Death at Pompeia's Wedding (3 page)

He gave me a wary smile. Most guests, I realized, would not stop to stand and gossip with the doorman in this way. He leaned forward, confidentially. ‘I hope so too, for Pompeia’s sake – even though her bridegroom is almost twice her age. She didn’t even choose him, her father did all that. Mind, she’s so plain, poor thing, no doubt she is glad of anyone at all – and her father’s so restrictive she hardly leaves the house! I tell you, citizen, if I were Pompeia, I’d marry the one-eyed beast of Hell himself if it would earn my freedom from Honorius! Though, of course, I’m just a slave, and I’m talking out of turn.’ He had bent so close towards me I thought for a moment he would clap me on the arm.

I took advantage of his friendliness to say, ‘Then there’s something else that you can tell me, friend. A guest called Antoninus is expected, I believe. Can you tell me if he’s already here?’

This simple enquiry had an unexpected effect. He took a step backwards, and abruptly changed his tone. ‘Almost all the other guests are here already, citizen. Only two more are expected – I see their litter now. So, if you’ll excuse me, I can’t stand here chattering. I should call an attendant and have them show you in.’

I looked over my shoulder in the direction of the street. Sure enough a double litter had drawn up just outside and a sour-faced merchant and his wife were being assisted to clamber out of it. I knew them slightly. They were very rich and dealt in the expensive wines which Marcus sometimes bought, and they were already looking disapproving at the sight of me. They turned their backs and made a show of paying off the litter. I was equally anxious not to talk to them – or to be ushered in with them. If they learned that I had been asking after Antoninus, they would make a point of telling him, and put him on his guard.

I turned back to the doorman urgently. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I’d better go inside.’ I slid him a half-sestersius as I spoke. Marcus had advised me that I should tip the staff, though of course he had made no provision for my doing so, and my humble offering was out of my own purse. Too humble, it appeared. The doorkeeper looked unimpressed.

However, he did his duty – all cool politeness now. ‘Give me that cloak you’re carrying, citizen. And I’ll take your offering for the bride as well. The bridegroom and his procession will be here very soon.’

I gave him the cloak, which had been folded on my arm, but did not relinquish the solid silver plate. If anyone was going to hand over such a splendid gift, I would have the pleasure of doing it myself.

The doorman shrugged and put the cloak into an anteroom – a sort of little cubbyhole where waiting slaves could sit. There were several cloaks already, draped across a stool, but I would have no trouble locating mine again. It was the shabby one.

‘I’m sorry citizen. There are no house-slaves about. I’ll have to summon one.’ He struck a little hanging gong beside him as he spoke. ‘The pages are all busy, by the looks of it. Wait for a moment till these other guests are here, and I’ll find an attendant for all three of you.’

I shook my head. ‘I know my way about. I’ve walked unescorted in this house before.’

That impressed him, I could see. Not many people are accorded such an intimate privilege. I did not tell him of the circumstance – that I’d been laying the mosaic in this very entrance way.

I gave him a bright smile. ‘I’ll go straight along this passage to the atrium. There are certain to be several servants waiting there, in that big vestibule beside the door, in case they’re needed to attend to guests. One of them can show me in.’ I saw his startled look. ‘I know it isn’t usual,’ I added wickedly, ‘but I’m certain that even your master would approve. I’m representing Marcus Septimus, after all, and I’m sure he would be given the freedom of the house. Besides, you don’t want to upset that wealthy wine merchant and his wife – they won’t want to be seen walking in with me. You must have noticed the look they gave me when they saw me here.’

He glanced at me uncertainly, ‘Well, citizen, if you are sure. There’s certain to be someone outside the atrium, as you say. They will take care of you.’ He turned his back and went to greet the newcomers.

So I didn’t even have an escort as I walked into the house. I strolled along the passage, clutching my present like a talisman, and wishing – not for the first time – that I had my son Junio with me. He had been married only recently, himself. That had been a simple wedding, with just the family there. I wondered what he would think about all this.

