Death at Pompeia's Wedding (8 page)

I was collecting the flower-fragments as I mused, but I hadn’t gathered more than one or two of them before I was interrupted by a puzzled small voice from the door.

‘Master?’

It was my own slave, little Minimus. I straightened up and saw him standing at the entrance to the room, clutching the ill-fated wedding platter in one hand, and my cloak in the other. When he saw what I’d been doing he put those down at once and came across to pick the petals up himself.

‘You should have called me, master, not scrabbled on the floor,’ he chided, collecting up the scattered remnants in a trice and rising, flushed and panting, to put them in my hand. ‘I knew you must be in here but I couldn’t see you from the door. I brought your belongings. Everyone has left. I’m sorry, master, no one at all has stayed behind as you requested them – most people didn’t even stop to drink the wine. After Pompeia’s outburst they were all eager to be gone.’

I nodded and put the broken petals on the tabletop. ‘Antoninus among them. I am aware of that.’

I must have sounded sharp, because he looked chagrined. ‘I didn’t see him leave. I’m sorry if I should have prevented him from going. I thought of asking people to stay back to talk to you but I wasn’t sure who you would want to question. I did approach one citizen – that decurion that Honorius spoke to last of all – but he said you wouldn’t need him now, because there was no mystery. I suppose he thought that with Pompeia saying what she did . . .?’ He made a little helpless gesture with his hands. ‘I could hardly compel an important man against his will.’

‘It can’t be altered now.’ I picked my cloak up from the stool where he had put it down, and shrugged it round my shoulders in a careless way. ‘But I would like to have had a word with him, and Antoninus too – and a man called Redux who was with him in the hall. I suppose I shall have to try to find out where they live.’

‘Redux the trader, are you speaking of?’ Minimus brightened up. ‘I know where you can find him, master – or I think I do. He has a warehouse down beside the dock, trading with the ships from Hibernia and Gaul. I was talking to his slave upstairs, before the steward came to tell us that Honorius was ill.’

I looked at him with sudden interest. Perhaps the boy was not so useless after all. ‘A warehouse full of what?’ I said aloud – wondering if Redux dealt in wine at all.

Minimus was proud to show off what he knew. ‘Everything from Glevum roofing-tiles to Celtic woollen cloth. Anything that’s cheap from the locality. He buys it in when there’s a glut, and keeps it for a while, then either sells it on again when prices rise or exchanges it aboard the trading ships for things you can’t get here, like pickled anchovies and olive oil or even foreign slaves.’

‘And so makes a profit?’ I was struggling to fasten the cloak around my neck.

He rushed across to fix it with a shoulder-clasp. ‘Making a small fortune out of it, I hear. At least till recently. But according to the slave that I was talking to, Redux had a partner who died quite recently and since that happened things aren’t going so well. He doesn’t have the instinct that his friend had, it seems, for knowing what to buy and when to sell. But he’s still got the warehouse. I could show you where, I think. The slave was boasting about how big it used to be, and how it was sited right beside the docks.’ He fussed about me, settling my cloak-folds neatly into place with a care that my poor garment scarcely merited, then standing back to admire his handiwork.

‘Since you have brought me my cloak so diligently, you could take me there before we leave the town.’

‘Immediately, master, if you wish to set off straight away. Or I’m sure the offer of refreshment will still stand. Most things, of course, are being put away until the funeral feast – the sweet cakes and the wedding dishes that the kitchen had prepared – but you could still have fruit and watered wine before you leave, if you desire.’

I realized that he would not have dreamed this offer up himself – nor taken the initiative to bring the cloak to me. ‘Helena Domna sent you?’ I enquired. ‘To hint to me that it was time to go?’

He grinned. ‘In fact it was the lady Livia,’ he said. ‘Though only when she came out to the hall and found out that her mother-in-law had already organized the slaves and had them starting to clear the atrium. She had even sent the steward out to fetch the embalming women and arrange the bier – and of course she hadn’t consulted anyone at all. Her daughter-in-law was not best pleased, I fear, but Helena Domna insisted that she’d been forced to act because the household needed to begin the mourning rites as soon as possible, otherwise it was a dishonour to the corpse.’

