I translated this, politely, although from the flush on the boy’s face I imagined that he understood more Latin than he spoke. The trappings of power, however, carried their privileges even in this remote spot. One of the small boys was dispatched to alert ‘Mother’, and we were ushered into the biggest roundhouse.
It was such a dear, familiar scene that it quite brought a lump to my throat. There was the central hearth, filling the room with smoke, warmth and the smell of cooking. There were the chickens, pecking at the earth floor, and a great dog lying beside the fire, as my own dog had once used to do. There were the females of the household; the weaving frame, and an old woman working at it, while a child spun thread at her feet. It was a scene from my childhood. Only the faces were different.
When we came in, a young girl in a plaid dress was raking hot stones from the fire and dropping them into a heavy pot where there was already water and a joint of meat. In an hour or two, I knew, the lamb would be gently cooked and deliciously tender. Another woman was lifting hot oatcakes from an iron griddle laid on the hearth, and the sweet smell of baking almost made my mouth water. She wrapped three of the small loaves in a cloth and turned to greet us.
‘If you are to visit the hermit,’ she said, in her own dialect, ‘take him some of these. I am worried about that man. We have hardly seen him since his brother’s death.’
‘Lucius healed your son?’ I said.
It was like unleashing a mudslide. I was instantly regaled with a dozen tales of Lucius’ holiness. How he had prayed over a sick cow. How he had fasted for a whole week when a member of the family had a fever. How for a long time he had not even permitted himself a proper bed or a servant. How he had given his own breakfast to a beggar.
The osier-cutter looked at me apologetically. ‘The citizen may see for himself, Mother.’
She thrust the oatcakes into his hands. ‘My son will show you the way. We speak little Latin here, and Lucius does not know our tongue.’
I explained this to my companion, and one of the children fetched him a low carved wooden stool. He looked uncomfortable and out of place, sitting there beside the hearth in smoky and disapproving state, while the youngsters peered at him around the doorpost, and the old woman nodded and smiled toothlessly. As I left, he was being plied with hot oatcakes and warm ale, both of which he was regarding with undisguised mistrust. I was glad to get outside to hide a smile.
What would he do, I wondered, if Lucius did refuse to come down and see him? From what I heard of Lucius, threats would not sway him, and if he had sworn an oath he would be immovable. Marcus would not be pleased if his messenger went back empty-handed. Perhaps Lucius did not care – Christians are said actively to welcome martyrdom. It was not a fate, however, that I was keen to experience myself. I would have to do something.
The youth led the way up the path at a speed which had me panting. ‘When we get there,’ he said, ‘I will go in and tell him you have come. He has buried himself in his cave since his brother died, and scarcely comes out.’ He looked at the packet of oatcakes. ‘I hope he will accept these, or my mother will blame me. You have seen what she is like about him. She worries that he is not eating, and is shutting himself off too much. I think this loss has grieved him more than you would believe. He hoped to save his brother’s soul, Mother says, and thought he had nearly done it.’
‘Nearly converted Crassus?’ I must have sounded as scornful as I felt.
‘She may have been mistaken. Her Latin is not good.’ He grinned. ‘Even worse than mine. She said his brother had promised to endow a church.’
‘And has done so,’ I said, ‘through his will.’
‘Well, perhaps she was right after all!’ he said. ‘Now, we are almost there. There is the cave, and there the barn. I will go in ahead. He has withdrawn from strangers more or less completely, though people still come to him to ask his prayers.’
I had never met Lucius, but of one thing I could be sure, I thought. If the reactions of these people were anything to go by, he was nothing at all like his brother.
Chapter Twenty
He was, in fact, remarkably like Crassus in many ways. I could see that even in the dim light of the cave. The same slightly protuberant grey eyes, the same stocky build, even the same bristling look – the head and face had been recently shorn but the thick grizzled hair and beard were already growing irrepressibly back. This was a humbler, quieter Crassus, not expensively togaed and bejewelled, but eclipsed in a coarse grey hood and robe, with the marks of penitential ashes still on his forehead. Where Crassus strutted and strode, this man’s movements were slow and considered; and his voice when he spoke was almost a whisper, unexpected after Germanicus’ booming roar.
