Death at Pompeia's Wedding (6 page)

Gracchus sighed and nodded and, glancing up and seeing that I was observing him, instantly put on a mournful face. He turned to his companion and muttered something else, but this time he made certain that no one else could hear.

I had not time to think any more of that, because my attention was drawn by the reappearance of the steward. He came from his errand to the kitchen and storage area, stopped to have a brief word with Livia, and had now started waving frantically at me. I saw him weave his way towards me through the crowded passageway, which was now more thronged than ever with shocked, muttering groups of guests. No one was showing any tendency to leave.

For an instant I lost sight of his tunic amongst the crush – there was little attempt to clear a path for him – until then he suddenly bobbed up by the table at my side, red-faced and panting with his tunic all askew, as if he had been jostling among the milling legs. He beckoned me closer, as if for secrecy and I stooped to listen to what he had to say.

‘The mistress says . . .’ he murmured breathlessly, ‘to tell them there will shortly be some wine. Vinerius had tasted one of the new amphorae before I got to him, and up till now he’s suffered no mishaps. She says to offer that one to the guests, and then we can decently ask them to go back to their homes.’

I glanced at Livia and she confirmed this with a nod, and made a motion with her hands as if shooing geese away. Clearly she wanted me to disperse the crowd.

I held up my hand for silence and banged my drum again. This time the hubbub died down instantly. ‘If you will move into the atrium, a light memorial refreshment will be served,’ I said. ‘Then we must ask you to respect the family’s grief and leave the house as soon as possible.’

I had no sooner spoken those words, than I regretted them. If everybody left, how would I find who Antoninus was or even discover exactly what had happened here? I made a swift revision. ‘Though I would ask for your assistance in one matter, citizens. Everyone who was present when Honorius left the room, and anyone who went into the rear part of the house would oblige me very much by coming here, and speaking to me very briefly before they leave, to help me piece together what his last movements were.’ There, I thought, that should include Antoninus – since I was certain that he’d preceded me into the house – and would also help determine who might have had the opportunity to put something in the wine.

Over the general hubbub I raised my voice again. ‘Then we must ask you to go quietly to your homes – except any actual relatives, of course, who may be wanted to arrange the funeral. The rest of you may wish to offer your respects, but that will be appropriate at another time, and you will be notified of that, when the body has been properly laid out and members of the household have recovered from the shock.’

I had meant to be discreet in asking for information ‘before Honorius left the room’ but one of the guests, at least, was far too quick for me. No sooner had I finished than I heard a booming voice. ‘So he didn’t die naturally. I thought as much – I was sure I heard that servant talking about an accident. And, my friend Antoninus, don’t go skulking off.’

At the mention of that name I looked around, of course, and picked out the speaker instantly. It was the stout young town councillor that Minimus had jostled on his way to me, and he was accosting a hawk-nosed citizen at the atrium door. The fellow was squirming to get away from him, but the councillor persisted. ‘That fellow says he wants to question us. You had a lot of dealings with Honorius, I believe? And you were the last person to speak to him today.’

If so, that was very interesting, I thought. So this was Antoninus – the very man that I was looking for. I looked at him, to make a mental picture of the face, but apart from the nose, he was unremarkable: a man of middle age, medium height and average size, with mousy coloured hair cut in a common style. The sort of man it would be easy to overlook, I thought. I strained my ears to hear his sharp reply.

‘It wasn’t me who was the last to talk to him. It was that decurion over there. If anyone, Redux, they will want to talk to you. You were related by marriage to Honorius after all – and you made no secret that you bore a grudge.’

Others were turning round to stare at this bad-tempered loud exchange, but the steward stepped forward and put an end to it. ‘This way, citizens and honoured guests! The slaves will wait on you.’ And he shooed the invited guests back to the atrium, though the bridegroom and his retinue stood by, irresolute, filling up the hall and obviously uncertain if they should stay or not.

