‘It wasn’t me who was the last to talk to him. It was that decurion over there. If anyone, Redux, they will want to talk to you. You were related by marriage to Honorius after all – and you made no secret that you bore a grudge.’
Others were turning round to stare at this bad-tempered loud exchange, but the steward stepped forward and put an end to it. ‘This way, citizens and honoured guests! The slaves will wait on you.’ And he shooed the invited guests back to the atrium, though the bridegroom and his retinue stood by, irresolute, filling up the hall and obviously uncertain if they should stay or not.
People were milling in the passageway making in the direction of the door, when all at once there was a high, unearthly shriek and in the screen doorway the would-be bride appeared. She had snatched off her wedding wreath and was using it like a carpet-beater’s flail to force a path into the hall. I was still on the table. She looked up at me. Her eyes were wild and a spot of bright colour blazed in either cheek
‘Is it true? My father, Honorius, is dead?’ Her voice was shaking and unnaturally high.
‘I fear so, lady—’ I began, but she interrupted me.
‘Then it is my doing. I admit it, citizens. No, slaves, do not attempt to silence me again. I do not care who hears. I did not want to marry anyone. I told my father so, but he would not listen, so I took other means – though I did not expect it to turn out like this.’
She gave a racking sob, followed by peals of wild laughter that were halfway to tears. The crowd fell back, as if instinctively, and two of her handmaidens led her hurriedly away into the private apartments at the rear.
If there had been shock and disbelief before, this unexpected appearance of the stricken bride, and her amazing outburst, produced still more effect and more horror than the news about her father’s death had done.
Suddenly, everyone wanted to be gone. Most of the bridegroom’s attendants backed away at once, and I heard them muttering excuses at the door. They, of course, were not included in my request to stay, but the important councillors also collected up their wives and began emerging from the atrium. Some – now that there was space within the passageway – went across to Livia and Helena Domna to offer their embarrassed and confused respects, and the steward was immediately called on to go away again and fetch the visitors’ servants from the slave quarters upstairs.
No one but Minimus paid any heed to me, as with his assistance I climbed down from my perch. ‘You were impressive, master,’ he murmured, smoothing down my toga-folds and trying to restore me to some dignity.
‘Not sufficiently impressive for this company,’ I said, a little sour, though I was secretly grateful for his praise. I felt dishevelled and I’d managed to get a sandal strap undone. ‘It is clear that no one is going to stop and speak to me, as I requested them to do.’ I handed him the drum and tugged my under-tunic straight.
He looked at me, surprised. ‘But surely there is no need for you to question people now. It’s clear what happened to Honorius.’ He went around and started rearranging the toga at the back. ‘Will they arraign her for murder, do you think? Or simply decide that she was maddened by the gods, and confine her to some island exile till she dies? People are already saying that she must be locked away.’
‘Who?’ I said, stupidly, picking up the precious plate which had been standing on the table all this while.
‘Why, Pompeia, of course. You just heard her confess. She said she killed her father, so she must have somehow put the poison in the wine.’
I shook my head. ‘I doubt that very much. Oh, she may have killed him, but I don’t see how. Certainly not by poisoning the wine. That arrived this very morning, so Helena Domna said, so if it were poisoned here it must have been today. Oh, don’t bother with my sandal, I’ll do it later on,’ I added, as he tried to kneel and tie it up.
He stared up at me. ‘What makes you so sure it wasn’t Pompeia?’
I laughed. ‘If there is one person in the household – on a day like this – who would not have the opportunity to poison anything, it must surely be the bride. We will talk to her handmaidens, naturally, but I’m almost certain we shall find that Pompeia was woken early by her slaves and has been primped and preened continually ever since. I doubt she has had a single moment to herself.’
Minimus nodded brightly, but I found myself wishing I had Junio by my side. I would not have had to explain these obvious facts to him.
