The Germanicus Mosaic Page 5

  I wondered if Andretha always talked like this to guests – like an anxious politician on the steps of the forum. I made soothing noises.

  He flapped his hands helplessly. ‘I have done my best – sent a slave to fetch the anointing women, and find some professional mourners and musicians. They will provide a litter – at a cost. I am trying to prepare things here. He should be dressed in his best robes for the funeral. I have sent his sandals to the shoemender for fresh hobnails, he must be fresh-shod for the afterlife. I thought he had new ones but I cannot find them. I took off his uniform. I hope I did not exceed my duty, citizen. It was an awful task.’

  It must have been. The charred skull was an even more appalling sight than I remembered. I hardly wished to look at it myself. I turned away and examined the armour. The leather skirt was burnished and I admired again the campaign seals on the chest-harness, and the intricacy of the gleaming breast-armour – the little individual metal pieces sewn to a fabric shirt, to afford maximum protection but allow movement to the wearer.

  ‘Fine work,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, citizen,’ the slave agreed. ‘And such a waste. It was all ordered new for the procession.’

  I was surprised. ‘Where does a veteran obtain new armour? From the armourer?’

  He flapped his hands again. ‘I don’t know that, citizen. I suppose so. A man with money might buy anything. There are those, too, who sell Roman armour which is not quite new . . .’

  I knew what he was referring to. The insubordinate Silures on the western border had taken their toll of casualties recently. There was always a ready unofficial market for good Roman body-armour; helmets were prized trophies, and even the Silures themselves recognised good protection when they saw it.

  ‘And the old armour? What became of that?’

  Andretha shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know that, either, citizen. But those that sell, buy.’ He flashed me a sideways look. ‘Daedalus could tell you these things, citizen. If he were here.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I had not forgotten the missing slave. But Andretha had a point. Marcus, for instance, was inclined to overlook Daedalus. He was only a slave after all, and had no personal importance. ‘I will ask him, when I can.’

  An uneasy flush came to his face. ‘You . . . know where he is, citizen?’

  That surprised me. ‘Do you?’

  He shook his head hastily. ‘No. I wish I did, I promise you. If I knew I should tell you at once, and you could fetch him here. He could do this, at least. This should be Daedalus’ job, not mine. Crassus was fastidious. He would have no one but his favourite attend him when he dressed.’

  I nodded. I wondered why Andretha had not delegated the grisly business of undressing the corpse.

  ‘He was the personal slave, the favoured one,’ Andretha said bitterly. ‘Always a party to my master’s plans. He would have known what to do. Should I cover the face, for instance? It is not usual, but what sort of spectacle will this be, in the funeral procession?’ He shot me that look again. ‘Citizen, I beg you to find Daedalus. He could tell you what happened in Glevum, and tell me what grave-goods to provide. If I guess wrong, Crassus will be a spiteful spirit.’

  I could imagine that, too: Crassus, dead but intransigent as ever, refusing to cross the Styx without his favourite possessions. I said, ‘Yes, we will find Daedalus, never fear.’ I wished I could feel as confident as I sounded. ‘Marcus is enquiring in the town. In the meantime, I wish to examine the body. What, apart from the uniform, have you removed?’

  The briskness of the question had the desired effect. Andretha again became all apology and eagerness to please.

  ‘Nothing, citizen, nothing. A few leaves and bits of dust and grit, that’s all.’

  ‘And blood? Was there blood anywhere?’ This was something I had hoped to check before Andretha began.

  ‘A very little dried blood on his legs, that is all. There is a graze, too. It had gravel in it, but that did not bleed, it seems.’

  ‘Show me.’

  He lifted the cover, instinctively moving the cloth so that it obscured that dreadful head, and I saw the body fully for the first time. It lay in a simple tunic, ready to be salved, dressed and perfumed to impress the lords of the underworld. It would not have impressed me, if I were Pluto. Deprived of his trappings, Germanicus looked diminished, puffy in death, and somehow insignificant.

