David Wishart - Solid Citizens

Manlius was getting into his stride. As eulogies went, it was standard, off-the-peg, ten-sesterces-the-yard stuff, delivered in the po-faced, self-consciously pious manner common to politicians and priests everywhere: pillar of the community, honest, reliable, honourable, life devoted to the service of the people of Bovillae, tragic loss, never see his like again. Pick-and-mix, like I say, all pretty general, but with the noticeable omission of the usual bits concerning sterling moral rectitude and the closeness of the dead man’s family ties. Either Manlius — if he’d written the speech himself, which was possible, judging by its banality — wasn’t a total hypocrite, or more likely he just wasn’t risking catcalls from the less respectful members of the crowd. That sort you always get, at politicos’ funerals, and if their comments aren’t always exactly PC at least they inject a bit of honesty into the proceedings.

Which reminded me … I turned to my chatty neighbour.

‘Any sign of the dead man’s brother here, pal?’ I said. ‘Lucius Caesius? Or his nephew Mettius? You know either of them by sight?’

‘Sure.’ The barber scanned the crowd, taking his time and chewing on the last of his sausage. ‘I can’t see the brother,’ he said finally. ‘Although that’s not surprising. The two couldn’t stand each other, no secret about it. But there’ — he pointed again, over to the far left — ‘that’s your Mettius. Standing over there by the shrine of the Goddess Rome, next to the fat woman with the chickens.’

I looked. There was only one possible candidate, a middle-aged guy in a sharp tunic and hairstyle years too young for him. His back was against the shrine, his arms were folded, and he was smiling with the relaxed air of someone just out to enjoy the show.

Which was just about over. Manlius had delivered his last pompous phrase and was rolling up the text of his speech and nodding to the slaves carrying the death-couch; at least, most of them were slaves, but I noticed that one of them was Anthus, in his new freedman’s cap. So they’d let him carry his master on his last journey. I was pleased about that.

The flute and cymbal players struck up again and the cortège moved off, followed by the dignitaries and whoever was going on to attend the final burning outside the town limits. Quite a few of these last, it seemed, and a fair number of them were ordinary punters: despite the circumstances, Caesius must still be popular. There again, in these small country towns you have to take what amusement you can get, and maybe even a funeral wasn’t to be sneezed at. I said goodbye and thanks to my barber pal and tagged along, glancing over my shoulder to see who else was coming.

Surprisingly — at least, it was a surprise to me — it included the nephew, who’d slipped in at the tail-end of the crowd. An even bigger surprise was that walking beside him was the brothel owner, Opilia Andromeda.

Interesting.

We went through the town, back the way the procession had come, past Caesius’s house and out of the Arician Gate, where the tombs started. A few hundred yards on, there was a big funeral pyre covered again with branches of pine and cypress, next to what was presumably the family pile. The bearers manoeuvred the death-couch on to the top of the pyre and stepped back while one of the undertakers’ men handed Manlius, as chief mourner, the lighted torch. He pushed it into the oil-soaked wood, the flames leapt up and smoke billowed, caught by a freshening breeze and shrouding the corpse.

Once the fire had properly taken hold a fairly large chunk of the crowd began to drift off back in the direction of town, leaving a hard core mostly consisting of mantle-wearers. Me, I stuck around too: this is the point in the proceedings for socialising, while the corpse is burned and the chief mourners plus the undertakers’ men wait for the fire to die down so that they can cool the ashes with wine and collect the bones for burial. I looked for the lawyer, Publius Novius — after all, I’d have to talk to him before too long — but I couldn’t see him. That was understandable, sure: the day was turning cold, no weather for an old man to be out for long in, and he’d probably have packed it in as soon as it was decent. Nevertheless, most of the senators were still around, chatting in groups; I got a nod from Silius Nerva, although he didn’t come over. Also hanging on for the final rites — surprisingly, I thought, all things considered — was the nephew Mettius. Not Andromeda, though, who I’d noticed slipping away practically as soon as the pyre was lit — out of tact, probably, since the odds were that the high-profile mourners included some of her regular customers. But there again, maybe I was doing her an injustice. She’d come to the burning, after all, and she was a busy lady with a business to run.

Mettius was standing on his own, looking at the flames and obviously lost in his own thoughts. I drifted across to him, and he glanced up when he saw me coming. He did a double-take, and his eyes widened slightly.

I might’ve been wrong, but I had the distinct impression that the guy was steeling himself.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I’m-’

‘Marcus Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Yes, I know who you are. You’re down here from Rome, and you’re investigating the old man’s death, right?’

Old man . Not my uncle . Well, it made sense, I suppose, given the background and the fact that they’d had no contact for over ten years. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Although there’s no actual connection between the two. So how did you know, exactly?’

He shrugged; an elegant lifting of the shoulders. Ageing lad-about-town was right: the guy might dress and be barbered like a twenty-year-old dandy, but he was at least thirty-five, probably closer to forty, and he looked ten years older; it’s not the mileage that gets you, sometimes, it’s the booze, and I reckoned Mettius had sunk his fair share over the years. Not that I’m one to talk, of course.

‘Andromeda told me,’ he said.

‘Right. Right.’ I nodded. ‘I noticed you were together. You, uh, know her well?’

‘That all depends on what you mean. We’re on familiar terms, yes, of course we are, as no doubt you’ll’ve guessed from the fact that we came out here in one another’s company.’ His eyes were challenging. ‘Knowing her well , however — in the sense in which I suspect you used the word — is something else entirely. I’m not married, Corvinus, but like a lot of other men in this town, married and single, I enjoy sex for its own sake and am willing to pay for it, so I’m a customer of hers. The big difference between me and a large number of her other regular clients is that I’m not ashamed to admit it.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said easily. ‘I’ve no problem with that.’ I glanced round at the pyre, still blazing away: the undertakers’ men were pouring on perfume and adding dried, sweet herbs, to mask the smell of cooking meat: Caesius would be almost gone now. ‘You didn’t get on with your uncle, so I’m told.’

‘You were told right.’ His mouth twisted. ‘But that’s putting it far too mildly. I hated the bastard’s guts.’ I blinked; not something you expect to hear, under these circumstances, with the man himself turning to ash just a few feet away. ‘So. Surprised that I’m here, are you?’

‘A bit, yeah.’

‘Don’t be. The reason’s quite simple. I wanted to see him burn.’

There was no anger in the tone, and that made the words more chilling. ‘And why would that be, now?’ I said neutrally.

‘It’s no secret. And if you don’t know already, which I doubt, some public-spirited citizen’ll be delighted to tell you eventually, so I’m getting in first. You know I was relegated? For theft?’