The Germanicus Mosaic (21 page)

Beside me, I felt my companion stiffen.

‘Citizens?’ The lad spoke Latin haltingly. He glanced at the attendant on the carriage behind us and then at the envoy’s embroidered tunic, staff and seal. It seemed to tell him something. He ran a tongue around his lips and amended himself hastily, making a swift obeisance. ‘Excellence?’

It was a mistake, of course, but he could not have done better. The envoy was visibly flattered.

‘On his excellence’s business. We are looking for Lucius,’ he said, and then, seeing the boy’s look of bafflement, ‘Lu-ci-us, the Chri-st-i-an. On a matter of ur-gent im-port-ance.’ He spoke unnaturally loudly, as if by shouting he would somehow make the language easier to understand.

I murmured an explanation in Celtic, and the boy looked at me gratefully.

‘There is a cave up in the hills there where he has a retreat. For a long time he did not have even the simplest luxuries, but recently my mother has prevailed on him to accept a few comforts, and gifts of food now and then. Apparently his brother, too, has given him a wealth of things, though he has already sold some of them to give food to the poor.’ His dialect was not quite my own, but it was more comprehensible than his Latin. It must have been a secluded rural life indeed which had screened him so effectively from the official tongue.

I answered in my own tongue. ‘Your mother seems to know a lot about him.’

He grinned, reminding me of Junio. ‘You know what women are when it comes to holy men. Since he cured my brother, she never stops talking about him.’

I have a suspicious mind. ‘He cured your brother, you say. Does he heal with herbs?’

The boy shook his head. ‘With herbs, no. Not that I know. The only herbs I have seen him with are those he gathers to eat. No, my brother fell into the brook, and hit his head. The hermit jumped in, at the risk of his own life, and pulled him out. Elwun was given up for drowned until the hermit stretched out over him, and breathed his own breath into his nostrils. Even after he brought the boy home, he stayed here a day and night praying over him. It was all my family could do to persuade him to accept dry clothing. When Elwun recovered, it almost persuaded my mother to join the Christians.’

I was trying to imagine a relative of Crassus who would risk his life to save another. I failed. ‘A brave man,’ I murmured.

‘He is famous in the district,’ the boy said. ‘Everyone comes to him. But he isn’t one of your “I-am-better-than-you-poor-sinners” types. He lived a sinful youth, he told my mother, and is trying to atone for it.’

‘Forgive me,’ the envoy said acidly, cutting across our words in crystal accents. ‘When you have quite finished your private conversation, perhaps you would favour me with a translation?’

I explained.

‘If you know where this hermit is,’ the envoy said, ignoring me, ‘kindly send for him at once. We have a long journey ahead of us. We shall be lucky to get home before the town gates shut, as it is.’

The boy looked uncomfortable.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

The boy looked at me, and then stumbled, in poor Latin, ‘He is in mourning, excellence. The death of his brother has affected him sorely. He has not left his cell since, except to pray. He has been fasting, shaved his head and put on sackcloth and ashes. He may not wish to come.’

The envoy looked flabbergasted, rather as Jove might look if someone asked him to put down his thunderbolts. ‘Not wish to come?’

‘I am not sure that the boy has understood,’ I said quickly. ‘Perhaps if I were to speak to Lucius . . .?’

He looked at me in surprise (it was the first time I had ventured a word to him, unbidden) and then said sulkily, ‘Perhaps that would be best. Is there anywhere to sit in comfort in this cow byre?’

I translated this, politely, although from the flush on the boy’s face I imagined that he understood more Latin than he spoke. The trappings of power, however, carried their privileges even in this remote spot. One of the small boys was dispatched to alert ‘Mother’, and we were ushered into the biggest roundhouse.

It was such a dear, familiar scene that it quite brought a lump to my throat. There was the central hearth, filling the room with smoke, warmth and the smell of cooking. There were the chickens, pecking at the earth floor, and a great dog lying beside the fire, as my own dog had once used to do. There were the females of the household; the weaving frame, and an old woman working at it, while a child spun thread at her feet. It was a scene from my childhood. Only the faces were different.

