The Germanicus Mosaic

by Rosemary Rowe

  ‘What do you need, old friend?’ Marcus said affably, to me.

  It was almost worth being knocked on the head for. Lying back and giving orders like the emperor himself.

  ‘A little wine, perhaps? Some meat or soup? This cur shall fetch it for you, or I’ll have him whipped.’ Marcus has a vitriolic style when he chooses.

  I could have had anything the villa offered, but I felt delicate. ‘Water,’ I said, ‘and a little fruit.’

  Marcus whirled on Andretha. ‘Do you see what your carelessness has brought him to? Dining on fruit and water. My poor friend!’ I did not tell him that in my workshop I often dined on less. He gestured to Andretha who was duly cowed. ‘Fetch it – and some wine for me. And when I find who did this . . .’

  The chief servant, in his desire to please, bowed himself out backwards like the lowliest of slaves.

  Marcus leaned forward. ‘He will be punished, too, of course,’ he said, lazily. ‘But that does not help the matter. This attack has laid you low and disturbed my plans. Here you are, hurt, and you have had no chance to learn anything.’

  Typically patrician. He was concerned for me, of course, but equally concerned about his errand. I must have been still half dazed, for I could not resist boasting. ‘I have learned a little, excellence.’

  I should have known better. Had I agreed with him, and simply lain back complaining of my head, I might have spent the next ten days recovering in comfort, with Andretha and Junio tending my every need. As it was, though, Marcus brightened.

  ‘I should have trusted you! What news, my friend?’

  I told him briefly, struggling to put the facts in order. ‘Four slaves, at least, were not at the procession. Paulus, the barber slave, confessed his absence himself.’ I didn’t tell Marcus about the Druid connection. Even in my stunned state I knew better than that. ‘Rufus, the lute player, was seen to leave. Andretha was missing too, if my guess is right. He did not tell us of the other absences, which he certainly would have done if he had known. Rufus confirms it. He thought Andretha had gone to an alehouse – which might well be true.’ If he had drunk the vilest brew in the taverna, I thought, his head could not ache more than mine did.

  ‘Where did the others go?’

  ‘I am not sure, yet. Rufus would have us think he went to meet the girl slave, Faustina.’

  ‘A lovers’ meeting?’

  I shook my head, and then wished I hadn’t. ‘I do not think so. Aulus saw him leave, and followed him, but Rufus hid in a wayside temple. Faustina is trying to shield her lover, and is agreeing that they met, but she does not know what to say. I don’t think they had time to arrange a story before Andretha summoned the boy to play the lute at the lament.’

  Marcus inclined his head. ‘He is there still. I have been talking to the chief musician. Rufus left once to change a broken lute-string, but apart from that none of the musicians has left the room. They are taking it in turns to play, and sleeping at the door.’

  Strange, when I came to think of it. I could not hear the dirge. I said so.

  Marcus smiled. ‘I ordered them to mourn more quietly. I feared their wailing might disturb you while you slept. I have no wish to lose you, and be forced to mourn in earnest.’

  He had paid me a compliment, and for a moment I basked in it. It was, after all, the only thing he was likely to pay me. But just for a moment. Marcus said suddenly, with the flourish of a schoolboy outguessing his master, ‘So, even if she did not meet her lover, Faustina was the fourth slave missing?’

  I said, ‘I doubt if she ever left the procession. She implied that she went to meet Rufus, but that was to protect him. I imagine the other slaves could tell us. No, the fourth missing slave was Aulus himself. By his own admission he left the others, and we only have his testimony for exactly what he did next.’

  Marcus was a little crestfallen. ‘You think, then, that this was an internal affair after all – Crassus was killed by someone from the villa?’

  I shrugged. ‘Others do not think so. Aulus believes those soldiers had a part in it. He may be right. Andretha insists that we must find Daedalus. He has a case, too. After all Daedalus was the last person from here to be seen with Crassus, and now he has disappeared.’

  ‘And if his freedom was refused,’ Marcus supplied, ‘he might have a motive. I have told the guards to watch for him, anyway. He will soon be found if he is in Glevum.’

  ‘Have them search, too, for this Regina, Crassus’ would-be wife. Ask in the nearby inns. Aulus thinks Daedalus has gone to her.’

  We were interrupted by Andretha, bearing wine, water, and a platter of luscious-looking fruits. Plums, apples, medlars all of a sweetness and ripeness that my humble purse could never have commanded. Marcus handed me the water, and took out his knife absently. Most Romans carry one, in case of dining out, since few houses provide knives for guests. I devoutly wished that I had brought my own. He waved Andretha out of the room again and began to peel a plum.

  ‘And?’ he prompted.

  ‘She – this promised wife – is an expert in poisons, and she has taught the slavegirl to be the same. Faustina and Rufus loathed Crassus. Faustina swears she did not kill her master, but does not say she did not touch him. She may have moved the body, for instance. Rufus did not touch him, but may have killed him all the same. They choose their denials with care.’

  Marcus speared a piece of peeled plum with his knife. ‘Perhaps, but you are forgetting one thing. When could they have done it? They may have missed the procession, but Crassus didn’t. He was leading his cohort.’

  I said, respectfully, ‘It occurs to me, excellence, that one man in armour and a mask looks very like another.’

  ‘You mean, it was not Crassus in the march?’

  ‘That is possible, yes.’

  He thought about that for a moment. ‘So the murder may have happened during the parade? While they were missing?’

