Death at Pompeia

Twenty-One

Redux was waiting for me at the city gates. He grinned at my evident surprise.

‘You weren’t expecting me? I said I would assist you, since it concerns me now.’ He was wearing a different tunic today, I noticed — this one had red and gold embroidered hems and he had topped off his toga with a Grecian coat to match, though he had plain, comfortable sandals on his feet. He fell into step beside us, and looked at Junio.

‘Junio, this is Redux,’ I explained. ‘Redux, meet my son. It’s kind of you to offer to assist, of course, but he’ll help me from now on.’

‘I already have.’ Redux was not to be deterred. ‘I went to see Gracchus, when you left last night. I have my suspicions, as I think I said, that he was one of Antoninus’s “special” customers. I thought it would be interesting to know what he got up to when his wedding was postponed.’

‘And what did you find out?’

He made a little face. ‘Proof that he couldn’t have killed Antoninus yesterday. When the wedding was cancelled he did not go home, except to take his wedding garments off, it appears. He went off with his friends and tried to drown his woes. He was in a tavern all the afternoon, betting on the dice — and there are half a dozen others who will swear to that.’

‘And have you tracked these people down, to check?’ It was Junio who asked.

Redux looked at him with a mixture of surprise and reluctant admiration on his face. ‘I spoke to two of them. They both told me the same. And so did the tavern keeper when I found the place. And I don’t think he’s mistaken: Gracchus couldn’t pay — lost too much on the game, so the fellow says — and there’s a tally of what’s owing scratched up on the wall. So Gracchus is accounted for.’

‘All the same,’ I said. ‘I’d like to speak to him. If you are serious in your desire to help, you could go and find him now. Ask him to meet me at Honorius’s house, in. . let me see — ’ I did a little calculation in my head, allowing time to get to the garrison by noon — ‘in perhaps an hour if he has a water clock, or in any case before the sun is halfway overhead. I think he’ll come, since he’s employing me.’ Redux looked affronted and I added with a smile. ‘You can come with him, and repeat what you’ve just said. It might serve to alter Helena Domna’s mind about his suitability as a match for Pompeia. I don’t think she approves of drunkenness and dice.’

‘In an hour then.’ Redux nodded and set off down the street, skirting the rubbish on the pavement with fastidious care.

‘So that is Redux,’ Junio said. ‘Intelligent, at least. And he must be wealthy, too. He must have spent a fortune on that red Grecian coat — though it’s a fashion more suitable for women I’d have thought. You can understand what his friend Zythos might have seen in him. But Zythos isn’t here, so I wonder who he is trying to impress. The commander possibly?’

I had a horrid suspicion that it might be me, but I suppressed the thought. ‘You seemed to doubt his story about Gracchus though?’

Junio looked thoughtful and then shook his head. ‘On the whole, I think it must be true. After all, a tavern is a public place, and if Gracchus spent time there, there will be witnesses. There’s no point in either of them lying about that. Besides, from what you told me yesterday, Redux may know the tavern keeper fairly well himself. Didn’t you say that he was fond of wine?’

‘That’s why I sent him to Gracchus’s again. I want you to go and see Vinerius and his wife. Tell them the same thing — that they are wanted at Honorius’s house, but let them think it’s Livia who has summoned them. I doubt that Vinerius would deign to come, if it was only me. Oh, and ask Maesta to bring her cures with her — anything that she’s provided to the womenfolk before.’

‘Where do I find Vinerius’s wine shop?’ he enquired. I gave him directions and he hurried off.

‘And me, master?’ Minimus piped up. He had been very quiet up to now.

‘You and I will go directly to the house. The back door for preference. I don’t want to be caught up in streams of visitors, coming to pay homage to the corpse — and I suppose that they’ll be lining up by now.’

