I laughed, a drunken little giggle, and tapped the side of my nose. I felt rather an idiot, but it seemed to be having the desired effect. ‘A very clever rogue. Gets to be . . . shenturion . . . and make slots of money.’ I shook my head. ‘A lucky, lucky man.’ I put down the cup and clutched at the table. ‘ ’S hot in here.’
The hermit was watching me carefully, crumbling bread in his turn. He said nothing.
‘Then, suddenly, a dreadful thing occurs.’ I was acting the story now. ‘The brother converts to Christianity, and the sin of all those years ago rises to haunt him. He has killed a man. He wants to make amends.’ I made a face which began as anguished contrition, and ended as a sort of vacuous smile. ‘He gives the woman directions to the villa. Oh yes—’ I raised my hand, like an orator on the forum steps, ‘He knew where she was living – in Eboracum. You told me so yourself. She must have learned recently where the villa was – her appearance is too great a coincidence otherwise.’
The wine was beginning to affect me now. I must not drink much more of it. I stretched out a hand as if to lift the goblet, but contrived to knock the heavy vessel to the floor.
My companion retrieved it, while I picked up the plate of bread and herbs and began to eat.
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘You interest me . . . a great deal.’ His own voice was unsteady now.
‘She comes,’ I said, waving my hand like a drunken poet reciting at a banquet, ‘poor stupid woman, older and plainer than ever, desperate because her father has died and she is faced with beggary. She threatens to tell her story if Crassus does not marry her. He agrees to have her in the villa. But she gets too friendly with the slaves. She might tell somebody his secret.’ I rolled my eyes dramatically. ‘She must be disposed of. He kills her custos, has her dismiss her maid, and promises to marry her. He sends her away, with money, supposedly to purify herself and prepare for the wedding. Then, on the appointed night, she comes. There is no dowry, so she needs no witnesses. She is dressed as a bride and thinking to fulfil her vows – and instead . . .’ I drew an imaginary novacula around my throat. ‘In the roundhouse, I think. There is a bloodstain there.’
The hermit shook his head mournfully.
‘In the meantime he has prepared a grave. His brother is coming, so he buys half a dozen manuscripts – he did not even care what they were – and arranges for some poor fool of a pavement maker to lay a mosaic over the floor.’
He was nodding, stupidly. ‘And no one knew?’ It sounded like ‘noanoooo’. He was not feigning, I thought with satisfaction.
‘Aulus saw him in the lane with the body in his arms, but our man was cunning. He pretended to be kissing her, and then smuggled the corpse into the villa while Aulus went to open the gate to come out and spy. Aulus, of course, thought it was Daedalus again. Crassus had sent the slave out with presents for her before, and Aulus had seen him.’
‘Foolish Aulus,’ the hermit said, staggering to the wine jug to refill my goblet. ‘So, the killer was safe.’
‘Safe enough,’ I said. ‘Until his brother comes. He is a changed man. Doubtless he asks about Regina, and will not be fobbed off with excuses. He is cleverer than I am; he guesses the secret of the pavement. He knows what Crassus is capable of.’ I wagged a finger at him. ‘Germanicus is a clever and devious man – we know he chose his punishments with care. Whatever hurt the victim most. A man who does that has intelligence.’ I looked at him. I was slurring my words, but my brain was clear. ‘Cruel, but intelligent. You knew that.’
He laughed uproariously. ‘Crassus was not the fool that people thought him.’ He stopped, suddenly sober, and eyed me thoughtfully.
‘And doubtless his brother shared his cleverness. He tried to persuade Crassus to confess. Worse – he warned him that he proposed to confess himself. He wanted to found a church. Crassus tried to buy him off, with gifts and the promise of inheritance, but to no avail.’
‘So?’
I cast a swift glance in the direction of the valley. The sun should be safely above the tree branch by now. ‘So.’ I drained my wine dramatically, and rose to my feet. I was genuinely swaying slightly, but I managed to speak coherently. ‘You did it, didn’t you? You agreed to meet your brother during the procession, while Daedalus impersonated his master in the march. Perhaps Crassus even promised to convert. He had poisoned the wine he offered. You are no fool. It is an elementary precaution to exchange goblets, when you drink with a known poisoner.’ I lifted my empty goblet. ‘As I exchanged my goblet with yours a little while ago.’