‘All this’ was evident on every side of me. The door to the nearby
triclinium
was ajar, and I could see a low central table lit with scented oil lamps and festooned with flowers, though the perfume was more than half-obscured by delicious aromas from the kitchens, which must be somewhere through the door down the little passage leading to my left. From immediately ahead of me, behind the screen door to the atrium, a hum of muted conversation reached my ears – no laughter or raised voices, merely that formal murmuring that Romans think polite on ceremonial occasions before the feasting starts. But though I looked up and down the vestibule, and even down the corridor that led off to the rear, there was no sign of an attendant anywhere.

I peered around the screen door, which was ajar. It was much as I expected. I could see the splendid togas of the most important guests – a score of them at least – ranged not only around the corners of the room, but through the back into the courtyard garden which Honorius had carefully installed, at great expense, in imitation of a country house.

Against the far wall, I could see the preliminaries for a feast set out: tables crammed with dates and fruit and little sweetened cakes, and jugs and craters full of wine, but nobody was eating or drinking them as yet. Beside it, the household altar had been adorned with boughs of scented blossom round the base, while on the shelf above were the childhood toys which the bride would have ritually given to the gods the day before, together with her girlhood clothing. A fire was burning on the Vestal hearth, and at last I saw the slaves – moving through the crowd of younger men and handing out festive wreaths and sprigs of marjoram. Which of the guests was Antoninus I did not yet know.

By leaning further forward could I glimpse the womenfolk. There were fewer of them, but they were just as fine – decked out in tunics and stolas of the finest cloth, their arms, necks, ears and ankles hung with jewellery. They were clustered round a temporary dais set against the wall on which three women were enthroned on stools. This was the bridal party, that was clear. I craned a little more to get a better look – Gwellia would want to hear the details of all this.

Seated nearest to the entrance was the eldest of the group, a tall thin woman of advancing years. Her hair was dyed elaborately black and her skin was unnaturally white with powdered chalk, although – together with the wine lees tinting on her cheeks – this only emphasized her wrinkles and the gauntness of her face. This was the redoubtable grandmother, I guessed, as she surveyed the room with a disdainful air and brushed imagined creases from her golden robe.

Beyond her, on the farther stool, sat a plump and pretty girl – she might have been twenty-one or so at most. She was dressed from head to toe in pink, and her complexion and neatly braided golden hair needed no assistance from the cosmetic box.

And sitting between them, what was obviously the bride.

Poor girl. She was as plain as the doorkeeper had said – round-faced as a pudding and graceless as a pig – but all the same my heart went out to her. Though she sat there conspicuous in her saffron-coloured veil, I have never seen a girl look more forlorn.

Her bridal costume somehow only made it worse. The plain white tunic, tied beneath the breasts with that suggestive knot which only the bridegroom is entitled to untie, gave her the appearance of a carpet tied with string. The traditional yellow mantle – to match the leather shoes – accentuated the sallow colour of her cheeks. Her mousy hair hung lankly beneath the flimsy veil, though it had obviously been carefully arranged. Gwellia had explained to me last night how it was done – she having done it for a Roman mistress once. It was groomed and parted with a special spear-shaped comb, and carefully formed into the traditional six plaits, representing the six great tribes of Rome. I could just make out the droopy ends of them. The bridal wreath of marjoram and myrtle which held the veil in place, far from being a floral crown of joy, only made her look more pathetic and absurd.

I was just making a mental note of all of this, so that I could tell Gwellia when I got home again, when a voice spoke at my elbow, ‘Can I help you, citizen?’

I whirled round to see a little fair-haired slave, no more than eight or nine, wearing the light-blue tunic of the house, and carrying a large basket of walnuts in his hand.

‘I could not find an attendant to announce me,’ I explained, embarrassed at being found skulking in the hall, spying on the wedding guests like this.

I meant only to offer an excuse, but he took it as a serious rebuke. ‘I’m sorry, citizen. I should have been on duty at the door to help escort the visitors, but I was called away. My master sent me to fetch these from the store.’ He shook the basket at me, rattling the nuts. ‘I didn’t expect that it would take me very long, but the kitchen slaves were very busy with the feast, and I could not find where they had stored the nuts. No one expected that we’d be needing them – usually the bridegroom brings some for himself, to throw to the crowd as he takes his bride back home – but the ones that he had ordered turned out to be bad. We had a message from him, just a little while ago, when he was ready to set off from home. Fortunately my master remembered we had these, so I was sent at once to look for ours. It would be an awful omen, wouldn’t it, to give away bad walnuts on your wedding day?’

