The Germanicus Mosaic

Chapter Eighteen

Marcus was waiting impatiently. He was not, in any case, in the sweetest of moods by this time. All efforts to find Paulus had failed, and he had been obliged to submit to the attentions of a less experienced slave. The experience had not improved his temper. Nor his beauty, I was bound to admit.

‘Very well, Libertus. Now that you have condescended to come, perhaps we can get back to Glevum.’

Under the circumstances it did not seem an auspicious moment to argue. I had only wanted to return to Glevum to search for Daedalus, but when Marcus motioned me into the gig with him I obeyed, even though it meant leaving Junio to follow us on foot, and prevented me from any closer examination of Daedalus’ body.

It had been stripped by now and was being thrown onto a cart for disposal in the communal grave on the hill. Since he was a dead slave, and not a runaway, he would be accorded a household funeral. There would, with luck, be a cursory prayer mumbled over him, a piece of coarse bread and a little water stuffed down the pipe which ‘fed’ the souls, and a solitary as coin in his mouth, as he was tumbled in on top of the other rotting bones exposed by the digging. The passing of an unregarded slave is different from his master’s.

The armour, however, was travelling with us in the gig. It rattled and lurched alarmingly at every bump but I was able to confirm two things I had suspected. First, there were several segments of the scale-armour missing. That solved the problem of the piece I had found in the roundhouse. Secondly, the pattern of the whole was, as near as I could recall it, exactly like that which Andretha had taken from the body before the funeral. I wished that I had taken the opportunity to examine Germanicus’ accoutrements again, but that was not possible now. Marcus, always a model of efficiency, had sent the whole uniform back to the armourer with the returning funeral contingent, on the grounds that all Germanicus’ effects were to be sold.

‘At least,’ I said to Marcus, as we settled into the gig and let the driver bounce us at an uncomfortable trot up the main lane to the Glevum road, ‘I now know what happened to Crassus’ old armour.’

He was unimpressed. ‘Hardly a major matter. It will not fetch a great deal. It has not been improved, either, by spending several days in the water.’ He glanced at it disdainfully. ‘Though why Daedalus was wearing it illegally I cannot see. I don’t suppose we shall ever know, now the slave is dead.’

‘I think,’ I hazarded, ‘that he was wearing it at his master’s command.’ I outlined my theory about the substitution at the festival.

Marcus was only vaguely listening. As far as he was concerned the murder was now solved and anything else was of academic interest. ‘A dangerous trick,’ he said, casually.

‘Daedalus was a skilled mimic. I believe he was gambling for his life — his freedom if he was successfully undetected.’

Marcus, to my surprise, threw back his head and laughed. ‘Dangerous, but typical of Crassus — he would bet on two slugs if he saw profit in it. No wonder that pouch was worth the stealing, Crassus would never accept a wager unless there was a good prize if he won. I suppose Daedalus was carrying his stake money in the pouch?’

I nodded. ‘That is my guess.’

I waited for Marcus to ask where a mere slave had obtained that kind of money, but he didn’t. Instead he began a lengthy complaint about the rigours of spending a night in the countryside, the current lack of hot water at the villa and the impossibility of obtaining a shave. ‘I had thought,’ he said, ‘of simplifying the procedure with Lucius by buying the villa myself. My apartments in Glevum are pleasant enough, but they are merely rented, and I have no country property at present. The farm seems profitable, I was talking to the bailiff this morning. But I am beginning to change my mind. The place is wretchedly remote and inconvenient. And there is no decent barber’s shop for miles.’

I had to smile. A good many ‘urban’ Romans wanted a country property; a sort of dream retreat where they could go at the end of a busy few days in the town to enjoy a sculptured prospect of trees and streams and forget about business and politics for a little. The practical aspects of such an arrangement — travel and damp and inconvenience — often did not occur to them; and they were in any case carefully shielded from the ruder realities such as the presence of mud and the smell of pigs. Marcus, it seemed, was no exception.

‘Part of it will come to you anyway, if Lucius declines to inherit.’ I tried to sound like a man of the world, but my words came out in little breathy bounces as the gig dashed along. We had reached the high road by now and were setting a handsome pace while I clung to the side for dear life. Marcus was used to this sort of headlong transport, I was not.

‘I think I will send to him tomorrow, anyway,’ Marcus said. ‘His seal is required, in any case, to show he accepts the inheritance. I think he will, since the money will fund a church. Perhaps I will offer for the villa, after all. He may be glad of a quick sale.’

Marcus would make a low offer, I suspected. One could not expect a hermit to be a man of business.

We were approaching the colonia by now, driving through the rows of monuments, graves and vaults which lined the road, some of them so large and imposing that the cemetery area looked almost like a town itself. Then we were among the straggling buildings of the outskirts, and finally under the wall itself.

‘Well,’ Marcus said, as we bowled through the gate, under the triumphal arch, and down the wide paved street towards the forum, ‘thank you for your help in this. I am sure that you would have preferred to solve the mystery unaided, but probably Rufus would not have confessed without your investigations. I am not displeased.’

He was looking delighted, in fact. Of course Rufus’ confession pleased him; not only did it ‘solve’ the murder where I had failed to do so, but it proved that the killing was a non-political matter. That was Marcus’ primary concern.

I got down from the gig at the statue of Jupiter, in the middle of the square. Marcus was going to his apartment, and then to the baths. ‘A massage and a proper shave,’ he said, with relish. ‘That is what I need, now this matter is dealt with. My thanks once more, Libertus. And I shall call on you again if I need your services, never fear.’