He said nothing, but a little smile played around his lips.
‘When he died you arranged his body in the hypocaust and came back here, as quickly as you could. You had the mule, of course. It is a pity you tried to implicate Paulus, putting the novacula under his bedding and that bloodstained statue in the lararium. He panicked, of course, and hid the head, so it took a little longer than you expected for suspicion to fall.’ I was wavering dangerously, and I clutched at the table for support.
He stood up himself, almost as giddy as I was. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘that was foolish. But I swear I did not knowingly kill Crassus.’
This was my big moment. It was a pity that my heart was thumping so painfully and my head swam.
‘Of course you didn’t,’ I said, with the careful deliberation of the drunken. ‘Crassus is still alive. But you killed your brother. You killed Lucius.’
I just had time to utter the words before I pitched forward and tumbled onto the floor.
Chapter Twenty-six
Just in time.
The pretended hermit lunged at me savagely. He had given up all pretence, and he did not even raise his hand as his hood fell back, exposing that unmistakable bull neck and the tell-tale scars on his cheekbones – visible even under the new beard – where Paulus had trembled in his shaving.
I had little time, however, to think of anything so mundane. He had turned around, seized the stool on which I had been sitting, and was now whirling it around his head with the evident intention of bringing it down on mine, and bashing my brains out.
This had not been part of my plan. I had intended to feign the early symptoms of aconite poisoning which I had learned of from Faustina: thirst, headache, giddiness, stomach pain. He would give me time to die, I reasoned, before running off, pretending to seek for help. A poisoning he could explain; doubtless he would pretend to be ill himself and blame Paulus for bringing poisoned wine. He would hardly finish me off violently, and leave tell-tale wounds, with Marcus and his soldiers waiting in the valley.
I had misjudged my man.
He brought the stool down with a crash that reverberated through the cave, and which would undoubtedly have seen me laying mosaics for Pluto if I had not managed to roll under the table. The stool, mercifully, snapped into several pieces.
It hardly slowed him, however. A moment later he was attempting to perform a similar trick with the table. If he managed to lift that there would be no escape.
I had to do something, fast. I clutched at the table leg. I considered crawling up it, moaning and twitching as if in the final throes, but I doubted that would be very convincing. I had taken an enormous risk, as it was. I am no thespian at the best of times, and I was in the company of a man who had learned his acting from Daedalus – one of the greatest mimics in the empire.
It is not easy, either, to imitate the symptoms of poison convincingly to a man who has watched at least one victim actually die of it. And I had done the easy part; according to Faustina the next step was vomiting and haemorrhage, and that was going to be much more difficult to manage.
I saw Germanicus pick up the knife. Soon I might not even have to pretend, I thought. If Marcus did not arrive soon, I was going to expire in good earnest.
I twisted round the table leg and tried to leap past him and run away – not very honourable, but I could see no alternative. A trained centurion with a knife is more than a match for me, especially with several goblets of w
ine inside me. It may have been the wine, indeed, that did it. I misjudged the distance, and leapt up, rapping my head sharply on the table edge. I let out a roar and fell back, holding my head.
I lay there trembling, waiting for the knife.
It did not fall. I suppose a man sees what he expects to see, and my abrupt collapse looked like the effects of poison. I was aware of him standing over me for one breath-stopping moment, and a finger lifted my eyelid.
I let my eyes roll back into my head – I was so faint with fear I do not think I could have prevented them!
‘Not long now,’ Crassus grunted. The disguising whisper was gone, and it was his own voice now. ‘You thought you were so clever, pavement maker, changing the goblets. A pity you did not change the platters too!’ Then, sharply, ‘What’s that?’
I knew what it was. Footsteps at the door. Marcus at last, and not a moment too soon. I heard the knife clatter to the floor.
‘Must keep them away. Too much wine,’ Crassus muttered, indistinctly, and I heard him as he went outside, calling, ‘Help! Help up here! A terrible misfortune has befallen Libertus. We need a litter, quickly.’
‘What is it?’ Marcus’ voice at the entrance, sharp with concern.
