Sometimes it turns out that my client actually killed the deceased and hired me as a cover, which at least is neat.
‘Shall I fetch the will?’ asked Quirinius, whose main job had been to detain creditors with sweet drinks and pastries on a patio, while Pa scarpered by a back exit.
‘Save it for the heir.’
‘Back in an instant!’
Dear gods.
Me? My father’s heir? On the other hand, who else was there? What friend or close relation, other than me, could Pa have lumbered? He knew half of Rome, but who counted with him enough for this? Had he died intestate, it would have become my role in any case. I had always imagined he would die intestate, come to that.
Misgiving gave way to dread. It seemed Pa was going to make me responsible for unravelling the complex rats’ nest of his business affairs. I would have to become familiar with his dubious private life. A named heir does not automatically inherit the estate (though he is entitled to at least a quarter); his duty is to become an extension of the dead man, honouring his gods, coughing up for his charities, preserving property, paying debts (a frequent reason to back out of being an executor, believe me). He makes arrangements for specified bequests and tactfully fends off people who have been disinherited. He shares out the booty as instructed.
I would have to do it all. This was typical of my father. I don’t know why I felt so unprepared.
The will was apparently hard to find. That wasn’t suspicious; Pa hated documentation. He liked to keep everything vague. If he had to have written evidence, he tried to lose the scroll among a lot of mess.
The slaves kept staring. I cleared my throat and gazed at the mosaic floor. When I was bored with counting tesserae, I had to look at them.
They were a mixed bunch. Various nationalities and jobs. Some had worked for Pa for decades, others I failed to recognise. It was unlikely he came by any of them in the usual way. Not for my father a trip to the slave market when he needed a specific worker, with genteel haggling then a routine purchase. In his world, many business debts were settled by payment in kind. Some executors find antique vases of great value, which have been payments in lieu of fees. But since my father dealt in antique vases anyway, he accepted other commodities. He had acquired a curiously colourful familia in this way. Sometimes it worked out well; he had a wonderful panpipe-player, though he himself had a tin ear. But most of the staff looked unimpressive. Bankrupts’ cast-offs. Two kitchen staff were blind; that could be entertaining. A gardener had only one arm. I spotted a few vacant expressions, not to mention the usual rheumy eyes, raw wounds and sinister rashes.
While we went on waiting, they plucked up courage to petition me. Very few of these frightened household members were already freedmen; Pa had made lavish promises, but never got around to issuing formal deeds of manumission. That was typical; he managed to screw decent service out of his staff, but preferred to keep them reliant on him. I quickly learned that many of these anxious souls had families, even though slaves are not allowed to marry. They pressed me to grant their freedom, plus the same for various wives and children. Pa did own some of these, so their fates could be untangled and regularised, if I was willing. But others belonged to neighbours, so that was a mess. Other owners would not appreciate me trying to fix up fairytale solutions for their handmaids and bootboys.
Another worry for the slaves was where they would all end up. They realised that the villa might have to be sold shortly. They might be heading for the slave-market and a very uncertain future.
While we hung around in embarrassment, surprisingly one of the women asked, ‘Would you like to see him now?’
I nearly said must I? but that would have been an impiety.
Don’t be like that, my boy I Is it too much to show respect to your poor old father? …
A freedman was guarding the room. A curtain of scent wafted at me from the doorway, cassia and myrrh, traditional funeral incenses, the costly ones. Who authorised that? I hesitated on the threshold then went in.
I had viewed plenty of corpses. That was work. This was duty. I preferred the other kind.