When we came in, a young girl in a plaid dress was raking hot stones from the fire and dropping them into a heavy pot where there was already water and a joint of meat. In an hour or two, I knew, the lamb would be gently cooked and deliciously tender. Another woman was lifting hot oatcakes from an iron griddle laid on the hearth, and the sweet smell of baking almost made my mouth water. She wrapped three of the small loaves in a cloth and turned to greet us.

‘If you are to visit the hermit,’ she said, in her own dialect, ‘take him some of these. I am worried about that man. We have hardly seen him since his brother’s death.’

‘Lucius healed your son?’ I said.

It was like unleashing a mudslide. I was instantly regaled with a dozen tales of Lucius’ holiness. How he had prayed over a sick cow. How he had fasted for a whole week when a member of the family had a fever. How for a long time he had not even permitted himself a proper bed or a servant. How he had given his own breakfast to a beggar.

The osier-cutter looked at me apologetically. ‘The citizen may see for himself, Mother.’

She thrust the oatcakes into his hands. ‘My son will show you the way. We speak little Latin here, and Lucius does not know our tongue.’

I explained this to my companion, and one of the children fetched him a low carved wooden stool. He looked uncomfortable and out of place, sitting there beside the hearth in smoky and disapproving state, while the youngsters peered at him around the doorpost, and the old woman nodded and smiled toothlessly. As I left, he was being plied with hot oatcakes and warm ale, both of which he was regarding with undisguised mistrust. I was glad to get outside to hide a smile.

What would he do, I wondered, if Lucius did refuse to come down and see him? From what I heard of Lucius, threats would not sway him, and if he had sworn an oath he would be immovable. Marcus would not be pleased if his messenger went back empty-handed. Perhaps Lucius did not care – Christians are said actively to welcome martyrdom. It was not a fate, however, that I was keen to experience myself. I would have to do something.

The youth led the way up the path at a speed which had me panting. ‘When we get there,’ he said, ‘I will go in and tell him you have come. He has buried himself in his cave since his brother died, and scarcely comes out.’ He looked at the packet of oatcakes. ‘I hope he will accept these, or my mother will blame me. You have seen what she is like about him. She worries that he is not eating, and is shutting himself off too much. I think this loss has grieved him more than you would believe. He hoped to save his brother’s soul, Mother says, and thought he had nearly done it.’

‘Nearly converted Crassus?’ I must have sounded as scornful as I felt.

‘She may have been mistaken. Her Latin is not good.’ He grinned. ‘Even worse than mine. She said his brother had promised to endow a church.’

‘And has done so,’ I said, ‘through his will.’

‘Well, perhaps she was right after all!’ he said. ‘Now, we are almost there. There is the cave, and there the barn. I will go in ahead. He has withdrawn from strangers more or less completely, though people still come to him to ask his prayers.’

I had never met Lucius, but of one thing I could be sure, I thought. If the reactions of these people were anything to go by, he was nothing at all like his brother.

He was, in fact, remarkably like Crassus in many ways. I could see that even in the dim light of the cave. The same slightly protuberant grey eyes, the same stocky build, even the same bristling look – the head and face had been recently shorn but the thick grizzled hair and beard were already growing irrepressibly back. This was a humbler, quieter Crassus, not expensively togaed and bejewelled, but eclipsed in a coarse grey hood and robe, with the marks of penitential ashes still on his forehead. Where Crassus strutted and strode, this man’s movements were slow and considered; and his voice when he spoke was almost a whisper, unexpected after Germanicus’ booming roar.

It was a large cave, rather than the poky cell I had imagined. It was dark and shadowy in the light of two flickering candles, although it was surprisingly warm and dry. There was a crude stone altar at one end, on which one of the candles was burning. The nearer part of the cave was the living area, and someone – probably the woman – had done their best to make it comfortable. There was a rush mat on the floor, a straw mattress, a cupboard and a stool, and someone had provided a tiny brazier to lift the chill. There were evidences too, of Crassus’ gifts – a fine bowl with a few humble fruits in it, a Samian drinking vessel, a rich woollen blanket folded on the stone bench and a fine worked knife on the clumsy table. There, beside a feeble taper in a candleholder, a crust of bread, an end of cheese and a bunch of dandelion leaves and dried parsley suggested a frugal meal. I remembered what Paulus had said about Lucius loving food. The oatcakes, I thought, would be a welcome gift.