It was a large cave, rather than the poky cell I had imagined. It was dark and shadowy in the light of two flickering candles, although it was surprisingly warm and dry. There was a crude stone altar at one end, on which one of the candles was burning. The nearer part of the cave was the living area, and someone – probably the woman – had done their best to make it comfortable. There was a rush mat on the floor, a straw mattress, a cupboard and a stool, and someone had provided a tiny brazier to lift the chill. There were evidences too, of Crassus’ gifts – a fine bowl with a few humble fruits in it, a Samian drinking vessel, a rich woollen blanket folded on the stone bench and a fine worked knife on the clumsy table. There, beside a feeble taper in a candleholder, a crust of bread, an end of cheese and a bunch of dandelion leaves and dried parsley suggested a frugal meal. I remembered what Paulus had said about Lucius loving food. The oatcakes, I thought, would be a welcome gift.
The boy put them down on the bench, picked up a leather pitcher and hurried off. ‘I will fetch water from the spring,’ he said, ‘and leave you to your business.’
‘Greetings upon you.’ The hermit had left the altar and was coming towards me, extending a hand in vague blessing. I could see why the woman was concerned for his health. The chi-rho ring which he wore hung loose upon the finger, although I noted a mark in the flesh which showed clearly where the tightness of the band had been. He was not a slim man now, far from it, but the rough garment hung awkwardly away from him in folds, making him look diminished, as sick men sometimes do, as if he had lost the will to fill out his own clothes. ‘You come from Marcus?’
I wondered fleetingly how he had known that, but I followed his glance and saw the view through the cave entrance down to the valley, where the imperial carriage still gleamed – small enough at this distance, but even more remarkable here than it had seemed at Glevum. This Lucius was not too unworldly to have sharp and observant eyes.
‘I do,’ I said, and was slightly discomfited to find that the penetrating gaze was now fixed on me.
He waved me to the stool. ‘You would like wine?’ he said, in that whispering voice of his. ‘Or water? I have little to give you. The boy comes here in the mornings: he fetches me food. Or there are these . . .’ He turned to the package on the bench, and opened it.
The smell of warm oatcakes was so delicious that I could not refuse, although I knew that these few loaves might well be all his meal. Christians, I reminded myself, were famous for their generosity, and I was representing Marcus – he would have considered it impolite to decline hospitality. Besides, they smelt wonderful.
I accepted.
He fetched water from a second pitcher, broke one of the loaves into pieces and laid the simple food on the table for us to share.
‘Now,’ he murmured, reclining himself on the mattress – there was nowhere else to sit, ‘you come from Marcus, you say?’ He picked up a piece of oatcake as he spoke, for all the world like a Roman magnate discussing deals at a banquet.
I explained the purpose of the visit, beginning with Marcus’ wish to buy the villa. I named the figure Marcus had authorised and saw a shrewd look cross the bearded face. ‘He makes a poor offer,’ he said. ‘The villa is worth twice as much. But I have no choice. One cannot refuse a powerful man
like Marcus. Tell him that I accept, provided that the sale is quick. Have him prepare a contract and I will seal it.’ He dipped his oatcake in water and smiled, a slightly tight smile. ‘I suppose it is useless to remind him that the money is to endow a church? He would prefer that it went to the games, no doubt, or to some Roman god?’
In fact, my patron probably had no strong views on that matter. Beyond a few propitiatory sacrifices and the obligatory public rituals, Marcus ignored the gods, and doubtless trusted that they would do the same for him. ‘He might give money to the games, perhaps,’ I said. ‘They are useful in buying popularity. Crassus did not leave money for memorial games.’
That disconcerting smile again. ‘When it concerned money, Crassus was no fool. For instance, he would have understood perfectly that Marcus was cheating me. But, as I say, I have no choice. Tell him that I accept his offer – for the villa. All the furniture and chattels come to me.’ I must have looked startled at his bargaining, because he smiled again. ‘I should get a good price for them. There is a table, for instance. It alone would pay for a fine building.’
I nodded. When it came to money, this man was no fool either.