‘That was really a rebuke to Livia, I suppose,’ I said, ‘because she was with me and wasn’t there to make the arrangements for herself?’

‘Exactly, master. But of course, it all needed to be done and there wasn’t much the poor lady could do except agree. Though she said to tell you that you’d be welcome to come back, once Honorius’s body is prepared for burial and laid out in the atrium in state.’

I nodded. ‘A good many people will be calling then, no doubt, to pay their homage and help with the lament.’

‘Oh, and the chief steward will be starting that, and closing the eyes and calling on the soul. I had to promise that I would tell you that. She seemed to think that you would want to know.’

‘In the absence of a suitable male relative,’ I said thoughtfully. It was a confirmation that Redux had not been approached for the task.

‘But doesn’t Livia have a guardian under law?’ Minimus enquired. ‘You’d think Honorius would have named one in his will. She doesn’t have three children so I thought she needed one. And – come to think of it – since Pompeia hasn’t married after all, won’t she be requiring a legal guardian too, now that her father’s dead? But perhaps there is no will. I know there was talk that Honorius was going to call for witnesses and nominate Marcus as a beneficiary. I heard it talked about when I was serving them one night.’

I picked up my silver platter. ‘Oh, there is a will, all right,’ I said, remembering suddenly what Marcus said to me. ‘Though whether it’s a new one, is another thing. Honorius was about to change the one that he had made, but I don’t know whether he’d had the new one witnessed and ratified or not. In fact, that might have a considerable bearing on the case. If he hadn’t, then he might have been murdered to prevent him doing so. If he had, then it would be interesting to know who would benefit by the later will, and therefore have a motive for removing him. And in that case, I suppose, as residuary heir, Marcus might even be the legal guardian . . .’ I went on, then trailed into silence as I realised the full force of this.

Marcus was a senior magistrate, and to be legal guardian was scarcely onerous to him. It was usually a titular appointment anyway and generally regarded as a compliment. But Marcus was at this moment on his way to Rome, and I was officially his representative; I did not like where this was leading me.

I was still thinking about this when Minimus piped up. ‘So do you wish me to lead you to this warehouse straight away, master? You can hardly talk to the family now, in any case, since they are preparing for the funeral.’

I nodded. I had spoken to Livia anyway, I thought, and that was probably the best that I could hope. Helena Domna was unlikely to cooperate with me, and though I would have liked to have had a word with some of the household staff, it had been made fairly clear to me that it was not convenient and it was time for me to leave. A pity. I could have asked somebody about the will, perhaps.

I sighed. It would have been quite different if Marcus had been here – he would simply have declared that they must talk to me – but as it was I had no proper authority. I turned to Minimus. ‘Since I am working on Gracchus’s account, I should have liked to have a moment with Pompeia if I could, but I don’t suppose it will be possible.’

He shook his head. ‘I doubt it master. Her handmaidens have taken her into her sleeping room and I know they have instructions not to let her out. And the older ladies will be changing into mourning clothes by now, so I doubt we shall see anyone from the household as we leave – except the page, of course. He is already waiting outside the door to see us out.’

And indeed he was. He stood in the now empty vestibule, where only a trampled wreath and an abandoned flute lay on the floor to show where the enthusiastic wedding guests had been. Through the open door of the atrium I could see a group of slaves, engaged in stripping the wedding flowers from the tables and the statues of the gods, while others stood ready to replace them with funerary wreaths. The
imago
of Honorius’s father had been brought from whatever cupboard it usually occupied and was already standing by the altar on a plinth, and no doubt Honorius’s own would follow it, when the funeral arranger had made a mask of him. Typical of this old-fashioned household, I thought, that these ancient customs should still be carried out here in the provinces when one heard that these days they were not always observed in Rome.

Even as I paused to watch the servants at their work, Helena Domna came into the hall. As Minimus had predicted, she had changed her clothes and now wore a long tunic of a sombre hue, with a dark net veil covering her hair and a gold chain set with fine jet beads around her throat. The most startling change, however, was the difference in her face. The careful chalk-paint and bright red lees had gone, and the sallow skin was almost colourless, except for the ashes she had rubbed upon her brow. There was no attempt to hide the wrinkles now, and there was no longer kohl around the eyes. She looked what she was: a ancient woman who had lost her son – and for a moment I felt a surge of sympathy.