‘So you still want to talk to people, as you said before?’ Minimus seemed positively excited at the thought. ‘Can I help you with the questioning? Tell me who you want to interview, and I will see that they are—’
‘Citizen?’ The voice behind me made me turn around. It was Gracchus, still wearing the wreath around his neck, although he had taken off the one around his head. ‘I have been listening to everything you said. Do I deduce from what I overheard – and from Pompeia’s outburst – that Honorius was killed? He did not simply have an accident and die?’
I nodded. ‘That seems to be the case. I am sorry if the omens—’
He cut me off. ‘By poison?’
‘That’s the probability.’
He looked me up and down. ‘But you don’t think Pompeia did it? Did I hear aright? Despite what she just said?’
‘If he thinks so, he is probably correct. This man is famous for solving mysteries,’ Minimus put in, before I had a moment to reply. ‘His Excellence Marcus Septimus has used him several times.’
I was cursing Minimus for his impetuous remarks, but Gracchus looked thoughtfully at me. ‘Look, citizen, this is of consequence to me. Pompeia’s dowry is a considerable sum – I was promised a forest and another tract of land, as well as quite a quantity of gold. Obviously I cannot take a mad woman to wife – let alone a father-killer – but if you’re right, this might be salvaged yet. I heard what you were saying and I applaud your reasoning. What would it cost to have you demonstrate that she is innocent?’ He saw me hesitate, and he added urgently, ‘Prove that it was someone else, and I will pay you handsomely.’
I frowned. ‘But citizen, she made it clear she didn’t want to marry you. I should be loath to—’
‘Not exactly, citizen. There was nothing whatever personal to me. She simply said she didn’t want to wed.’ A calculating smile spread across the fleshy face. ‘Many new brides doubtless feel the same – it can be seen as a tribute to their delicacy. Of course Pompeia made a public scene, but she is young and had clearly just sustained a dreadful shock, so – if you are right about her father’s death – that might be forgiven, if the dowry’s right. Naturally she’d never find another suitor after this, so the family – or whoever was named as guardian – would almost certainly agree that I should have her as arranged. Of course the new wedding would have to be a small affair, and probably not in Glevum, though I could accept that.’ He seemed to be talking chiefly to himself, but now he turned to me. ‘A hundred sesterces if you prove the case.’
I gazed at him. I did not like the man, but a hundred sesterces is a handsome sum.
He saw me havering. ‘Come, citizen! You cannot harm Pompeia – if that’s what worries you – any further than she has harmed herself. In fact, you might save her from a dreadful fate. The punishment for parricide is always particularly severe. Harsh exile at the very least – or worse. Honorius himself was calling for reintroduction of the sack – the courts might be minded to use it in this case. You know that its use has never been repealed.’
He was right of course. I nodded doubtfully. ‘I would be glad on my own account to discover who killed Honorius,’ I said. ‘Helena Domna thinks that it was me.’
‘Then it is agreed.’ He gestured towards the owner of the drum. ‘Come, Linneus, I want you to witness this event. I promise to pay this citizen a hundred sesterces on condition that he finds the person who killed Honorius, and proves that it was not the maiden Pompeia, and here I pay him one brass as as a pledge.’ He seized my hand and pressed a coin into it.
‘Do you accept this?’ Linneus asked me, and I murmured that I did. ‘Then I witness that this contract is binding under law. And here is Helena Domna coming this way now. Gracchus can tell her the arrangement you have reached. So if you will excuse me . . .’ He took his drum from Minimus and bowed himself away.
Six
Helena Domna had reached us by this time. ‘Gracchus.’ She greeted the bridegroom anxiously at once, giving him no time to say anything at all and paying no attention whatsoever to myself or to my slave. ‘This is most unfortunate. After such careful plans between the families. First Honorius is taken ill and dies, and then Pompeia makes that appalling scene – I don’t know what you must think of her. Naturally, we’ll have to release you from the betrothal after this.’
Gracchus gave her an ingratiating smile. ‘It may not be necessary to revoke the vows. This citizen has convinced me that the girl is not to blame. I would be willing to take her, if he can prove as much.’
She spun around to me. ‘And what do you know about it? The girl is clearly crazed, just as her sister was – what else explains the way she just behaved?’
