‘I think I should speak to him myself.’
I went out to the kitchen, following Andretha. It was in a separate building at the end of the wing, isolated from the house: Germanicus, of course, had built in the latest fashion and this arrangement was supposed to prevent fires. Certainly it prevented the food being very hot when it was served, as I knew from that supper I had shared with Marcus, and the banquet I had attended.
It was hot enough in the kitchen, however, and crowded, too. Slaves hurried about with charcoal for the baking oven and platters for the table, while cooks stirred at bubbling cauldrons suspended on hooks, sliced vegetables with wicked knives, pounded spices in mortaria, or carried bubbling pans from the hot griddles on the hearth. Amidst all this Rufus, standing at the table, was gulping hot stew from an unglazed bowl.
My toga provoked an instant consternation. Cooks stopped in mid-stir and stood staring, their ladles suspended and dripping. Boys ceased to stoke the fires, and the lad setting the baked bread on the serving discus dropped his platter with a crash. Rufus gaped.
I remembered what had been said about his truthfulness. ‘The statue,’ I said cheerfully. ‘The genius paterfamilias. What did you do with it?’
He stood like a statue himself. ‘I. . nothing.’
‘I asked you to take it in to the anointers,’ Andretha said, bristling with self-importance.
‘It wasn’t there,’ Rufus said, finding his tongue again. ‘I went to look for it as soon as I got my string — but it wasn’t there. I presumed you had sent someone else for it, while I was stringing the lute.’
‘You didn’t mention that it wasn’t there?’ I asked.
Rufus looked at me. ‘I was frightened. I supposed someone else had fetched it — that I had not responded fast enough and that I risked a beating. I hoped that having so much to do, with the funeral preparations, perhaps Andretha had forgotten my failure. I didn’t remind him.’ He swallowed. ‘I didn’t break it.’
‘Break it?’ I said. ‘I didn’t suppose you broke it. The statue is missing.’
‘Missing?’ Rufus paled. ‘I didn’t take it, either.’
One of the slaves with the platters chimed in. I had almost forgotten their presence. ‘It wasn’t there yesterday morning, citizen. I noticed when I was cleaning. But it was broken. I saw it the day before. The head had been chipped off. We were talking about it, we younger ones. We. .’ He paused, embarrassed. ‘We thought it was taken down because the master was dead. That Lucius had ordered it to be destroyed. But it was not our place to ask.’
I turned to Andretha. ‘Did you know of this?’
He didn’t. ‘No one,’ he said, flapping like an outraged hawk, ‘would dare do such a thing.’
‘Well then,’ I said, ironically, ‘perhaps it was an act of the gods.’
I wasn’t prepared for the effect on Rufus. He licked his lips nervously and turned deathly white. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I admit it. It was on the feast of Mars. When we had come back to the villa and were waiting for Crassus to come back, I was sent to tend the brazier in the atrium and I happened to look at the shrine. The genius was on the floor — it seemed to have been knocked over. I replaced it and stood it upright. It was damaged; the statue was chipped in several places and the head was broken off.’
My mind was racing. Could this be true, or had Rufus for once invented a story to explain his own actions? Could being used to deliver a blow to a human head, for instance, damage a small stone statue?
I said, ‘You told no one about this?’
‘No. I was afraid. I knew I would be blamed if I reported it, and when Crassus’ body was found, I was even more worried. That statue was virtually his talisman. I did not even look at the niche again, in case I drew attention to it. When I was sent to fetch the statue and it was not there, I was relieved. I thought someone else had taken it to the anointers.’
And someone else would get the blame, I thought, but I did not say so. A slave’s life is difficult enough. I took a different tack. ‘So, first the figure is mysteriously broken, then it still more mysteriously disappears. And each time it seems that you were there.’ That was not quite fair; the younger slaves had noticed its disappearance before today. But I didn’t say that either. ‘Does not that seem very strange to you?’
He was pale but he shook his head. ‘Strange, yes. But not impossible.’
‘Because you have an explanation?’
His words startled me. ‘I thought. .’ he said slowly, ‘I thought it was a sign.’
Chapter Thirteen
A stunned silence greeted this announcement. I saw the kitchen-slaves exchange glances and one of the charcoal bearers sniggered.
Andretha was the first to speak, high-pitched and anguished like an old crone shouting after apple-stealers. ‘What a pack of lies, you ignorant whelp! How dare you invent such tales! Break the statue, did you, and hide the pieces to escape suspicion? Well, don’t suppose you will escape with merely a whipping. You will be fined for this — every penny of the replacement. I am responsible for presenting the accounts. I shall not be answerable for the cost of this.’
Of course, I remembered, Andretha’s freedom and a pension depended on his balancing the books. The terms of a man’s will are taken very seriously. All the same. .
‘Come,’ I said. ‘This is harsh. You have no proof that Rufus broke it.’ That was a poor plea, admittedly. A chief steward does not need proof of misdemeanour before he disciplines a slave. ‘Besides, you yourself were going to have it burned on the pyre,’ I added.
Andretha’s face had flushed a sullen red. ‘Thank you for your advice, citizen, but this is not part of your enquiry,’ he snapped. ‘This is a household matter.’
Rufus set his bowl down on the table. ‘It makes no difference,’ he said, the girlish face set with determination. ‘It happened as I said. And Andretha can flog me all he chooses. I have no money. I cannot pay what I do not have.’
The answer seemed to infuriate Andretha still more. ‘That is not true, lute player. I have seen guests give you gifts of money when you have played for them. Recently, at that dice party, when the quaestor was flushed with wine and winnings, I saw him give you two coins then.’ He turned to two of the kitchen-slaves. ‘Take him to the librarium and lock him up. We’ll see if imprisonment will loosen his purse strings.’
I had noticed when I laid the pavement that the librarium door had been fitted with a lock. Now I knew why, I thought. To keep the slavegirls secure. To keep Rufus out. Ironic that it should now be used to keep him in. At least he would have an attractive floor in his prison. Though surely he would be wanted among the musicians tonight? ‘But the funeral. .’ I began.
We were interrupted by a slave hurrying in from the gatehouse. ‘A message from the gatekeeper, steward,’ he said breathlessly. ‘The first guests are arriving, and Marcus Aurelius Septimus already awaits you in the atrium.’
Andretha’s face was a portrait of agonised hopelessness.
‘Perhaps,’ I murmured to him, ‘it would be wise to consult Marcus on this? And Rufus could, I think, be spared for the funeral procession. The guards are armed, it would be hard for him to escape during the ceremony.’ I made a calculated guess. ‘Besides, if he plays at tonight’s banquet, someone might toss him a coin or two. He could at least begin to pay.’
Andretha wavered visibly. ‘Perhaps. .?’
I took him to one side, further out of earshot, and murmured, ‘Andretha, you are a man of the world. You will have to make some sort of shift this evening, for the funeral. It is impossible to replace the statuette tonight, but if you have to account for the figurine by having one walled into the funeral niche, it is not necessary to purchase an expensive one. No one will ever see it. And any statue consecrated to Crassus would serve to appease his spirit. You cannot use one of his war trophies, they are already dedicated to someone else, but the cruder models can be obtained anywhere in Glevum for a few sesterces.’