There was no sign of the grief-stricken girl’s father, but his money was well in evidence. That poor hound Posidonius must have paid for everything, starting with an enormous pyre, tended by half the funeral directors in Ostia, with a full Roman entourage—an orchestra, massed ranks of hired mourners, and religious celebrants. The very best in white mourning wear had been lavished on Rhodope, plus a mighty great feast for all comers. Hangers-on who had never met Theopompus were greedily tucking in.
The procession had ground to a halt; Posidonius presumably did not own a tomb at Ostia so the cremation was taking place in the middle of the roadway. A cinerary urn, in the kind of Greek black-figure my father imported, was ready on a stand. Pa knew Posidonius; I wondered if the ancient art had come off a ship near the Laurentine coast just yesterday. The corpse was still lying on its flowery bier. This looked a bit lopsided; one leg of the bier was being discreetly leveled up by attendants poking stones underneath it. Florists and garland-twisters had had a happy time, but the perfumiers would walk away with the crowns for best effort. We could smell the exotic oils from thirty strides away.
Theopompus, last seen half naked and barefoot, had now been dressed up like a barbarian king. He would have loved the finery. Skillful work had been done on his bruises too. I thought the face paint effect was a little too much, and Petronius criticized his barber. Petro was a stickler for classical straight bangs. The undertakers had puffed up Theopompus’ luxurious haircut and given him a radiant crown of locks. “Very Greek!” said Petronius. By which he meant … what Romans mean by very Greek.
We were still admiring the embalmer’s art when our womenfolk found us. Helena was flanked by Maia and Albia; they approached me like a trio of Furies who had premenstrual headaches and some unpaid bills to query.
“Anything to say?” demanded Maia, keen to see me squirm. Helena Justina, tightly wrapped in a heavy stole, said nothing. Albia looked scared to death.
“It was not my fault.”
“It never is, brother!”
I strode past my sister and clutched Helena in my arms. She could see my wrecked hair under its formal veiling and she felt me flinch as the sunburn hurt. She knew something bad had happened. I just held her. She buried her face in the shoulder folds of Petro’s toga, shaking. I could have buckled and wept myself, but people might have thought I was upset over Theopompus.
Maia had been watching us, with her head on one side. She put her arms around both of us briefly, pulled back my veiling, and kissed my cheek. She had had troubles in her life; seeing other people with stretched emotions made her gruff. She took Albia to see the torches being lit to burn the bier.
Petronius stayed with us, his eyes raking the funeral guests for known faces. To bolster myself, I began telling him quickly all that had happened yesterday after he left me at Portus. With her head on my shoulder, Helena listened. I got as far as being hijacked on the ship, trying to minimize talk of drowning. “Then it turned out that Cotys had the chest with the scribes’ ransom money; it must be the Illyrians who carried out the raid at the ferry—”
“I’d like to arrest this Cotys, if he shows,” grumbled Petro. “Bloody Rubella has ordered that unless it becomes unavoidable, we are to avoid confrontations.”
“Can’t we make it unavoidable? Is Rubella obeying religious scruple or political diplomacy?”
“There’s just too damned many of them, Falco. We’ve got Illyrians here—plus the Cilicians too.” I raised an eyebrow. He explained tersely, “We reckon they have been working the kidnaps together—an alliance.”
“Blood brothers? So who,” I asked, lowering my voice slightly, “is current favorite for killing Theopompus?”
“Fifty-fifty bets.”
“And what about the ransom attempt? There must have been plenty of witnesses when the ferry was raided.”
Petronius scowled. “Yes—and all anyone will say is that the raiders were exotically dressed.”
“Cotys and the Illyrians.”
“Yes, but did they send the ransom demand? Or,” said Petro, “do they just know who the real kidnappers are?”
“Assuming Diocles actually was kidnapped.”
I mopped Helena’s wet face on a corner of my toga. With Petro’s stern eye on me, I checked nervously in case coloring came off on his precious garment, but she was bare of makeup. As the stole fell back I saw too that her hair was loose; she had put on no earrings or necklaces either. It was appropriate to disregard your appearance at a funeral. Even so, I felt that lump in the throat again.