  Andretha showed me the graze, on the top of one foot and ankle, as if the body had been dragged, face down. The legs and arms were as I remembered – shaved, and nicked in a dozen places as if the barber had done his work clumsily. I recalled the bruises on Paulus’ back. Was this where he had gained them? Cuts like that would rouse Crassus to a fury.

  I thought aloud. ‘Why did Germanicus have his legs shaved? He did not use to do so.’

  Andretha was so anxious to answer that he visibly tried not to smirk. ‘I think, citizen, it was your friend Marcus who began it. Something he said once, after a banquet in his honour, when Daedalus entertained the guests by doing an impersonation of Germanicus. Very like, Marcus said, except for the legs.’

  I nodded. It was not Marcus who said it, in fact. It was me. It had been at that banquet I had attended with him. That must have been also the first time I saw Daedalus. I closed my eyes to remember it more clearly.

  It was after the main meal. The peacocks, swans and gilded larks had been cleared away (Germanicus didn’t stint himself when it came to a banquet) and the ducks’ eggs and spiced meats were brought in. Then the lute player struck a chord, and a slave stepped forward – Daedalus, as I now realised, though the name was not mentioned at the time.

  He was wearing a tunic, but after bowing he burrowed in a basket and wrapped himself in a piece of coloured cloth, not unlike a child’s toga. Another burrow in the basket produced a pottery mask with flowing clay curls like a medusa. He buckled it about his head. There was an uneasy silence.

  Then, ‘Welcome,’ he said, ‘on behalf of the governor.’

  I gasped with mirth. It was Marcus to the life. It was not tactful to be so openly amused, with my patron reclining by my side, but my laugh was out before I could stifle it. Fortunately, when I dared to look, Marcus was chuckling, too. All around the tables there was a ripple of delighted laughter as the act went on. It was merciless, but the slave’s impersonation was excellent. Everything about him, the walk, the impatient tap of the baton, the lift of the shoulders, the voice even, had become Marcus. It was funnier as it became bolder, and soon the guests were thumping the tables. Marcus, mellow with wine, applauded as loudly as the rest.

  Another chord on the lute. The man in the mask turned away, and adjusted his toga. When he turned back, Marcus was gone, and we seemed to be watching one of the other guests, one of the quaestor’s clerks, a small, thin fellow with a high-pitched voice and an exaggerated manner. The clerk looked furious, but the masked actor only mimicked him the more. It was hilarious. The whole room rocked with mirth, though this time I did contrive to conceal my amusement. I sometimes have dealings with the quaestors.

  But it was the third and last performance which I remembered most. Daedalus turned away, hunched his shoulders, thrust out his belly and lifted his chin – and now it was Crassus we were looking at. The man’s neck seemed to have disappeared, and there was the pugnacious strut, the self-important swagger. There was an uneasy snigger.

  ‘Silence, by Mithras, or I’ll have you whipped!’ the actor shouted, and the whole gathering collapsed in laughter and applause.

  ‘Dangerous,’ Marcus whispered in my ear. ‘Crassus is not a man to mock in public. Or has he arranged this on purpose, to see who laughs the most? He would be a dangerous enemy to make.’

  Crassus looked towards us and smirked.

  ‘Now, since I am guest of honour, he will ask me what I thought of the performance,’ Marcus grumbled under his breath. ‘What should I tell him? That it was indistinguishable? It is hardly a compliment.’

  ‘Not indistinguishabl
e,’ I said. ‘Crassus is hairier. That slave’s limbs are smooth.’

  ‘You have sharp eyes, pavement maker,’ Marcus said. ‘It is true. But I can hardly tell Crassus that!’

  ‘No,’ I grinned. ‘Tell him the actor’s body is . . . balder.’

  Crassus had taken it to heart, it seemed. I looked at the marks on those lifeless legs. ‘And he has shaved himself from that day on?’

  ‘Not every day,’ Andretha said, ‘but often, if his arms and legs were to be uncovered. Paulus would tell you.’ He looked at me slyly. ‘Or Daedalus, if you find him.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said again.

  Andretha was still looking at me anxiously. ‘You have seen all you need, citizen?’