There was no alteration in her manner, though. As soon as she saw me her mouth snapped firmly shut and it was through pursed lips that she addressed me. ‘Citizen? Are you still here? I thought that you had left.’

‘I was hoping, madam, for a word with you. I wanted to check on Honorius’s movements just before he died—’

She interrupted me. ‘Citizen, do not be so absurd. We women were all in the atrium with the wedding guests throughout. You saw us there, yourself.’

As there was no possible reply to that remark, I simply forced a smile and muttered that I’d hoped to speak to Pompeia at least. ‘If I am to do as Gracchus hopes and prove her innocent. But I understand that that’s impossible.’

Perhaps it was an instinct for contrariness, or perhaps it was the mention of Gracchus that made her say, ‘Who told you that it was impossible? It is entirely possible, if I give you leave. I am the child’s grandmother, after all – unlike Livia who has no blood-ties to the girl – and I still have some rights in that regard. If I say you may see her, then you may. Though you may not get a lot of sense from her. I have agreed that Maesta should provide a sleeping draught for her, made from the juice of poppies. She has just returned with it. I don’t know if Pompeia has yet taken it or not, but if you hurry you may find her before she falls asleep. You may leave your servant here, and I will find you a female slave to take you to the place.’

It was so unexpected that I almost gawped, but I collected myself sufficiently to say, ‘I appreciate your assistance, lady, very much.’

She no longer had her fan, otherwise she would have rapped me with it I am sure. ‘Then you will repay me by doing what you are employed to do, and seeing that my granddaughter gets married after all. Convince the world she didn’t kill her father, despite her outburst here. Though how you can do this without showing that she’s mad – which is no help to anyone – I confess I cannot see. However, Gracchus thinks you’ll do it, and if you prove him right I shall be as pleased as he is. So . . .’ She clapped her hands and at once the dumpy maidservant appeared. ‘Pulchra, show this citizen to Pompeia’s sleeping room. He has some questions he wants to put to her.’

‘Madam . . .’ Pulchra looked as if she might have something to impart, but Helena Domna waved the words aside.

‘Quickly, before Maesta’s poppy juice begins to take effect.’

Pulchra sketched a bob towards her and then said, ‘In that case, citizen, if you would follow me?’ And she led the way towards the inner door. As we went through it I heard the grandmother’s shrill voice ordering the page to move the basket of unwanted walnuts from the floor.

Eight

I was in a hurry as I strode into the court, but I did take a moment to look around at it. When I was previously in the house, laying the mosaic in the hall, the final building works were not complete – especially in these private quarters at the back – so I was interested to see what had been done. It was obvious even then that it was to be very grand, but I was not prepared for quite how grand it actually was – a piece of conscious ostentation on the owner’s part.

It was built like a country villa, although it was in town. The sleeping quarters were not upstairs, as they were in the rest of the fine houses in the colonia; here the extra story over each wing of the house was given over to the slaves – one area each for male and female no doubt, and accessed in each case by external stairs. When I had previously been working at the house, the servants had been housed in a wooden shed at the back, where I could now glimpse a brand-new kitchen block. It had been divided off behind an ornamental gate with another building (presumably a stables) beyond that – as though space and valuable land were of no account at all.

The bedrooms for the family were ranged around the court – the courtyard garden which backed the atrium and in which the guests had been milling earlier. It was a lovely place: full of flowers and ornamental shrubs, a fountain and so many fine statues that it took your breath away. No sign of anything so mundane as plants that one could eat, which is what most country houses used such gardens for.

But the most arresting feature was the verandaed colonnade that ran around the garden on both sides, and linked the private quarters with the front part of the house. It was crammed with life-size marble statues of all kinds: gods and goddess and figures from the past – I spotted Romulus and Remus and their wolf – all lined up and looking down on one. It should have been attractive, but it was the opposite: oppressive, as if a hundred eyes were staring down at one.