’

  ‘I doubt it, citizen. Not while he lived, at least. He was always mocking Lucius behind his back, and he and Daedalus did a merciless and deadly accurate imitation of him. Anyway Lucius didn’t want to stay. He wanted to be well away before the Mars parade. Pagan ritual, he called it.’

  ‘I see.’ I did see. A devout and practising Christian hermit who had been gone a week. A likely suspect for murder. I picked up the strigil. It was much better than my own. ‘No other family?’

  ‘There was a woman,’ the boy said. ‘She came here twice, claiming to be Crassus’ wife. Said he had lived as her husband when he was garrisoned in the north, and had promised to marry her when he retired. She had found his whereabouts at last, apparently, and followed him. Regina, her name was. Poor lady, she was kind to me.’

  ‘She stayed at the villa?’

  ‘He refused to see her the first time, but when she came back and began to threaten to tell everyone in Glevum what had happened, he took her in and gave her a room in the villa for a month or so. She tried to plead her case, but he would not have it. Gave her money
in the end, I understand, and perhaps that was what she came for, because she went off looking triumphant and we haven’t seen her since.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Oh, months ago.’ He was frowning at me anxiously. ‘Excuse me, citizen, but are you sure you don’t want me to strigil your back? Or help you to shave? I have a novacula ready.’

  Of course, he would have been waiting to assist me in my ablutions. I thought of that rough sharp knife rasping my skin and shuddered. In the hands of anyone less than expert, a novacula could be lethal. One false move . . .

  ‘You shaved Crassus?’ I asked, scraping the last of the oil from my skin and allowing him to rinse me off with a jug of water as I stood in the bowl. It was not as good as cleansing oneself in the bathhouse, of course, where the heat and steam open the pores, but I felt much refreshed. I towelled myself dry and reached for my toga. This time he did not wait to be asked, he came behind me and helped me to fold and secure it into place.

  ‘Yes, I shaved my master,’ he said.

  I thought of Crassus as I had seen him at that banquet: small, squat and pugnacious with a square, blunt head like a battering ram; carefully cleanshaven, in the Roman fashion, but with hands and arms so disconcertingly hairy that he looked like a bear in a toga. There were fresh, bloody nicks on the side of his thick neck, then, as if someone had shaved him with an unsteady hand, and evidence of older scars on the cheek. ‘Not an easy task,’ I said, remembering that even though Crassus had been fresh-shaved there was still the faint blue of whiskers under the swarthy skin.

  ‘No.’ Almost unconsciously the boy’s hand had risen to his shoulder, and I saw, under the neck of his tunic, the darkening shadow of a bruise.

  ‘Show me,’ I said. It was an impertinent request, but he obeyed, with that instinctive unquestioning obedience of slaves everywhere.

  ‘My hand shook,’ the boy explained. ‘A day or two before the procession. I cut his cheek. It is nothing.’

  Not quite nothing. His back, from shoulder to waist, was one red mass of weals and bruises. Small wonder the hand that held the novacula trembled in its work, if this treatment was commonplace.

  ‘Did Crassus beat all his slaves like this?’

  ‘Not everyone, no. Usually he had Andretha flog them – if the cook spoiled a meal, or one of the gardens failed to please him. But I was always there, you see, in reach. Besides, he knew I feared the lash. I am not . . . strong. Sometimes with others Crassus used more subtle methods – which hurt them more, often.’

  ‘Such as?’

  The boy glanced at the door-screen nervously. ‘No, citizen, I should not have spoken. I was sent to help you shave and cleanse yourself, not to gossip.’

  So it was Andretha who had been subject to these ‘subtle methods’. I had been searching my memory for the boy’s name, and now I found it. ‘Well, thank Andretha,’ I said, with forced jollity, ‘but I think I shall forego a shave this morning, Paulus. It is Paulus, isn’t it?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I want to see the body again before Andretha puts it on the funeral bier. These events will save him some of the grislier preparations. No eyes to close.’ Paulus swallowed hard and looked so squeamish that I tried to make light of the horror. ‘Though he will have to find some way to leave a coin in the mouth for the journey across the Styx. They say that failure to pay is one reason the ghosts of murdered men often come back. If Crassus did come back, however, perhaps he could help me by identifying his killer.’

  It was a feeble attempt at levity but it had an unexpected effect on Paulus. He turned whiter than my toga. Fear of the dead, I wondered, or fear of the secrets that the dead might tell?

  Of course, the barber was a member of the household and probably expecting general reprisals. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We shall find the murderer without help from the afterworld. And Marcus is a fair man, he will only execute the guilty.’

  It had been meant to reassure him, but Paulus looked more desperate than ever.

  ‘What is it?’

  He shook his head helplessly. ‘I suppose you had better know. Someone else will tell you if I don’t.’

  ‘What is it?’ I said again.

  ‘The other day, at the festival of Mars, I wasn’t with the others. While they were watching the procession, I slipped away.’

