He was interested. ‘You have seen the curse-tablet?’
‘No, but I am sure it could be found. I should have suspected something like this earlier. I found a lock of hair under his bed. I’m sure now it came from Crassus. Obtained from the barber slave, no doubt. Almost certainly it was used to strengthen the charm – a piece of the cursed man’s hair is said to double the force of any curse. He went back to get a strand or two, secretly, while the other slaves were waiting on the farm cart – probably intending to save the rest for further imprecations. No wonder he was so troubled at its effectiveness that he kept breaking his lute strings.’
‘So, it was not Rufus. Do you know who it was?’
‘I think so, excellence. But I need your help.’
‘Someone else at the villa, I suppose? Libertus, you have a generous spirit, but there is little point in this. Merely one slave’s life against another – and strictly, we could execute them all.’
‘Regina was not a slave,’ I said.
He looked at me. ‘Regina? I have searched for her, as you asked. There is no trace of her.’
I told him.
There was less of an explosion than I was expecting. He raged for a moment. ‘Digging up the mosaic! Without authorisation? I should have you flayed!’
‘Should have you flayed’ I noticed, not ‘shall’. I began to breathe again. ‘Her throat was cut,’ I ventured.
‘Murdered?’ he said.
I quelled any temptation to answer that ironically. ‘It seems so.’
‘By whom? By Crassus? Or by one of his household?’
‘Her throat was cut,’ I said carefully, ‘with a novacula, it seems.’
That did it. I saw his eyes light with interest, and there was no trace of irritation as he said, ‘With a novacula. Like the one you found?’
‘The one Junio found,’ I said. ‘Yes,’ I added theatrically, ‘perhaps with that very blade.’
‘Great Jove,’ he said. ‘And Paulus could not be found when I wanted him. Where is the barber now?’
‘Missing,’ I said. ‘Although I think I know where to find him. And we should hurry, excellence. We shall find ourselves investigating the death of Lucius next.’
That roused him. ‘Then I will put on a toga and come with you.’ I had been hoping for that. It is always better if Marcus suggests these things himself. ‘I will arrange a gig at once. Go and see to it.’ This last to the slave who had been waiting patiently, and who trotted off at once at the command. Marcus turned to me. ‘Why did you not tell me about this at once?’
Since there was no possible answer to this, I merely grinned apologetically, and followed with Junio to the building where my patron had his apartment. Like all wealthy men he inhabited the first floor, a spacious suite of rooms immediately above the wine shop. I had visited the place before and it was impressive: stone floors, painted plasterwork and real windows. There was even a balcony, although it was not a good place to stand. It was too vulnerable to anything thrown down from above. I have waited for Marcus on that balcony before, and can bear witness to the interesting varieties of refuse – and worse – tipped into the street from overhead. There were times when I preferred my own humble habitation. At least I rented it whole, ‘from soil to sky’ as the law went.
We were not invited onto the balcony today. Marcus left us to wait outside on the landing, to my relief, among a small crowd of ‘hangers-on’ who had collected to see Marcus, and a bunch of inquisitive inhabitants from the cramped, bug-infested and overcrowded flats upstairs.
It was not long, however, before Marcus himself reappeared, resplendent in patrician purple edging and spotless linen. It must have taken five slaves to get him ready so soon. He waved an imperious hand and the crowd melted away like frost in the sunshine. The gig was ready and waiting too, together with a driver and a few mounted soldiers as guards provided by the local garrison. I was obviously not the only one who respected the possibility that my patron might have real imperial lineage. Marcus got in and motioned me to follow. Junio stood beside the gig, hesitating.
‘We need Junio,’ I said, daringly, and Marcus nodded. Junio clambered in, wide-eyed, and crouched at my feet, where he remained uncomfortably for the whole jolting, breathtaking journey.