The boy put them down on the bench, picked up a leather pitcher and hurried off. ‘I will fetch water from the spring,’ he said, ‘and leave you to your business.’

‘Greetings upon you.’ The hermit had left the altar and was coming towards me, extending a hand in vague blessing. I could see why the woman was concerned for his health. The chi-rho ring which he wore hung loose upon the finger, although I noted a mark in the flesh which showed clearly where the tightness of the band had been. He was not a slim man now, far from it, but the rough garment hung awkwardly away from him in folds, making him look diminished, as sick men sometimes do, as if he had lost the will to fill out his own clothes. ‘You come from Marcus?’

I wondered fleetingly how he had known that, but I followed his glance and saw the view through the cave entrance down to the valley, where the imperial carriage still gleamed – small enough at this distance, but even more remarkable here than it had seemed at Glevum. This Lucius was not too unworldly to have sharp and observant eyes.

‘I do,’ I said, and was slightly discomfited to find that the penetrating gaze was now fixed on me.

He waved me to the stool. ‘You would like wine?’ he said, in that whispering voice of his. ‘Or water? I have little to give you. The boy comes here in the mornings: he fetches me food. Or there are these . . .’ He turned to the package on the bench, and opened it.

The smell of warm oatcakes was so delicious that I could not refuse, although I knew that these few loaves might well be all his meal. Christians, I reminded myself, were famous for their generosity, and I was representing Marcus – he would have considered it impolite to decline hospitality. Besides, they smelt wonderful.

I accepted.

He fetched water from a second pitcher, broke one of the loaves into pieces and laid the simple food on the table for us to share.

‘Now,’ he murmured, reclining himself on the mattress – there was nowhere else to sit, ‘you come from Marcus, you say?’ He picked up a piece of oatcake as he spoke, for all the world like a Roman magnate discussing deals at a banquet.

I explained the purpose of the visit, beginning with Marcus’ wish to buy the villa. I named the figure Marcus had authorised and saw a shrewd look cross the bearded face. ‘He makes a poor offer,’ he said. ‘The villa is worth twice as much. But I have no choice. One cannot refuse a powerful man like Marcus. Tell him that I accept, provided that the sale is quick. Have him prepare a contract and I will seal it.’ He dipped his oatcake in water and smiled, a slightly tight smile. ‘I suppose it is useless to remind him that the money is to endow a church? He would prefer that it went to the games, no doubt, or to some Roman god?’

In fact, my patron probably had no strong views on that matter. Beyond a few propitiatory sacrifices and the obligatory public rituals, Marcus ignored the gods, and doubtless trusted that they would do the same for him. ‘He might give money to the games, perhaps,’ I said. ‘They are useful in buying popularity. Crassus did not leave money for memorial games.’

That disconcerting smile again. ‘When it concerned money, Crassus was no fool. For instance, he would have understood perfectly that Marcus was cheating me. But, as I say, I have no choice. Tell him that I accept his offer – for the villa. All the furniture and chattels come to me.’ I must have looked startled at his bargaining, because he smiled again. ‘I should get a good price for them. There is a table, for instance. It alone would pay for a fine building.’

I nodded. When it came to money, this man was no fool either.

‘Speaking of chattels,’ I said, ‘what about the slaves? Marcus promised that if one of them confessed, he would pardon the others. As a holy man, I imagine that will please you. Now that Rufus has confessed, do you wish the others sold?’

He looked horrified. ‘Rufus has confessed?’

‘Yes, the little lute player. You were once good to him, I believe.’

He had turned paler than ever. ‘Poor Rufus. Yes. But, Rufus confessed? You do surprise me. If it had been the gatekeeper, now! I always suspected that the man was up to no good.’ He seemed to take control of himself. ‘But yes, yes. Have the others sold. And Daedalus, I understand, is being sought as a runaway. Let him go. My brother was to free him anyway, after the festival. He may already have done so. There was some sort of wager, I believe. Crassus told me of it.’ He waved the hand again. ‘I do not approve of wagers, but my brother had given a promise. Daedalus shall have his freedom.’

‘Daedalus has been found,’ I told him. ‘He is dead.’

‘You have found him?’ Lucius looked grave. He said unsteadily, ‘Poor fellow, then his manumission cost him dear.’