I refrained from saying that rebuffing Dromo could be seen as sensible. Even so, Dromo gave me a sideways glance, as if by now he reckoned he could work out what I was thinking.
When he believed I was looking the other way, he turned around and made a rude gesture at Cosmus. Cosmus gave back as good as he got. Myla aimed a smack at Cosmus; I would have done the same to Dromo, but he had sidled out of reach. There were about two years between those boys, but otherwise I could see little difference.
No, that was wrong. I noticed, with interest, my attitude had altered. In an insidious way, through my dealings with Dromo he had become ‘mine’. Both young slaves behaved equally badly, but I felt more lenient towards him. I didn’t even own him.
This must have been how the idea developed that slaves should be considered part of a family.
The chosen necropolis was the nearest to the Esquiline Gate, but since the city boundary had shifted with time, we had to go out, cross the Fifth Region, and pass onto the Via Praenestina. As the bier passed the Second Cohort’s station house, Titianus and a group of his men marched out and joined us, looking sombre. It was neatly choreographed. They must have had a watchman looking out for the procession. The vigiles like going to funerals. It’s a day out. Titianus was not the type to come in the hope of spotting something useful.
I was constantly looking for clues, of course. However, I never noticed any, or none I could interpret. At least I knew I tried.
We sent Polycarpus in a haze of myrrh to whatever gods he had honoured. He may have had none at all, but everyone has gods imposed on them at their funeral. This is the divinities’ revenge for lack of belief.
When at last the flames died down, the ashes were gathered by none other than Marcus Valerius Simplicianus. Initially surprised, I realised it was proper. Aviola’s long-lashed son and heir had assumed the position of head of household; that made him patron to his father’s steward, and under his mother’s eagle eye, he carried out the necessary formal duties. He did it with due care. He conducted a sacrifice on a portable funeral altar. He made a polite speech, perhaps written by Sextus Simplicius for him, judging by the anxiety with which the cousin listened to its delivery.
I thought Sextus Simplicius was itching to take over. But this was Rome. A man of twenty-five inherited the paternal role even if he was a swine or an idiot. Valerius did tell a story of Polycarpus carrying him around on his shoulder when Valerius was a child and Polycarpus not yet a freedman; it made a touching anecdote, which the young man recalled with apparent sincerity. I started to have more feeling for these people as a long-established family, a family crushed by the tragedy of having three members murdered.
In theory it was four members, but I knew I was the only person here who gave a thought to the battered door porter.
There were grand tombs in this necropolis, though we had gathered by a simpler brick and tile tomb. The ashes were deposited in an urn in a multiple columbarium where the remains of Aviola and his bride already stood in a cubbyhole, among flowers that had only half withered since they were placed there as offerings. At one point, I noticed that Valerius Simplicianus stood alone in front of the larger, more expensive urn that contained his father’s ashes; he raised his hands, praying quietly. If he had been away in Campania with his mother, he must have missed his father’s funeral. I was pleased to see that even an effete playboy could honour his father. His mother noticed too; Galla turned away, hiding her face in her stole, as if even she was surprised and moved to tears.
Graecina announced she had ordered a large inscription for Polycarpus. She insisted on reciting everything it would say (it was currently with the stone-cutter) and describing alternative wordings that she had considered. She was losing her grip on her emotions. As she laboured, Galla Simplicia went up and hugged her, to rescue the situation. Unable to continue, the widow broke down in floods of tears. Galla’s younger daughter and I distracted the two little children; they came to us willingly then simply clung to our skirts in misery.
While we all waited, I gazed around the wider scene. Bodies cannot be buried inside the city boundary, so you always have that contrast between the tragic intimacy of the funeral and normal life as it continues nearby. The Via Praenestina was a busy road. As we gathered, many travellers passed on the highway, some on foot, some riding mules or donkeys. Some gawped, yet others seemed quite unaware of what we were doing. Commercial carts were already starting to gather, waiting to be let into Rome when the wheeled vehicle curfew lifted that evening. Occasionally, drivers jumped down to stretch their legs, staring at us curiously. One even relieved himself in full view during the oration.
The necropolis was as mixed as they always are, with grandiose monuments for millionaire families lining the main road, but humbler tombs packed in among them. And because people liked to live in the countryside, yet as close as possible to the city for convenience, there were the usual villas backing up against the tombs, built so close they were almost part of the cemetery. They were handsome, spacious places, some no doubt owned by imperial freedmen and women, or simply homes to people who wanted a pleasant rural situation, with guaranteed quiet neighbours.
I knew that when the Gardens of Maecenas were first created, bodies from the old graveyard had been dug up and reburied here. Broken into higgledy-piggledy pieces by inconsiderate workmen, those long dead bones would have worried me if I lived here. But people can overlook a lot, to gain covetable property.
Eventually Graecina stopped weeping, exhausted. Her considerate patroness released her, mopped her up, then invited us all to light refreshments back at the apartment.
40
The two chairs in the garden courtyard had been joined by more. I was starting to feel obsessed by whether anyone would ever put any of this seating away again. With Polycarpus gone, who was there to insist on it?
In a room off one of the porticos stood tables with a buffet. It was informal; if Graecina followed tradition (if she could afford to), there would be a proper feast on the ninth day. Tonight, people took up their own bowls then servers helped them to their choice from grand platters. Light, fragrant food was provided, substantial enough for anyone who was hungry after several hours at the cremation (me, for instance) but not too heavy for mourners who were suffering emotionally. When you grieve, it is so easy to get heartburn.
It was all organised by Sextus Simplicius’ steward, the competent Gratus. Nobody seemed to realise the irony that Polycarpus had been on the verge of losing his own position to the absent Onesimus, and of supplanting this same pleasant Gratus.
His presence as supervisor, bringing staff from the Simplicius home, made me ponder. When the mourners had been served and he could relax, I approached and asked quietly, ‘Gratus, tell me: was it your staff that Aviola and Mucia borrowed for their dinner on the night they died?’
He confirmed it — and he had been on the premises with them, just as he was here today. Even though Polycarpus was in overall charge, Gratus never let their slaves go out to another house without being in attendance too. ‘Just in case.’
I drew him aside, to another portico. No one could overhear. I had a bowl in one hand and kept nibbling, so it looked as if our conversation was casual. ‘I wish I had asked you before. Will you tell me anything you remember about that evening?’
Gratus kept an eye on his staff, but he was nevertheless accommodating to me. He was taller and more refined in looks than Polycarpus, with a tanned Italian face: deep cheek creases, eyebrows that crooked in an upturned ‘v’, and a small gap between his front teeth. The slaves were in the usual plain material and neutral colours, but he wore a finer white tunic, with narrow over-the-shoulder braid in red.