No need to wonder about identity. On a rather fine couch in this dim room off a peaceful corridor, lay my deceased parent: Marcus Didius Favonius, also known as Geminus, descendant of a long line of dubious Aventine plebeians and honoured among the dealers, tricksters and shysters of the Saepta Julia. He had been washed and anointed, dressed in an embroidered tunic and a toga; given a wreath; his eyes had been closed by respectful hands and a ridiculous flower garland positioned round his neck. His haematite seal ring, his other gold ring with the head of an emperor, and the key to his bankbox at the Saepta lay in a small bronze dish, emphasising that the trappings of his life were no longer needed. Lying on his back, laid out so neatly on two mattresses, that garrulous sociable soul, now permanently silent, seemed thinner but essentially the same as when I saw him last week at our house. Unkempt grey curls warned how my own would be in a decade’s time. A lifetime of enjoying meals and doing business over cups of wine showed in his solid belly. Still, he had been a short, wide-bodied man who was used to moving heavy furniture and marble artefacts. His hairy arms and legs were strongly muscled. Down in Rome he often walked, even though he could afford a litter.
This motionless corpse was not my father. Gone were the characteristics that made him: the bright, devious eyes; the raucous, complicated jokes; the endless lust for barmaids; the aptitude for making money out of nothing; those flares of generosity that always led to pleading for reciprocal favours and affection. Gone for ever was what my mother called his cracking grin. No one could more surely clinch a deal. No one enjoyed making a sale so deeply. I had hated having him in my life - - but now suddenly could not envisage life without him.
I backed out of the room, feeling queasy.
In the entrance hall Quirinius, flustered, told me, ‘I thought I knew where his will was kept, but I’ve searched high and low and I can’t find it’
‘Gone missing?’ As a professional habit, I made it sound ominous; not that I cared.
He was reprieved. To my surprise, we were being joined by new arrivals; people had come from the city for the funeral. Bemused, I learned that messengers had been sent earlier today to the family and my father’s business colleagues. My litter must have crossed with them.
Word must have flown around Rome. Father had belonged to an auctioneers’ burial club; mainly he went for the wine. Although he had not paid his subscription for the last six months, the other members seemed to bear no grudges (well, that was Pa). Undertakers had been marshalled. A calm dignitary was in charge.
Gornia, the elderly assistant from the antiques warehouse, was one of the first comers. ‘I brought up an altar we had kicking about, young Marcus. Rather nice Etruscan piece, with a winged figure …’ A benefit of the profession. They could always lay hands on an altar. They had access to most things, and I was just thinking Gornia might help me pick out an urn for the ashes, when one of the funeral club people produced an alabaster item which apparently matched my father’s instructions. (What instructions?) The man handed it to me discreetly, brushing aside my murmur about payment. I had the feeling I had blundered into a closed world where everything would be made easy for me today. The debts would come later. Probably not small. I, of course, would be expected to pay them, but I was too sensible to upset myself thinking of that before I had to.
A remarkable crowd gathered. Men I had never seen before claimed to be decades-old colleagues. Squeezing out tears that could almost be genuine, strangers gripped my hand like familiar old uncles and told me what an unexpected tragedy this was. They promised me assistance with unspecified needs. One or two actually winked heavily. I had no idea what they meant.
Family arrived too. With sombre gowns and veiled heads, my sisters - Allia, Galla, Junia - pushed through to the front, dragging with them my nightmare brothers-in-law and Mico, Victorina’s widower. I viewed this as deep hypocrisy. Even Petroni
us Longus appeared, bringing my youngest sister Maia, who at least had some right to be here because she had worked with Pa. It was Maia who thrust a set of tablets at me.
‘You’ll need the will.’
‘So I am shocked to hear. He kept it at the office?’ I was just making conversation. I shoved the thing through my belt.
‘This was his latest version!’ Maia scoffed. ‘Some urgent change had to be made last week so he brought it down to the Saepta. He did love fiddling with it.’
‘Know what it says?’
‘The misery wouldn’t say.’
‘Haven’t you looked?’
‘Don’t be shocking - it’s sealed with seven seals!’
