Chapter Eleven
Paulus, however, was nowhere to be found.
Junio came back apologetic. ‘I am sorry, master, I cannot find him anywhere. And why are you not on the bed, resting?’
I was asking myself the same question. While he was out of the room, I had clambered unsteadily out of bed. My head spun and my legs were strangely reluctant to hold me. They seemed to have turned into river eels. Nevertheless, years of slave life had taught me harsh habits. If I could stand up, I preferred to do so. One is less vulnerable on one’s feet.
‘You can thank Faustina’s herbs,’ I said, as cheerfully as I could manage. ‘I think they are working.’ There was some truth in that. I was feeling better. Groggy, but better. ‘Anyway, Marcus expects me to attend this funeral; I should like to practise walking and standing a little first. A little fresh air perhaps? A short stroll up to the nymphaeum?’ I did not mention my previous venture in that direction, or the mysterious footsteps which had followed me. Junio would have deduced that the footsteps belonged to my attacker and, fearing another attack, prevented me from going — or rather (since he was a servant and couldn’t personally prevent me from doing anything) he would have told Marcus, which came to the same thing.
So I kept my counsel and went to the water temple, glad of the fresh air against my face. Junio accompanied me, grumbling all the while.
‘If you should fall, now, what would become of you? And what would Marcus say if he heard that I’d brought you out here and you collapsed? He’d have me whipped.’
‘I shall have you whipped myself,’ I growled, ‘if you don’t stop jabbering. Look down there and tell me what you see.’ I felt feeble enough, without his dwelling on it.
We had reached the nymphaeum by this time, a small semi-circular temple on pillars, enclosing a clear pool. The back wall was of natural stone, and from its base the water bubbled up, fresh from the spring, under the gaze of a slightly ferocious stone deity on a plinth. Beside the statue I could see the funeral niche, ready prepared, with room inside it for the urn and the feeding amphora — though putting food and drink into that on the anniversary of death was likely to be a damp business, given the position of the spring. There was also a space, I noticed, for a large carved stone over the niche. No doubt Crassus had left instructions for the inscription.
‘I can see the little side gate, and the lane,’ Junio said, making me jump. I had forgotten asking the question. ‘And the villa — at least, the back and side of it. There is nobody there, only the slaves — eight, nine, ten of them.’
‘What are they doing?’
‘The usual things — fetching wood, sweeping the court, two of them tending the gardens, a couple of kitchen slaves with a chicken, someone coming this way with a jug, Andretha looking important. . you can see all this for yourself; why do you ask?’
‘I was thinking,’ I said. ‘The path which leads up here is invisible from the house. I noticed that yesterday. That is interesting. It is difficult for a man — especially a rich man — to be alone and unobserved in a villa. Nobody there, you said — and yet there are ten of them.’
‘Eleven now,’ he said. ‘There is Paulus, at last.’
‘Then you can help me back to the house,’ I said, ‘and go and fetch him to me.’ I would be glad, in fact, to sit down again. Faustina’s herbs were good, but they were not magical. And I had seen all I wanted to see. I had examined the path carefully coming up, and I did the same going down, but there was no hint of my pursuer of the day before: no tell-tale little pieces of cloth or unexplained footprints. I didn’t really expect there to be. Slaves must have been coming and going for water all day. The lad with the ewer, for instance, arrived again as we were leaving.
It took me longer than I expected to get back to the villa, even on Junio’s arm, and I tried to divert his attention from my difficulties by telling him everything I had learned about the household. Then when, at last, I was lying back on my cushions again, he went off to find Paulus. He was back in a trice.
‘I found him just outside the door, master,’ Junio said, ushering in the barber. ‘He says Andretha posted him there, ready to serve you.’
‘You were not there a little while ago,’ I said, though I remembered that at other times Paulus seemed to make a habit of being close outside my door.
Paulus smiled weakly. ‘I have just come from the lament, citizen. Andretha arranged a roster. It was my turn to wail.’ Ironic, I thought, to be obliged to mourn a man that you hated. ‘When I had finished, I was to wait outside your room again in case you wanted anything. Of course you have your own slave now, but those were my orders.’
‘Very well,’ I said, feeling very clever and devious. ‘I do want something. Marcus wants me to attend this funeral this evening, and I have not trimmed my hair or had a shave for two days. I am in danger of looking like Hadrian.’ That wily old emperor had sported a beard, and set a brief fashion, years ago. ‘You are a barber. You can do it for me.’
Junio shot me an astonished glance. I do occasionally visit a barber shop in Glevum — it is almost as good as the public baths for hearing the town’s gossip — but on the whole I prefer to avoid their nose-hair tweezers and their bear-fat-and-ashes treatments for thinning hair. A simple piece of Roman pumice and a dab of oil suffices me, or for special occasions, a painful scrape with a sharpened blade from Junio himself.
He had enough wit, however, to say nothing.
I watched Paulus carefully. Would he betray anxiety? Make excuses? Go and rummage for the knife?
For a moment it seemed promising. Paulus clearly was both flattered and terrified. ‘Yes, citizen. At once. I need only to collect my tools. .’
I produced my masterstroke. ‘Go with him, Junio. Help him to carry them.’
Junio nodded. I did not need to tell him what I wanted — someone to watch Paulus.
The barber looked startled. ‘I have a carrying-tray, citizen. There is no need. .’
‘All the same,’ I said. ‘I would prefer that he went with you.’ I was improvising wildly. ‘Someone hit me on the head yesterday, close to your bed. If Junio looks carefully he may discover something which will tell us who or why.’
‘Citizen, there will be nothing there. I can promise that. The sleeping spaces are cleaned and swept daily. Andretha insists on it. Truly, there is nothing to be found. In any case, Junio has examined the place already. I found him there earlier.’
‘I will come with you anyway,’ Junio put in quickly. ‘I can tell you which oils my master prefers — and I have this drinking-cup to return to Faustina. But I will see that Marcus leaves a guard posted outside this door this time. The citizen keeps ordering me away but he does not require another blow on the head.’
Faustina’s brew, I thought, had improved my head — but not enough. I should have thought of that danger myself. I should have thought of others, too. Was it safe, for instance, to let Junio go to the slave quarters with Paulus?
It was too late now. The two young slaves had gone.
Now I did come to think of it, I felt in no real danger myself, especially with one of Marcus’ guards at the door. That blow on the head had been hard, deliberately hard, but it had not been meant to kill. Surely a killer would have struck again? I had been helpless. A second blow could have finished me, but it was never given.
Suppose the attacker had intended to strike again, but was prevented? Because he was surprised in the act, perhaps? Or because spending too long at that time and place would have betrayed him? Andretha was outside, supervising the loading of the logs. He would have noticed anyone coming to the building.