They were, too. All the senior councillors that I’d seen yesterday, and a good few that I hadn’t: magistrates and senior tradesmen from the town, even the clerks from the basilica, all of them waiting to pay traditional respects. They would be shown in, I knew, to spend a few moments with the corpse — a few would utter a token wail or two — and then they would be ushered out and given fruit and wine, while another visitor would come and take their place. Not many of the waiting crowd were bearing gifts, I saw, though that was not uncommon when a wealthy man had died. This time however, there was no one to ‘impress’ (as Junio might have put it) since there were only females remaining in the family — and there are no business or political favours to be had from them.

There were so many waiting that a queue had formed, and a street musician was walking up and down, trying to earn a few brass coins by entertaining them. His raucous singing was an affront to the dead, and very soon a slave came out to order him away. It was the lugubrious doorkeeper of the day before.

I pulled Minimus quickly out of sight. ‘I don’t want him to see us. We’ll try the other way — in through the stables and the kitchen, if we can.’

It was not as easy as I had hoped that it would be. The stable hand was very loath to let me pass. ‘I am responsible for guarding the back gate, and this is no place for strangers. Especially after what happened yesterday. It is more than my life is worth to let you through.’

I sighed. I should have thought to take my toga off — with just a tunic I might have been taken for a slave — but just as I thought that we’d be turned away, the steward from the house came bustling in.

‘We need a bale of straw to strew outside the gate and muffle. .’ he began. Then he caught sight of us. ‘Citizen! What are you doing here again? The queue for mourners is around the front.’

‘And I don’t want to join it, for the moment anyway. I’d hoped to speak to Pompeia, if she’s awake again. I tried to come this way to avoid the crowds,’ I said. He looked uncertain, so I tried flattery. ‘This stable slave is rightly dubious, but I know that you are able to vouch for who I am.’

It worked. The steward smiled, and obviously decided to postpone his present task. ‘Follow me then, citizen. And your servant too — unless he would rather go and wait upstairs?’

Minimus caught my eye and fiercely shook his head.

‘I will take him with me. We shan’t be very long,’ I said, rewarding him for his useful trick with wax the night before. Though if he had been Junio, I thought, he would have seized the chance to go upstairs and hear the servants talk, but as it was he simply tailed along. The steward led us past the kitchen block, and through the back gate into the courtyard garden of the house.

He skirted past a massive stone Neptune with a trident, and stopped outside the room I’d been to yesterday. The bar was back across the door again. ‘This has been turned into Pompeia’s room,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll find her in.’ He tapped discreetly on the door, removed the bar and opened it a crack.

Pompeia was sitting on the bed. She was no longer in her wedding finery, but in a dark-coloured stola which quite suited her. When she saw the steward her face lit up at once. ‘Pentius. .’ she murmured, then realized we were there. The smile vanished instantly and she was plain again.

‘Lady, this citizen would like a word with you.’ His manner was perfectly correct, but I noticed that he had turned rather pink around the ears. ‘May I show him in? And do you require a maid as chaperone, or will his manservant suffice?’

‘Oh, let him in alone. What difference does it make? I couldn’t be in more disgrace than I already am.’ He obeyed her, and shut the door again. She turned to me. ‘You know they’ve locked me in? They wouldn’t even let me join in the lament without a pair of slaves to keep an eye on me. On Helena Domna’s orders, naturally!’ She did not look tragic or emotionally distressed — she looked and sounded simply murderous.

‘That does sound unreasonable,’ I said placidly. ‘Does she still believe that you caused your father’s death?’

She glowered. ‘She claims that I would try to run away.’

‘And would you? Even if you could not have taken all your things with you?’ I gestured to a little stack of wooden crates, clearly packed ready for her new home yesterday, but now brought back into this house again. A pile of stolas had been half-pulled out of one, presumably in search of the mourning clothes she wore.

My question surprised her into a small smile. ‘I suppose I might have done, since no other method works.’ The smile faded. ‘You know she’s going to make me marry Gracchus after all? I wish I’d taken poison like. .’ she tailed off, confused.

‘Like your father?’ I was momentarily startled by the thought, but her bitter laugh convinced me that my guess was wrong. Suddenly I remembered what Maesta had confessed. ‘Or like the convicted criminals that avoided worse, by drinking hemlock of their own accord?’