No time to be amazed by Maia’s restraint (if that was true), another marvel happened. A small figure, veiled in blackest black, jumped nimbly off a hired donkey (cheaper than a carrying chair), with the manner of one who expected reverence. She received it. At once the crowd gave way for her, and apparently without surprise at her presence. If the day had seemed unreal before, it became madness now. I didn’t need to peek beneath the veil. My mother was taking back her rights.
Luckily no one could see her expression. I knew she would not throw herself inconsolably on the bier, or rend her hair. She would send Pa to the Underworld with a cackle, delighted that he had gone first. She was here to make certain the renegade actually left for the Styx. The smug words I heard through that veil all day were, ‘I never like to gloat!’
I saluted Ma gravely and made sure a couple of my sisters led her by the hands, with instructions to ensure that she always had a good view of proceedings and that she didn’t pinch any silver trays or old Greek vases from the house. I knew how a son ought to handle his widowed mother. I had advised enough clients on this point.
A procession lined up, like some reptile slowly awakening in the sun. In a daze, I found myself propelled to the front of a long funeral train. We made our way a short distance to an area of the garden that Pa must have already chosen as his resting place. He had planned everything, I gathered. I was fascinated to find he had this morbid streak. His corpse was carried on a bier, on its double mattress, with an ivory headrest. I was one of the eight bearers, with Petronius and the other brothers-in-law - Verontius, the crooked road contractor; Mico the worst plasterer in Rome; Lollius, the constantly unfaithful boatman; Gaius Baebius, the most boring customs clerk in that far from rollicking profession. Numbers were made up by Gornia and a fellow called Clusius, some leading light in auctioneering, probably the one who hoped to scoop up most of my father’s business in the next few weeks. There were torches, as is traditional even in daytime. There were horn-players and flautists. Curiously, they all could play. To my relief, there were no hired mourners wailing and, thank Pluto, no mime artists pretending to be Pa.
The undertakers must have brought equipment and, unnoticed, had already constructed a pyre. It was three levels high. Funereal odours soon covered the hillside: not just more myrrh and cassia, but frankincense and cinnamon. No one in Rome would be able to buy banquet garlands today; we had all the flowers. High on the Janiculan, a breeze helped the flames get going after I plunged in the first torch. We stood around, as you have to for hours, waiting for the corpse to be consumed, while people with no sense reminisced about Pa. The kinder ones simply watched in silence. Much later I was to drown the ashes with wine - - just a mediocre vintage; in respect for Pa, I reserved his best for drinking. Though I was still not certain how much of the organisation was my responsibility, I invited everyone to a feast in nine days’ time, after the set period of formal mourning. That encouraged them to leave. It was a good step back down to Rome and they had gathered I was not offering overnight accommodation.
They knew I had special troubles. They had all seen how, just before the undertakers opened my father’s eyes on the bier so he could see his way on to Charon’s ferry, I had clambered up and laid upon his breast the body of my one-day-old son.
So on the sun-drenched slopes of the Janiculan Hill, one long, strange July evening, we paid our respects to Marcus Didius Favonius. Neither he nor tiny Marcus Didius Justinianus would have to face the dark alone. Wherever they were going, they set off there together, with my tiny son clasped for eternity in the strong arms of his grandfather.
III
I shed some tears. People expect it. Sometimes at the funeral of a reprobate it seems easier than when you are honouring a man who really deserved grief.
Before they left, the jostling started. Relatives, business associates, friends, so-called friends and even strangers all made subtle or blatant attempts to find out whether they would receive a legacy. My mother stayed aloof from this. She and Pa had never declared themselves divorced, so she was convinced she had rights. She was waiting for my sisters to take her back to Rome, but they were queuing to come up and speak to me, showing affection that unsettled me. I could not remember the last time Allia, Galla or Junia had felt the need to kiss my cheek. One by one their feckless husbands each clasped my hand in strong, silent communion. Only Gaius Baebius came right out with a concern: ‘What’s going to happen about Flora’s, Marcus?’ He meant the Aventine bar that my sister Junia managed for our father.