  Now, why had Andretha not mentioned that? That sort of information might have saved his skin. ‘To do what?’

  Paulus shook his head stubbornly. ‘I don’t know. I just . . . wanted to be away. But someone may have noticed. The truth is, citizen, I missed most of the procession. I didn’t return until they were getting on the farm cart at the gate. And Andretha must know it. So there you have it, citizen. I did not kill Crassus, but there is no one who can prove that.’

  But Crassus was in the procession, I thought. And besides no man could have carried the body back here in that time. A foolish confession, but a particularly brave one, from a boy so timid. So why then did he avert his eyes as if he were lying?

  ‘And?’ I prompted.

  He took a deep breath and by now his face had taken on the waxy creaminess of marble against the frame of his dark hair. ‘And – there is no truth in the rumour of course, because it is expressly outlawed on pain of death . . .’

  ‘But?’

  Paulus gulped. ‘But there are people in the villa who believe I am a follower of . . . the Druids.’

  The Druids! The forbidden religion, which called for ritual human sacrifice.

  ‘And are you a follower?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said, and this time we both knew that he was lying.

  Chapter Four

  There was obviously nothing further to be gleaned from Paulus. He had taken a calculated risk, preferring to tell me this now rather than disguise the facts and have them beaten out of him later. He was probably wise. Someone would assuredly have told me, if he had not; one of the effects of possible ‘blanket executions’ is this peculiar willingness to inform on others. All the same, the poor fellow obviously felt that he had said too much already, and retreated further into himself than a Roman snail at the smell of cooking.

  I could hardly blame him for worrying. Personally, I have no particular quarrel with Druids – at least none that I would want any practising Druid to hear of. There was a lot of learning and culture among the Druidic priesthood while it lasted, and if devotees did offer themselves as sacrifices from time to time, so that their entrails could be read, well, worse things happen every week in the arena. But our Roman masters have decreed against it, and who am I to question their judgement? Perhaps it is true that the Druids sometimes kidnap their victims. Marcus certainly thought so; if he heard there was a Druid in the house he would immediately suspect that the body in the hypocaust was some kind of bizarre ritual. Perhaps he was right.

  I sent Paulus scurrying away to fetch my breakfast, and after that I dismissed him, to his evident relief. I was glad, really, to eat in my room unattended. It gave me time to plan my course of action. First, I wanted to examine the body; I was sure there was information to be derived from that. And then, Andretha. On his own, preferably. There was something in the man’s over-anxious manner that I did not altogether trust. After that, I would wait and see.

  I ate the bread and fruit, but wine, even watered wine, was too Roman for my stomach at this early hour. I opened the door-screen and Paulus leapt guiltily away from behind it.

  ‘You need something, citizen?’ What had he been doing there? Waiting for my commands, or spying at the door-crack?

  ‘Water,’ I said, indicating the empty drinking vessel. ‘I need to keep a clear head.’

  ‘Instantly, citizen.’ He almost tripped over his sandal straps in his anxiety to be gone, but I detained him.

  ‘If you see Andretha, tell him I would like to view the body, and to speak to him privately.’

  Paulus paled, but said simply enough, ‘You may do both things at once, citizen. He is in the mas
ter’s bedroom, preparing the body for the funeral. Shall I fetch him?’

  It was tempting. The idea of having the supercilious Andretha obliged to obey my summons was almost irresistible. But I thought better of it. I preferred to take the chief slave unawares. ‘Fetch the water,’ I said. ‘I will go to him.’

  ‘But, citizen . . .’ Paulus began, looked agonised, and then trailed off. Shouldn’t I go with you, he obviously meant, but lacked the courage to say so. It was not polite to wander about a strange house unaccompanied by at least a slave.

  ‘Marcus has asked me to investigate,’ I pointed out. ‘I can do that best alone. You wait for me here.’

  I made my way to the bedroom, following the pungent smell of candles and burning herbs. Andretha was, indeed, at his master’s bedside. The armour had been removed and left neatly ranged by the wall. The body was now draped in a linen sheet from chin to ankles and Andretha was kneeling beside it, with a bowl of water at his feet. He squawked up at my approach, like a seagull surprised stealing honeycakes, overturning a small oaken chest and scattering half a dozen silver pieces in the process.

  ‘You startled me, citizen, coming in unannounced.’

  That was a rebuke, as near as he dared it. I grinned at him cheerfully. ‘It is necessary that I work unobserved. As it seems that you do. Performing the ablutions already?’

  Andretha flushed, but when he spoke it was with careful deference. ‘Not the ritual cleansing, citizen, no. Only washing the dust and ashes from him, where he was lying on the floor. And finding his ferry fare, as you see.’ He scrabbled after the coins, and thrust them back into the chest. ‘I hope I have not offended, citizen, but it is hard to know how to proceed. His closest relative should close the eyes and begin the lament, but there are no eyes to close and anyway his brother is not here to do it. Yet it would not be fitting merely to ask the military guild. Crassus would not have wanted a common soldier’s funeral.’