‘Someone has sent me poisoned wine.’ The ecclesiastical whisper was back. ‘Do not go in there, excellence. There may be vapours in the air. I have made him as comfortable as I dare. But fetch a litter, quick. I will come with you.’
He was playing for time, of course, waiting for the poison to take effect. I opened one eye gingerly. I could see him, hurrying down to the valley with Marcus, pulling his hood back over his head, and already the very personification of a hermit. ‘He did a merciless and deadly accurate imitation of Lucius,’ someone had said. It was true. At least, I thought, this little piece of acting vindicated mine. I would have looked particularly stupid if I had been wrong, and the meal he had prepared for me had been innocent. There is nothing likely to make a man feel more foolish than pretending to be poisoned by an innocuous plateful of bread and herbs.
I presumed it was the herbs. I had taken the precaution of exchanging our goblets while he signed the tablet, just in case it was the wine, but I had let him know that I had done that. ‘It is an elementary precaution to exchange glasses when one is drinking with a poisoner.’ It had not prevented him from draining his cup.
He had been very anxious, however, to give me the meal that was prepared for Paulus. The boy, obviously, had posed a threat to him. No doubt, like Daedalus, he had served his master in the bathhouse and would soon have seen through the disguise. So Germanicus had prepared a deadly meal for him, and then given it to me, and watched like a hawk as I pretended to eat it. I had been obliged to ask for water in order to distract him long enough to exchange the plates, and then to knock the beaker flying – I dared not risk a drink he did not share.
I carefully collected up the few fragments of leaf which still lay upon his plate and wrapped them in the square of cloth in which the woman had sent the loaf. I was careful not actually to touch them; according to Faustina the poison can be absorbed through the skin.
They did look like parsley leaves. Mentally I blessed that blow on the head I had received at the villa. It had saved my life. If it had not been for my conversation with Faustina then, I should undoubtedly have eaten those leaves unsuspectingly. Aconite or hemlock, I was sure. The herbs which had leaves very like parsley. There was no way of testing the fragments here, but if it was absolutely essential, Marcus would order that they be given to condemned criminals. That would prove that the herbs were poisonous.
However, I hoped that the matter would soon be proved by more immediate means. Crassus was a bigger man than I was, and strong, but he had eaten his meal greedily. I hoped he had provided himself with a sufficient dose.
He had.
It was Junio who came bursting up to find me, breathless and wide-eyed. I was searching through the chest-cupboard and cave when he arrived, collecting together the treasure which was hidden there.
‘Master!’ Junio blurted breathlessly. ‘You are unharmed! Thanks be to Jupiter. They said you were ill. Marcus is sending a stretcher party. Something has happened to Lucius. I was afraid . . .’ He broke off, goggling at the array of gold and silver, precious oils and gems, fine dishes and expensive ornaments which I had piled up upon the bed. ‘What in the name of Mercury is that?’
‘The treasure of Crassus Flavius Germanicus,’ I said. ‘The treasure for which he lived and died.’ I was aware that I sounded like a candidate for some schoolboy oratory competition, but I felt that the occasion warranted a little dramatic rhetoric.
Junio was duly impressed. ‘Great Olympus!’ he exclaimed. ‘I knew Crassus had been generous to his brother, but this is astonishing. No wonder Lucius required the mule to carry it all home.’ He looked sober. ‘Poor man, his legacy will do him little good, I fear.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Oh?’
‘He staggered down the hill, saying you were ill,’ Junio said. ‘Said you had been drinking poisoned wine that Paulus brought from the villa.’ He looked at me. ‘It is as well you do not care for Roman wine, or it would have killed you too. Lucius is dead.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘His brother murdered him – as he murdered everyone else who stood in his way. Murdered him, and then subjected him to the ultimate betrayal anyone could inflict on a sincere Christian convert. He had his body burned and his ashes buried in a pagan funeral.’
‘But . . .’ Junio began. ‘I don’t understand. His body is being taken into the roundhouse now.’
