Free Death at Pompeia's Wedding by Rosemary Rowe Page B

room and I know they have instructions not to let her out. And the older ladies will be changing into mourning clothes by now, so I doubt we shall see anyone from the household as we leave – except the page, of course. He is already waiting outside the door to see us out.’
    And indeed he was. He stood in the now empty vestibule, where only a trampled wreath and an abandoned flute lay on the floor to show where the enthusiastic wedding guests had been. Through the open door of the atrium I could see a group of slaves, engaged in stripping the wedding flowers from the tables and the statues of the gods, while others stood ready to replace them with funerary wreaths. The imago of Honorius’s father had been brought from whatever cupboard it usually occupied and was already standing by the altar on a plinth, and no doubt Honorius’s own would follow it, when the funeral arranger had made a mask of him. Typical of this old-fashioned household, I thought, that these ancient customs should still be carried out here in the provinces when one heard that these days they were not always observed in Rome.
    Even as I paused to watch the servants at their work, Helena Domna came into the hall. As Minimus had predicted, she had changed her clothes and now wore a long tunic of a sombre hue, with a dark net veil covering her hair and a gold chain set with fine jet beads around her throat. The most startling change, however, was the difference in her face. The careful chalk-paint and bright red lees had gone, and the sallow skin was almost colourless, except for the ashes she had rubbed upon her brow. There was no attempt to hide the wrinkles now, and there was no longer kohl around the eyes. She looked what she was: a ancient woman who had lost her son – and for a moment I felt a surge of sympathy.
    There was no alteration in her manner, though. As soon as she saw me her mouth snapped firmly shut and it was through pursed lips that she addressed me. ‘Citizen? Are you still here? I thought that you had left.’
    ‘I was hoping, madam, for a word with you. I wanted to check on Honorius’s movements just before he died—’
    She interrupted me. ‘Citizen, do not be so absurd. We women were all in the atrium with the wedding guests throughout. You saw us there, yourself.’
    As there was no possible reply to that remark, I simply forced a smile and muttered that I’d hoped to speak to Pompeia at least. ‘If I am to do as Gracchus hopes and prove her innocent. But I understand that that’s impossible.’
    Perhaps it was an instinct for contrariness, or perhaps it was the mention of Gracchus that made her say, ‘Who told you that it was impossible? It is entirely possible, if I give you leave. I am the child’s grandmother, after all – unlike Livia who has no blood-ties to the girl – and I still have some rights in that regard. If I say you may see her, then you may. Though you may not get a lot of sense from her. I have agreed that Maesta should provide a sleeping draught for her, made from the juice of poppies. She has just returned with it. I don’t know if Pompeia has yet taken it or not, but if you hurry you may find her before she falls asleep. You may leave your servant here, and I will find you a female slave to take you to the place.’
    It was so unexpected that I almost gawped, but I collected myself sufficiently to say, ‘I appreciate your assistance, lady, very much.’
    She no longer had her fan, otherwise she would have rapped me with it I am sure. ‘Then you will repay me by doing what you are employed to do, and seeing that my granddaughter gets married after all. Convince the world she didn’t kill her father, despite her outburst here. Though how you can do this without showing that she’s mad – which is no help to anyone – I confess I cannot see. However, Gracchus thinks you’ll do it, and if you prove him right I shall be as pleased as he is. So . . .’ She clapped her hands and at once the