The Germanicus Mosaic

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.

‘You can thank Faustina’s herbs,’ I said, as cheerfully as I could manage. ‘I think they are working.’ There was some truth in that. I was feeling better. Groggy, but better. ‘Anyway, Marcus expects me to attend this funeral; I should like to practise walking and standing a little first. A little fresh air perhaps? A short stroll up to the nymphaeum?’ I did not mention my previous venture in that direction, or the mysterious footsteps which had followed me. Junio would have deduced that the footsteps belonged to my attacker and, fearing another attack, prevented me from going — or rather (since he was a servant and couldn’t personally prevent me from doing anything) he would have told Marcus, which came to the same thing.

So I kept my counsel and went to the water temple, glad of the fresh air against my face. Junio accompanied me, grumbling all the while.

‘If you should fall, now, what would become of you? And what would Marcus say if he heard that I’d brought you out here and you collapsed? He’d have me whipped.’

‘I shall have you whipped myself,’ I growled, ‘if you don’t stop jabbering. Look down there and tell me what you see.’ I felt feeble enough, without his dwelling on it.

We had reached the nymphaeum by this time, a small semi-circular temple on pillars, enclosing a clear pool. The back wall was of natural stone, and from its base the water bubbled up, fresh from the spring, under the gaze of a slightly ferocious stone deity on a plinth. Beside the statue I could see the funeral niche, ready prepared, with room inside it for the urn and the feeding amphora — though putting food and drink into that on the anniversary of death was likely to be a damp business, given the position of the spring. There was also a space, I noticed, for a large carved stone over the niche. No doubt Crassus had left instructions for the inscription.

‘I can see the little side gate, and the lane,’ Junio said, making me jump. I had forgotten asking the question. ‘And the villa — at least, the back and side of it. There is nobody there, only the slaves — eight, nine, ten of them.’

‘What are they doing?’

‘The usual things — fetching wood, sweeping the court, two of them tending the gardens, a couple of kitchen slaves with a chicken, someone coming this way with a jug, Andretha looking important. . you can see all this for yourself; why do you ask?’

‘I was thinking,’ I said. ‘The path which leads up here is invisible from the house. I noticed that yesterday. That is interesting. It is difficult for a man — especially a rich man — to be alone and unobserved in a villa. Nobody there, you said — and yet there are ten of them.’

‘Eleven now,’ he said. ‘There is Paulus, at last.’

‘Then you can help me back to the house,’ I said, ‘and go and fetch him to me.’ I would be glad, in fact, to sit down again. Faustina’s herbs were good, but they were not magical. And I had seen all I wanted to see. I had examined the path carefully coming up, and I did the same going down, but there was no hint of my pursuer of the day before: no tell-tale little pieces of cloth or unexplained footprints. I didn’t really expect there to be. Slaves must have been coming and going for water all day. The lad with the ewer, for instance, arrived again as we were leaving.

It took me longer than I expected to get back to the villa, even on Junio’s arm, and I tried to divert his attention from my difficulties by telling him everything I had learned about the household. Then when, at last, I was lying back on my cushions again, he went off to find Paulus. He was back in a trice.

‘I found him just outside the door, master,’ Junio said, ushering in the barber. ‘He says Andretha posted him there, ready to serve you.’

‘You were not there a little while ago,’ I said, though I remembered that at other times Paulus seemed to make a habit of being close outside my door.

Paulus smiled weakly. ‘I have just come from the lament, citizen. Andretha arranged a roster. It was my turn to wail.’ Ironic, I thought, to be obliged to mourn a man that you hated. ‘When I had finished, I was to wait outside your room again in case you wanted anything. Of course you have your own slave now, but those were my orders.’

‘Very well,’ I said, feeling very clever and devious. ‘I do want something. Marcus wants me to attend this funeral this evening, and I have not trimmed my hair or had a shave for two days. I am in danger of looking like Hadrian.’ That wily old emperor had sported a beard, and set a brief fashion, years ago. ‘You are a barber. You can do it for me.’

