We might have moved backwards into the atrium, but the noisy arrival of the bridegroom’s party had clearly reached the guests — and even Roman patience and good manners has limits when there is a wedding imminent. The screen was pushed open, and the guests came thronging out — laughing and clapping and giving the usual suggestive whistles to welcome the groom and his attendant group.
Someone shouted, ‘Where’s Honorius?’ and the chant was taken up. ‘We want Honorius, the father of the bride.’
‘Do something!’ I saw Helena Domna mouth the words, although her voice was lost in the tumultuous din. I looked at Livia and she nodded back at me.
There seemed to be only one thing I could do. I was pressing up against the table all this time, and with Minimus’s help, I scrambled on to it, seizing a drum from one of the revellers as I went. I stood and thumped on it, but without much effect, until I glimpsed the doorkeeper hovering uncertainly at the entrance way as if appalled that they’d escaped him and burst into the house. I caught his eye and motioned that he should sound the gong, which he did with such effect that it almost deafened us. It made the very rafters of the passage ring.
It did, however, quieten the crowd. The shouting and singing died uncertainly away, and when I banged the drum again the whole assembly turned and looked at me. People were standing on tiptoe in the atrium to see.
‘Citizens, members of the household and honoured guests,’ I said. ‘I fear that I have dismal news for all of you. Within the last few moments — so recently that news of it has not reached all the household yet — your host Honorius has taken ill and died. This has become a house of mourning, suddenly, and therefore the planned marriage cannot go ahead.’
Five
There was, not surprisingly, a little stir at this: first a universal gasp of disbelief, and then people huddled into groups and started whispering.
The bridegroom, who was standing at my feet, turned to his chief attendant, and above the general murmur of dismay, I heard him mutter in a plaintive tone, ‘So what do we do now? All that dowry — I was going to pay my debts. We had a contract. .’
‘And doubtless will again,’ the man hissed back at him, ‘once the period of due mourning has been properly observed. Honorius will certainly have left a will, and no doubt has specified a legal guardian for the girl — you can make representations to him later on. They can hardly turn you down, since her father made the match, and you know that her grandmother approved. In the meantime, Gracchus, try to look decently distressed. The fellow would have been your father-in-law, if he’d lived.’
Gracchus sighed and nodded and, glancing up and seeing that I was observing him, instantly put on a mournful face. He turned to his companion and muttered something else, but this time he made certain that no one else could hear.
I had not time to think any more of that, because my attention was drawn by the reappearance of the steward. He came from his errand to the kitchen and storage area, stopped to have a brief word with Livia, and had now started waving frantically at me. I saw him weave his way towards me through the crowded passageway, which was now more thronged than ever with shocked, muttering groups of guests. No one was showing any tendency to leave.
For an instant I lost sight of his tunic amongst the crush — there was little attempt to clear a path for him — until then he suddenly bobbed up by the table at my side, red-faced and panting with his tunic all askew, as if he had been jostling among the milling legs. He beckoned me closer, as if for secrecy and I stooped to listen to what he had to say.
‘The mistress says. .’ he murmured breathlessly, ‘to tell them there will shortly be some wine. Vinerius had tasted one of the new amphorae before I got to him, and up till now he’s suffered no mishaps. She says to offer that one to the guests, and then we can decently ask them to go back to their homes.’
I glanced at Livia and she confirmed this with a nod, and made a motion with her hands as if shooing geese away. Clearly she wanted me to disperse the crowd.
I held up my hand for silence and banged my drum again. This time the hubbub died down instantly. ‘If you will move into the atrium, a light memorial refreshment will be served,’ I said. ‘Then we must ask you to respect the family’s grief and leave the house as soon as possible.’
I had no sooner spoken those words, than I regretted them. If everybody left, how would I find who Antoninus was or even discover exactly what had happened here? I made a swift revision. ‘Though I would ask for your assistance in one matter, citizens. Everyone who was present when Honorius left the room, and anyone who went into the rear part of the house would oblige me very much by coming here, and speaking to me very briefly before they leave, to help me piece together what his last movements were.’ There, I thought, that should include Antoninus — since I was certain that he’d preceded me into the house — and would also help determine who might have had the opportunity to put something in the wine.
Over the general hubbub I raised my voice again. ‘Then we must ask you to go quietly to your homes — except any actual relatives, of course, who may be wanted to arrange the funeral. The rest of you may wish to offer your respects, but that will be appropriate at another time, and you will be notified of that, when the body has been properly laid out and members of the household have recovered from the shock.’
I had meant to be discreet in asking for information ‘before Honorius left the room’ but one of the guests, at least, was far too quick for me. No sooner had I finished than I heard a booming voice. ‘So he didn’t die naturally. I thought as much — I was sure I heard that servant talking about an accident. And, my friend Antoninus, don’t go skulking off.’
At the mention of that name I looked around, of course, and picked out the speaker instantly. It was the stout young town councillor that Minimus had jostled on his way to me, and he was accosting a hawk-nosed citizen at the atrium door. The fellow was squirming to get away from him, but the councillor persisted. ‘That fellow says he wants to question us. You had a lot of dealings with Honorius, I believe? And you were the last person to speak to him today.’
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