So that was it. I felt my spirits sink. I was to attend the wedding of a girl I’d never met, in a class of society where I did not belong, simply to spy for Marcus on a fellow guest. It was not an appealing prospect. ‘I don’t imagine that the father of the bride — anxious about his standing in the town — will be altogether delighted at this substitution, Excellence. I might be a citizen, but I am a tradesman all the same — and an ex-slave at that. Everyone in Glevum will be aware of it. Hardly the social equivalent of a great man like yourself.’
He looked more flattered than disturbed by this. ‘You were born a Celtic nobleman and I have told him that. In any case, it has all been arranged. I have instructed him to send you an invitation scroll, and you should be receiving it within a day or two. A pity I could not have asked him to invite your wife and son — they might have enjoyed a Roman wedding, I suppose — but since you are specifically representing me and none of you are known to the household socially, I could hardly impose on him for that.’
He helped himself to the last remaining fig, saying as he did so, ‘Well, we seem to have eaten the very last of those. I don’t suppose we shall buy figs again until I’m back from Rome. Of course, if you would care to take a little wine, I can try to find a servant — I’m sure one could be spared. Meanwhile take this silver platter with you, it’s rather coarse and heavy, but you can take it as my gift to Pompeia and her husband on their wedding day.’
I recognized the signs that I was now dismissed, so I excused myself and went back to Minimus, who was still waiting for me in the anteroom. He grinned at me enquiringly, but I was in no mood to talk. I gave him the silver salver and we walked back to the roundhouse as quickly as we could.
My wife was remarkably sanguine when she heard the news — though, of course, I hadn’t told her about the spying task. ‘I will get your toga to the fuller’s straight away. You can’t go to a place like that with damp bedraggled hems. A really wealthy town councillor, you say? What an opportunity for you, to mix with folk like that! Why, one day you might be elected to the curia yourself.’ She fussed around the fire, stirring something delicious-smelling in a pot.
I refused to share her optimistic view. ‘I don’t know what Honorius will make of this at all — knowing the kind of man he is,’ I said. ‘He is notorious for his old-fashioned attitudes, you know, especially where law and order is concerned. He has made speeches on the steps of the basilica for years, urging that the state should reintroduce the sack for parricides.’
She gaped at me. ‘Not really? Not the dreaded sack?’
‘The whole thing,’ I said, remorselessly. ‘Thrashing the father-killer to within an inch of death, and then sewing him, bleeding, into a leather bag together with a bunch of frantic animals — a live dog, monkey, snake and rooster, I believe it is — and then throwing the whole lot into the sea to drown. The condemned man has a variety of painful ways to die. Honorius says the very threat of it helps to prevent the crime.’
She was so startled she almost let the dinner burn. ‘Well, people say these things in public life, I suppose.’
‘He carries the same principles into his household too. You’ve heard the rumours about his eldest daughter, I am sure. How, when he went to visit her and her new husband, a month or two ago, he found a strange man hiding in her room and killed the pair of them. He claimed the ancestral right of a paterfamilias to avenge his family’s honour in that way — and the local courts declared that he was justified.’
There was a silence, then she said suddenly, ‘Where was this then?’
‘Aqua Sulis — so the gossips say.’
‘That’s miles and miles away, so it’s more than likely an exaggerated account. These stories have a habit of growing in the telling, as you know.’
‘But the fact that it was told at all gives you a vivid indication of the man,’ I said. ‘He is an old-fashioned paterfamilias who runs his household like a military camp, and insists on doing things the strict, old-fashioned way. Can you imagine him being pleased to have me as a guest?’
‘Why are they having a private marriage, then? I must say I’m surprised. From what you say, I would have expected him to want the old traditions. The whole thing — from temple rites and sacrifices to symbolic cakes. Though, I suppose that conferratio is only for aristocracy of the highest ranks — doesn’t it require the High Priest of Jupiter in Rome to officiate in person, and that sort of thing?’
I grinned. ‘But that is exactly why he would have wanted it. And his mother too. She’s worse than he is, so I heard them say when I was laying that pavement in the house. She would have loved all that. But of course it couldn’t really be made to happen here, and anyway it’s almost unheard of nowadays. Honorius did not even have one for himself, when he remarried a year or two ago — nor did that other daughter that I told you of. Anyway, under the old system the father lost his power — and Honorius wouldn’t want to lose the right to have her dowry back if by any chance the marriage failed. He is too fond of money for anything like that.’
‘So you see,’ Gwellia said, triumphantly, ‘he isn’t such a stickler for convention as you say. And if Marcus has told him to invite you, he can hardly refuse — in fact he’ll have to make a special fuss of you. So eat your dinner while it’s hot and let me have those clothes. And you can go to the barber’s shop tomorrow for an hour, and have your chin scraped and your nose hairs plucked. At least we can have you looking halfway decent for the day.’
‘I still don’t want to go at all,’ I said. ‘But I suppose I’d better do it, if the invitation comes.’
And so I did. But if I had been a rune-reader and known what lay in store, I might even have disobeyed my patron and declined to go.
Two
So there I was on the appointed day, arriving at the house. Minimus, who had accompanied me, had already gone round to the back to join the other slaves in the servants’ quarters there, and I was left to walk up to the front entrance on my own, clutching the piece of silver plate and trying to look as if I often did this sort of thing. In fact it was the first proper Roman wedding feast I’d ever been to in my life, and I was not quite sure what was expected of a guest. I said as much to the tall, stooping, lugubrious-looking slave who was acting as doorkeeper for the afternoon.
He appraised me silently from top to toe. I clearly didn’t match his picture of an honoured guest. The toga I was wearing was my best one — true — and it marked me as a proper citizen, but it lacked the telltale purple stripe which would have indicated high-born rank, or even the dazzling whiteness and high quality of cloth which might be expected of the other invitees. But I had produced the special invitation scroll, and there was no doubting the quality of that silver plate I held. His discomfiture was so visible it almost made me smile.
He must have decided that it was safe to let me in. His face relaxed and he was almost friendly as he said, ‘I shouldn’t worry about the customs, citizen. There isn’t much to do except stand and watch, then eat. And it’s likely to be a good feast too, judging by the other wedding that took place in this house.’
‘Then I hope for your sake that the guests are not too hungry — or for that matter the gods.’ Leftovers from important feasts were always offered to the household deities, in addition to the normal evening sacrifice, but anything remaining on the altar the next day was generally shared between the household slaves. I grinned at him. ‘Though I hear the last marriage did not work out very well — let us hope this new one is far happier.’
He gave me a wary smile. Most guests, I realized, would not stop to stand and gossip with the doorman in this way. He leaned forward, confidentially. ‘I hope so too, for Pompeia’s sake — even though her bridegroom is almost twice her age. She didn’t even choose him, her father did all that. Mind, she’s so plain, poor thing, no doubt she is glad of anyone at all — and her father’s so restrictive she hardly leaves the house! I tell you, citizen, if I were Pompeia, I’d marry the one-eyed beast of Hell himself if it would earn my freedom from Honorius! Though, of course, I’m just a slave, and I’m talking out of turn.’ He had bent so close towards me I thought for a moment he would clap me on the arm.