It took only two thirds as long in the gig. It was harder on the bones, but the lighter conveyance seemed fairly to rattle along the roads, and with our armed outriders other traffic moved smartly aside to let us pass. Even a troop of soldiers parted ranks to let the official carriage through. We stopped again for horses, at the posting station, but this time we were offered spiced meats and almond cakes, not the mere bread and cheese of my last visit – that was reserved for Junio and the cavalrymen. (The exquisite envoy would have been chagrined, I thought, to know what luxuries real rank afforded.)
It can barely have been three hours before we turned down the little lane and I found myself outside the Dubonnai roundhouse again.
The appearance of the soldiers created a far greater stir than my fashionable companion of a few days before. I imagine the roundhouse dwellers associated the military with land seizures or with tax. No sooner had the gig stopped than the entire household hurried to the entrance of the enclosure, and formed up in lines to greet us. Marcus smiled, but I could read the signs. Women and children at the back, shielded by their menfolk. The males deferential and polite, but armed. The family were ready for trouble.
Marcus descended from the gig. ‘From your Roman governors, greetings!’ They abased themselves appropriately. He turned to me. ‘You talk to them, Libertus.’ Obviously the envoy had told him that I spoke the language.
I stepped forward, allowing my face to be seen, and deliberately catching the eye of the woman who had provided the oatcakes. ‘We have come to see the hermit,’ I explained, in Celtic. Some of the tension vanished. ‘We think there is a criminal in his cave.’
‘There is a boy there,’ the woman volunteered. ‘He arrived about an hour ago. I was a bit worried about letting him go up there – he looked a bad type, dirty and wild-eyed, dangerous almost. I went up myself with my son, to take some barley loaf and cheese, just to make sure, but Lucius came out and told us not to worry. It was just a runaway slave, he said, and rightfully his.’
‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘It is a long story. We have come to take him away before any further harm is done.’
‘And quickly,’ Marcus said, taking his lead from me. ‘You know the way, lead on.’
I hesitated. I thought I knew, now, what had happened, but I could not prove it – yet. I said, ‘Give me a little time to talk to the fellow alone.’ That was important. I would never gain his confidence while Marcus was there.
Marcus looked doubtful. ‘But I want to talk to Lucius. About the villa.’
‘A little while, that is all.’ I looked around for some way to mark the time. ‘Look at the tree. Wait till the sun has passed behind the highest branch, then follow me. That should give me time for my purpose. Junio, you stay here with Marcus in case you are needed. And do not fear for me, I’ll take the soldiers with me.’
Marcus looked doubtful, but he agreed, and off we went. Great Minerva, they knew how to march, those men! They were not infantry, but they strode up that hill as if it were the merest ridge-furrow, with me struggling breathlessly after them.
‘Wait,’ I panted, as we reached the final slope. ‘Let me go on ahead, I want to—’
I broke off. The hermit had seen us coming. He was standing outside his cave, hands folded at his belt, and was confronting us, his hood half-obscuring his face, very still, very solid, very determined.
I said to him, ‘We have come for Paulus.’
The eyes beneath the cowl hardly flickered. ‘He has come to cast himself on my mercy.’
‘Then you know what he has done? It is an offence – you cannot shelter him. The price is execution.’ I raised my voice. ‘Paulus, come out. Come out or I will send the soldiers in.’
There
was a silence.
‘Very well,’ I said, producing my best impression of an officer. ‘Cavalry detachment—’
‘All right,’ said a little voice. Paulus came trembling out of the cave. ‘I’m here. Don’t beat me. I confess. The head—’
I silenced him. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That misled me for a time. Heads. The head of a corpse in the hypocaust, the head of a statue hidden in a tree. And then of course I realised that it was intended to mislead. I was supposed to concentrate on the heads, to make connections between heads and Druid ritual. It drew attention to you, Paulus, but at the same time drew attention away from the brutal truth.’
‘Which was?’ the hermit said.
‘It was a much simpler murder. We have found damning evidence. There was a woman’s body buried at the villa – Crassus’ bride, Regina. Her throat had been cut with a novacula. A novacula which Paulus admitted was his own. It was found bloodstained, hidden in his bed—’
‘I didn’t kill her,’ Paulus interrupted. His voice was almost a shriek. ‘I came to find my new master, because—’
I whirled on him. ‘Quiet! How dare you interrupt a citizen. Silence him at once.’
