Death at Pompeia's Wedding (12 page)

I nodded. It was a famously ironic tale. ‘The one who drank small doses of poison every day, to prevent assassination by his enemies?’

‘Exactly, citizen, but it worked too well. And when he was taken prisoner, and tried to take his own life by poisoning himself, it didn’t kill him and he had to fall upon his sword.’ Maesta shook her head. ‘I explained it to Honorius, but I think he still blamed me. At all events, he never asked me for anything again.’

‘Who could have known what you’d supplied him with? Anyone in the household?’

She looked bewildered. ‘No one, I don’t think. Helena Domna didn’t live here at the time – she still lived with her brother, though she stayed here quite a lot; Livia, of course, wasn’t married to him then. His wife and daughters might have known, I suppose, but it was my impression that he kept it strictly to himself, and did not even tell the council what he’d done – as if he was ashamed of showing weakness with regard to punishment.’

‘But it was Helena Domna who employed you today?’ I said.

‘It was, but I suggested it myself – offered to bring something to calm Pompeia down and make her sleep.’ She gave that unexpected moaning wail of hers. ‘Vinerius was furious when he knew what I had done – while we were rushing home for me to pick up the remedy, he swore and blustered at me all the way. He says that my herbs bring suspicion on us both, and we’ll be lucky not to be dragged before the courts and put to death – especially if there turns out to be a problem with the wine that we supplied. He means it, too – told me to prepare a lethal dose for us in case. And of course I haven’t done it – I didn’t have the time before I came back here with this, and anyway I haven’t got the herbs in store that I could do it with.’ She seemed to have forgotten whom she was talking to, but now she pulled herself together and finished breathlessly, ‘Really, citizen, I have said too much. Vinerius always accuses me of gossiping. If I am not careful he will take a stick to me. I must get my money and go home as soon as possible.’

If I feared a beating when I got home, I thought, it was the last place that I would want to hurry to, but I am not a woman.

I said severely, ‘Very well. I have finished with questioning for now, but tell your husband I shall be calling at the wine shop very soon because I am looking into matters for the family.’ It was almost the truth, I told myself. Gracchus would be part of this household very soon. ‘In the meantime, Pulchra, you may announce us now. I believe your mistress is in the atrium? And I think my slave will be waiting for me there.’ I gestured to the door which opened from the atrium to the court and which had been closed off since the guests had gone. ‘And perhaps you could find out where Helena Domna is – Maesta and I both need to speak to her before we leave.’

Pulchra sketched a bob and scurried off, to come back an instant later. ‘I am wanted elsewhere in the house, but I am sent to tell you to come in.’ With that, she ushered us into the atrium. But it was not the lady Livia who was awaiting us.

‘Ah, there you are, citizens.’ It was Helena Domna, leaning on a stick and supervising the dozen or so slaves who were arranging wreaths and sweeping the ornamental floor where the wedding dais had stood, though that had been completely dismantled and removed. A purifying sacrifice was already being made on the household altar, by the look of it. The air was thick with the smell of burning herbs and a shapeless female servant was wailing on a lyre.

‘I’m afraid Livia has gone to light the candles round the corpse of my poor son. The funeral women will almost have finished by this time, with their washing and anointing rituals, and they will be bringing in the body for the lament to start. You have been a long time with Pompeia, both of you. Maesta, I am not altogether pleased. From your promise I expected swifter results. And as for you, citizen, I was about to send my page to fetch you back.’ She waved her free hand to waft the smoke away.

‘It appears that your granddaughter did nothing criminal, merely called upon the gods, and thought that she had somehow brought down a curse,’ I said. I was about to explain about the sleeping draught, but Helena Domna interrupted me.

‘Well, that is satisfactory – though there’s no time for details now. I am wanted elsewhere and, so it seems, are you. There has been a message for you. Your slave has taken it.’

‘For me?’ I was astonished.

By way of an answer, she gestured to the corner of the room, where Minimus was already scrambling to his feet. He had been resting on his haunches, in the way slaves do when they are engaged in that everlasting waiting which they seem to do. I sympathized – I have been a slave myself – but the boy was hastening over to apologize.

