The Germanicus Mosaic Read online

  We saw Andretha next. He was anxious and trembling, swearing that the murderer could not possibly be anyone in the villa. I could understand why. Strictly, if a master was murdered by one of his own slaves, the whole household could be put to death, although the last time that sentence had been carried out in Rome there had been a major riot, so the law was not always implemented these days – provided the individual culprit could be identified. The chief slave, however, might still be found guilty of negligence, and he could pay for that with his life in some interestingly excruciating ways.

  ‘No one in the household,’ he protested again.

  ‘All the same,’ Marcus said, turning to me, ‘any one of the servants might have done it, and no doubt most of them hated him. I suppose the land-slaves are less likely. They don’t usually come to the house so it would be difficult for any of them to hide the body in the hypocaust.’

  ‘Impossible, excellence,’ Andretha said, hastily. ‘If one of those roughly dressed fellows came anywhere too near the villa I’d have him caught at once and punished.’

  ‘Unless,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘the house was empty, as it was during the procession.’ Andretha gave me a poisonous look.

  Marcus frowned. ‘But during the procession, Crassus Germanicus was alive. I saw him with my own eyes.’

  ‘And as soon as it was over,’ Andretha rushed in with relief, ‘all the household slaves came back to the villa together in the farm cart. No one could have come faster. I saw to that. I was in a hurry to make sure everything was properly prepared for Crassus’ return.’

  I could believe that. Failure to have the brazier lit and food and drink waiting would have resulted in someone feeling his master’s lash. Crassus was not a tolerant man.

  ‘I swear to you,’ Andretha said, wringing his fingers, ‘there were servants on watch for his return all night. I don’t believe anyone could have come to the villa without being seen or heard.’

  ‘And yet,’ Marcus said dryly, ‘someone did come to the villa. Someone brought the body back and put it in the hypocaust. If there was a watch, you’d have thought somebody might have noticed.’

  Andretha was so terrified by this suggestion that he had failed in his duty, that he could not have made a sensible answer if he tried. He didn’t try. He simply spread his hands hopelessly, as if there was no sensible answer he could make.

  ‘All the slaves returned together, you say?’ I put in.

  Andretha nodded. ‘Except Daedalus, Crassus’ personal slave. Of course we expected that. He would have stayed with Crassus, to fetch horses or wine, and carry torches. See him home, guard him if necessary. Only, of course, he hasn’t returned either.’

  ‘So where,’ Marcus wanted to know, ‘is Daedalus now?’

  An anguished look spread across Andretha’s face. ‘I don’t know. Nobody knows. He was supposed to stay with Crassus. Do you suppose Daedalus killed him, at the procession?’ He was grasping at straws. If Germanicus was murdered in Glevum, it was not his responsibility. His duty to guard his master against all comers was within the estate.

  ‘As I remember,’ I said, ‘Daedalus was promised his freedom at the next moon.’ The man had been boasting of the fact when I was at the villa. It had struck me as odd, at the time. Crassus was not the sort of man to manumit a good slave out of kindness of heart.

  Andretha nodded eagerly. ‘That is true.’

  ‘Then surely,’ Marcus said, ‘Daedalus had less to gain than anyone from Crassus’ death? He will be sold on now, or left to the next owner with the rest of the estate.’

  ‘Or perhaps he saw his master killed, and fled in a panic?’ Andretha babbled on. ‘There are always brigands and cut-throats at these processions. That is more likely, if he failed to guard him . . .’ You could almost see hope rising to Andretha’s face. Cowardice from a personal bodyguard was not his responsibility either. ‘Yes, excellence, it must have been that.’

  I was thinking aloud. ‘Then why put the body in the hypocaust? Why not just abandon it in the town? Why would Daedalus, of all people, bring it all the way back to the villa, where it was certain to be discovered and bring suspicion on him? Come to that, why would anyone? If a killer wants to dispose of a body, why not just push it into the river or bury it somewhere? Why drag it back to the villa and put it in the furnace? Unless Crassus did manage to come back here, somehow, and the murder took place in the villa after all.’

