Who had hit me? Aulus had ‘found me’ lying there. Was that because he himself had laid me low? A sharp tap with that cudgel would be an effective sleeping draught. Or Rufus? Marcus had mentioned, now I came to consider it, that Rufus had left the mourners to restring his lute. Had he found a handy weapon somewhere and seized the moment? Or wasn’t it a ‘he’ at all? If my attacker was a woman that might explain why the blow had not been mortal.
Or was it never intended to do more than stun? To prevent me searching? I did not know. My addled brain refused to reason clearly. I could only wait on events. I was very interested in what Paulus, for instance, would do now.
And then, of course, the obvious occurred to me. Of course Paulus would not hunt for the novacula. It made no sense. Why should a barber hide a razor in his bedding, when all he had to do was place it on his tray, where it would excite no interest whatever? He might have hidden it, certainly, if it were bloodstained and he had no time to clean it — but Paulus had prepared a tray of toilet accessories for me only yesterday, and the blood on the handle was older than that. It would have been simplicity itself to clean the knife. Besides, I was found face downwards on his bed, obviously I had been searching his bedding. Anyone might wonder what I was looking for — as Junio had. A man with a guilty secret would not leave it there.
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.