‘I am sorry, master, I did not see you come. There has been a note.’ He still had the silver platter in his hand. There was a folded writing tablet resting on it now, and Minimus offered it to me as he spoke, bowing very slightly as he presented it.

‘That’s a striking writing tablet,’ Helena Domna said. ‘I wonder where it’s from?’ It was indeed a very pretty thing, with ivory covers part inlaid with gold, and tied with a piece of finely woven silk. Her voice had taken a peculiar edge and I wondered if she hoped that I would make a gift of it.

However, I did nothing of the kind. I simply took the tablet and undid the ties, then read what had been scratched on the wax surfaces inside. ‘It is from that fellow Antoninus,’ I said. ‘Asking me to meet him at his apartment in the town. There is something of importance that he thinks I ought to know.’

‘“And which might be of profit to us both”,’ Helena Domna read, craning unashamedly to have a closer look.

Minimus had got that eager expression on his face. ‘So, master? Are we going there straight away?’

‘Around the ninth hour this afternoon, he says. That’s when the sun is halfway down.’ I handed him the writing tablet, which he slipped into a pouch inside his tunic top, while I did a little calculation. The hours were shorter at this season of the year – daylight was simply divided into twelve – but if we called on Antoninus at the suggested time there would still be almost three hours before they closed the gates. ‘We should just have time to get home without a long walk in the dark. Very well, we’ll go and see him, but we’ll visit Redux first.’

I looked around for Helena Domna to make my due farewells but she had turned away and was paying Maesta some money from her purse, so we waited until she’d finished before I took my leave.

Eleven

Minimus was almost hopping with excitement as the pageboy led us back down the passage and to the entrance. The prospect of helping me investigate this crime obviously thrilled him half to death.

I wished I could feel enthusiastic on my own account, but without Marcus here to lend me his authority I could not well interrogate important councillors – or even insist that members of this household talked to me. I had faintly hoped that I might see Pulchra in the hall, in case there was something else that she hoped to say to me, but there was no sign of her or anybody else. From the interior of the house there came the smell of burning herbs, and I realized that purification of the corpse was under way. It would not be long before the body was brought to lie in state and the formal lamenting and homage would begin. Already I could persuade myself that I could hear the steward’s distant voice raised in a faint and ululating wail.

The household was plunging into mourning and I would not learn much more from here – until the corpse was decently disposed of, anyway. I could only hope that Antoninus had some helpful news for me, otherwise there was no chance of earning Gracchus’s fee. It was not enough to argue that Pompeia was innocent, I knew: after that confession she would be arraigned for sure – it only took one witness to bring a formal charge – and I had to discover who the real culprit was.

The lugubrious doorkeeper greeted me with a faint, mocking grin. ‘You have your cloak already, citizen, I see.’ He opened the door and stood by to let me out – adding as he did so, in an undertone, ‘Though your slave need not have been in such a hurry to collect it earlier. You are the very last to leave. And you didn’t have to worry about the rituals, after all.’

This reminder of our earlier conversation made me pause. ‘You know Antoninus, don’t you?’ I said thoughtfully, remembering how he had reacted to the name.

The same result. He stiffened and his friendly tone grew colder than the Sabrina river at Janustide. ‘Perhaps I do. What is it to you, citizen? There is no law that says a slave can’t have acquaintances.’

He had said ‘acquaintances’ not ‘friends’ I noticed, though perhaps I should not place too much importance upon that. Most slaves don’t strike up friendships with aspiring councillors. ‘I wondered,’ I said, ‘if you might know where he lives. I’ve been asked to call on him today, and I know he has an apartment somewhere in the town. Not far from the temple of Jupiter, I think, but that is all I am certain of. I was hoping for directions. I thought that you might help . . .?’

He was so relieved that it was almost comical. ‘Oh, is that all, citizen? That’s an easy one. It’s not very far from here. Go to the temple, take the second block along and you’ll find him on the first floor above a cobbler’s shop. There’s a public staircase leading from the street, because there are lots of people living on the top floor overhead, but if you go up there and knock the door his slaves will let you in.’ He grinned again. ‘Got to be careful while you’re waiting, though – the upstairs lodgers throw things down the steps, slops very often. Jealous of people who have braziers and fancy togas, I suppose. It’s pretty cramped and miserable in those attics, I should think, and you can see from the street that the roof is falling in. But the landlord doesn’t bother – they still have to pay the rent.’

