Tired as I was, that jolted me awake. How had he died? You can’t just stuff a healthy man into a fire and expect him obligingly to stay there. Yet there were no stab wounds on the body, and the charred skull bore no signs of a blow. Drink perhaps, to render him unconscious? Or poison? That was more likely; Crassus had a strong head for drink. In that case a woman might have done it. It would take a strong man to carry that weight any distance, but even a woman could have managed to hoist the top half of Crassus into the furnace, if he were already lying lifeless at her feet. But (I kept coming back to the same question) why do it at all? His sword was at hand. Even if the man was merely unconscious, why not simply slit his throat and run?
If I knew the answer to that, I thought, I would have the key to everything. And what about those confounded soldiers?
I slept fitfully at last, dreaming of furnaces.
When I awoke, morning was already streaming through Crassus’ smart glass windows, the bluish green of their light criss-crossed on the bedcovers by the shadow of the supporting wooden grills. An interesting pattern for a mosaic, I had time to think to myself, before a timid voice addressed me.
‘You are awake, citizen? Andretha bade me bring you these.’
It was a young house-slave bearing a wooden carrying-board. I had noticed him when I was here laying the librarium mosaic, a slight, dark-haired youth with dandified manners and a perpetually hunted look. He had interested me then, with his pale skin, anxious brown eyes, and general air of having learned to run backwards more quickly than forwards, but (since a pavement maker has little time for idle gossip, especially when he is working for Crassus in a hurry) I had never spoken to him until the interview yesterday with Marcus. For a moment I could not speak to him even now. I was too busy goggling at the array of toilet accessories laid out on his tray.
A phial of perfumed oil for cleansing, a fine curved strigil to scrape it off with, and even a sponge-stick for more private ablutions, in case I should have omitted to bring my own and wished to visit the latrine. And a fine bowl of rainwater, with fresh blossom floating in it, so that I could rinse my skin.
I grinned. All this luxury and a formal title, too! Andretha was certainly nervous. When I was working at the villa, walking the weary miles to and fro with my twist of bread and cheese in my pouch, I was lucky to get a grunt and permission to rinse the stone-dust off in the garden water-butt.
Now, though, I was no longer a simple craftsman. I was ‘citizen’, an associate of Marcus, in a toga and an imperial gig, and Andretha must be falling over himself to repair the damage. I suspected he had even troubled to take the chill off the rainwater. I trailed a finger in its cool depths.
The slaveboy misinterpreted the gesture and hastened an apology. ‘I am sorry, citizen. We did not like to. .’ He trailed off.
Light the boiler for the bathhouse, he meant. It had not occurred to me. Even in my slave days I had never lived in a villa grand enough to have its own bathhouse. But of course Crassus had one. It was the kind of display of wealth and Romanness which he particularly enjoyed — and which, since he was ambitious, he probably needed. A citizen who possesses property in excess of 400,000 sesterces is, of course, eligible for election to the ranks of the equites and Crassus would have loved to become a knight. A display of expensive possessions was a first step on that ladder.
Hence the famous librarium pavement, of course, and the inlaid table I had seen in the atrium. That alone must have been worth a chief’s ransom. It probably was a chief’s ransom. After what Marcus had said about Crassus’ reputation in the army, it was not hard to form a shrewd suspicion about how the centurion had amassed his wealth. Strictly illegal of course — serving officers are not permitted to take private bribes — but then, technically the inlaid table was probably not a bribe at all, but a ‘gift’. With a sword at their throats it is astonishing how generous people can suddenly feel, especially if Germanicus’ reputation for ruthlessness had gone before him.
I realised that the slaveboy was still staring at me, like a nervous mouse.
‘Of course you could not stoke the furnace, in the circumstances,’ I said lazily, as if a luxurious bodily dip in hot and cold water was a normal daily occurrence for me. ‘In any case, I would like to look at the stokehouse again, and see the body before it is moved. There are one or two little details I would like to confirm.’
The boy shook his head apologetically. ‘It is too late, citizen. Andretha has had the body brought into the house, to be anointed and washed for the funeral.’
That news brought me out of bed abruptly. ‘Already?’
The slave took a step backwards, as if I had offered to strike him. ‘Your pardon, citizen. Andretha asked permission last night, and his excellence Marcus Aurelius Septimus agreed. It was done at once. Andretha thought it was unfitting to leave the master in the stokehouse overnight, even under guard.’
I could see his point. It was undignified. And with the stream running near the villa there was always the risk of rats. Or worse. Even this close to Glevum there were sometimes sightings of wolves or bears. One of them would make short work of a corpse, especially a tastily toasted one.
I nodded doubtfully. ‘All the same. .’ Surely Andretha must have guessed that I would wish to examine the place in daylight, with the illumination of the morning sun? Or was this hurry to remove the body because he knew that I would want to view the scene?
I looked at the scented rainwater. Of course, this was a matter of life and death to him, so naturally Andretha was over-anxious to please. But was it my imagination, or was he trying a little too desperately, like a man who has something to hide? ‘All the same. .’ I said again. I slipped off my under-tunic and began to pummel myself enthusiastically with the oil, thereby preventing the slaveboy from offering help, as he had obviously intended.
He began to offer explanations instead. ‘There is much to arrange, citizen. Funerary libations, the funeral litter, musicians — professional mourners and an orator even, since there is no family to do it.’
‘No family?’ I queried, remembering the librarium pavement. ‘There is a brother, surely?’
The boy nodded. ‘Yes, citizen, there is. His name is Lucius. He was here a week or so ago. Andretha has sent a messenger after him already, but it is doubtful that he will come.’
I paused in my oiling to prick up my ears at this. ‘They quarrelled?’
‘No quarrel, no. Only they had been apart for years, and Lucius has changed. Completely. Crassus was. .’ He trailed off nervously, as if he had said too much.
‘Crassus was what?’ I demanded.
He dropped his voice, and whispered guiltily, ‘Disappointed. He had been boasting for weeks about his brother’s visit — the drink, the women, the banquets he would hold. .’
I nodded. I had been a guest at one of Crassus’ banquets. He had held it in Marcus’ honour — another move in the game of seeking preferment. Marcus, knowing he wanted a pavement, had taken me as part of his retinue and gained me the commission. I had vivid memories of what Crassus’ banquets could be like.
‘But Lucius was not interested?’ I prompted.
‘The fact is, citizen, he has joined the new religion, the Christians, and he has given it all up — gambling, drinking, swearing, fornicating, everything Crassus was looking forward to. Dresses like a hermit and lives on alms. He spent his time here trying to persuade Crassus to repent.’