‘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.
‘Ah, citizen!’
‘Paulus! What brings you here? You have not come for water. You have no jug, I see.’ On the other hand, I noticed, he had no weapon either.
He smiled weakly. ‘No, citizen. I came to look for you. Andretha said you had come this way. Aulus, the gatekeeper, wishes to see you. He has information, he says, which he forgot yesterday — and he cannot leave his post.’