‘That is not Lucius. It is Germanicus. He was disguised under the cowl and the beard, and that was good enough when no one knew him well, especially in the dim light of the cave. But I have no doubt Paulus would have recognised him soon.’ I looked at Junio’s astonished face and laughed. ‘I know. I only lately worked it out myself. I almost left it too late—’
I broke off as two soldiers stumbled in, bearing an improvised litter of boards and cloth. They goggled as they saw me.
‘I shan’t be needing that,’ I said, ‘but you could carry some of this down the hill.’ I picked up two silver figurines and led the way out of the building and down the path, leaving them staring after me open-mouthed.
They had taken the body into the roundhouse, and the whole family was gathered around, white-faced. The woman was openly weeping. The carved stool had been set by the fire for Marcus, but he was not sitting on it, he was pacing the uneven floor, a striking sight in his patrician toga and scarlet cape, but looking anxious and discomfited. There was no sign of Paulus and the rest of the soldiers.
Marcus came bounding over when he saw me. ‘Old friend. You are recovered!’ His evident relief was flattering. ‘The hermit is dead, poor fellow.’ He looked at the figurines in my hand. ‘But how . . .?’
‘It is a long story,’ I said. ‘I was not ill, only stunned. I will explain later. Let us first deal with matters here.’ I walked over to look more closely at the dead man. The hood had fallen back from his head again. I looked at the tell-tale scar on the cheek – I should have noticed it earlier. I turned to the woman. ‘You have seen that scar before?’
She shook her head tearfully. ‘No, until the feast of Mars I had never seen him shaven. He only cut his hair and beard as a sign of mourning for his brother.’ She looked at me helplessly. ‘Will you speak for us, kinsman? You have influence with this Roman. Must you take the body away for funeral? He told me once he longed to be buried here – a simple burial with Christian prayers. In an unknown spot, he said, with no memorial. God would know where he lay and he did not wish the place to become a shrine, which it might do otherwise. He has brought down many blessings to this place. He was good to my son. I should like to do this for him.’
I translated this to Marcus, who frowned doubtfully. ‘What do you think?’
‘It seems to me,’ I said, ‘that it would be, in many ways, peculiarly apt. No, not a word.’ That
was to Junio, who had just come in, his arms full of treasure. He had the missing ring-key on his thumb and seemed about to say something. I said, ‘I will explain it all to Marcus presently.’
Marcus looked at the armsful of golden artefacts. ‘Should we . . .?’
‘Bury them with him? I don’t think we should. You have heard what he told this woman. A simple funeral. Besides,’ I went on in rapid colloquial Latin, in case the young man from the house should be trying to understand, ‘these items came from Crassus. Are you not the named substitute heir, since Lucius cannot inherit?’
Marcus looked at the priceless figurines, at the dead man on the bed and back to me again. ‘Sometimes, old friend, I am grateful for your advice. Of course, as a representative of the governor, I do not wish to upset these good people by depriving them of their dead friend. It shall be as you suggest. Meanwhile Lucius’ possessions shall be returned to the villa.’
‘There is a great deal more of it,’ I said. ‘Perhaps the soldiers could help to fetch it down.’
‘They are outside guarding Paulus,’ Marcus said. ‘I suppose they can be spared since he is tied to the gig. I was going to have him dragged back to Glevum at our wheels.’ He led the way to the door.
‘I think it would be better to release him, excellence,’ I said in an urgent undertone, as I followed him. ‘Paulus had no hand in this, or in any of the other deaths.’
Marcus looked at me sharply. ‘Who then?’
‘I think discretion is called for,’ I went on, pressing my advantage. ‘There is a soldier involved.’
Marcus nodded slowly. ‘I see. Well, what am I to do with the prisoner? We cannot take him in the gig with us.’
‘If I might suggest it, excellence, Lucius had a mule. Let Paulus ride on that. You could ask the household to provide another, to carry the treasure. Or an ox cart would be even better. Then one of your cavalrymen could escort everything back to Glevum under guard.’ We were out of earshot of the others now and I added quietly, ‘And you could get your soldiers to bring down the rest of the wine – I believe it is a fine vintage and there is nothing the matter with it. But tell them to be very careful not to touch anything wrapped in the blue cloth. I would prefer the Dubonnai household not to know this, but it contains the herbs he managed to kill himself with.’
The Germanicus Mosaic Page 21
