Death at Pompeia's Wedding (5 page)

‘Maesta, be silent!’ Vinerius began, but the words died on his lips. The screen door from the atrium was pushed impatiently aside and a young woman in pink robes came bustling out. It was the pretty girl I’d noticed on the dais earlier, and she was accompanied by a portly female slave.

‘Helena Domna,’ the young woman said, looking prettier than ever as she came across to us, her rose-coloured stola rustling as she moved. She must, I realized, be Honorius’s much talked-of second wife – and a much-prized individual by the look of it. The gown was clearly made of oriental silk, which was worth its weight in gold – literally worth it, ounce for precious ounce. Her voice was pretty too, low and musical, though tinged now with sharp anxiety.

‘Helena Domna, what are you doing out here in the hall? Our guests are missing you. Have you dealt with the hitch that you were speaking of? Or is there still a problem of some kind? Oh, but I see that there are visitors out here.’ She looked in bewilderment at Vinerius and his wife, and then at the steward and the grovelling page, who was still groping underneath the table for the fan.

Helena Domna stood as if she’d turned to stone, silent as the statue of Juno in the niche nearby.

The young woman’s face burned fiery and there was a tremble of fury in her voice. ‘My mother-in-law, as usual, will not acknowledge me.’ So she
was
Honorius’s wife, I thought – or rather, poor thing, she was his widow now. She turned to me. ‘You, citizen, can enlighten me perhaps? I think I saw you in the atrium just now, when this red-haired servant came to summon you? What is happening? Didn’t I hear mention of an accident? Have they contrived to burn the wedding food, or is it simply a servant who has hurt himself?’

I glanced at Helena Domna, but she was staring at the wall. I forced myself to voice the awful news. ‘An accident. A fatal accident. But it was not a slave. It was your husband, Honorius, I regret to say.’

‘My husband?’

I nodded.

She pressed her hands against her chest as though to still her heart. ‘But how . . .? When . . .?’ She shook her head, as if in disbelief and then said angrily, ‘You knew this, Helena Domna, didn’t you? Why did you not come and announce it in the atrium? Or at least send word to me? I would have gone to him at once.’

‘Your pardon, lady,’ I murmured. ‘This must be a shock. But we have only just learned of this event ourselves. When my slave here was sent to summon me, Honorius had been taken ill, but he was still alive. It seems that things have taken a fatal turning since.’

‘So he was ill and conscious? And I wasn’t told? Did he not call my name?’ Her voice was trembling. There was no mistaking, she was shocked and close to tears. Whatever kind of person Honorius had been, I thought, this woman at least was genuinely upset that he was dead. She whirled around to the steward. ‘Where is he now? Take me to him. I must see for myself.’

‘Livia!’ Helena Domna had found her high, cracked voice again. ‘Control yourself. Of course you will be able to see him in due time. Since he leaves no son or near male relatives, it will fall to you and me to perform the obsequies – though that is for later, when the body is laid out. But first we must consider what is best to do at once. The house is full of visitors and Pompeia’s bridegroom is almost at the gates. It is most unfortunate. We will have to postpone the wedding, naturally – a girl can hardly marry with her father lying dead – but we must announce it with a little dignity and try not to create an unseemly spectacle.’

‘Helena Domna—’ Livia began.

Her mother-in-law cut her off with an imperious hand. ‘Pray, Livia, do not interrupt. I am attempting to formulate a household plan. Of course, I will make the announcement to the guests myself. And since we’ve offered sweetmeats, we should give our guests a drink. Something safe – the wine that we were drinking yesterday perhaps. It might be watered down enough to go around, with water from the well. Meantime – as I said before – Vinerius can oblige us by sampling all the new amphorae from his shop. The page can take him and show him where they are. And his wife with him – see she tastes them too. If they are resistant to testing any of the wine, we shall know where to look and be certain whom to blame.’

The page looked troubled, but prepared to lead the way. Maesta seemed as if she might protest, but Helena Domna brooked no argument. ‘Now! At once! Before I call the watch and have you both arraigned before the courts on suspicion of attempting to murder my poor son.’ It was clear that she meant it, and – rather to my surprise – the wine merchants submitted to being led away.