Junio shot me an astonished glance. I do occasionally visit a barber shop in Glevum — it is almost as good as the public baths for hearing the town’s gossip — but on the whole I prefer to avoid their nose-hair tweezers and their bear-fat-and-ashes treatments for thinning hair. A simple piece of Roman pumice and a dab of oil suffices me, or for special occasions, a painful scrape with a sharpened blade from Junio himself.

He had enough wit, however, to say nothing.

I watched Paulus carefully. Would he betray anxiety? Make excuses? Go and rummage for the knife?

For a moment it seemed promising. Paulus clearly was both flattered and terrified. ‘Yes, citizen. At once. I need only to collect my tools. .’

I produced my masterstroke. ‘Go with him, Junio. Help him to carry them.’

Junio nodded. I did not need to tell him what I wanted — someone to watch Paulus.

The barber looked startled. ‘I have a carrying-tray, citizen. There is no need. .’

‘All the same,’ I said. ‘I would prefer that he went with you.’ I was improvising wildly. ‘Someone hit me on the head yesterday, close to your bed. If Junio looks carefully he may discover something which will tell us who or why.’

‘Citizen, there will be nothing there. I can promise that. The sleeping spaces are cleaned and swept daily. Andretha insists on it. Truly, there is nothing to be found. In any case, Junio has examined the place already. I found him there earlier.’

‘I will come with you anyway,’ Junio put in quickly. ‘I can tell you which oils my master prefers — and I have this drinking-cup to return to Faustina. But I will see that Marcus leaves a guard posted outside this door this time. The citizen keeps ordering me away but he does not require another blow on the head.’

Faustina’s brew, I thought, had improved my head — but not enough. I should have thought of that danger myself. I should have thought of others, too. Was it safe, for instance, to let Junio go to the slave quarters with Paulus?

It was too late now. The two young slaves had gone.

Now I did come to think of it, I felt in no real danger myself, especially with one of Marcus’ guards at the door. That blow on the head had been hard, deliberately hard, but it had not been meant to kill. Surely a killer would have struck again? I had been helpless. A second blow could have finished me, but it was never given.

Suppose the attacker had intended to strike again, but was prevented? Because he was surprised in the act, perhaps? Or because spending too long at that time and place would have betrayed him? Andretha was outside, supervising the loading of the logs. He would have noticed anyone coming to the building.

Who had hit me? Aulus had ‘found me’ lying there. Was that because he himself had laid me low? A sharp tap with that cudgel would be an effective sleeping draught. Or Rufus? Marcus had mentioned, now I came to consider it, that Rufus had left the mourners to restring his lute. Had he found a handy weapon somewhere and seized the moment? Or wasn’t it a ‘he’ at all? If my attacker was a woman that might explain why the blow had not been mortal.

Or was it never intended to do more than stun? To prevent me searching? I did not know. My addled brain refused to reason clearly. I could only wait on events. I was very interested in what Paulus, for instance, would do now.

And then, of course, the obvious occurred to me. Of course Paulus would not hunt for the novacula. It made no sense. Why should a barber hide a razor in his bedding, when all he had to do was place it on his tray, where it would excite no interest whatever? He might have hidden it, certainly, if it were bloodstained and he had no time to clean it — but Paulus had prepared a tray of toilet accessories for me only yesterday, and the blood on the handle was older than that. It would have been simplicity itself to clean the knife. Besides, I was found face downwards on his bed, obviously I had been searching his bedding. Anyone might wonder what I was looking for — as Junio had. A man with a guilty secret would not leave it there.

I took out the novacula from inside my tunic, where I had hidden it during the walk, and unwrapped it carefully. It was a wicked blade. Paulus had not hidden it, I was sure of that, but had he used it? That was a different question. I folded it back into its leather covering, and placed it carefully among my cushions. Just in time.

The two servants came hurrying in. Paulus had his carrying-tray, which he set down, and he began spreading out his tools with an air of professionally preoccupied detachment. Junio caught my eye and shook his head slightly. No, he meant, the other man had not looked for the shaving knife. It didn’t surprise me, now.

Paulus seemed timidly eager to oblige, busily polishing and laying out his scissors, phials and ear-scoops. I could see a knife, too, very like the bloodstained one that was already lying under my pillow. I thought of the cuts on the lifeless legs and shuddered.