  ‘He couldn’t have done.’ Andretha flashed me another venomous glance. ‘There were people looking out for him from the moment the procession was over.’

  ‘Well,’ Marcus said, ‘let’s talk to them and see if we can throw some light on the matter. Starting with the gatekeeper, I think.’

  Andretha went out, and Marcus turned to me. ‘It is just as the aediles told me. You see why I am concerned? It looks like a political murder. It seems impossible for it to be a mere household affair.’

  ‘Difficult, certainly,’ I said. ‘I'm sure that if Andretha knew anything about it he would probably have told us. If it was a household murder his one hope of clemency would be to turn informer. But why do you think it is political?’

  Marcus looked around, as if the plaster walls might be listening, and said, sheepishly, ‘Because Aulus the gatekeeper is an informer of mine. I have never trusted Germanicus – he always had far too much money for a mere auxiliary centurion.’

  ‘He was a great gambler,’ I said doubtfully, remembering tales of several dice parties which had taken place while I was working at the villa. ‘And doubtless the dice were on his side. Crassus was the sort of man who would ensure that.’

  ‘He was famous for it,’ Marcus said, ‘or rather for his unexplained good fortune. Or so Aulus tells me. Apparently the Fates took a kindly hand, even in his army career.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, Crassus remained an optio for a long time. He wanted to be promoted to centurion, he kept grumbling that he was overdue for promotion, but it never happened. They said there was no post available, and then his commanding centurion conveniently died – a little too conveniently, gossip said.’

  ‘You think he killed a senior officer?’ I said. ‘Surely not! That would be treachery.’ I was not debating a moral point; that sort of crime carried an automatic death penalty, and Crassus had been very much alive, at least until recently.

  Marcus laughed. ‘I don’t suppose he did it, in fact. The death was not especially suspicious, the man just suddenly fell ill one night and died. There are always unexpected deaths, through infections or poor food. There were rumours, but Germanicus had witnesses to say he was miles away that night, and he gained his centurion’s baton. But whispers persisted among the company. At least, so Aulus tells me.’

  ‘So what are you suggesting? That somebody believed the story and killed Crassus for revenge?’

  ‘No. In that case someone would have stabbed him years ago – and it is probably nothing but rumour, anyway. If there had been any real suspicion he would have been executed then and there. But it gives some indication of the man. People believed it of him. And he may have old enemies, or old confederates, in the army still. Aulus informs me that twice in the last few weeks armed soldiers have come to the villa at night and Germanicus has gone out to meet them – having first ordered his gatekeeper away on an errand.’

  That was seriously bad news. Even I knew that sections of the army wanted to overthrow the emperor and instate the legionary legate, Priscus, in his stead, while other sections favoured the governor, Pertinax, for the imperial crown. The complication, from my point of view, was that these two treasonable alternatives were not politically equal. Marcus was the governor’s personal representative. He rose or fell with Pertinax. No wonder he was concerned about possible political conspiracy.

  ‘How do you know this?’ I asked, warily. If he was right I stood a good chance of ending up in the hypocaust myself.

  ‘Aulus had the presence of mind to keep watch, and saw them. One man came
each time, and Germanicus went out and was whispering to each of them in the lane. But here is Aulus, he can tell you himself.’

  Aulus was unwilling. He was a great, coarse, lumbering bear of a man with a leering manner, shifting eyes and a nervous tongue which licked out and moistened his lips as he spoke. Serving two masters is always a dangerous task, but he told his story at last, glancing occasionally around him in case Andretha was lurking in the shadows. In essence, though, it was precisely as Marcus had said. He could add nothing, although he hedged the story round with excuses: it had been too dark to see in detail, and he had been too far away to hear. At least two visits, though, he was certain of that. One three days before the procession, and one a week or two earlier. A centurion on both occasions. He was unable to say if it was the same man.

  About the disappearance of Crassus, though, he was adamant. It was exactly as Andretha had reported, and he knew absolutely nothing more about it. By the time Marcus let him go, Aulus was sweating.

