Death at Pompeia's Wedding Read online

  Previous Titles in this series by Rosemary Rowe

  THE GERMANICUS MOSAIC

  MURDER IN THE FORUM

  A PATTERN OF BLOOD

  THE CHARIOTS OF CALYX

  THE LEGATUS MYSTERY

  THE GHOSTS OF GLEVUM

  ENEMIES OF THE EMPIRE

  A ROMAN RANSOM

  A COIN FOR THE FERRYMAN

  Contents

  Author’s Foreword

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2008 in Great Britain and 2009 in the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of 9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2008 by Rosemary Aitken.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Rowe, Rosemary

  Death at Pompeia’s wedding. – (A Libertus mystery of Roman Britain; 10)

  1. Libertus (Fictitious character: Rowe) – Fiction

  2. Romans - Great Britain - Fiction 3. Slaves – Fiction

  4. Great Britain – History – Roman period, 55 B.C.-449 A.D. – Fiction 5. Detective and mystery stories

  I. Title

  823.9’2[F]

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-023-4 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6698-1 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-089-1 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For Jakob

  Author’s Foreword

  The story is set in AD 189. At that time most of Britain had been, for almost two hundred years, the most northerly outpost of the hugely successful Roman Empire: subject to Roman law, criss-crossed by Roman roads and still occupied by Roman garrison legions in the major towns. The province was normally governed by a provincial governor, answerable directly to the Emperor in Rome, but the previous incumbent, Helvius Pertinax, (the supposed friend and patron of the fictional Marcus Septimus mentioned in the book) had recently been promoted, first to the African provinces and more latterly to the exceedingly important consular post of Prefect of Rome – making him effectively the second most powerful person in the Empire.

  There is scholarly doubt as to who was acting as Governor of Britannia at this time, one theory being that several candidates were appointed and then un-appointed by the Emperor – the increasingly unbalanced Commodus, whose erratic and scandalous behaviour was a byword by this time. He had renamed all the months, for instance, with names derived from his own titles (which he had in any case given to himself); declared that unlike his predecessors (who had been deified at death) he was the living incarnation of the god Hercules; and announced that Rome itself was to be officially retitled ‘Commodiania’. He was unpopular and feared, but still clung tenaciously to power and (perhaps justifiably) feared plots against his life. He therefore had a network of secret spies throughout the Empire.

  This is the background of civil discontent against which the action of the book takes place. Glevum, modern Gloucester, was an important town: its status as a ‘colonia’ for retired legionaries gave it special privilege – all free men born within its walls were citizens by right – and a high degree of responsibility for its own affairs (local tiles of the period describe it as a ‘republic’). The members of the town council were therefore men of considerable power. They were also, by definition, wealthy men: candidates for office were obliged by law to own a property of a certain value within the city walls, and any councillor or magistrate was expected to contribute to the town, by personally financing elaborate games, fountains, statues, arches, drains and public works. Though they might expect to gain a little too, in service or in kind, from the contractors whom they appointed to the work. The sudden rise of a comparative unknown – like Antoninus in the story – seeking to be made a councillor, would therefore be a matter of concern, not least in case the newcomer might be the Emperor’s spy.

  Councillors were often local magistrates as well, like the ageing Honorius in the tale. Roman law was universal at this time, but it did make clear distinction between the punishment which might be meted out to citizens, and that which might be given to other freemen for the same offence. (Slaves, of course, were in a different class again.) Many of the more savage punishments had by this time been repealed, and others (such as the ‘sack’ for parricide) had fallen out of use, though there is evidence that some jurists wanted them renewed – rather as the hanging lobby does today. The right of the paterfamilias to wield life and death over his children was by this time largely gone, except in the case of a father who – as in this story – catches his married daughter with a man who is not her husband, if not ‘in flagrante’ then at least in part undressed. In this case the father was entitled to execute the man – to protect his family honour – provided that he killed his daughter too, otherwise he might be charged with homicide.

  Power, of course, was vested almost entirely in men. Although individual women might wield considerable influence and even manage large estates, females were excluded from civic office, and indeed a woman (of any age) remained a child in law, under the tutelage first of her father, and then of any husband she might have. Marriage officially required her consent (indeed she was entitled to leave a marriage if it displeased her and take her dowry with her), but in practice many girls became pawns in a kind of property game, since there were very few other careers available for an educated and wealthy woman – though some low-ranking citizens (like Maesta in this story) might continue to help their husbands in some form of trade.