‘Before you begin,’ I said, ‘I should like to see what you have there.’

He looked surprised, but showed me the tools of his trade readily enough. Combs and rough scissors. Strigils and pumice stones. Tweezers to pluck the hairs and oil to soften them. Powdered antimony to colour the eyebrows. Oil and earthworm ashes to combat greyness. Some sort of greyish powder in a pottery phial, and a sinister bottle of spiders’ webs and vinegar — both preparations which were excellent for staunching bleeding, he informed me reassuringly. And, last of all, the shaving knife.

‘A novacula,’ I said. ‘Let me see.’

He handed it over, unwillingly.

I examined the edge. ‘This knife is blunt,’ I said. ‘It would pull the beard savagely. No wonder your master beat you.’

‘There is another,’ he said, apologetically. ‘Much sharper than this, and new. I have not had it above two moons, and Crassus had it fresh-honed since then. It is almost too sharp; when my hand shook the day before the festival, I cut him badly with it. But I cannot find it now. I could not find it yesterday, when I came to serve you. I had to bring this one. I hoped you would not ask.’ He was almost trembling. I realised he was half-expecting a blow.

I had a blow for him, but not of that kind. I slipped my hand under the cushion. ‘Is this it?’

I was waiting for his reaction. I was expecting something — fear, suspicion, anxiety. What I had not been prepared for was his evident relief.

‘Where did you find it? Be careful how you hold it, it is very sharp. That is why I always keep it wrapped, so.’ He was startled into candour. He even put out his hand for the package, and then he stopped doubtfully. ‘This has been wet,’ he said. He sounded puzzled. ‘It should be dried or it will spoil the blade.’ He seemed to recollect himself. ‘Your pardon, citizen. I was amazed. Where did you get it from?’

‘Where did you leave it?’

His pale face flushed. ‘Where I should leave it, citizen? With my equipment, in my sleeping space. I have a cupboard there. It was there, the morning of the feast of Mars. I was prepared to shave Crassus but he did not call me.’

‘Were you surprised?’

‘I was relieved. I had shaved him only the night before, for a banquet he attended, and had earned myself a beating for it. He was in a hurry that morning — and he had the mask, I suppose.’

And, if his place was taken by Daedalus, the shave did not matter, I thought.

‘The knife was there that morning,’ Paulus went on, anxiously. ‘I could swear to it. Before a priest if need be.’

A Druid priest. That was no idle boast. I said, ‘But you did not use the knife?’

‘Not then.’

‘Someone did. Open it and see.’

He did so and, seeing the blade, almost dropped it in horror. ‘Dear gods! Was Crassus stabbed with this? We shall all be executed!’ There had been no fear before, only anxiety, but he was terrified now.

‘Germanicus was not stabbed, that I could see,’ I said. ‘But this was used for something. Look at the blade and tell me what you learn.’

He looked at it gingerly. ‘Yes, it has been used. Used badly, see the edge? A novacula needs an expert hand. And the blade has not been properly cleaned — just roughly rinsed and not dried. Only a fool would put the knife away without cleaning it. See, it will rust. And the blood on the handle — ugh! What was it used for? There must have been a scalp wound to have bled so much.’

‘A scalp wound, possibly,’ I agreed, ‘or perhaps a deep wound — to the neck for instance. If someone was trying to sever the head, perhaps?’

‘With a novacula? Impossible! A determined man might cut through the neck of a child, or a feeble woman, if he used great force. But a strong man who resisted, never! Not to sever the head.’

‘You know that, Paulus? How can you be so sure?’

He had answered as an expert, thinking only of the blade, but suddenly he understood the implications of his answer. He gulped but said nothing, and I went on, conversationally, ‘There have been rumours — I cannot swear to the truth of them — that Druid circles still sever human heads occasionally, to hang them in their sacred groves and use the blood for sacrifice.’

Paulus was turning whiter and whiter. ‘Crassus’ head was not severed,’ he managed at last. ‘And as for the rumours, I do not believe them. Those groves are dreadful, but they are not Druid — as I understand the matter, that is. I do not know personally, of course.’

