Death at Pompeia

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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.

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