Arms of Nemesis (16 page)

The tile floor, where it showed beyond the carpet's edge, was no more revealing. I lifted the edge of the carpet and folded it back, thinking it might have been moved to cover a bit of bloodstain, but I found nothing.

'Perhaps Lucius wasn't killed in this room, after all.' I sighed. 'He must have bled somewhere, and there's nowhere to bleed except on the floor. Unless . . .' I stepped towards the table. 'Unless he was standing here, where he naturally would be standing in his library, in front of the table. The blow was to the front of his head, not the back, so he must have been facing his assailant. And the blow was on the right, not the left, so he must have been facing north, with his left side toward the table and his right side exposed. To strike the right temple head-on, the assailant must have used his left hand; that could be very important, Eco - anyone who picked up a heavy statue to use as a bludgeon would use the arm he favoured. We assume the killer was left-handed, then. Lucius would have been knocked sidelong onto the table . . .'

Eco obligingly pitched himself onto the table amid the clutter of documents Crassus had been studying the night before. He fell face-down with one arm beneath him and the other outstretched.

'In which case the blood might well have been spattered above the table, onto the wall - where it might as easily have been wiped away. I see no blood there now. Unless it spattered even higher. . .' I climbed onto my knees on the table. Eco pushed himself up to join me in studying the painting of Gelina. 'Encaustic on canvas, set in a frame of black wood with mother-of-pearl inlay — easy to wipe clean — and encased in the wall. Had any blood landed on the painting itself, I doubt the murderer would have dared to scrub the wax too vigorously for fear of damaging it, if indeed he saw the blood among all these pigments. Amazing, isn't it, how many colours there are in a painting when you see it this close? At this distance Iaia's signature is certainly large enough, done in red, but more likely cinnabar than blood. The folds of Gelina's stola are a mottled red and black; no doubt she chose these carpets to match her gown in the painting. Red here, black there, and -Eco, do you see it?'

Eco anxiously nodded. Dribbled across a patch of green background, where no painter would have been so careless as to spill it, was a spray of red-black drops the colour of dried blood. Eco peered closer and then began pointing out more drops — on the background, on the stola, everywhere across the bottom of the painting, even a smear across the first letter of Iaia's signature. The more we looked, the more we saw. In the growing morning light the drops seemed to blossom before our eyes, as if the painting itself wept blood. Eco made a face, and I grimaced in agreement: What a grisly blow must have been struck across the head of Lucius Licinius to have scattered so much gore. I drew back from the painting, repulsed.

'Ironic,' I whispered, 'that Lucius should have polluted with his own blood the painting of the wife he married for love, and ended here, a corpse, prostrate before her image. A jealous lover, Eco? Did someone intentionally murder him here, in front of the painting? It must have made quite a tableau, the dead husband crumpled lifeless before the serene image of his wife. But if someone intended it that way, then why was the body moved, and the spectre of Spartacus invoked?'

I stepped off the table, followed by Eco. 'There must have been blood on the table, easily wiped clean. Which means there must have been no documents lying here, as there are now, or else they would have been bloodied as well, and impossible to clean; blood will wipe off lacquered wood, but not parchment or papyrus. I wonder, though . . . here, help me pull the table from the wall.'

It was easier said than done. The table was heavy, too heavy perhaps for one man alone to lift it. Even with one of us at either end the job was awkward; we knocked over the chair, bunched the carpet and caused a loud screech as one table leg scraped across the tiled floor. Our reward was blood: on both the wall and the back edge of the table, trapped where no cloth could have reached it, there were patches of a gummy, red-brown residue. Lucius's blood had run across the table and pooled in the narrow space between table and wall, leaving its trace on both.

Eco wrinkled his nose. 'More proof that Lucius was murdered here, if we needed it,' I said. 'But what does that tell us? It makes no sense that the missing slaves would have wiped up the blood, especially if they were proud of the crime; still, it will take stronger proof than that to shake Crassus from his intention. Here, Eco, help me replace the table as it was. I hear footsteps in the hall.'

Just as I was picking up the chair and Eco was straightening the carpet, an inquiring face peered around the corner.

