Rosemary Rowe - Death at Pompeia

If so, that was very interesting, I thought. So this was Antoninus — the very man that I was looking for. I looked at him, to make a mental picture of the face, but apart from the nose, he was unremarkable: a man of middle age, medium height and average size, with mousy coloured hair cut in a common style. The sort of man it would be easy to overlook, I thought. I strained my ears to hear his sharp reply.

‘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.’