People were milling in the passageway making in the direction of the door, when all at once there was a high, unearthly shriek and in the screen doorway the would-be bride appeared. She had snatched off her wedding wreath and was using it like a carpet-beater’s flail to force a path into the hall. I was still on the table. She looked up at me. Her eyes were wild and a spot of bright colour blazed in either cheek

‘Is it true? My father, Honorius, is dead?’ Her voice was shaking and unnaturally high.

‘I fear so, lady—’ I began, but she interrupted me.

‘Then it is my doing. I admit it, citizens. No, slaves, do not attempt to silence me again. I do not care who hears. I did not want to marry anyone. I told my father so, but he would not listen, so I took other means – though I did not expect it to turn out like this.’

She gave a racking sob, followed by peals of wild laughter that were halfway to tears. The crowd fell back, as if instinctively, and two of her handmaidens led her hurriedly away into the private apartments at the rear.

If there had been shock and disbelief before, this unexpected appearance of the stricken bride, and her amazing outburst, produced still more effect and more horror than the news about her father’s death had done.

Suddenly, everyone wanted to be gone. Most of the bridegroom’s attendants backed away at once, and I heard them muttering excuses at the door. They, of course, were not included in my request to stay, but the important councillors also collected up their wives and began emerging from the atrium. Some – now that there was space within the passageway – went across to Livia and Helena Domna to offer their embarrassed and confused respects, and the steward was immediately called on to go away again and fetch the visitors’ servants from the slave quarters upstairs.

No one but Minimus paid any heed to me, as with his assistance I climbed down from my perch. ‘You were impressive, master,’ he murmured, smoothing down my toga-folds and trying to restore me to some dignity.

‘Not sufficiently impressive for this company,’ I said, a little sour, though I was secretly grateful for his praise. I felt dishevelled and I’d managed to get a sandal strap undone. ‘It is clear that no one is going to stop and speak to me, as I requested them to do.’ I handed him the drum and tugged my under-tunic straight.

He looked at me, surprised. ‘But surely there is no need for you to question people now. It’s clear what happened to Honorius.’ He went around and started rearranging the toga at the back. ‘Will they arraign her for murder, do you think? Or simply decide that she was maddened by the gods, and confine her to some island exile till she dies? People are already saying that she must be locked away.’

‘Who?’ I said, stupidly, picking up the precious plate which had been standing on the table all this while.

‘Why, Pompeia, of course. You just heard her confess. She said she killed her father, so she must have somehow put the poison in the wine.’

I shook my head. ‘I doubt that very much. Oh, she may have killed him, but I don’t see how. Certainly not by poisoning the wine. That arrived this very morning, so Helena Domna said, so if it were poisoned here it must have been today. Oh, don’t bother with my sandal, I’ll do it later on,’ I added, as he tried to kneel and tie it up.

He stared up at me. ‘What makes you so sure it wasn’t Pompeia?’

I laughed. ‘If there is one person in the household – on a day like this – who would not have the opportunity to poison anything, it must surely be the bride. We will talk to her handmaidens, naturally, but I’m almost certain we shall find that Pompeia was woken early by her slaves and has been primped and preened continually ever since. I doubt she has had a single moment to herself.’

Minimus nodded brightly, but I found myself wishing I had Junio by my side. I would not have had to explain these obvious facts to him.

‘So you still want to talk to people, as you said before?’ Minimus seemed positively excited at the thought. ‘Can I help you with the questioning? Tell me who you want to interview, and I will see that they are—’

‘Citizen?’ The voice behind me made me turn around. It was Gracchus, still wearing the wreath around his neck, although he had taken off the one around his head. ‘I have been listening to everything you said. Do I deduce from what I overheard – and from Pompeia’s outburst – that Honorius was killed? He did not simply have an accident and die?’

I nodded. ‘That seems to be the case. I am sorry if the omens—’

He cut me off. ‘By poison?’

‘That’s the probability.’

He looked me up and down. ‘But you don’t think Pompeia did it? Did I hear aright? Despite what she just said?’

‘If he thinks so, he is probably correct. This man is famous for solving mysteries,’ Minimus put in, before I had a moment to reply. ‘His Excellence Marcus Septimus has used him several times.’