'Meto! Just the one I wanted to see. Step inside, and shut the door behind you.'

He did as I ordered, but not without hesitating. 'Are you sure we should be in this room?' he whispered.

'Meto, your mistress made it clear that I should have access to any part of the house, did she not?'

'I suppose. But no one was ever allowed in this room without the master's permission.'

'No one? Not even the scrub maids?'

'Only when the master would let them in, and even then he usually wanted himself or Zeno to be in the room.'

'But there's nothing here for a slave to pilfer - no small coins, no jewellery or trinkets.'

'Even so - once I snuck in, just because I wanted to have a closer look at the horse—'

'Horse? Ah, the centaur statue.'

'Yes, and the master himself walked in on me. He was angry in an instant, and the master wasn't normally an angry man. But his face turned all red and he shouted at me till I thought I would die from the pounding in my chest.' Meto's eyes opened wide at the memory. He puffed out his cheeks and shook his head, like a man trying to recover from a terrible dream. 'He called in Alexandros and ordered him to give me a beating, right here. Normally it would have been Clito, who also works in the stables and likes to give beatings, but I was lucky because Clito was working in Puteoli that day. I had to bend over and touch the floor while Alex gave me ten blows with a cane. He only did it because the master made him. He could have hit me a lot harder, I'm sure, but it still made me cry.'

'I see. You like this Alexandros?'

The boy's eyes sparkled. 'Of course. Everyone likes Alex.'

'And what about Zeno, did you like him, too?'

He shrugged. 'Nobody liked Zeno. But not because he's cruel or a bully, like Clito. He's haughty and speaks languages and thinks he's so much better than any of the other slaves. And he farts a lot.'

'He sounds thoroughly disagreeable. Tell me, on the night your master was killed, was anyone up and about? You, perhaps, or some other slave?'

He shook his head.

'You're sure? No one heard anything, saw anything?'

'Everyone's been talking about it, of course. But no one knows what happened. The mistress told us the next day that if anyone knew anything, he must go directly to Master Crassus, or to Mummius or Fabius. If anyone had seen or heard what happened, they would tell, I'm sure.'

'And among the slaves themselves, there are no rumours, no whispers?'

'Nothing. And if anyone had said anything at all, even in secret, I'm the one who's most likely to have overheard. Not that I eavesdrop—'

'I understand. Your duties take you all over the house, from room to room, dawn to dusk, while the cooks and stablemen and cleaners stay in one place all day and gossip to each other. Hearing things and seeing things is nothing to be ashamed of, Meto. I do it for a living. When I first saw you, I could tell right away that you are the very eyes and ears of this house.'

He looked at me in wonderment, and then cautiously smiled, as if no one had ever perceived his true worth before.

'Tell me, Meto, on that night, might Zeno have been in this room with your master?'

'It's possible. They often came here and worked together after dark, sometimes very late, especially if a ship had just arrived or was about to leave from Puteoli, or if Master Crassus was on his way.'

'And might Alexandros have been here as well?' 'Possibly.'

'But on that night you saw no one going in or out of this room? Heard nothing from the stables or the atrium?'

'I sleep in a little room with some of the others,' he said slowly, 'over in the east wing of the house, behind the stables. Usually I'm the last one in bed. Alex laughs and says he's never seen a boy who needed less sleep. On any other night I might have been up and about. I might have seen whatever it is you want to know. But that night I was so tired from running so many errands and carrying so many messages all day . . .' His voice began to quaver. 'I'm sorry.'

I put my hands on his thin shoulders. 'You have nothing to be sorry for, Meto. But answer one more question. Last night, were you up late wandering about the house?'

He looked thoughtful. 'Yesterday was so busy, with you and Mummius arriving on the
Fury,
and the extra work for the dinner last night . . .'

'So you went to sleep early?'

'Yes.'

'Then you saw nothing unusual, heard no one wandering in the hallways or going down the hillside to the boathouse?'

He shrugged helplessly and bit his Hp, sad to disappoint me. I looked at him gravely and nodded. 'It's all right, I only thought you might know something I don't. But here, before you go, I want you to see something.'

