“I’ve carried that spear myself,” Diotima spoke up.
“You have?” Petros looked at her in surprise
“For my father. It’s not easy, but if I can do it, so can you.”
Petros turned to me, puzzled, because it was inconceivable that a woman would carry the spear if there was a man to do it for her.
“It was before we were married,” I explained. I didn’t bother to add that though I’d been at that funeral, there was no force on earth that could have wrested that spear from my love’s hands.
Petros nodded his understanding. “Ah. Then what would you advise me? I must carry the spear, as is only right and proper, but what do I do then?”
I said, “Petros, you’re obliged to prosecute your brother-in-law’s killer. That’s the law.”
“Yes.”
“But the law doesn’t say you have to do all the work yourself. Let Diotima and me find the killer. Then you can prosecute him.”
Petros wrinkled his brow. “You would do this for a metic? Why?”
“I liked your brother-in-law,” I said, thinking of the time we sheltered together out of the rain.
“I see.” He thought about it for a moment. “I have no way to pay you.”
“I’m under commission to cleanse the impiety in any case. You may as well take advantage of it.”
“That would not be honorable,” Petros said.
“I’m making the offer,” I said. “And please don’t be offended, Petros, but a man with all your problems can’t afford to be too worried about niceties. Think of it as my Dionysiac gift to you.”
“Then I accept.”
Diotima and I left the house. Petros had left a bowl of seawater outside the door, as custom demands. We washed our hands then, lacking a towel, dried them on each other’s chitons.
We stood outside, waiting for the procession to begin.
The family didn’t leave the spectators waiting. Petros and the other men of the house emerged, holding between them a board on which lay the body of Romanos. The women and children followed. They had rubbed soot and dirt into their faces and hair. Every one of them had short, ragged hair, as befits a mourner. But of course, professional mourners always wore their hair ragged.
Petros separated himself from the bearers. I saw that he carried a spear in his right hand. Diotima and I knew that he was nervous, but no one could have told from his manner, which was calm and somber. His eyes met mine for an instant, and he nodded.
In every funeral I’d ever seen, the body was placed on a cart, to be taken to the city’s official cemetery in Ceramicus. But there was no cart to be seen. Instead, the six grim-faced men who carried Romanos turned as one to face north. Petros spoke a word and they simultaneously lifted the board to their shoulders.
Petros spoke another word, and the bearers began to walk in time. A young lady among the mourners carried a flute. Another held a lyre. They raised their instruments and began to play the epicedium, the funeral song in praise of the deceased, a slow, sad song in the Lydian mode.
The bearers walked with identical manner: heads down, shoulders bowed as if under the weight of the world. Their steps dragged in the dust. They might have been marching to their own funerals. They said not a word.
Petros stepped in behind the men who carried the body. Maia was by his side. Petros raised his arm, so that everyone could see the spear of vengeance.
The other members of the household filed in behind them. They began the customary sobbing and cries of despair. The rest of us-friends, neighbors, and the simply curious-took our places behind the family. Diotima and I were careful to place ourselves directly behind the official mourners, so that we could watch.
The funeral procession marched north at a slow pace. Most families would carry their dead along the main roads, to garner the most attention. Instead, the professional mourners wended their way through all the minor streets, a long, unwieldy path. It seemed an odd decision, if only because it forced everyone who followed to squeeze together. But the choice of route had an interesting effect. People who weren’t used to funerals passing down their street poked their heads out of windows to see what was happening. Many of these were interested enough to join the line, to watch the show. The tail of followers became longer and longer, and the more it lengthened, the more interesting the event became and the more joined.
By the time we arrived at Ceramicus, there were many hundreds of onlookers. The long line passed through the gates of the cemetery.
Ceramicus has been the official burial ground of Athens since time immemorial. I didn’t know how many of my ancestors lay in the ground beneath my feet, but the line must have stretched back to the time of King Theseus and beyond. I knew that one day I, too, would lie here.
The bearers stopped by a funeral pyre that had been freshly built. They placed the board that carried Romanos upon the exact center, then stepped back, rubbing their sore arms.
Beside the body, upon the pyre, the women laid out three changes of clothing, which was the maximum that the law allowed. They returned with sweet cakes, which they placed beside his hands, for Romanos to eat on his journey to the underworld. Normally a family would send a loved one to Hades with some decent jewelry or fine belongings, but here there was nothing, until Maia approached.
Maia held the only extra grave goods that the family intended to offer. In her right hand she carried the mask of tragedy, in her left the mask of comedy. She laid the masks reverently beside her brother.
Petros took up a burning torch, one made of rags wrapped around a pole, the whole dipped in olive oil. He walked about the pyre, touching the torch to every part.
As the flames rose, one of the men cast scented oil from an amphora that he held under his left arm. He held a scoop in his right hand, from which he flung droplets across the entire funeral pyre as he walked about. The oil sizzled everywhere it fell and a pleasantly sweet smell enwrapped everyone who watched.
The fire had built remarkably quickly. Sometimes, if a fire hadn’t been stacked properly, the flames would exhaust before the body had been fully consumed, leaving the relatives with a gruesome problem and the guests with an unpleasant sight. There were no mistakes here though. I guessed the family of Romanos had used something to make sure the fire burned to the last bit of fuel. Nor was the pyre overstocked, another mistake that happened when nervous relatives overdid it, which would force the onlookers to step back from a conflagration. The pyre for Romanos was exactly hot enough, and exactly small enough for the mourners to stand respectfully close.
Romanos disappeared from sight behind the hot red flames.
Maia let out an ear-piercing scream that had my ears ringing. She collapsed to the ground. At first I thought she’d fainted. I made a step forward to assist her, as did several other men in the crowd, before I saw her twist on the ground and I realized it was part of her official mourning. She pushed her hands through the dirt and smeared them across her face and breasts.
Diotima had been right. This was the funeral to end all funerals, a mixture of elegance and drama. After this show, everyone, even the richest citizens, would be scrambling to match it.
The crowd slowly drifted away. As they walked, people talked to each other about what a fine funeral it had been. Diotima and I stayed to the very end.
Petros put his arm around Maia. She sagged against him, whether from exhaustion or sorrow I couldn’t tell, but if the shaking of her shoulders was any indication then she was quietly sobbing.
When only the family remained I went to Petros, to repeat our condolences and express our appreciation of the spectacle.