  ‘I think so.’ I ran my eye over the body again, where it had been hidden by the armour. There was no obvious cause of death. So, it was poison, I thought. The only mark on the body was a weal on the side where the plate-shirt had buckled on. I let the sheet fall, revealing again that fleshless face.

  Andretha gave me that flustered look again. ‘If you permit, citizen – I must finish here and arrange the building of the funeral pyre.’

  I looked at him sharply. ‘Cremation then? I thought since his brother is a hermit you might have buried him, in the new Christian manner.’

  Andretha furrowed his brow and fluttered his fingers in deprecation. ‘This was his wish, citizen. At least, I hope it was. He said it before witnesses, so if I do wrong may Jove forgive me. It was when his brother was here. Lucius thinks of nothing but the afterworld, and was trying to persuade Crassus to do the same, but Crassus just laughed and called us all to witness that he wanted Roman rites when he died. “Throw me on the fire,” he said. “I don’t want to wake and find myself buried alive. And invoke all the gods you can think of, just in case. Including Lucius’, if you must.” He was laughing, but I think he was in earnest. Anyway, there is a shrine and niche prepared in the temple up at the spring.’

  I nodded. Roman strictures on disposing of the dead apply to towns and habitations, not country land. There has been quite a fashion, when new villas are built, for installing family shrines somewhere, away from the buildings but within the estate. Crassus, no doubt, would have an elaborate one, complete with flattering statuary and complimentary inscriptions designed and at the ready. ‘What did Lucius say?’

  ‘He was angry, I think, that Crassus was mocking him. He said, in front of us all, that he would never attend such a pagan ritual.’

  ‘He might change his mind,’ I ventured.

  ‘I doubt it, citizen. He is a man of his word. And in any case, there is scarcely time now. I sent to Lucius early this morning, at Marcus’ suggestion, but he lives a long way off. The messenger has not yet returned and this body has been unburied for two days already. If we delay the rituals much longer the spirit will not reach the underworld.’

  I sympathised. The company of Germanicus was unpleasant enough in life. The prospect of his presence, dead, was an appalling one. It was likely to be a wrathful presence besides, if he missed his ferry over the Styx. I’m not sure if I believe in spirits myself, but in Andretha’s place, I’d be taking no chances.

  ‘In any case,’ I said, ‘under the circumstances, a cremation would be best.’ Burial, on the Christian pattern, was taking over from the Roman burning in some cases, but it seemed absurd to do anything else here, since the job was half done already.

  ‘If you have seen enough, citizen, I must finish the preparations. The women will be here with the oils soon. I must arrange for the food and drink to be prepared, so the soul has enough sustenance for its journey.’ No mean task, I thought, if Crassus’ spirit was half the trencherman that the living man had been. Andretha would not want the spirit turning back because it was hungry. He added, ‘And I must find the lute player and arrange a rota for the lament.’

  I nodded. Once the anointing began the weeping and wailing would not cease until the funeral took place. ‘Then I will leave you. I, too, have work to do.’

  He made one final attempt. ‘Like finding Daedalus?’

  ‘Like finding Daedalus. But first I want to look around the villa – examine the slaves’ quarters, for example.’

  He fought with himself a moment, but in the end he burst out with it, the question he had been dying to ask all along. ‘Citizen, an uncomfortable idea comes to me. This looks like Crassus, certainly, but without features it is hard to be sure. You do not think perhaps . . .’ he nodded towards the inert form on the bed ‘. . . you may have found Daedalus already?’

  I knew what he meant, naturally. The same thing had occurred to me; that was one reason why I wanted to see the body again. Any political conspiracy, for instance, that wanted to spirit Germanicus away, might well have sent us a dead slave in his stead. But now, of course, I was quite certain. ‘No,’ I said, ‘that is not Daedalus.’

  He was flapping his hands again. ‘I should like to be certain, citizen. Crassus would never forgive me if I buried a common slave in his place. I worked for the man, yet I could not swear to it. Daedalus could impersonate him so well his own mother might confuse them. And without a face . . .’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Without a face we have only the evidence of the body. Look at those razor marks on his legs. See how the thick hairs have been shaved off close? Crassus may have shaved his legs to look as smooth as Daedalus, but Daedalus could not grow hairs in order to resemble Crassus. Rest easy, my friend. This is not Daedalus. Daedalus did not need to shave his legs.’