‘Just give me a few days, Gaius - -’
‘Well, I suppose Junia can go on running the place as usual.’
‘That would be helpful.’ I ground my teeth. ‘I hope it’s not a chore. Apollonius is a perfectly good waiter. Or if Junia really can’t face it, why doesn’t she just close up the shutters, until we know what’s what?’
‘Oh, Junia won’t give way to her grief!’
Junia stood in uncharacteristic silence, forced by the situation to have her husband speak for her: he like a true Roman patriarch and she like an inconsolable bereaved daughter. Yes, the lies and deceit had started.
I caught Maia’s eye and wondered again whether she had sneaked a look at the will. I could have unsealed the tablets. It is traditional to read a will in public straight after the funeral.
Stuff that for a game of soldiers. I wanted to inspect and evaluate this dodgy document when I was safely by myself. It remained in my belt. Every time I bent a few inches, the chunky tablets stuck in my ribs, reminding me. Every time someone fished for information, I played at being too overcome with sorrow to think about it.
‘Cut that out!’ muttered Petronius Longus, while he acted out supporting me. ‘Some of us know you would have gone to live as a pork-chop trader in Halicarnassus if you could have escaped being your father’s son.’
‘No point. He’d only have turned up,’ I answered gloomily. ‘Offering me a cheap price for bones - and expecting me to leave the marrow in as a favour.’
Petro and Maia stayed until last, helping to shepherd out the rest, then giving orders to the slaves. ‘Keep the house running as normal. Keep it clean and secure.’
‘You will have instructions later this week about the funeral feast, then you will be told where you will each be working afterwards …’
I watched them, moving now like a long-established couple, although they had only lived together formally for one or two years. They had met after Maia was married and a mother, a status she respected with more diligence than her late husband deserved. Each now had children from first marriages, all of whom -were currently outside in the portico, quietly occupying themselves. Throughout the day Petronilla, Cloelia, Marius, Rhea and Ancus had behaved in magical contrast to the brats my other sisters dragged along. They would have shown up my own pair, had I brought them. My daughters were cute but unmanageable. Helena said they got it from me.
Petronius, tall and hefty, was not in formal funeral clothes, but had simply thrown an extra-dark cloak over the battered brown gear he usually wore. I guessed that back in Rome he was due at the vigiles’ patrol house for a night shift. I thanked him for coming all the more; he just shrugged. ‘We’ve got a really puzzling case, Falco. I’d welcome your advice - -’
My sister laid a hand on his
arm. ‘Lucius, not now.’ Maia, with her dark curls and characteristic quick movements, looked odd and unfamiliar in black; she usually flitted about in very bright colours. Her face was pale, but she was businesslike.
I would have hugged her, but now the house had emptied, Maia broke away and threw herself on to a couch. ‘Did you see this coming, sis?’
‘Not really, though Pa had complained of feeling off-colour. Your Egypt trip knocked it out of him.’
‘Not my idea. I had banned him. I knew he’d be a menace, and he was.’
‘Oh I realise. Look,’ Maia said, ‘I won’t annoy you with details, but I went quickly through the diary with Gornia. We will carry on with all the booked auctions but won’t take any new orders. You’ll have a lot of sorting out, whatever happens to the business.’
‘Oh Jupiter! Sorting out - what a nightmare … Why me?’ I finally managed to voice it out loud.
Petronius looked surprised. ‘You are the son. He thought a lot of you.’
‘No, he thought Marcus was a self-righteous prig,’ my sister disagreed in a casual tone. She threw insults as if she had hardly noticed doing it, though her barbs were generally apt and always intentional. ‘Still, Marcus always does a good job. And apart from behaving like a bastard at every opportunity, Father was a traditionalist.’
‘Maybe all fathers are bastards,’ I commented. I like to be fair. ‘He knew what I thought of him. I told him often enough.’
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