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.
What do You think about Death At Pompeia's Wedding?