  Was it my imagination, as I left the room, or did Andretha look even more worried than before?

  Chapter Five

  I was glad to get out into the sweet air. In the bedroom, despite Andretha’s efforts in burning aromatic herbs, there was still the faint, sickly aroma of mortal corruption. I left him to his ministrations with relief. Outside, Paulus was still waiting timidly. I drained the beaker he had been holding and sent him for more water to wash my hands. I am not usually fastidious, but that body was unwholesome. Not surprisingly perhaps; it had lain a long time in the heat of the stoke room – a hot furnace can take many hours to cool. It was as well the anointers were arriving soon; masking that smell is one of the more practical virtues of their oils.

  Paulus was just scuttling off with the bowl when the first of the funeral party arrived. They came on an oxcart, bringing the trappings of their trade with them. Andretha came bustling out to greet them, and I watched him show them in, and cluck anxiously over the items they had brought, like a hen counting her chicks. There was a gilded litter with carrying-handles, so that the corpse could make his last journey in splendid state. Three female anointers arrived, stout, red-faced women with brawny arms – from lifting and pummelling people in heated rooms, they say. They carried whole flagons of scented oil with them now, and winding linens too, to go discreetly under the toga and prevent bits of the deceased from flopping embarrassingly at every jerk in the road.

  Then the professional mourners and six musicians came in, with their pipes and long-horns, ready to start their infernal wailing whenever Andretha gave the word. The chief slave was sparing no expense on his master’s behalf.

  All the activity seemed to have dispelled his recent anxiety, and he fussed about happily, showing the women into the bedroom, organising the disposition of the litter, and sent one of the house-slaves scurrying to fetch water for the ritual cleansing. He would go to the source for that, to keep it sacred; draw it from the nymphaeum – the temple to the water gods – not from the stream that trickled down towards the house and under the latrine. And it was to the nymphaeum, I remembered, that the ashes would be returned after the funeral. That rather surprised me: I would have expected Crassus to choose a conspicuous spot beside the highway for his memorial, where everyone would see his memorial. But, as I say, private shrines have become the fashion and obviously Germanicus had felt he had to have one. Rather like the librarium, I thought with a smile. Perhaps I would go up to the nymphaeum later, to see
what the builders had made of it.

  The water-carrier had returned by this time, with his ewer of sacred water, and the rites could begin at last. When Andretha began instructing the musicians to start the lament, I decided that after all I would go up to the water shrine straight away. I have no stomach for professional keening. That dismal noise alone is enough to drive a spirit shuddering to the underworld. Perhaps that is the idea.

  Walking to the spring would give me time to think, and besides it would take me as far as possible away from that demented wailing.

  It was a little walk to the nymphaeum, out through the rear courtyard and inner gate and up a steep path between thick trees. At first I enjoyed my stroll, glad of the chance to clear my head after the thick air of the death room. But I had not gone many paces before I paused to listen. I could hear sounds. Small things, the crack of a twig, the scrabble of stones, a stealthy rustling. As I stopped, they stopped too. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Someone was following me.

  I turned. Nothing. I was imagining things.

  I walked on, and there it was again, the unmistakable sound of footsteps on gravel. I whirled around, but there was no one to be seen. I felt my heart pounding, and I also felt conspicuously alone. After a morning when slaves had been drawing water constantly, to my knowledge, it seemed that suddenly the path to the spring was deserted.

  I looked around. The path here was hidden from the villa, and with the household busy with funeral preparations, any cries for help would go unheard. And Crassus had after all been murdered. It would be ironic, I thought, to discover the murderer’s identity only by becoming the next victim.

  I moved swiftly, diving behind a nearby tree and waiting silently. At least I would discover who it was. I waited a long time. Nobody came. My pursuer, it seemed, had given up – or had never really existed. I emerged, feeling rather foolish, and at that moment a dark-haired figure hurried round the corner. Paulus. He looked startled to see me.