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 indistinguishable,’ 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.