“I’d better confess, love—I’ve been in the sea.”
“Marcus, I told you not to fall in water.”
“I didn’t fall; I was slung off the Illyrians’ ship. But I followed your instructions about lying with my toes turned up and looking at the sky.” I held her tighter. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
“You must be a better pupil than I thought—” I was a better pupil than I had thought. “How,” asked Helena pointedly, “did your father come into this?”
Petronius was also looking at me skeptically. Anything that involved Geminus must involve a scam; still, investigating my dear father would be more trouble than it was worth.
“Pa was fishing.”
“Catch anything?” asked Petro in a dour tone.
“Just me.”
“I’m surprised the old scamp didn’t throw you back.”
I suppressed a sudden vision of Geminus with that oar raised up to crack down on my head.
Maia came back with Albia. My sister said she had had enough and was going home. She hated funerals. It might have something to do with losing her husband when he was abroad, and her guilt at not being able to attend his send-off. I never liked to stress how little of Famia had remained to be given a send-off; the lion who dispatched him had not been a picky eater.
Helena had been sent a personal invitation by Rhodope, though so far she had been unable to speak to the girl. We went and found her, in a glittering white mourning gown and veil (and several gold necklaces), installed on a thronelike chair on a low plinth, among a large group of dark, thin women who were presumably Illyrian. They had created a bower with a corona of modest curtains, then they stuck the girl in it by herself. This gave the impression that Rhodope was a valued member of their clan—yet they were all talking to one another, while she sat alone in misery. She made a pitiful widow, suspiciously like a prisoner.
Helena firmly trod a path between the women, who were mostly sitting cross-legged on the ground. They looked hostile, but whenever she stepped on a hand or crushed a skirt, she bestowed a sweet patrician smile on the victim. Every inch a senator’s daughter, Helena Justina was bringing condolences and patronage without questioning whether she was welcome. Trampling on provincials seemed to be her heritage.
I knew she was angry on behalf of the bereaved young girl. Whatever support the teenager lacked, Helena intended to offer it now. “Rhodope! This will be a hard day for you—but what a wonderful turnout. He must have been extremely popular. I hope it’s some consolation for you.”
The pale girl looked suspicious. Only Rhodope had her large sad eyes fixed on the bier. Everyone else here was using the funeral as an excuse for a party. With free food and music, none of them spared a thought for Posidonius, being fleeced yet again, and few seemed to care much for seeing off Theopompus to the afterlife either.
It was a segregated event. Women stayed together; so did men. Different groups of men clustered separately from each other. The formal Roman undertakers were going about their business, more or less unnoticed, while among the knots of seafarers foreign musicians played exotic instruments, oblivious to the mournful Roman flutes that were supposed to signal high spots in the ceremony. From private cooking fires, scents of roast meat and fish mingled with the incense. The overall effect was completely disorganized. It also had the feel of a party that would last for the next three days.
A veiled man barged past me, his hairy arms holding a
portable altar high on his shoulder. Acolytes scurried after him, towing a sheep and bringing implements for sacrifice. There were whoops from the rough element, who were eyeing up the sheep as potential spit-fodder.
Since nobody else wanted Rhodope’s attention, Helena was able to stay there and talk. While she introduced Albia, I stopped with them. After Maia left, Petronius had mooched off to inspect the mourners. As the only male in this group, I was out of place—but it was nowhere near so dangerous for me as joining angry men with sea-knives in their cummerbunds.
The pyre was struggling to light. I could see the priest’s lips moving as he cursed under his breath.
“What will you do next?” Helena asked Rhodope quietly.
“I am going to Illyria with his people.”
“Is that a good idea? Joining them along with Theopompus would have been different. Without him, will you be welcomed?”
“Oh yes. They are my friends for his sake.” A couple of gap-toothed old women looked up and smiled vaguely. They might not be talking to Rhodope, but they were definitely listening.
Helena let the subject drop. It was Albia, herself the child of loneliness and suffering, who burst out irritably, “You are being foolish. Life will be hard and you will be a stranger. They will make you marry some man who will be cruel to you. You will be a drudge.”