Gracchus looked alarmed. ‘You think it’s in the blood? In that case, madam, perhaps—’
Helena Domna realized what her words had done and hastened to recant. ‘I don’t mean the kind of madness that runs in the family. It’s my opinion the two girls brought it on themselves, when they were giggling in their quarters, as they used to do. No doubt looking at the moon through glass – or some other childish game of dare – and failing to wear the proper charms as antidote. Nothing that can’t be cured with a sacrifice or two, and a little bloodletting to relieve the brain. Provided that she’s really innocent of her father’s death, of course, which I sincerely hope – so if the citizen can prove it, we shall all be much relieved. Though how can he possibly prove anything at all? No one knows what happened. Unless of course he poisoned my poor son himself!’
Gracchus put a restraining hand upon her arm. People were queuing up behind us to take their leave of her, and might be listening to this interchange. He dropped his voice as if to warn her of the fact. ‘It seems he has a talent for solving mysteries of this kind – and now he has undertaken to work on my behalf. Perhaps, if he succeeds in doing it, we could have a wedding later on? On the same terms as this one, as far as dowry goes? After the funeral, and leaving a due period for mourning, naturally.’
For the first time I saw the glimmer of a smile. She said, with an attempt to drop her strident voice, ‘We could hold an appropriate public cleansing sacrifice, perhaps, to lift the evil omens of today, and appease the gods.’
Appease the gossips was what she really meant, but Gracchus merely smiled. ‘Then my word upon it, lady. We will speak of this again. In the meantime, I will take my leave.’ He took off his wreath, and said in a voice that was intended to be heard by everyone, ‘Send this, and my greetings, to the lady Pompeia and tell her I hope she will recover soon. And you will inform me when the body is laid out, I will come to pay homage and attend the funeral.’ He bowed his head to us and – acknowledging the surprised and sympathetic murmurs as he passed through the crowd – he followed his friend Linneus out into the street.
‘Well!’ Livia had detached herself from some departing guests and made her way to join us, the plump handmaiden still following at her heels. ‘The disappointed bridegroom has left us now, I see. I am sorry not to have managed to have a word with him. Though I doubt my words would be a compensation for his loss.’
‘It may not be a loss yet,’ her mother-in-law muttered, grudgingly. ‘Thanks to this incomer you think so highly of. He has wormed his way into Gracchus’s confidence, now, and persuaded him that he can prove Pompeia innocent – in which case Gracchus will have her in spite of everything. I can’t say I approve of the bargain – or of him – but I suppose that we shall have to make the best of it. It would assure Pompeia’s future, at the very least.’
Livia turned her pretty face to me. ‘Then it seems we owe you gratitude for this also, citizen. As well as your help in taking charge of things.’
Helena Domna scowled at me again. ‘I don’t know why you sent to ask him to do that. Most inappropriate. One of the family should have spoken to the crowd. You should not have called upon a stranger to dismiss our guests. And look at them – departing straightaway, without a semblance of hospitality. The news will be over the whole colonia by dark. I don’t know what Honorius would have said, I’m sure.’
Livia exchanged a meaningful glance with me. ‘I’m sure it is his death which will concern them more.’
Helena Domna sniffed. ‘And that’s another thing. Who is to close poor Honorius’s eyes, and do the calling of his name and start on the lament? You and I can’t do it, decently – much as I’m sure you’d like to volunteer to do the task yourself. A female! If we were to show such disrespect, I should expect my son to come and haunt the house for evermore. If only my dear brother was still here to act for us. But there are no living male relatives at all, and dreadful as it is, we may have to use a slave.’ She looked around. ‘But people are waiting to say farewell to us. We’ll say no more about this until everybody’s gone.’ She fixed an artificial smile upon her face and turned away to speak to a departing visitor. Most of the invited guests had left by now – including Antoninus, I observed – and, as she’d said, the few that remained were obviously waiting to say their goodbyes as well.
