The Germanicus Mosaic

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 the 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.’