‘Speaking of chattels,’ I said, ‘what about the slaves? Marcus promised that if one of them confessed, he would pardon the others. As a holy man, I imagine that will please you. Now that Rufus has confessed, do you wish the others sold?’
He looked horrified. ‘Rufus has confessed?’
‘Yes, the little lute player. You were once good to him, I believe.’
He had turned paler than ever. ‘Poor Rufus. Yes. But, Rufus confessed? You do surprise me. If it had been the gatekeeper, now! I always suspected that the man was up to no good.’ He seemed to take control of himself. ‘But yes, yes. Have the others sold. And Daedalus, I understand, is being sought as a runaway. Let him go. My brother was to free him anyway, after the festival. He may already have done so. There was some sort of wager, I believe. Crassus told me of it.’ He waved the hand again. ‘I do not approve of wagers, but my brother had given a promise. Daedalus shall have his freedom.’
‘Daedalus has been found,’ I told him. ‘He is dead.’
‘You have found him?’ Lucius looked grave. He said unsteadily, ‘Poor fellow, then his manumission cost him dear.’
‘There was no manumission,’ I said. ‘He had no certificate of freedom, and he still wore his neckchain, identifying him as Crassus’ slave. If he had been manumitted his first act would have been to remove that. Do you know what the wager was?’
‘Crassus did not tell me. He knew I disliked his gambling. In fact, it would be true to say that Crassus told me very little. We had – how shall I put it – grown apart.’ The grey eyes seemed secretly amused.
‘Then he did not tell you, either,’ I said, dropping my voice instinctively, ‘of any plots concerning the army? There are rumours that he was seen talking to a soldier, more than once, in secret and at dusk.’
‘He was?’ Lucius seemed genuinely alarmed. ‘That could be serious. Who saw him? Aulus, I suppose.’
‘Yes. There are rumours of a possible army rebellion, or even an imperial plot. That could be serious, certainly. Serious enough to cause your brother’s death, if he were involved and one of the rival factions found out. Marcus was sure that was the explanation, until Rufus confessed. You knew your brother. What do you think?’
He thought about that. ‘But surely Marcus is right? If Rufus has confessed, it was no military murder. No, Rufus should be executed and the others sold. That would be best.’ He must have sounded harsh, even in his own ears, because he smiled. ‘It saves innocent lives, besides.’
‘And if Rufus did not kill your brother? You yourself do not believe he did.’
He paused at that, and then said, ‘No, I don’t altogether believe it. But if he confessed, perhaps it is true. Rufus prided himself on truthfulness. And the boy is offering himself as a sacrifice. You cannot expect me to condemn that.’
‘He genuinely believes he had a hand in Crassus’ death,’ I said. ‘I think he went to a temple and put a curse on his master.’
That startled Lucius into momentary sharpness. ‘Did he? Perhaps then he brought this on himself. I do not hold with worshipping false gods, that is sin enough, but calling down curses is an evil business.’ He seemed to reflect and his face and tone softened. ‘Although his sacrifice is a fine gesture; I will offer prayers for him.’
‘And what about the chief slave, Andretha? I believe Crassus bequeathed him freedom too. Should he have it?’
Lucius gave me a shrewd smile. ‘Only if he can balance the accounts. Crassus suspected the man was cheating the estate.’
‘You might effect a pardon,’ I put in. ‘As the nearest relative – and a Christian.’
He looked at me. ‘You would condone his stealing?’
That was an awkward question. ‘I might show mercy,’ I ventured finally.
He smiled. ‘You answer well. You might show mercy. So indeed might I. I might for instance, save that little concubine of Rufus’ . . . what is her name?’
‘Faustina?’
‘Faustina, yes. I might spare her the slave market, find her a private owner who will treat her well. And I will not denounce that little Druid to the authorities. That will save his life, too. If Aulus has not denounced him already, that is. He would sell his own father for a handful of copper coins.’ He smiled. ‘Very well. Tell Marcus I agree to all his terms. The sale of the villa, and a pardon for the other slaves, since Rufus has confessed. And now, if there is nothing more that I can do for you, it is the hour of prayer.’ He dusted the crumbs from his fingers and rose to his feet.