I raised my brows at Livia. ‘But isn’t there a relative by marriage in the house?’ I murmured, then added, since she was staring in puzzlement at me, ‘Somebody called Redux, or something similar? I thought I heard it mentioned.’
From the chill that followed you might have supposed that I had named the hound of hell himself within a house of death, and was myself in danger of bringing a curse upon the place.
Her face turned scarlet and her voice was surprisingly unsteady as she said, ‘Related by marriage in a fashion, I suppose. But quite remotely and some time ago. Hardly the person to perform the rites.’
She was so dismissive that I pressed the point. ‘But, surely, even a remote connection, in the circumstances . . .’ I trailed off, remembering. ‘Oh, but come to think of it, do I recall hearing that there was some kind of grudge?’
She gave me a thin smile. ‘Exactly, citizen. And that is family business, so if you’ll excuse me now . . .’
She made as if to turn away, but I prevented her. I could not lay a hand upon her arm – that would have been presumptuous – but I said in an urgent undertone, ‘Lady, if I am to help you in this matter, I must know the facts – and I would rather hear them from your lips than have to ask the gossips. Or perhaps Helena Domna would enlighten me . . .?’
The name – as I hoped – was enough to do the trick. Livia gave me a nervous sideways glance. ‘I suppose you’d find out somehow. At least if I tell you, there’s some chance you’ll hear the truth. Very well. Come into the triclinium, where we won’t be overheard.’
She waved her maidservant and Minimus aside and led the way into the dining room, where the decorated central table, and the stools and other seating set around the walls were a forlorn reminder of the cancelled feast. She sat on one of the three dining couches for which the room is named, and motioned me to sit beside her on a stool. ‘I can’t be long, I shall very soon be missed, but I will tell you the story very briefly, citizen. It is not a happy one. Redux was brother-in-law to young Honoria – Pompeia’s elder sister and my stepdaughter – who was executed by my husband for her presumed adultery. Perhaps you’ve heard the tale?’
I nodded. ‘I had heard rumours.’
‘I am not surprised. It was the talk of Aqua Sulis for a moon or two. In the old days, of course, when people like Julius Caesar were alive, it was a dishonour not to mete out that kind of punishment – but these are modern times. It was regarded as a very cruel and violent thing to do. Even Redux’s brother Miles thought so, and he was the husband in the case.’ She picke
d up one of the roses from the tabletop and – as if her hands were moving without her willing it – began to tear the petals from it one by one.
‘Though Honorius was defending the husband’s honour as well as his own,’ I said.
She nodded. ‘Miles didn’t want to believe Honoria had been unfaithful – the maids had heard her screaming that she was innocent, and he would have heard her out. But her father wouldn’t listen – there was no excuse, he said. He was visiting the house and found her in her sleeping room, apparently, lying on the bed frame half-undressed, with a man who was not her husband hiding underneath. There was only one thing for a father to do in such a case, according to his view. And, of course, he did it. He pulled out his dagger and slit both their throats – “cutting off the bough that shames the tree” he called it – to uphold the honour of the family name. And when there were protests – from Miles among others – Honorius took the matter to the courts, and won. The two men had business dealings – that is why the marriage was arranged in the first place – but it made for awkwardness. They are still obliged to meet. All, of course, kept perfectly polite, but there has been coolness between the families ever since.’
‘But this brother, Redux, was invited to the feast today?’ I said. I was surprised by the idea of social interaction after such events – if these were Celtic households there would have been a silent feud and people would have avoided each other in the street – but Roman patrician families did things differently, especially when there were business interests to be borne in mind.
Livia had started shredding another rose by now. She still did not seem conscious that she was doing it. ‘Miles lives in Aqua Sulis and has taken a new wife. He may have been invited to the wedding feast himself – I’m not sure of that – but he would not in any case have been expected to attend. Redux lives near Glevum so he was asked to come, since my husband has trading connections with them both. Or rather, he did have. I keep forgetting that he’s no longer here.’ She stacked the torn petals into a little pile and placed them on a ribbon which adorned the tabletop.
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