‘You are sending to Lucius tomorrow?’ I said. That was daring of me. I had received my dismissal.

Marcus tapped his palm with his cane. ‘I am considering it, certainly. Why do you enquire?’

Careful, I told myself. That answer had been brusque. I hitched my toga more comfortably over my shoulder (a discreet reminder of my status) and produced my most disarming smile. ‘It is foolish of me,’ I suggested meekly, ‘but I am curious to see this brother of Crassus. It was for his approval, after all, that the librarium pavement was ordered. I wondered if I might accompany you?’ I did not add that I was looking for a reliable witness to give me the answer to some unresolved problems.

I had judged correctly. Marcus gave me an indulgent smile. ‘A question of professional pride?’ he said. ‘I understand. Then of course you may come — although I shall send a messenger, I think, rather than go myself. Do not be disappointed, my old friend, if Lucius does not even recall your famous pavement. So much else has happened since.’ He signalled to his driver, and was gone.

I walked slowly away, avoiding the moneylenders, letter writers and pimps who always loiter around the forum, out into the busy streets again. Under the shadow of the basilica I stopped to buy a pigmeat pie and a pot of foaming ale — what a pleasure to eat honest food again — and then, instead of going straight home, made my way towards the South Gate.

I had no idea what I was looking for.

‘A shrine’ Aulus had said. There were temples enough. Not only big temples — the central civic one to Jupiter, Juno and Minerva, and the shrine of Mars where the festival took place — but dozens of little buildings dedicated to minor deities including, here and there, altars to the local gods. The Romans have always tolerated lesser religions, provided that they do not interfere with the proper running of the state and worship of the emperor. And many native people, like myself, do not greatly care what name you give the gods provided that you reverence them somehow. So these smaller temples do a roaring trade, with all kinds of little stalls at the doors selling incense, fire-sticks and offerings to the faithful.

So at what shrine had Rufus shrugged off his follower? And where did he go thereafter? There was not a great deal beyond the South Gate except centuriated fields — great areas of rectangular enclosures (mostly owned by retired veterans) growing crops to feed the army — and a rather unsavoury inn for any unwary traveller who failed to reach the Glevum gates before sundown.

I glanced into one or two of the shrines, under the watchful eye of the temple slaves. All were dedicated to different gods, but apart from the nature of the statues and the quality of the floors, they were all largely the same. They were built on the Roman pattern: smallish, dark, enclosed areas beyond a pillared portico, the stone altars and carvings made more mysterious by the flickering of candles or oil lamps. They all had the same smell too, characteristic of temples everywhere: the smell of smoke and offerings, singed pigeons, burning herbs and incense, strewn flowers and libated wine, and — seeping everywhere like the dark stain at the altar — the odour of sacrificial blood.

I did not visit the Mithraic temple, nor the Vestal one; the rites there were too complex to permit a casual passer-by. Nor, I was sure, would Rufus have strayed into one, even by accident. Then, suddenly, I struck gold.

It was more primitive than most of the others. The same pillared entry, the same dim and smoky interior. But the statue in this temple was of an older, wilder god, beardless, but with his long hair streaming and the carved eyes full of power. I knew him even before I saw the attendant images of dogs, their tongues extended to lick and heal, or the models of diseased limbs and hands petitioning a cure. Nodens, god of the river, the healer and the justice-giver. He was overtaken now, by Roman gods, but he had once been much honoured hereabouts. He still had his adherents, and there was a huge temple to him a few miles downstream. Even here the pool of water at his feet was full of votive offerings — amulets, plaques and figurines. Lead tablets too: even the devotees of Nodens had taken to the Roman habit of inscribing their petitions, as if the god would somehow prefer to read their prayers than hear them.

Of course. Of course. Suddenly I understood. Rufus was a Silurian. This was where he had come — not, as Aulus had thought, because he was hiding from his pursuer, but because this was his destination. I went to the pool and leaned over to read the lead tablets. ‘All thanks to Nodens for healing my boils.’ ‘A curse on Cenacus who has stolen my ox.’

It would be sacrilege to take them from the water — already the attendant slave was eyeing me suspiciously — but somewhere among them, I was sure, there would be another inscription. Very likely a long and sonorous one. ‘May Nodens chill the blood of the man who injured my beloved and feed his carcass to the worms.’ Something like that. Probably Rufus would not have dared to name names, not even his own, for fear the curse might be traced back to him — especially with Aulus watching. Many humble people wrote oblique curses of that kind, for much the same reasons, so even if I found a likely plaque, proving that it was Rufus would be difficult. But he had offered a curse-tablet here, I was certain of it.

I wondered how much it had cost him. A votive offering inscribed even with a general curse did not come cheaply, especially to a slave. Little wonder he had no money left. It was useless to ask Rufus about it, either. He had sworn an oath of silence to the gods and made a votive offering for Crassus’ death. The outcome had not been exactly what he hoped — he should have paid more, he said — but he believed that Nodens had done his part. Rufus would fulfil his bargain to the grave.

I parted with five as coins for a votive candle, to the satisfaction of the attendant, and lighting it from the altar flame, stuck it on a spike near the image. Not as a prayer — I am not a follower of Nodens — but as a kind of homage from one old Briton to another. The stony old deity had been a god in this island before Caesar was ever heard of.

Then I went back into the street, and hurried home through the grey light of a cloudy afternoon. The workshop was still standing, and by the time I got there Junio was waiting for me.