So this was the reason for the summons. I said nothing, and after a moment he went on again.
‘Antoninus Seulonius, he’s a merchant in the town, and he’s clearly aiming to be elected as decurion next year. Wants me to propose him as a candidate. But I’m not sure that he’s honest. He’s risen very quickly – and I’m not sure how. He’s not well-connected so he may be using bribes – or have some secret influence over somebody in power. He’ll be at the wedding, but he won’t be on his guard. Keep an eye on him. See who he consorts with, and write and let me know.’
So that was it. I felt my spirits sink. I was to attend the wedding of a girl I’d never met, in a class of society where I did not belong, simply to spy for Marcus on a fellow guest. It was not an appealing prospect. ‘I don’t imagine that the father of the bride – anxious about his standing in the town – will be altogether delighted at this substitution, Excellence. I might be a citizen, but I am a tradesman all the same – and an ex-slave at that. Everyone in Glevum will be aware of it. Hardly the social equivalent of a great man like yourself.’
He looked more flattered than disturbed by this. ‘You were born a Celtic nobleman and I have told him that. In any case, it has all been arranged. I have instructed him to send you an invitation scroll, and you should be receiving it within a day or two. A pity I could not have asked him to invite your wife and son – they might have enjoyed a Roman wedding, I suppose – but since you are specifically representing me and none of you are known to the household socially, I could hardly impose on him for that.’
He helped himself to the last remaining fig, saying as he did so, ‘Well, we seem to have eaten the very last of those. I don’t suppose we shall buy figs again until I’m back from Rome. Of course, if you would care to take a little wine, I can try to find a servant – I’m sure one could be spared. Meanwhile take this silver platter with you, it’s rather coarse and heavy, but you can take it as my gift to Pompeia and her husband on their wedding day.’
I recognized the signs that I was now dismissed, so I excused myself and went back to Minimus, who was still waiting for me in the anteroom. He grinned at me enquiringly, but I was in no mood to talk. I gave him the silver salver and we walked back to the roundhouse as quickly as we could.
My wife was remarkably sanguine when she heard the news – though, of course, I hadn’t told her about the spying task. ‘I will get your toga to the fuller’s straight away. You can’t go to a place like that with damp bedraggled hems. A really wealthy town councillor, you say? What an opportunity for you, to mix with folk like that! Why, one day you might be elected to the curia yourself.’ She fussed around the fire, stirring something delicious-smelling in a pot.
I refused to share her optimistic view. ‘I don’t know what Honorius will make of this at all – knowing the kind of man he is,’ I said. ‘He is notorious for his old-fashioned attitudes, you know, especially where law and order is concerned. He has made speeches on the steps of the basilica for years, urging that the state should reintroduce the sack for parricides.’
She gaped at me. ‘Not really? Not the dreaded sack?’
‘The whole thing,’ I said, remorselessly. ‘Thrashing the father-killer to within an inch of death, and then sewing him, bleeding, into a leather bag together with a bunch of frantic animals – a live dog, monkey, snake and rooster, I believe it is – and then throwing the whole lot into the sea to drown. The condemned man has a variety of painful ways to die. Honorius says the very threat of it helps to prevent the crime.’
She was so startled she almost let the dinner burn. ‘Well, people say these things in public life, I suppose.’
‘He carries the same principles into his household too. You’ve heard the rumours about his eldest daughter, I am sure. How, when he went to visit her and her new husband, a month or two ago, he found a strange man hiding in her room and killed the pair of them. He claimed the ancestral right of a paterfamilias to avenge his family’s honour in that way – and the local courts declared that he was justified.’
There was a silence, then she said suddenly, ‘Where was this then?’
‘Aqua Sulis – so the gossips say.’
‘That’s miles and miles away, so it’s more than likely an exaggerated account. These stories have a habit of growing in the telling, as you know.’
‘But the fact that it was told at all gives you a vivid indication of the man,’ I said. ‘He is an old-fashioned paterfamilias who runs his household like a military camp, and insists on doing things the strict, old-fashioned way. Can you imagine him being pleased to have me as a guest?’
‘Why are they having a private marriage, then? I must say I’m surprised. From what you say, I would have expected him to want the old traditions. The whole thing – from temple rites and sacrifices to symbolic cakes. Though, I suppose that conferratio is only for aristocracy of the highest ranks – doesn’t it require the High Priest of Jupiter in Rome to officiate in person, and that sort of thing?’
I grinned. ‘But that is exactly why he would have wanted it. And his mother too. She’s worse than he is, so I heard them say when I was laying that pavement in the house. She would have loved all that. But of course it couldn’t really be made to happen here, and anyway it’s almost unheard of nowadays. Honorius did not even have one for himself, when he remarried a year or two ago – nor did that other daughter that I told you of. Anyway, under the old system the father lost his power – and Honorius wouldn’t want to lose the right to have her dowry back if by any chance the marriage failed. He is too fond of money for anything like that.’
‘So you see,’ Gwellia said, triumphantly, ‘he isn’t such a stickler for convention as you say. And if Marcus has told him to invite you, he can hardly refuse – in fact he’ll have to make a special fuss of you. So eat your dinner while it’s hot and let me have those clothes. And you can go to the barber’s shop tomorrow for an hour, and have your chin scraped and your nose hairs plucked. At least we can have you looking halfway decent for the day.’
‘I still don’t want to go at all,’ I said. ‘But I suppose I’d better do it, if the invitation comes.’
And so I did. But if I had been a rune-reader and known what lay in store, I might even have disobeyed my patron and declined to go.
Two
So there I was on the appointed day, arriving at the house. Minimus, who had accompanied me, had already gone round to the back to join the other slaves in the servants’ quarters there, and I was left to walk up to the front entrance on my own, clutching the piece of silver plate and trying to look as if I often did this sort of thing. In fact it was the first proper Roman wedding feast I’d ever been to in my life, and I was not quite sure what was expected of a guest. I said as much to the tall, stooping, lugubrious-looking slave who was acting as doorkeeper for the afternoon.
He appraised me silently from top to toe. I clearly didn’t match his picture of an honoured guest. The toga I was wearing was my best one – true – and it marked me as a proper citizen, but it lacked the telltale purple stripe which would have indicated high-born rank, or even the dazzling whiteness and high quality of cloth which might be expected of the other invitees. But I had produced the special invitation scroll, and there was no doubting the quality of that silver plate I held. His discomfiture was so visible it almost made me smile.
He must have decided that it was safe to let me in. His face relaxed and he was almost friendly as he said, ‘I shouldn’t worry about the customs, citizen. There isn’t much to do except stand and watch, then eat. And it’s likely to be a good feast too, judging by the other wedding that took place in this house.’
‘Then I hope for your sake that the guests are not too hungry – or for that matter the gods.’ Leftovers from important feasts were always offered to the household deities, in addition to the normal evening sacrifice, but anything remaining on the altar the next day was generally shared between the household slaves. I grinned at him. ‘Though I hear the
last marriage did not work out very well – let us hope this new one is far happier.’
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 obvious
ly 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.’
Death at Pompeia's Wedding Page 2