  The wedding ceremony might take several forms. The most prestigious was the oldest form, the ‘confarratio’ which required a solemn religious ceremony and the sharing of a pecial wheat wafer (hence the name) in the presence of a group of Roman witnesses. This kind of marriage was indissoluble and by the time of the narrative was becoming very rare – for one thing it required the presence of two senior priests of Rome (the Flamen Dailis and the Pontifex Maximus) so it was not available in the provinces, and for another it removed the bride from her father’s ‘manus’ to her husband’s power and her former family had no further claim on her (or on her dowry or her children) even if he died. Another form, the ‘usus’ marriage, which simply required uninterrupted cohabitation for a year, was widespread among the poor; there are instances of women annually spending a night with their sister or mother so that the marriage was not finalized,
and thereby keeping a degree of independence in their own affairs.

  Pompeia’s marriage, the basis of this book, is an example of a further kind – and by the time of the story a pattern for such a marriage had emerged. The bridegroom – wearing a wreath of flowers on his head, and accompanied by his male friends and relatives – led a procession to the home of his prospective bride. There, in front of the assembled guests who were the witnesses, a sort of contract was exchanged (originally a fictitious bill of sale between the father and the groom!). A short religious ceremony and sacrifice took place at the family altar, where the bride, dressed in a saffron veil with matching shoes, crowned with flowers and with her hair plaited in a symbolic way, took the bridegroom’s hand and uttered the marriage promise: ‘Where you are Gauis, I am Gaia.’ There was usually a feast, and then the bridegroom dragged his wife away – it was polite to show reluctance – to her new home, whose portals had been decked with greenery, and in order to avoid a stumble (which would have been a dreadful omen for their life) he picked her up and carried her inside. As the story suggests, the bridegroom usually scattered walnuts to the onlookers en route – a symbol of fertility and longevity.

  All this pertains to Roman citizens, but many of the inhabitants of Britannia were not citizens at all and might come from a variety of tribes. Celtic traditions, languages and settlements remained, especially in the remoter country areas, but after two centuries most people had adopted Roman habits. Latin was the language of the educated, and Roman citizenship – with its legal, commercial and social status – the ambition of all.

  However most common people lacked that distinction. Some were freemen or ‘freedmen’, scratching a precious living from trade or farm; thousands more were slaves, mere chattels of their masters with no more rights or status than any other domestic animal. Some slaves led pitiable lives, but others were highly regarded by their owners and might be treated well – like Pulchra in this story. Indeed a slave in a kindly household, certain of food and clothing in a comfortable home, might have a more enviable lot than many a poor freeman struggling to eke out an existence in a squalid hut.

  The Romano–British background to this book has been derived from a wide variety of (sometimes contradictory) written and pictorial sources. However, although I have done my best to create an accurate picture, this remains a work of fiction and there is no claim to total academic authenticity. Commodus and Pertinax are historically attested, as is the existence and basic geography of Glevum (modern Gloucester).

  Relata refero. Ne Iupiter quidem omnibus placet. I only tell you what I heard. Jove himself can’t please everybody.

  One

  The wedding of Pompeia Didia was an elaborate affair – not at all the sort of thing I usually attend. Anyone who was anyone in the colonia was likely to be there, and Glevum was founded for wealthy veterans, and was thus one of the richest towns in all Britannia. Not generally an event for humble slaves-turned-pavement-makers then, but His Excellence, my patron, had requested me to go – actually as his personal representative – and when Marcus Aurelius Septimus offers one an honour of that kind, it is not something that a man can readily decline – not if he hopes to live a long and happy life.

  Of course, I was not expecting any such request so I was surprised early one morning to get a messenger at my home summoning me to come at once to Marcus’s country house which was only a mile or two from where my roundhouse was. I put on my toga, collected my young slave Minimus – himself on loan from my patron for a while – and set off at once. I was duly ushered into the triclinium, where I found him reclining on a dining couch, languidly nibbling a bowl of sugared figs – most unusual at this time of day.

  ‘Ah, Libertus, my old friend!’ He waved a hand at me so I could kiss his ring.

  I performed the usual obeisance rather cautiously. When Marcus greets me as ‘old friend’ like that, it is usually because there is some favour that he wants to ask. ‘You wanted to see me, Excellence?’ I said.

  ‘I did.’ He waved the hand again, this time to indicate a stool where I could sit and keep my head politely below his. When I had perched on it, he smiled approvingly. ‘I’m sorry to have to greet you in the dining room like this. The household is in sorry disarray, I fear. As you know, in just a day or two we are setting off for Rome, and the slaves are busy packing everything we need. I am leaving it to Julia to supervise the task, she has strong ideas about the quantity to take. This seems to be the only room where there is any peace.’