‘I shall find it, thank you for your help.’ I slipped him a few coppers and went out into the street. Minimus followed, and we were about to walk away, when a sudden realization made me whirl round to the doorkeeper again. ‘So you have obviously visited the place yourself, my friend?’

It caught him off his guard. There was of course no ‘law’ (as he would have put it) to prevent him visiting, but it was not usual for a doorkeeper to walk around the streets – far less to call on somebody of Antoninus’s rank. And if Honorius, for instance, had visited the place he would generally be accompanied by a page or personal slave – not by the man employed to guard the door.

He stammered and turned pink. ‘I had a business errand to perform. Something from this household that I had to take to him.’

‘Something that Antoninus had left behind?’ I asked.

He shook his head and frowned, but there was a glint of grim amusement in his eyes. ‘Something of the kind. I don’t think I actually saw it at the time. I’m sorry, citizen, I can’t remember now.’

‘Perhaps Antoninus will recall the incident. I’ll ask him when we meet.’

A pause. Then: ‘How well do you know Antoninus, citizen?’

‘I have never met him. He has asked for me. He says that he has important information to impart.’

‘Then I hope you have deep pockets, citizen.’ There it was again, that hint of mockery. ‘Have you discovered why he sent for you, in particular?’

‘Because I have been asked to look into Honori . . .’ I began, then trailed into silence. The doorman had a point. I was certainly enquiring into this, but how could Antoninus possibly have known? It was a personal arrangement between Gracchus and myself: true it had been witnessed by his friend Linneus, when we were standing outside the atrium, but Antoninus had not been anywhere near us at the time. Or had Gracchus and his friend been spreading the news around the town?

If so, it was against his interests, I thought. There was no reason why anyone outside the family should think that I had a special interest in investigating this – and that was what I was relying on. I didn’t want people put too much on their guard. No one is ever truly frank and free in what they say if they think their gossip might be used against them later on, or taken as testimony against someone else. And if the murderer was from outside the house, which now seemed possible, better that he – or she – continued to believe that since Pompeia had confessed, no one was looking for anybody else. I wished I had thought to say as much to Gracchus earlier.

‘I wonder how Antoninus heard the news?’ I said aloud.

The doorkeeper raised one eyebrow half an inch. ‘I see that you are learning what kind of man he is.’

I bridled. ‘Indeed. And I intend to learn a little more. My patron, Marcus Septimus asked me to talk to him. Antoninus wishes to become a magistrate and hopes that my patron will support his claim.’

‘I see!’ He was looking sceptically at me. ‘Then visit him by all means, but be on your guard. He can be a difficult man to satisfy. He does not only deal with wealthy and important men, you know.’ And to my astonishment, he leaned forward and gave me a confidential wink as though we were conspirators in some unspoken way.

I was wondering what I should reply to this, when I saw the pageboy coming down the hall. ‘Doorkeeper! You are to come and have the dark bands sewn around your hems. I am sent to keep the door for you till you return. And go and see Helena Domna in the atrium on the way – she has an errand for you when you are relieved. She wants to hire additional musicians for the funeral.’

‘Why me? I’ve already been on duty here since dawn! Isn’t there another slave that she could send?’

The pageboy grinned. ‘She’s got all the other servants running round with herbs and things, ready to put the master’s bier into the atrium, and the steward is standing by to start up the lament. I offered to go for her, but she said you’d know the place, because you went there when the former mistress died. And she is waiting for you, so you’d best be on your way.’

The older man gave me a lugubrious shrug and turned away.

‘I don’t know what he’s looking glum about,’ the pageboy said, watching his colleague walk away. ‘He’ll get a tip, no doubt, from the musicians’ guild, as a reward for bringing trade. Not that he’ll need it now. He’ll get his promised freedom from Livia, I expect, now that she won’t have her husband to convince. Honorius has been half-promising for years, but never found it quite convenient.’