‘Of course.’ He was right about one thing. The groves were dreadful. I have seen one myself, an evil, silent thicket of a place, the trees smeared with dried blood and with half-rotted human skulls grinning from the branches. It was a place to haunt your nightmares, so horrible that the very birds refused to sing there. Furthermore, although the place was ‘disused’ according to the law, the blood in that grove had been newly spilt.

Paulus — so I guessed from his words and the greyish pallor of his skin — had also seen such a grove.

‘So, you did not cut your master’s throat with this? Or anything else?’

‘You would not ask that, citizen, if you had seen Crassus shaved. He was a big man, strong. The first hint of trouble and he would knock me senseless. Besides, how could I cut him when he was not here?’ Paulus was earnest with terror.

‘You could have cut him later,’ Junio put in, ‘when he was already dead. To take his blood for one of your rituals — to curse him, perhaps.’

I looked at Junio sharply That was an interesting thought.

‘If he was dead he would not bleed,’ Paulus said simply, although there was a catch in his voice. I noticed that he did not deny the rituals, this time.

‘How do you know that, Paulus?’ I said. ‘Do you often cut the dead?’

He was shaking now, but he tried to answer with dignity. ‘No. But I did shave a corpse once, when Regina was here. It was her custos — her travelling companion. He died suddenly, of a fever, just before she left. He was only a slave, but Regina had him shaved and cleansed, and buried with a coin in his mouth and a flask of wine at his feet. Rufus and Daedalus helped me — we did not dare tell Crassus.’ He sniffed, trying to disguise the tears.

‘About the death?’ I was deliberately gentle.

He looked at me gratefully. ‘About the funeral. He would have been furious at the expense. Though Regina swore he gave permission for it.’ He gave me a watery smile. ‘Perhaps he did. He was afraid of her — you heard he had Daedalus acting as food taster? He would not have crossed her openly. But he did not attend the burial.’

I smiled encouragement. ‘Which was where?’

‘Out in the top field, where the pyre will be tonight. That’s where Crassus buried all his slaves — though not usually with such ceremony.’

I could believe that. Wrap them up as they were and drop them in a hole, that was Crassus’ style.

‘I thought that pit was where I would end, more than once,’ Paulus went on. ‘Now, I suppose, Lucius will have me sold. He has a beard, like most hermits, so he won’t want a barber himself.’ He took a visible grip on himself. ‘But you, citizen, you wish to have a shave?’

I shook my head, smiling. ‘With a blunt novacula? No thanks. And I would prefer, I think, not to be shaved with that other one either.’

‘I could wash it, citizen. It could be washed spotless, given a little time. Even the handle, although the blade is sharp. And you need not fear bleeding — there’s a snakeweed powder here Regina gave me. Even Crassus could not complain of that. Or I could pluck your chin. I have good tweezers and an ointment here to loosen the beard. Bats’ blood and hedgehog ashes. It is very effective.’

I imagined this procedure, and winced. Enduring such things uncomplaining was a mark of manhood in the barber’s shop, but it was doubtless different in private. Small wonder Crassus sometimes struck him — Germanicus was not a long-suffering man. ‘No,’ I said, ‘you can use your scissors, and then Junio can wield his pumice. I have no wish to attend the funeral looking like a plucked pigeon. Besides, I think that Marcus should see that knife.’

Paulus said nothing for a long time, although his hand trembled on the scissors as he worked. At last he said, ‘Citizen, that knife. When Marcus sees it covered with blood, he will jump to judgement. It was my knife and my master is dead. He will have me locked up and flogged, if not thrown to the beasts. Speak for me, citizen, I beg of you. You know I did not have that razor in my possession.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I can speak for you. Crassus was not murdered with a knife. I am sure of that.’

‘So, you will tell him that blade had nothing to do with it?’

‘I did not say that. A bloodstained knife is not an accident. But my opinion should spare you execution and a flogging at least. As to locking you up, however, Marcus may still do that if he hears where Junio found the knife.’

‘And where was that?’ He sounded wary.

‘In your bedding, Paulus.’

It was my own fault. I knew that he was unaware of that fact. I should have waited till he had finished my haircut, but I could not resist the dramatic gesture. He let out a cry and his scissors faltered. I was obliged to attend the funeral feast with one section of my fringe cut peculiarly short.