I was cursing Minimus for his impetuous remarks, but Gracchus looked thoughtfully at me. ‘Look, citizen, this is of consequence to me. Pompeia’s dowry is a considerable sum – I was promised a forest and another tract of land, as well as quite a quantity of gold. Obviously I cannot take a mad woman to wife – let alone a father-killer – but if you’re right, this might be salvaged yet. I heard what you were saying and I applaud your reasoning. What would it cost to have you demonstrate that she is innocent?’ He saw me hesitate, and he added urgently, ‘Prove that it was someone else, and I will pay you handsomely.’

I frowned. ‘But citizen, she made it clear she didn’t want to marry you. I should be loath to—’

‘Not exactly, citizen. There was nothing whatever personal to me. She simply said she didn’t want to wed.’ A calculating smile spread across the fleshy face. ‘Many new brides doubtless feel the same – it can be seen as a tribute to their delicacy. Of course Pompeia made a public scene, but she is young and had clearly just sustained a dreadful shock, so – if you are right about her father’s death – that might be forgiven, if the dowry’s right. Naturally she’d never find another suitor after this, so the family – or whoever was named as guardian – would almost certainly agree that I should have her as arranged. Of course the new wedding would have to be a small affair, and probably not in Glevum, though I could accept that.’ He seemed to be talking chiefly to himself, but now he turned to me. ‘A hundred sesterces if you prove the case.’

I gazed at him. I did not like the man, but a hundred sesterces is a handsome sum.

He saw me havering. ‘Come, citizen! You cannot harm Pompeia – if that’s what worries you – any further than she has harmed herself. In fact, you might save her from a dreadful fate. The punishment for parricide is always particularly severe. Harsh exile at the very least – or worse. Honorius himself was calling for reintroduction of the sack – the courts might be minded to use it in this case. You know that its use has never been repealed.’

He was right of course. I nodded doubtfully. ‘I would be glad on my own account to discover who killed Honorius,’ I said. ‘Helena Domna thinks that it was me.’

‘Then it is agreed.’ He gestured towards the owner of the drum. ‘Come, Linneus, I want you to witness this event. I promise to pay this citizen a hundred sesterces on condition that he finds the person who killed Honorius, and proves that it was not the maiden Pompeia, and here I pay him one brass
as
as a pledge.’ He seized my hand and pressed a coin into it.

‘Do you accept this?’ Linneus asked me, and I murmured that I did. ‘Then I witness that this contract is binding under law. And here is Helena Domna coming this way now. Gracchus can tell her the arrangement you have reached. So if you will excuse me . . .’ He took his drum from Minimus and bowed himself away.

Six

Helena Domna had reached us by this time. ‘Gracchus.’ She greeted the bridegroom anxiously at once, giving him no time to say anything at all and paying no attention whatsoever to myself or to my slave. ‘This is most unfortunate. After such careful plans between the families. First Honorius is taken ill and dies, and then Pompeia makes that appalling scene – I don’t know what you must think of her. Naturally, we’ll have to release you from the betrothal after this.’

Gracchus gave her an ingratiating smile. ‘It may not be necessary to revoke the vows. This citizen has convinced me that the girl is not to blame. I would be willing to take her, if he can prove as much.’

She spun around to me. ‘And what do you know about it? The girl is clearly crazed, just as her sister was – what else explains the way she just behaved?’

Gracchus looked alarmed. ‘You think it’s in the blood? In that case, madam, perhaps—’

Helena Domna realized what her words had done and hastened to recant. ‘I don’t mean the kind of madness that runs in the family. It’s my opinion the two girls brought it on themselves, when they were giggling in their quarters, as they used to do. No doubt looking at the moon through glass – or some other childish game of dare – and failing to wear the proper charms as antidote. Nothing that can’t be cured with a sacrifice or two, and a little bloodletting to relieve the brain. Provided that she’s really innocent of her father’s death, of course, which I sincerely hope – so if the citizen can prove it, we shall all be much relieved. Though how can he possibly prove anything at all? No one knows what happened. Unless of course he poisoned my poor son himself!’