He was prattling out of nervousness, I saw and I tried to reassure him with a smile. ‘Never mind, you’re here now. You can show me in.’

He nodded earnestly. ‘I’m very sorry citizen, to have left you standing here – I came as soon as possible when I heard the gong. I didn’t even stop to put the basket down – but . . . Oh, dear Mars! – there goes the gong again. There must be other visitors waiting at the door.’

I nodded. ‘Two important ones,’ I said. ‘I saw them in the street. They’ve taken a few minutes to come up to the door. I think they were waiting for me to be safely out of sight. So, if you’ll announce me, I’ll go and join the crowd.’ I gave him a conspiratorial wink. ‘And if I were you, I’d put those walnuts down. You look like a street vendor with that basket on your arm.’

He gave me a grateful look and put the basket down beside a handsome wooden table with a shoe-shaped lamp on it. ‘You won’t tell my master that I was delayed?’

‘Nor that you stood here chattering when you did arrive!’ I said. In fact, his artless prattle was delaying me – though a sign, at least, that I hadn’t frightened him. Perhaps I could ask him to point Antoninus out. I raised an eyebrow in mock severity. ‘So, now perhaps, you’d kindly show me in.’

He had the grace to look a bit abashed. ‘Who shall I tell them, citizen?’ he asked. He pushed wide the door that I’d been peering round and took a step into the room, just as the gong rang out again – more insistently than ever. He looked back at me, uncertain what to do.

I was on the point of giving him my name, when I was rooted to the spot by an amazing sight. Minimus had appeared in the courtyard from somewhere at the rear, and was jostling his way through the distinguished guests. He was acting in a most unslave-like manner, too – almost in danger of elbowing one fat young councillor aside.

He saw me standing at the inner door and his face cleared at once. He wriggled out into the atrium and hurried up to me, oblivious to the fact that half the wealthy citizens of Glevum were staring after him.

‘Master,’ he blurted, not even waiting for me to give him leave to speak. ‘I think you’d better come. His Excellence would have sent for you, if he had been here himself, instead of being on his way to Rome – even if you hadn’t been invited as a guest. I told the chief steward so and managed to persuade him that I should come and look for you. He’s in no state to do anything himself. And someone must take over. There’s been an accident.’

Three

There was a dreadful hush in which I became uncomfortably aware that the eyes of the whole room were fixed on me. For a fraction of a moment no one moved at all. Then suddenly the gong boomed out again, and – as if it was a signal – an outraged murmur of whispering began.

Then one voice rang out above the rest – a creaking high voice, like a wheel in want of oil – ‘What is the meaning of this disgrace, young man?’

It was the grandmother. She rose to her feet and marched down from the dais, more like an ex-soldier than a woman in a gown. ‘And what do you mean, there’s been an accident? Don’t you realize that even to mention such a word is a terrible ill omen on a day like this?’ She seemed oblivious that her own voice rang out across the room so that – if there was an omen – she was redoubling it. She stood, arms folded, as if confronting us. ‘If there has been some kind of unfortunate event, it should be dealt with quietly in the servants’ room upstairs – not trumpeted in public to disturb the guests.’

She gestured towards the company as she spoke, and at once the men at least began to turn away and talk in loud voices about other things, pretending – like the well-bred Roman citizens they were – not to have noticed anything amiss, though they had all been staring, goggle-eyed, till then.

She noticed and lowered her voice into a hiss. ‘You have embarrassed us, young man. When we’ve taken such trouble to consult the auguries – and at such expense. It’s unforgivable. So kindly take your impudent young slave, and leave the house. Who are you anyway?’

I had not realized till that moment that she was addressing me. Perhaps I should have guessed – she was not the sort of person who would waste her personal attention on a slave like Minimus – but it is a long time since anybody called me a ‘young man’, and longer still since anyone had rebuked me like a child. I am over fifty and, though this woman was my senior by ten years or so, we two were much the oldest people in the company. Her stinging onslaught took me so much by surprise that for a moment I could not find my tongue.