  ‘That seems a likely explanation. It does not answer the question of how the body was brought back to the villa, or why, but it offers a beginning.’

  ‘Perhaps Crassus did not leave the villa at all.’

  ‘I thought of that. Aulus says he did. How reliable is Aulus? If one man can buy his services, perhaps another could, by offering a higher price.’

  Marcus cut another piece of plum. ‘There is no higher price. I hold his life. One word from me and the courts would have him.’

  ‘For picking up a purse that he happened upon? That’s not a crucifying offence, surely. One word from the quaestor would prove that he is innocent of the real theft?’ I was surprised. Marcus can be cruel, but he is not wanton.

  Marcus laughed. ‘Innocent? What makes you think he was innocent? The man who died – the one who stole the purse – that was his brother! How do you think that Aulus just “happened” to be there? He was waiting, at an arranged spot, to take the money and disappear while we chased fruitlessly after the thief. It had worked before. Only they reckoned this time without the quaestor’s sword. Aulus wasn’t innocent. He was guilty as Tantalus.’

  I felt rather foolish.

  ‘And another thing,’ Marcus went on. ‘Something you have overlooked in your calculations. You have done well, certainly, but there is one thing more. Someone else from the villa who was not at the procession.’

  I tried to follow his line of thought. ‘Ah, yes,’ I said, ‘Regina.’

  ‘Not her,’ he said impatiently. ‘A slave. A member of the household.’

  ‘Who, excellence?’

  ‘Why, Daedalus himself,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Your fugitive slave. You are quite right, we must find him. He is more likely than anyone to have killed Crassus.’

  If Andretha was listening at the door, as I suspected, he was doubtless smiling now.

  ‘It is essential to find him, excellence,’ I agreed. ‘And your sources are good.’

  That pleased him. ‘By the bye, I have not been idle since I saw you. I had enquiries made at the barracks. Those s
oldiers Aulus reported, they are not from Glevum. Everyone in the garrison was accounted for at curfew every day. Perhaps, though, if this is a household murder, it no longer matters.’

  ‘On the contrary, excellence,’ I said. ‘It must be significant. A Roman soldier, twice – at dusk, at a private villa, down a country lane? And Germanicus keeping it secret? It cannot be coincidence.’

  Marcus got up, preening. ‘Well, I must let you rest. I have arranged transport for you to the funeral, if you are well enough to come. I am having two litters sent from Glevum, and a dozen slaves to carry them. The will was formally opened and read in the forum this afternoon, incidentally. Everything to be sold and the money to Lucius, just as you said.’

  ‘No memorial games?’ I asked. Most wealthy men left a substantial sum to endow a gladiatorial contest, to ensure that the local populace remembered them with affection.

  Marcus laughed. ‘Crassus did not care for good opinion, if he wasn’t to profit by it. More to his taste to endow a church, and try to bribe his way into the hereafter. Now, is there anything you want?’

  ‘I would like to see Junio,’ I said. Marcus was looking so pleased with himself that I did not dare say what I truly wanted – a plum, if only he had left one! It would not do, either, to tell him that he was mistaken in his reasoning.

  If Germanicus was not among the marchers, then someone else was. And there was only one obvious candidate, one man who could pass himself off as his master with ease. I had suspected something since I saw those shaven legs. The dead man in the villa was not Daedalus, but the live one in the marching veterans was.

  So if Crassus was killed during the procession, Daedalus was the one man who could not possibly have killed him.

  All the same, like Andretha and Marcus – though for different reasons – I was very anxious to discover where Daedalus was now.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘And what,’ I said to Junio, who had come in with a grin as wide as the West Gate, ‘are you so pleased with yourself about?’

  He put down the beaker and the bundle he was carrying. ‘Well, master,’ he said, ‘since you are laid abed with a headache, I have been seeking information for you. And more than information. I have things to show you. But first, Faustina sent this for you to drink.’ He handed me the beaker.

  I looked at the evil-smelling green fluid with dismay. ‘It looks like pond water.’

  ‘It isn’t pond water,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘It is a decoction of herbs. To soothe the headache, she said, and clear the wits. It tastes like pond water, certainly, but it will do no harm. I can promise that.’

  I sipped it doubtfully. He was right. It did taste like pond water. Or at least – since I have never knowingly drunk pond water – it certainly tasted like pond water smells. I grimaced.

  ‘Let us hope it is as powerful as it tastes.’ I sipped again. Perhaps it was efficacious for the brain, because a thought struck me. ‘How do you know what it tastes like?’

  He didn’t have to answer, of course. It was self-evident. Someone in the villa was a murderer, and I had just been struck on the head.

  He said it anyway. ‘I couldn’t allow you to drink it without making sure.’ He grinned. ‘Where would I find another master to teach me pavement making?’

  He had tasted it for poison. While I was talking to Marcus, obviously. He knew it was a service I would never ask him to perform. It was hard to know how to thank him. He had done no more than what might have been his duty, but he had risked his life for me.

  ‘You young rascal,’ I growled. ‘What did you mean by that? Suppose it had been hemlock? Where should I find another servant with your impudence?’

  He smiled at me in perfect understanding. ‘In any case,’ he said, ‘it was not a great risk. I did not think Faustina would brew a poison and openly send it to you. You were in more danger, perhaps, from that fruit and wine.’

  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 t
he 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.’

  Chapter Eleven

  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.