‘Ah! The convicted criminals. . of course. That is what I meant.’

But it wasn’t. I could read it in her face. I searched my mind, and suddenly things settled into place — like pieces of mosaic that make a pattern suddenly. ‘It was your mother, wasn’t it? She was so unhappy she committed suicide. How did she manage it?’ But even as I asked, I knew what it must be. ‘She took some of the poison that your father had — for those convicted criminals — and swallowed it herself?’

She didn’t answer but she scarcely needed to. It was clear from the expression on her face that I was right.

‘I should have realized that it was something of the kind. Maesta said that one of the victims hadn’t died at once, but that the dose should have been strong enough to kill an ox. She had an explanation which I doubted at the time. But of course, the poor wretch didn’t get the full amount. Your mother had abstracted some of it. Maesta actually told me that she’d died soon afterwards.’

‘She did not mean to make him suffer,’ Pompeia said. She had screwed her two hands tightly into fists and was staring down at them, as though she was physically holding on to her self-control. ‘My mother never intended to be cruel.’

‘Then tell me. Make me understand.’ I sat down, without permission, on the stool that Maesta had used.

‘I suppose I might as well, since you know anyway. .’ She let her hands relax and moved her gaze to me. ‘It was clear that the doses were very strong indeed — because too little hemlock may not kill at once. They were to be distributed on successive days. My father came back and told us how the first two men had died, and how they had not even finished what had been poured for them. When my mother learned that, it gave her a way out. She had these phials of so-called love potions — she emptied one of them, and put the poison in, and topped the criminal’s container up again — probably with the other philtre she had saved. It should have been enough to kill him anyway. She only drank a mouthful and she died within the hour. It was just that the last criminal must have been a giant.’

I stared at her. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘She left a letter, for Honoria and I. We found it in our clothes chest after she had gone, with the remainder of the poison phial. In case we needed to escape ourselves, she said. Of course we didn’t realize how bad things had become. And naturally it was never mentioned at the funeral, or anywhere else as far as I’m aware — my father simply told us that she’d died.’

‘But you think he knew that she had killed herself?’

‘I’m not sure that he did. Certainly he never admitted it to us, and of course, he never found the phial. Died of a broken heart, the servants said. Only the steward knew the truth, and he could hardly tell, since he was the person who had let her out.’

‘She must have been desperate.’

‘I believe she was. It was the love potions that caused it — according to her note. She tried to put them in my father’s food, and he accused her of attempted poisoning and trying to affect his mind with sorcery. She was not allowed to speak to us: he told us she was ill. He locked her in her room — this one, hence the bar across the door — had her beaten, and threatened to exile her for life. He was about to bring a case to court — and his word would always have carried against hers. But she bribed the steward and he let her out, one evening when the rest of us were busy with a feast. And then she found the poison — and you know the rest. Of course, she must have been unhappy for a long time earlier, or she would not have needed the love potions at all.’ She looked at me at last. ‘Can you see why I’m determined not to marry Gracchus, now?’

‘Yet you didn’t resort to drinking the remnants of the phial? To make your own escape, as your mother might have said?’

She gave a long, defeated sigh. ‘Oh, but I did. I actually did. Honoria had left it with me when she went away, and the night before the wedding — when all else had failed — I screwed up my courage and drank the contents down. But either it was too diluted or time had weakened it. It had no effect. It made me a little queasy, but that was all it did.’ She got up suddenly and paced around the room, picked up the stolas and began to thrust them roughly back into their box.

‘It must have been distressing,’ I said, with sympathy, ‘to brace yourself to die, screw up your courage to take the fatal step, and then find that you are very much alive.’

She stuffed the stola violently away. ‘With the added consolation of feeling slightly sick.’ She turned to me. ‘You know I even wondered if my father had found out, and had changed the contents of the bottle while it was in my care. But I can’t see how he can have done. It was a secret between Honoria and I — we couldn’t help our mother, so we never mentioned it. Besides, Honoria had already met Miles by that time. It was her dowry — and she loved him. What else was there to do?’

‘You never sought redress. Not from your grandmother?’