I guided him with a hand on his shoulder until we stood beside the centaur statue. 'Look at it all you want. Touch it, if you'd like.' He looked at me for reassurance, then reached out with trembling fingers and a glow in his eyes, then abruptly pulled back and bit his Hp.

'No, no, it's all right,' I said. 'I won't let anyone punish you.'

And I will not let Marcus Crassus destroy you
,
I thought, though I dared not speak aloud so rash a pledge. Fortune herself might hear, and smite me for making promises even a god could not be sure of keeping.

X

'When I was a girl, I would never have stooped to painting a fresco. One painted in encaustic on panels of canvas or wood, using an easel, and never, never in fresco on a wall; so my mentor taught me. "Wall painters are mere workmen," he would say, "while an easel painter, ah, an easel painter is treated like the very hand of Apollo! Easel painters receive all the glory, and the gold. Make your reputation on the easel and they will flock to you like pigeons to the Forum." My, that's a nasty bump on your forehead.'

Iaia's appearance was very different from that of the night before at dinner. Gone were the jewellery and the elegant gown; instead she was dressed in a shapeless long-sleeved garment that reached to the floor. It was made of coarse linen and spattered all over with dabs of colour. Her young assistant was similarly dressed, and even more remarkably beautiful by the light of day. Together they looked like priestesses of some strange cult of women who wore their paints upon their clothing rather than their faces.

The skylight above filled the little circular anteroom with a cone of yellow light, around which swirled a vortex of underwater blues and greens populated by silvery wisps of fish and weird monsters of the deep. The figures were remarkably fluid and superbly shaded, and the rendering of the water itself produced illusions of impossible depth; Eco and I together with arms outstretched could have reached from wall to wall, but in

places the murky depths appeared to recede forever. Had it not been for the jumble of scaffolding and drop cloths, the scene might have been almost frighteningly real, like a dream of death by drowning.

'Of course, these days, I'm long past scrambling for commissions,' Iaia continued. 'I made my fortune back in the good old days. Did you know that in my prime I was better paid than even Sopolis? It's true. Every rich matron in Rome wanted her portrait painted by the strange young lady from Cyzicus. Now I paint what I want and when I want. This project is just a favour for Gelina. One day we were leaving the baths, feeling all fresh and relaxed, and she complained about how plain this room was. Suddenly I had a vision offish, fish, fish everywhere! Fish flying above our heads and octopi coiling at our feet. And dolphins, darting through the seaweed. What do you think?'

'Astounding,' I said. Eco gazed about the room and shook out his hands as if he were sopping wet.

Iaia laughed. 'It's almost finished now. There's no real painting left to be done. We're at the stage of sealing the watercolours with an encaustic varnish, which is why these slaves are helping. There's no real skill to the job, just smoothing on the varnish with a brush, but I have to watch them to be sure nothing's damaged. Olympias, nudge that one over there, on the top scaffold. He's putting it on too thick - the colours will never show through.'

Olympias looked down from above our heads and smiled. I secretly pinched Eco, whose slack-jawed stare was not in response to the artwork around us.

'Ah, yes, in the good old days I could never have taken on a project like this one,' Iaia went on. 'My mentor wouldn't have allowed it. I can just imagine his reaction. "Too vulgar," he'd have said, "too
merely
decorative. Painting histories or fables with a moral point is one thing, but painting fish? Portraits are your strong point, Iaia, and portraits of women, at that; no man can paint a woman half so well as you can. But one look at these staring fish heads and no Roman matron will ever allow you to paint her! She'd be looking for traces of satire in every brush-stroke!" Well, that's what my old mentor would have said. But now, if I wish to paint fish, by Neptune, I'll paint fish. I think they're lovely.'

She seemed quite enraptured by her own skill, an immodesty perhaps forgivable in an artist in the final stages of an almost-done creation. 'I can see why you became renowned for your portraits,' I said. 'I saw your picture of Gelina in the library.'

Her smile wavered. 'Yes, I did that only a year ago. Gelina wanted it for a birthday present, for Lucius. We spent weeks working on it, out on her private terrace at the north end of the house, in her room where Lucius never went, so it would be a surprise.'