  I nodded. I had seen the evidence of this as I came into the house. Much of the normal household furniture had been stored away, and there was already a pile of wooden boxes stacked beside the gate, obviously awaiting the arrival of the luggage-cart. ‘She will need a good deal for the child, I expect,’ I said, thinking of the quantity of crates – then rather wished I hadn’t. Marcus was unfashionably devoted to his wife and son, and this might seem a little critical.

  I need not have worried. He gave another smile. ‘My old friend Pertinax, who used to be the governor of this very province, is Prefect of Rome now, of course, and he has invited us to visit him, so we shall be seen at the Imperial Court. I believe that Julia would take every robe she owns, and she would take a similar quantity for Marcellinus if he were not likely to grow out of it all.’ He leaned forward and selected another sugared fig. ‘And your own wife and son? They are well, I trust?’

  ‘Very well, I thank you, Excellence,’ I answered, still more cautious now. Marcus was well aware of my household circumstances. Indeed, he had given me a plot of land to build a roundhouse on, when I was reunited with my wife after years of painful separation when we had both been captured and sold separately as slaves. And he had done the same thing for my adoptive son, who until recently had been my faithful slave. But Marcus did not usually trouble to ask after them like this. Whatever this favour was, I thought, it must be onerous. I sighed. He had used me in tricky situations once or twice before, but I had hoped to escape these duties while he was away. I glanced doubtfully at him.

  However, he seemed to be waiting for me to tell him more. ‘Junio is enjoying his new role as freeman and citizen,’ I said. ‘All of which he owes to your advice. And, of course, he is now a husband on his own account. I must thank you once again for your handsome wedding gift.’

  ‘Ah!’ His expression altered, and he ceased to meet my eyes. ‘Weddings! That reminds me. That is why I called you here. You know the citizen Honorius, I believe? Honorius Didius Fustis, the town councillor?’

  I nodded. Honorius was not merely an important figure in the town, he was one of the most wealthy citizens in the area. ‘I recently installed a pavement in his town house,’ I replied.

  Marcus grunted. ‘I have visited the place. Rather a vulgar ostentation of wealth and privilege, I thought.’ There was some truth in that. It had been built with the obvious intention to impress, on an enormous site which Honorius had obtained by buying up a number of little businesses and having them pulled down. Town houses on that scale were not common here, though any public officer of any rank is obliged to maintain an establishment within a certain radius of the basilica. Marcus himself kept up only an apartment in the town, which – although it was luxurious enough inside – was nonetheless over a public wine shop and had attic flats above.

  I looked at him, surprised. Marcus did not usually stoop to jealousy. Perhaps there was a certain animosity between the pair of them. Honorius set great store by his wealth and rank, and claimed to come from a patrician family, but my patron easily outstripped him on all counts. Marcus is the wealthiest man in all Britannia and – especially now that Pertinax was appointed to the Prefecture of Rome – one of the most influential in the Western Empire. Honorius may pride himself on his patrician blood, but Marcus is said to be related to the Emperor himself.

  But Honorius had paid me fairly handsomely. I did not wish to criticise the man. ‘Well, I did the pavement, if you noticed that. I dealt with the steward, I did
not meet the man himself.’

  Marcus paused in the act of nibbling his fig. ‘Well, now you will have an opportunity.’ He gestured towards a piece of scrolled vellum on the floor beside the couch, which I had not noticed up till now. ‘His daughter’s getting married. He has invited me – but the ceremony will take place after I have gone. But I should make a gesture – he is rewriting his will, and I am to be appointed residuary legatee.’

  I nodded. It is not an uncommon thing to do, in fact, to nominate an influential man as heir of last resort. It is a kind of compliment of course – and it does prevent the estate from being forfeit to the Imperial Purse, as it would be otherwise, if any primary legatees should die or be untraceable, and thus cause a ‘querella’ about the provisions of the will. Marcus had been named in this way many times, and more than once had benefited from the inheritance. I saw where this was leading, or I thought I did. ‘You wish me to deliver a gift on your account?’

  Marcus bit thoughtfully into his fig before he said, ‘A little more than that. I have written suggesting that you should take my place, and go as my personal representative. Oh, don’t look so reluctant, it won’t be difficult. No temple rituals, or fictional sales before the court – it isn’t to be an old-fashioned manus wedding of that kind. Just a modern wedding in the family home – a simple civil contract exchanged between the bride and groom in front of the proper number of Roman witnesses, and then a small offering to the household gods, followed by a cheerful party afterwards.’ He grinned. ‘You’ll like that, Libertus. You’ll have a good feast there. Tell me all about it, when I get home again. No need even to take a dining knife with you – the family is so wealthy they provide one for their guests, even on a large occasion such as this. Oh, and speaking of the guests, you can keep a watch on one of them for me: one in particular, I’m certain he’ll be there.’