‘What could we say to her? My father was not actually guilty of a crime — not under the law he cared so much about. He would simply have turned his anger on to us — disinherited the pair of us, so Honoria said.’

‘And you would have minded that?’

‘Not the lack of luxury — I would not have cared — but how could we have made a living if he’d cast us out?’

I should have thought of that. Girls of her status were not brought up to work, and they had no skills that they could offer in the marketplace. They would have had to sell themselves as slaves — and, since Pompeia was so plain, she might not have found a buyer, even then. Perhaps that’s one reason the mother took her life — in order to protect them from a fate like that. If she’d been exiled and disgraced, the father was entitled to disown the daughters too. ‘So you stayed here and kept silent. And then your father brought another woman to the house? You must have hated her.’

Pompeia looked surprised. ‘Oh, you can’t object to Livia, she didn’t choose her fate. In any case, she’s more like one of us. She was always kind to me — protected me from Helena Domna when she could — and she was really great friends with Honoria you know. Even when my sister wed and went away to live, she was always writing to ask Livia to come. Wanted her there when her first child was born — even called the girl Lavinia as a kind of compliment.’ She sat down on the box.

‘So Livia did go there? I had the impression Honorius went alone.’

‘He did do, sometimes, but often she went too. I was never permitted to accompany them, of course — though I should have loved to see my sister’s house. It was a fine one, so everybody says, with handsome frescos in the dining room, and a proper little walled courtyard at the back — even if it was right next door to an inn. Honoria’s bedroom looked out on a tree — she used to lie in bed and watch the blossoms grow when she was expecting Lavinia, she said.’

But I was hardly listening. A startling possibility had just occurred to me — something which might hold the key to everything — but I did not want to alarm Pompeia by expressing it. ‘But you have never been to visit her yourself?’ I improvised. ‘I suppose your grandmother would not approve of that? Too much expense for a girl of no account?’

She gave a rueful smile. ‘My sister used to write me letters, though — and so did Livia when she was away. Miles would get them brought up by some passing wagon. Helena Domna disapproved of course, so we used to get the doorkeeper to keep a watch for them and smuggle them to me.’ She clenched her fists again. ‘But that’s all over now. Honoria is dead. Is all this important, citizen? If it isn’t, I think I’ve had enough of questioning.’

‘You’ve been more help than you imagine,’ I said truthfully. ‘Thank you for daring to confide in me. I’ll do my best to be worthy of your trust.’

‘I’ve talked too much. You won’t tell anyone?’ She tugged my toga sleeve.

‘I cannot promise that. But I won’t tell anyone unnecessarily. Will that be good enough?’

‘Then I hope Helena Domna doesn’t have to know. She’s my custodian and she hates me as it is — I’ll be lucky if she even sends me any meals.’ She turned her head away. ‘What difference does it make? She’ll make me marry Gracchus, and I might as well be dead.’

‘She can’t do anything before the will is read,’ I pointed out. ‘And then you’ll have a guardian-’

She interrupted me. ‘And that’s likely to be Gracchus, or so Livia thinks.’ She brightened. ‘But he mightn’t need to marry me, in that case, I suppose — he would still have the money, which is all he wants. Though Helena Domna would be furious. And,’ she added, sounding positively cheerful at the thought, ‘I don’t suppose he’d let me marry anybody else.’

Especially not a freed slave, I thought suddenly — remembering the way she’d said the steward’s name and the warmth with which she’d smiled at him. It would have been entirely impossible, of course — a freeborn woman cannot marry her own slave, even if she decides to set him free. If she does so, she becomes a slave herself — and a man in slavery cannot marry anyone. Poor Pompeia — her case was desperate.

So all I said was: ‘Your grandmother may have some questions to answer herself. And if I am to ask them, I had better go. I think I know now, what the questions are, but unless I get some answers I will be in jail by noon.’

‘Then you are lucky, citizen. I am imprisoned now,’ she murmured.

It was true, and I felt truly sorry for her as I went outside, and allowed my waiting slave to put the bar back across her door.