Rhodope shot her a displeased look. In different circumstances the two young girls could have made friends. “You know nothing about it!”
“I know more than you think!” retorted Albia. I met Helena’s eyes as the two teenagers argued; she looked proud of Albia, who now said flatly, “I have lived without a family, among very poor people.”
“They are not poor!” flashed Rhodope. “Look at these women—see how they are dressed.” It was true that they were richly adorned: among their crimson, blue, and purple robes, chain necklaces were draped in clusters, rows of bangles lined their thin arms, anklets and earrings twinkled with gold disks and spindles.
Sure of her victory, Albia proclaimed, “There burns your man. Your hopes are flying up to the heavens in the smoke. Sit and weep for him. Helena Justina will comfort you.” Albia gathered her skirts in one hand and began to pick her way disdainfully between the seated Illyrian women. As if emphasizing their lack of interest in Rhodope, she offered, “I will go and fetch food and wine for you.”
“They are hung with gold!” insisted Rhodope, almost beseechingly.
Albia turned back. She was a few years younger than Rhodope, yet visibly more sensible. Perhaps she realized that Rhodope’s father must have allowed her uncontrolled shopping throughout her short life. “Gold,” Albia commented drily, “which they are not allowed to spend, I think.”
LV
When the trouble began, it happened unexpectedly.
The sheep had had its throat cut, which caused unusually loud applause. The priest barely had time to drop the entrails in a dish before unexpected assistants snatched the carcass and had it slow-roasting. The pyre had now been lit, though it was not drawing well. As the smoky flames began to flicker around the corpse, close male relations of Theopompus should have been giving his eulogy, but none of the Illyrians stepped forward for that role. Still, we all knew he had been a flashy dresser who drove too fast. Rhodope would probably give him a huge memorial stone later, extolling virtues his colleagues had never noticed. Despite her conviction that she was among friends, I thought few would linger until she inaugurated the stone.
The flames began to crackle around the flower-decked bier at last. I saw Albia boldly seeking refreshments for Rhodope as she had promised. She had pushed her way past nearby groups who were cooking up their own cauldrons and approached a grand feast set out on a temporary table, the official catering provided by Posidonius. She helped herself to a bowl and a goblet, waiting for a turn with the food and drink. Picnics with the dead at the necropolis were standard. This was just being done on a huge scale. There was a disorganized buffet queue.
The caterer had sent slaves to empty the hampers and lay out the delicacies neatly, but the nervous waiters looked overwhelmed as Illyrians and Cilicians started taking over. Women grabbed serving dishes; men leaned to snatch the best morsels, while holding out cups to be filled by overworked waiters. Albia refused to be ignored or barged aside.
Helena had her eye on our girl, and so did I. Albia was young and on her own there. It was no surprise that one of the men in seaboots was eyeing her up. As she turned back to us, he followed, not realizing Albia had a wild past. He made his move. Barely stopping in her tracks, she elbowed him away and flung the contents of the goblet she was carrying right in his face. Then, unperturbed, she brought the food bowl to Rhodope.
“Someone jogged me. I shall fetch you more wine—”
“I’ll come with you!” Rhodope had seen what happened. She stood up in sudden solidarity. The little queen of the party now flushed with embarrassment and turned into a good hostess.
I was already removing the man, with stern advice he didn’t want: “Let’s not spoil the party. Suppose you get lost—”
“Wait, Falco!” Rhodope’s voice rang out above the hired mourners’ moans. Something had disturbed her. She seized one of the pyre-lighting torches and brandished it overhead. It was broad daylight, a blissful August day; she did not need to light the scene.
Albia, looking impressed by the theatrical stand, squared up beside her. Rhodope flung out her white-clad arm dramatically. “Ask that man where he obtained his boots!”