One of the burliest soldiers stepped forward and seized the barber, one hand forcing his arms behind his back, the other clamped across his mouth.
‘A novacula, you say?’ The hermit had not heard of our find. He stared at me, white-faced under the beard.
‘And there is more,’ I said. ‘The barber used ointments in his work. Regina was an expert in herbs. She had a chest of potions, some of them deadly. That chest has not been seen since she died, but one of her phials was found, empty, on the rubbish pile, the day of the funeral.’
Paulus shut his eyes in anguish, but he could not speak.
‘With fatal liquids on his tray Paulus would have a thousand opportunities to murder his master. One nick is enough to introduce poison, and he cut Crassus badly the day before the procession. I imagine he applied one of Regina’s ointments, claiming it would staunch the bleeding. Not all poisons kill instantly – my own slave pointed out that if Crassus was poisoned, the murderer need not have been there when he died. Paulus hated his master. It would have pleased him to see Crassus die in public at the parade.’
The barber gave a little hopeless moan, but I carried on inexorably.
‘Only, it was not Crassus in the procession, it was Daedalus, taking his master’s place for a wager. Did Paulus slip away to see what had happened – he told me himself he had left the others at the festival – and stab Daedalus in the back with his centurion’s dagger?’
The hermit was looking at me steadily, the grey eyes very glittering. ‘Why should he kill Daedalus?’
‘Daedalus died,’ I said, ‘because he knew too much. Just that. That is the problem with murder, one killing leads to another.’ I turned to the soldiers. ‘You may have Paulus now. Take him to Marcus. Bind him, gag him, and take him away. I have some business to conclude with Lucius. Tell his excellence I shall not be long.’
I watched them bear the slaveboy, struggling, down the hill.
Chapter Twenty-five
The hermit watched them go. Paulus was being half-dragged, half-carried, as if his legs had failed beneath him.
‘Unfortunate young man!’ My companion turned to me with genuine emotion. ‘You did well, citizen, to fathom the truth. It was a subtle crime.’
‘More subtle than I thought,’ I said. ‘I underestimated the lengths to which fear will drive a man. Perhaps you guess yourself what danger you were in when we arrived here. I think we narrowly averted another killing.’
‘Mithras!’ The smile grew graver. ‘You think so? He meant to kill me? Citizen, I cannot thank you enough for coming here.’ His eyes searched my face. ‘But you have business with me?’
‘About the villa,’ I said.
He smiled. ‘Have you the leisure to break bread with me again?’
I glanced down the valley, where the gig was just visible in the distance. There was no sign of Marcus. ‘I think I might accept,’ I said. ‘My patron is being fêted by the Celts.’
I followed him into the cave again, and took my seat on the stool, watching as he poured out two goblets of watered wine. The woman’s barley loaves were on the bench, a single slice of cheese, and two bunches of the same meagre herbs I had observed before.
‘Wine?’ I said, in surprise, taking the goblet he offered.
He smiled. ‘From Crassus’ cellar. I have three amphorae here, for medicinal use. I meant to give some to that unfortunate boy. I was preparing a meal for him. He was so consumed with terror, I felt a little sustenance would help.’ He picked up a wooden platter on which a piece of bread, filled liberally with herbs and cheese, was already lying. ‘Take it, citizen. It is not much, but it is all I have.’ He went to the bench, carved an end from the barley loaf, and began to prepare a similar meal for himself.
I took a tentative sip of wine, and waited until he came to join me. Roman politeness demanded that, at least.
‘So,’ he said, cutting a slice of cheese with that handsome knife, ‘what will you do now, citizen, since you have resolved this mystery? Go back to your pavements?’
‘I have a commission for Caius Didio,’ I said. ‘I hope to start work on that again tomorrow. It leads me to a delicate matter, Lucius. The librarium pavement at the villa. Crassus commissioned it, but he never paid, and under the circumstances I can hardly ask Marcus . . .’ I smiled hopefully.