I stood up too. ‘There is just one thing more,’ I hazarded. ‘This woman, Regina; did you know her well?’
He looked astonished. ‘Regina? Yes, I knew her slightly. What of her? She was my brother’s camp-follower when he was young. She claimed marriage with him.’
‘Yes. There was talk she had some kind of secret hold on him – something she knew about him. Do you know what it was?’
He shrugged, a dismissive gesture. ‘It might have been a hundred things. She was – persistent. Perhaps he did promise to wed her.’
‘Much more than that, I think. She was a herbalist. Crassus’ senior officer died unexpectedly. You do not think she helped her lover to promotion?’
There was a silence. Then he said, ‘You think she poisoned the centurion?’
‘Or gave the drug to Crassus to do so. Was he capable of that? Of committing treachery to serve himself?’
Lucius turned away. When he turned back, I saw that he was gripped by emotion. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Crassus is dead. I suppose it cannot hurt him now. But if I tell you – swear that you will tell no one else.’ He looked around wildly, as if seeking for something on which to seal the oath, and then offered me his ringed finger.
‘I am not a Christian,’ I demurred.
He rummaged in the cupboard and produced a figurine. ‘Then swear on this. It represents the emperor, among other things.’ He saw my surprised look, and hastened to explain. ‘One of Crassus’ gifts. He meant to mock me, but I could not throw it away, that would be blasphemy and treason too. And so I hide it here. But now, it has its use.’
I swore, on the emperor’s life. Poor old Commodus, I thought. Judging by the whispers of conspiracy, that life was not worth a great deal.
It seemed to satisfy Lucius, however.
‘Then,’ he said, ‘I will tell you the truth. I think that Crassus did poison his officer – tricked someone into putting a fatal dose into the centurion’s wine. It was a clever move. He had a dozen witnesses to swear that he himself was miles away gambling. He used to boast to me of that.’
‘Regina knew this?’
‘You would have to ask her that.’
‘That is what I wished to ask you. Do you know where she is?’
He looked at me, startled, for a long moment. Then he said, ‘You think she kill
ed my brother?’
My turn to shrug. ‘She had the means, and motive too. Killing an officer is a capital offence. If she provided the poison, she was a conspirator herself. Perhaps she even administered the fatal dose; a man will take a poisoned cup more trustingly from a woman’s hands. She risked her life for Crassus – and he rejected her. That would be hard to forgive.’
Lucius nodded. ‘I see. You may be right. Perhaps she came back and poisoned him. Crassus might arrange to meet her, secretly, if he thought to pay her off.’
‘There would have been food and wine, just like this,’ I said, biting into the soft flesh of an oatcake. It was as delicious as it smelt.
Lucius absently ate another. He was engrossed in his imaginings. ‘But Regina knew how to make a fatal infusion; she could slip it into his cup, and it would be easy to wash the containers in the stream and hide the traces afterwards.’ He was becoming animated as he spoke. ‘You must find her, Libertus. There is no time to lose. Proving this would reprieve young Rufus, too. Her home, though, is far away. Near Eboracum, where Crassus was serving when he met with her. Go now, take my message to Marcus, and find her, before it is too late. But there, your guide has come. I must to my prayers.’
I turned and saw the Dubonnai boy standing in the doorway, a pitcher of water in his hands, gazing at us with astonished eyes.
Chapter Twenty-one
‘Lucius was pleased to see you,’ the boy said, as we wound our way down the hill again. ‘I thought when you first arrived that he seemed unwilling to speak to you. But you have revived him. Since the feast of Mars he has turned away visitors, and “cloaked himself in prayer and solitude” as my mother says. And he had almost ceased to eat. There was a time that he was always out on the hills, picking berries and mushrooms or collecting eggs and herbs to eat, but since his brother’s death he seemed to have lost all interest in food. But there he was talking earnestly to you, and breaking bread with you besides. Our neighbours will be pleased to hear it, they have been wanting him to come and pray for their sick daughter. I told you how he saved my brother’s life?’
The Germanicus Mosaic Page 17