  ‘He’s hiding something,’ Marcus said. ‘But we’ll get the truth out of him. By flogging if necessary.’

  I shook my head. ‘I doubt it, excellence. By all means interview the household, but I don’t believe flogging will help. No one saw this, except the murderer himself, and he won’t tell you. Perhaps we should be asking in the town? Looking for someone who saw Crassus after the procession?’

  Marcus frowned. ‘Well, perhaps. But remember, I expect discretion.’

  I sighed. The implications of that did not escape me. Marcus had no intention of demeaning himself by interrogating the townspeople at random. He expected me to do that, when I had finished here. In the meantime precious time would be passing.

  ‘There may be someone who saw Daedalus, too. He is a missing slave, after all.’

  That roused him. A runaway slave is a serious matter. ‘You think he did it? You know the man, you were in this household for weeks.’

  I laughed, shortly. ‘I hardly knew him. I was in the librarium. A man who works for Crassus has little time for gossiping.’

  ‘But you knew his reputation?’

  I did. Crassus’ favourite slave; clever, shrewd, talented – he had a gift for mimicry which made him a favourite for ‘fashionable’ entertainments – but ambitious too. ‘He could have done it. He is calculating enough. But he had been promised his freedom. He may even have received it – it is not unknown for men to free their slaves at the festival, as a sort of sacrifice.’

  ‘And then he turned on his ex-master? It is hard to see why, although Andretha might hope so. If Crassus was killed by a free man, it changes everything.’

  ‘Why else would he disappear?’

  Marcus raised his eyebrows, and voiced what both of us had been thinking. ‘Suppose Germanicus threatened to refuse him, after all? Changed his mind about manumission?’

  ‘And Daedalus killed him in a fury? Murder in the heat of the moment, that I can understand. But why bring the body back? And how? Dragging a corpse for miles is to invite discovery, and anyway they could not have returned here before the others. Crassus was in the procession. He would have had to wait till the end of the sacrifices, and they had no transport. The servants had the farm cart, and you heard Andretha – Crassus intended to hire horses when he had finished feasting.’

  ‘He didn’t do that,’ Marcus put in. ‘The aediles have already made enquiries. No one hired a horse, or a carriage. There were none free to hire immediately after the procession. He and Daedalus would have been on foot – unless they stole a nag. Or borrowed one. There was some itinerant pilgrim who passed this way on a mule, but they didn’t hire that either, he was seen trotting back with it long before the festival was over. No thefts have been reported.’

  ‘In any case,’ I said, ‘a man who wanted to hide a corpse could hardly have risked stealing a horse as well. He’d have had half the countryside after him. No, I fear you are right. We must try to trace those armed soldiers. But – let us listen to the household first. There may be something we can glean from them.’

  But no one – not the lute player, not the cooks, not the house-slaves or the dancing girls – had anything to add to the story we had heard already. Crassus set out early for the procession with Daedalus and had insisted on walking the three or four miles to Glevum because the day was fine and he intended feasting afterwards. It sounded daunting to me, walking miles in full armour and then taking part in a procession, but presumably it was nothing to an old soldier trained to march all day carrying his entire kit.

  The servants had all travelled to Glevum together on the farm cart, watched the procession, and come home the same way, and no one had seen or heard anything of Crassus until the two men who stoked the hypocaust went down at midday to relight the furnace.

  Marcus questioned them harshly, but they were unshakable. They had gone to the feast with the others and, having been granted a holiday from stoking, had spent the afternoon chopping logs for the extra woodpile in full view of the slaves carrying water and tending the inner gardens. The stoke-hole was round at the side of the villa and, with the furnaces out, no one had been near it. Equally, no one could have got to it from outside without being seen.

  ‘So, we are back to politics,’ Marcus said, over the bowl of stew and fish sauce which the kitchen had finally produced. ‘It seems nobody in the household did it. Or all of them did.’ He looked at me enquiringly.

  I said nothing. I was trying to spoon up my stew without actually swallowing any of the fish sauce – that horrible fermented stuff with anchovies in it that the Romans seem to put on everything. Furthermore, I was trying to do so without Marcus noticing. I gave him a wan smile.

