The Germanicus Mosaic (13 page)

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.

I was not looking forward to the funeral. Formal Roman funerals are not warm, undisciplined, tumultuous events like the Celtic ones, where the mead and tears and tales flow copiously far into the night, and which always end with a magical quality in the telling of old myths in the firelight. Roman rites are organised, tedious, demanding affairs, even when one has genuine affection for the deceased and has not recently been knocked on the head.

What with lengthy torchlight processions, long graveside speeches and elaborate religious observances – all in the cold and dark – it is a wonder that more of those attending do not have funerals of their own shortly afterwards. With a cremation these problems are magnified. The ashes must be reverently collected into the funerary urn and laid to rest, and that can hardly be done with dignity until the deceased has cooled a little. It seemed likely to be a very long night.

There was to be a funeral banquet first, it appeared, for the living. It is not always arranged that way, of course. More often the feast is held after the ritual, and many a man has been laid to rest without a single morsel being consumed at his expense. But Crassus had dictated ‘preliminary refreshments’ in his will – perhaps to ensure that he had a decent retinue of mourners for the occasion – and Andretha was interpreting this liberally.

He was expecting at least thirty. Crassus was wealthy enough to have his own
clientes
, the local hangers-on who court and flatter any man of substance, and he had always been careful to flatter and court the more powerful in his turn – as he had courted Marcus, for instance. Most of these were doubtless the ‘substitute heirs’ named in his will, and it would have been unseemly for them not to attend the funeral, even if they were a long way down the list of substitutes and therefore unlikely to see a single denarius of his money. Especially unseemly if a dinner was provided. So, for a man who must have had few friends in life, it promised to be quite a party.

The slaves, who had been working non-stop preparing for the funeral, or taking their turn at the lament, now turned their attention to arranging the feast. The smell of boiled meats and cooking spices from the kitchen mingled with the aromatic herbs from the death room: whatever delights the dead man was taking with him for the afterlife were likely to be served also at the banquet. There was no point in cooking twice. Slaves were already hard at work in the public rooms, sweeping floors, arranging greenery and trimming the wicks of lamps and candles.

I put on my toga again and went into the atrium, attended by Junio. I had already obtained a little barley stew for him, like the other slaves attending the funeral, otherwise he would not have been fed until after the feast. I wanted him beside me at the cremation. Marcus was nowhere to be seen but Andretha was already in the main lobby, fussing over arrangements.

‘Ah, citizen.’ He bobbed over as soon as he saw me, full of agitation as ever. ‘You are a friend of Marcus, you can advise me. Would it be proper, do you think, to ask him to make the oblations? There is no member of the family to do it.’

I could see his dilemma. According to strict Roman custom a libation should be offered daily at the household shrine to placate the god of household accounts and the spirits of the store cupboards, and to honour the
genius paterfamilias
. That little figurine is always accorded particular reverence, representing as it does both the householder’s own personal guardian spirit and the emperor himself, in his role as protector of his citizens. Whenever a formal meal is served, a sample of the food and wine is always offered to these gods first. I recall Crassus making the oblations before that banquet of his, and showing the utmost devotion to his
genius
, in particular. Only, of course, Crassus was not here to make the offering, and his brother would certainly refuse to do it, even if he consented to be present.

‘It has not been a problem before,’ Andretha fretted. ‘There has been no proper meal served since the festival, and since Lucius is presumably the head of household now, I was not especially concerned. I thought he would have all the Roman statues and shrines destroyed. I kept the Vestal fires burning – I think the other slaves would have panicked otherwise – but I did not concern myself with the lararia. But now Marcus’ messenger has returned from Lucius at last, telling us that he will not attend, but that we should continue to honour Crassus’ wishes until the house is sold. My master would have wished to sacrifice to all the proper gods, especially at his funeral.’