He tried to squirm out of sight. I grabbed his arm. He was a sallow, unshaven wretch with eyes that wandered off on their own somewhere when anyone looked at him. He wore a loose gray tunic and a rather good black belt, probably stolen. The boots to which Rhodope was pointing were soft tan-colored calfskin with red straps crisscrossed up the shins. They had bronze hooks and tiny bronze finials on the ends of the straps. I would not have been seen dead in them—but clearly this fabulous footwear was special to the stricken teenage girl.
The trouble had started.
Rhodope was too distressed to sustain her initial rage, but she could still manage drama. “I know those boots,” she whispered in horror. “I bought those boots for Theopompus. He was wearing them when he was dragged away, the night he was taken from me. Whoever killed him must have stolen them …” She decided to faint. Albia was having none of it and hauled her back upright.
“He’s a murderer!” squealed Albia. “Don’t let him escape.”
I was conscious that we were surrounded by a huge crowd, many of whom were this man’s relatives. Slowly, people stood up, amid a wave of muttering.
Petronius Longus appeared at my side. Now they had two of us to attack. So far, they were holding back. Petro was larger than anyone else present. He was much larger than the man in the disputed boots, whom he now gripped with an arm up his back, lifting him by the neck of his tunic so his toes dangled. “Let’s have the boots off him, Falco.”
I removed the boots. It entailed dodging wild kicks until Petro made sure, very efficiently, that his captive stopped struggling. This was entertainment for the crowd, who saw we could be violent and began to revel in the scene. The man who had been wearing the fine bronze-toggled boots ended up white-faced and trembling; Petronius dandled him playfully.
Helena stepped forward, took the boots, and carried them to Rhodope. “Are you quite certain these are the boots you bought for Theopompus?”
As the center of attention, Rhodope revived. “Yes!” She tried fainting again, but again Albia dragged her upright, shaking her fiercely, like Nux with one of the children’s rag puppets. Albia had a no-nonsense attitude to first aid. No slumping or whimpering would be allowed.
Petronius told the captive not to give him any trouble, or he would end up as ashes on the pyre. By now members of the vigiles had become aware of the problem and were filtering toward us through the mourners. Petronius turned to the assembled groups of sailors. Thrusting the captive in one direction then a
nother, he cried harshly, “Which of you brought this boot-thief to Italy? Whose is he?”
Laughter came from Cratidas, surrounded by grinning Cilicians. Petro aimed the captive at him. He answered with his usual sneer: “Not ours.” Lygon, who was alongside in his flamboyant coat, also shook his head quickly. Then they jeered at another group, who must be Illyrians.
I pretended to watch the action, but I was searching the crowd. Eventually I found the man I was looking for: Cotys. I wanted to tackle him myself but there was too much opposition here.
Edging up to Rubella, I muttered, “Group over there by the food table: villain in the plum-juice cloak—can your boys take him?” The tribune appeared not to hear me. I had faith. Rubella himself strolled over to the buffet as if he wanted a fistful of skewered meat, nodding to one or two vigiles troopers as he made his way. He was fit and fearless; one thing you always had to say for Rubella was that when it came to action, he was utterly sound. A drunken innkeeper hit him once and said it was like punching masonry.
Cotys sensed trouble. But he was still drawing his knife when Rubella—one-handed—knocked him flat. Then the tribune stood on Cotys’ knife arm, and calmly ate his skewered tidbits while he waited for the noise to settle down.
There was a hush. When a heavy ex-centurion stood on someone’s wrist with his whole weight, everyone could sympathize—but certainly not try to help the man on the ground.
“This the one you want, Falco?” Rubella called conversationally, as if he had just picked out a flatfish at a fishmonger’s. He cleaned his teeth with his little-finger nail. “Who is he, and what has the bastard done?”
I retrieved the boots from Helena. “He’s Cotys, an arrogant Illyrian. He took me on a forced ride on his leaky liburnian, tried to drown me, and he stole my sword—for starters. These boots come into the story. Yesterday, I saw the man Petronius has arrested clomping around in them. He and another filthy character carried a chest aboard the ship. Cotys claimed it was his sea-chest but—you’ll be interested in this, Tribune—it’s the same one the two scribes brought to Ostia with their ransom for Diocles.”
Scandal Takes a Holiday Page 27