‘Of course.’ He laughed. ‘You have dug it up again. Well, I will see what I can do.’ He came to join me, settling himself on the mattress as before.
‘And will you pardon the other slaves, now Paulus is arrested? Even Rufus? As a Christian, I suppose you will? Marcus would be glad of your seal on these matters. I have brought a wax-book for the purpose.’ I detached the small hinged tablet-book which hung at my girdle, opened it flat, and scratched a few words there with the stylus. Then I handed it to him and watched while he read what I had written and imprinted the wax carefully with his signet ring. The ring was so loose that he had to take it off to make the mark.
‘There.’ He folded the tablet in half again and gave it back to me. ‘Marcus will be pleased, now that you have caught Paulus.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘You reason well, citizen. I would never have connected him with the murders. He is too timorous.’ He raised his goblet.
I did the same. Carefully. It was important, very important, that I should not allow myself to drink too much. Roman wine did not agree with me, and if I was right about my companion I needed my wits about me. On the other hand, if I showed signs of inebriation, I would seem unthreatening. I took a gulp of wine, and appeared to savour it for a long moment. Then I put down the beaker again and took a deep breath before speaking again.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘You are quite right. The evidence looked overwhelming, but Paulus did not kill anybody. As you know.’
Silence. The hermit did not move. He seemed scarcely to be breathing.
‘He did not have the subtlety for it,’ I said. ‘These killings were the product of a shrewd and clever mind.’
He was sitting very still. ‘Then who?’
I crumbled a piece of my bread. ‘I think you know the answer, my friend. And the reasons, too. Let us start at the beginning. A soldier, who wants to gain advancement and who is too impatient to wait for legal means. He has a toothache, and when he goes to a woman who makes herbal cures, she offers him a tiny dose of aconite. Faustina told me it was a common cure. He knows little about herbs himself, but he knows that one.’
The hermit nodded. ‘Everyone does. A single draught is such a swift and effective poison that Trajan had to forbid the citizens of Rome to grow it on their property.’ He was still sipping his wine.
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Our soldier sees a chance. The woman is plain and thin, and has no dowry – her family was dispossessed. She will be lucky to find a husband. He courts her, promises to marry her as s
oon as he is legally able. But in return he begs a favour – a strong infusion of aconite.’ I looked at my companion.
‘Go on,’ he said. He was eating his bread and herbs, now, but he paid the meal scant attention. He was watching me intently.
I produced a slightly tipsy smile. ‘But our soldier has a brother, not unlike himself, a man who enjoys a drink and a wager. They have been in many scrapes together. With his help the poison is administered, at a gambling party perhaps – on an occasion when there are a dozen witnesses to swear that our man was a score of miles away.’
The hermit said softly, ‘I admit nothing. But supposing the brother does not even know about the poison? It is explained to him as a practical joke. A laxative in the wine, perhaps, and when the man is taken ill, the brother goes home chuckling. Something like that? That does not make him culpable.’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘I do not think the brother knew of the aconite. He lacked his brother’s ruthless streak. But the military court might not be so forgiving. The army does not forgive treachery in the ranks, even years after the crime.’ I was slurring my words, and I looked at my goblet doubtfully. ‘This is strong vintage, Lucius. It has gone to my head already.’
He poured a little more into each of our drinking cups. ‘It is Crassus’ wine. You may thank him for the quality. But go on. Your theory interests me.’
I took another sip. ‘The soldier gained his promotion, but when the company was posted elsewhere, he left the woman behind. She must have suspected.’ I took care that it sounded like ‘shuspected’, and that the hand that held my plate was trembling. ‘But she could prove nothing, and if she spoke, would only imp – imp – licate herself.’ I looked at my wine again, rather foolishly. ‘This is very strong.’
‘I should have given you more water with it.’ He fetched me some from the ewer. He was beginning to move a little drunkenly himself. ‘So, he gains a centurion’s salary. A clever rogue.’
The Germanicus Mosaic Page 20