  Marcus said languidly, ‘Or perhaps Crassus’ death is just some punishment by the gods. It was the feast of Mars after all.’ He finished his own stew and pushed the plate away. ‘Well, I’ll leave it to you, Libertus. I’ve done all I can here. Send to me, if you discover anything. I suppose we must allow Andretha to make arrangements for the funeral procession, so we will meet in three days, at least. In the meantime, I’ll ask at the guardroom, and see if there is any information about those two soldiers. They must have been missed, they were out well after curfew. And now, I must get back to Glevum. My carriage driver will be anxious for his supper.’

  Chapter Three

  I lay awake for a long time, thinking. Andretha had shown me to a guest bedroom – a proper Roman bed with a stuffed mattress supported on a webbed wood frame – but for all the fine woollen blankets I slept less soundly than I might have done on my own humble pile of reeds and rags. This murder worried me. Not that I mourned Crassus particularly, but I dislike unsolved puzzles. Why bring the body back where it was certain to be found? And how? It seemed an impossible feat. And so deliberate, as though it meant something. Assuming, I thought drowsily, that Crassus hadn’t crept home unnoticed and committed suicide by stuffing his own head into the furnace. Or drunk himself stupid, stumbled into the stoke room and died of inhaling smoke.

  And then tucked himself tidily into the furnace, perhaps? Besides, how would he have got past the villa gates? A stocky man in full military uniform, complete with shield, spear, helmet and mask, is not easy to miss, especially when the whole household is on the lookout for him. And ten times more so if he is drunk. No, however he had died, someone else had put him in the furnace.

  Tired as I was, that jolted me awake. How had he died? You can’t just stuff a healthy man into a fire and expect him obligingly to stay there. Yet there were no stab wounds on the body, and the charred skull bore no signs of a blow. Drink perhaps, to render him unconscious? Or poison? That was more likely; Crassus had a strong head for drink. In that case a woman might have done it. It would take a strong man to carry that weight any distance, but even a woman could have managed to hoist the top half of Crassus into the furnace, if he were already lying lifeless at her feet. But (I kept coming back to the same question) why do it at all? His sword was at hand. Even if the man was merely un
conscious, why not simply slit his throat and run?

  If I knew the answer to that, I thought, I would have the key to everything. And what about those confounded soldiers?

  I slept fitfully at last, dreaming of furnaces.

  When I awoke, morning was already streaming through Crassus’ smart glass windows, the bluish green of their light criss-crossed on the bedcovers by the shadow of the supporting wooden grills. An interesting pattern for a mosaic, I had time to think to myself, before a timid voice addressed me.

  ‘You are awake, citizen? Andretha bade me bring you these.’

  It was a young house-slave bearing a wooden carrying-board. I had noticed him when I was here laying the librarium mosaic, a slight, dark-haired youth with dandified manners and a perpetually hunted look. He had interested me then, with his pale skin, anxious brown eyes, and general air of having learned to run backwards more quickly than forwards, but (since a pavement maker has little time for idle gossip, especially when he is working for Crassus in a hurry) I had never spoken to him until the interview yesterday with Marcus. For a moment I could not speak to him even now. I was too busy goggling at the array of toilet accessories laid out on his tray.

  A phial of perfumed oil for cleansing, a fine curved strigil to scrape it off with, and even a sponge-stick for more private ablutions, in case I should have omitted to bring my own and wished to visit the latrine. And a fine bowl of rainwater, with fresh blossom floating in it, so that I could rinse my skin.

  I grinned. All this luxury and a formal title, too! Andretha was certainly nervous. When I was working at the villa, walking the weary miles to and fro with my twist of bread and cheese in my pouch, I was lucky to get a grunt and permission to rinse the stone-dust off in the garden water-butt.

  Now, though, I was no longer a simple craftsman. I was ‘citizen’, an associate of Marcus, in a toga and an imperial gig, and Andretha must be falling over himself to repair the damage. I suspected he had even troubled to take the chill off the rainwater. I trailed a finger in its cool depths.