‘Helena Domna . . .’ Livia tried again.

‘And you, Livia, can call the household guard and have them lock up this so-called citizen.’ She seized the fan, which the page had put down on the table top, and used it to motion angrily at me. ‘Since he is the most likely suspect in this whole affair.’

I was so startled that for a moment I could not speak at all, but the young widow forestalled me by crying out at once, ‘Helena Domna, I understand that you’re upset, but by all the gods you can’t behave like this. Vinerius could be poisoned, too. Have you considered that? If someone has really been tampering with the wine! And this man is a guest . . .’ Her voice was shaking with emotion and distress.

Her mother-in-law dismissed her with a scornful laugh. ‘A guest? You know that he was discovered skulking round the house without so much as an escorting slave? Just before Honorius was taken gravely ill? If anyone had the opportunity to poison my poor son, it was this wretch. What proof has he that he was ever invited to the house? He didn’t show the page an invitation scroll and he is not known to me. Do you know who he is?’

Livia shook her head.

‘In that case, steward, you can seize him now.’

The steward did not dare to disobey. He put a reluctant hand around my wrist. ‘A thousand pardons, lady . . .’ He threw a frightened glance at me. ‘He is known to me. This is the protégé of Marcus Septimus, and I am assured that he was properly invited to the feast. This red-headed lad is Excellence’s own slave . . . or was.’ He gestured towards Minimus. ‘I can vouch for that. He has been here on his Excellence’s business many times.’

Helena Domna seemed to waver for a moment, then she swept all this aside. ‘Silence, fool! What difference does that make? A slave is in the service of whoever owns him now – and you can see what kind of man his present master is. The representative of Marcus Septimus? In that dishevelled toga? A sneak thief more likely – taking the chance to steal the wedding gifts. Look at that piece of silver he is carrying. The slave is his accomplice, I expect – used as a way of getting access to the place. It seems quite clear to me. He was prowling unescorted in the house and he’s very well informed on poisons, it appears. He could easily have put something in the wine. Who else had the opportunity? Livia, send for the household guard at once and have him put in chains. We’ll let Honorius’s bodyguards work on him a bit. Whatever the truth is, they’ll beat it out of him.’

My mouth went dry. I had seen those bodyguards and the whips and clubs they used. A few moments in their company would have me gibbering and ready to admit to anything they chose – and then no doubt I would be bundled to the courts for sentencing, just at the moment when Marcus was not here! It was likely that I’d never see my wife and son again. As a citizen I was protected from the crueller deaths, of course, but if I was found guilty of this poisoning I would probably be glad to drink a lethal brew myself. And as for what would happen to poor young Minimus! I dared not look at him.

I was still trying to make my tongue obey me, when to my great surprise the younger woman said, in a suddenly clear and quite determined voice, ‘With respect, Helena Domna, we shall do no such thing. I’m sure this citizen is what he says he is – the friend of Marcus Septimus. I was there when Honorius agreed to send the scroll. I shall certainly not ask the guards to lock him up.’

Helena Domna looked first startled, then furiously annoyed. She rapped the young woman sharply with the fan. ‘How dare you contradict me – and in my own son’s house. Mind out of my way there – I shall send for them myself.’

Livia was a smaller woman, and a less imposing one, but she held her ground and stood firmly in Helena Domna’s way. ‘Steward, please release that citizen at once.’

‘But lady, I cannot. I very much regret . . .’ the poor fellow stuttered. ‘Helena Domna . . .’ He looked helplessly at Livia, as if for some advice.

‘Steward, do I understand aright?’ she said. ‘Your former master, Honorius, is dead?’ She did not turn towards him as she spoke, but raised her head and looked directly into Helena Domna’s eyes. ‘In that case, tell me, who is mistress here?’

‘I suppose that you are, lady.’ He looked abjectly terrified, but he let me go.

‘You see, Helena Domna? This is my house now. Even the servants are aware of that, and – as I apprehend it – the same is true in law. Honorius bought it with my dowry and it reverts to me – quite apart from any other provision in his will. So understand me, madam, things are different from now on. If there are arrangements to be made, I shall be making them.’

Helena Domna tried to interpose, but this time it was Livia who refused to pause. ‘Steward, go to the anteroom at once, and prevent poor Vinerius from poisoning himself, in an attempt to prove his innocence. I don’t wish to bring more trouble on this house. If we are to test the wines, we’ll do it properly and get the court to send us a condemned criminal or two to see which ones are poisoned, if any of them are. Go quickly, steward, while there is still time.’

The man looked at Helena Domna doubtfully, but all the same he went, leaving the two women alone with me and Minimus.

Livia flashed me a smile. ‘I’m sorry, citizen. I must leave you now and go back to our guests. I think—’

But what she thought I never had the chance to hear, because there was a sudden commotion at the outer door: a babble of voices, distant cheers and shouts, followed by the banging of a tambour and a tootling of flutes, over which the doorkeeper’s voice could still be heard, ‘Don’t come bursting in. Let me announce you . . .’ But it was far too late.

The passage to the atrium was already full of shouting, laughing, jostling young men – all in fine togas which proved them citizens – some carrying boughs and instruments and already bursting into raucous bawdy song. ‘Where is the bride who is shortly to be wed?’ they carolled, crowding from behind. These were clearly the bridegroom’s friends and relatives, and they nudged ahead of them a large, plump older man, with a bald head and fleshy red-veined face, who seemed embarrassed by his entourage, but whose incongruous festive wreaths of fresh flowers identified him clearly as the would-be groom himself.

He tried to stop the whole procession as he saw us in the hall, but his attempt to call for order was drowned out by the noise. The singers were oblivious, they were wrapped up in the song, detailing with some relish – and great vulgarity – the more salacious attractions of a wife, and the jostling of the crowd behind him forced the bridegroom forward. The pressure of people in that narrow passageway was such that both the ladies had to step aside and move towards the kitchen quarters at the back, while Minimus and I were pressed against the little table by the wall.

We might have moved backwards into the atrium, but the noisy arrival of the bridegroom’s party had clearly reached the guests – and even Roman patience and good manners has limits when there is a wedding imminent. The screen was pushed open, and the guests came thronging out – laughing and clapping and giving the usual suggestive whistles to welcome the groom and his attendant group.

Someone shouted, ‘Where’s Honorius?’ and the chant was taken up. ‘We want Honorius, the father of the bride.’

‘Do something!’ I saw Helena Domna mouth the words, although her voice was lost in the tumultuous din. I looked at Livia and she nodded back at me.

There seemed to be only one thing I could do. I was pressing up against the table all this time, and with Minimus’s help, I scrambled on to it, seizing a drum from one of the revellers as I went. I stood and thumped on it, but without much effect, until I glimpsed the doorkeeper hovering uncertainly at the entrance way as if appalled that they’d escaped him and burst into the house. I caught his eye and motioned that he should sound the gong, which he did with such effect that it almost deafened us. It made the very rafters of the passage ring.

It did, however, quieten the crowd. The shouting and singing died uncertainly away, and when I banged the drum again the whole assembly turned and looked at me. People were standing on tiptoe in the atrium to see.

‘Citizens, members of the household and honoured guests,’ I said. ‘I fear that I have dismal news for all of you. Within the last few moments – so recently that news of it has not reached all the household yet – your host Honorius has taken ill and died. This has become a house of mourning, suddenly, and therefore the planned marriage cannot go ahead.’

Five

There was, not surprisingly, a little stir at this: first a universal gasp of disbelief, and then people huddled into groups and started whispering.

The bridegroom, who was standing at my feet, turned to his chief attendant, and above the general murmur of dismay, I heard him mutter in a plaintive tone, ‘So what do we do now? All that dowry – I was going to pay my debts. We had a contract . . .’

‘And doubtless will again,’ the man hissed back at him, ‘once the period of due mourning has been properly observed. Honorius will certainly have left a will, and no doubt has specified a legal guardian for the girl – you can make representations to him later on. They can hardly turn you down, since her father made the match, and you know that her grandmother approved. In the meantime, Gracchus, try to look decently distressed. The fellow would have been your father-in-law, if he’d lived.’