The lads scuttled to obey.
Marcus turned to the rest of us. ‘We have all been in the presence of sudden death, and therefore we all need rites of purification. Fortunately, we have the high priest of Jupiter among us. He will tell us what it is necessary to do.’
That was a happy stroke. Even the Emperor himself was in awe of the gods. The old priest dithered out to the household altar, fussed importantly with his robes and said, in a cracked and faded voice, ‘I shall need water, wine and oil. And a flame, from the Vestal altar in the atrium.’
Marcus gave a nod, and two slaves sidled away to fetch these necessities.
‘And then there are the candles and herbs to set at the bedside.’ More slaves departed.
There was a pause, while the requisite fire and liquids were fetched. Then the priest lit the lamp before the votive statues and began a long and complicated invocation of the gods in general, and Jupiter in particular, not forgetting the Emperor — in his role as divine being — and the household deities. He ritually washed his hands of death, and poured out conciliatory sacrifice, sprinkling herbs and some crumbs from the feast upon the sacred flame.
‘Prayers too for the herald,’ someone called, and the old man repeated the process with a morsel of bread and watered wine, dropping his voice to an incantatory murmur. The gods, being divine, were doubtless able to hear it. More mortal ears, like mine, were unable to distinguish a word. No doubt that was intentional. Commodus assuredly had his spies amongst us and would hear every detail of this ceremony. The priestly balance of duties between gods and Emperor cannot always be an easy one.
Nevertheless, the effect was impressive. When he had finished he blessed the ceremonial vessels, and the slaves moved among us, offering each person present first the bowl of cool water and then a dish of ashes from the altar. One by one we took the garlands from our heads, dipped our hands and rinsed our faces in ritual cleansing, and solemnly placed a fingerful of ashes as a mourning sign upon our foreheads. Not one of us, I think, would genuinely have shed a tear for the lifeless figure lying on the couch, but there was something reassuring about fulfilling the rites. Even I, who am not a believer in the Roman pantheon, felt vaguely comforted, particularly when the old priest at the end of the ceremony picked up a bronze salver and struck it ringingly — striking bronze is a well-known Roman specific against malevolent spirits.
The slaves had by now returned with the funeral arranger, the most prestigious in the city, and he and his workers were loitering in the passageway waiting for the priest to offer the remains of the feast before the sacrificial altar. (Gaius’s slaves would be delighted by that, I thought, since there was a good deal left over and the servants are, by tradition, permitted in the morning to eat the remnants which the gods have not consumed. I am not a sceptical man but it has been my impression that the gods are rarely very hungry on these occasions.)
At last the formalities were over and the libitinarius and his party were able to enter with the funeral litter, an elaborate couch affair on a bier, with gilded handles and an embroidered canopy. It was almost too wide for the entrance, but they brought it in at last, and set it down.
Two of the attendants came forward and laid the body tenderly on it. ‘Keep the feet to the door,’ the undertaker said, ‘in case the spirit should wish to escape.’ I saw Gaius flinch, no doubt wishing we had thought of this elementary precaution earlier.
The attendants hoisted the litter, and the mortal remains of Felix were borne away upstairs to be washed, anointed, dressed in the finest toga in his possession, and — since he had been a person of some importance — arranged on the funerary couch and brought back to the atrium for a few days of lying in state. Matters were in the hands of the professionals. There was an audible murmur of relief as the litter jolted out of the room and up the narrow stairway. The spectacle was over. By common consent the remaining guests ignored the elaborate social ritual of compliment and counter-compliment which precedes departure from a feast, and prepared to leave without further ado. Social precedence, however, was not so easily flouted, and many people held back doubtfully. Marcus, as the highest-ranking individual, should properly leave the banquet first.
My patron caught my eye and signalled me to him. At last, I thought. The vision of my humble bed floated invitingly before my eyes. And Junio would doubtless be awaiting me with a beaker of honest mead. It had been a long day.
Suddenly, however, one of the funeral attendants reappeared in the inner doorway. ‘A thousand pardons, Excellence,’ he said, addressing himself with practised courtesy to Marcus and ignoring me entirely, ‘but who should close the eyes? And, being a gentleman from Rome, should someone observe the Roman convention?’
Kissing the lips of the deceased, he meant. It was a custom often practised in Rome, supposed to speed the departing soul. Marcus was looking at me. I shook my head. My duties to my patron encompass many things, but kissing the dead Felix was not one of them. The prospect was only marginally less horrible than the notion of kissing the living one.
That train of thought, however, gave me an idea. ‘With respect, Excellence, surely you should call on Zetso for this? In the absence of his daughter, who is still on her way, Zetso must know Felix better than any of us.’
Marcus frowned. ‘Zetso? But he is a mere carriage-driver. It is not seemly for him to perform the rites for such an important man.’
I permitted myself a smile. ‘In that case, Excellence, the duty should fall on the most senior and influential man present.’
‘Then. .’ Marcus began, and then realised who that would be. ‘Yes, perhaps you are right, Libertus. Zetso should close the eyes at least, and perhaps tell us also what grave-goods and funerary meats we should provide. Where is Zetso? I saw him earlier.’
But Zetso was not to be found, in the passageway or in the servants’ ante-room. The undertaker’s boy was still looking at us enquiringly.
‘Libertus,’ Marcus said darkly, ‘you shall have the commission for the commemorative pavement. But think of something. Someone has got to do this.’
For a blind moment I thought it would have to be me, but then inspiration struck. ‘Surely, Excellence, the owner of the house? He is, officially, the host.’
Marcus rewarded me with a beam. ‘Of course.’ Gaius was sitting miserably on a stool in the corner, and Marcus gestured to him, saying smoothly, ‘Gaius Flavius Flaminius, you have been chosen for a singular honour. .’ and the poor old fellow was led away into his own bedchamber to perform his grisly task. We could hear him, a little later, piping up a feeble lament and periodically calling Felix’s name as tradition demanded.
Marcus turned towards me, smiling. ‘Well, I believe we have done all we can. The council will meet tomorrow to arrange the funeral. A public ceremony, naturally, with a pause in the forum for the body to be displayed and someone to proclaim a eulogy. So I must be sure to find that herald and bury him decently before then. We want no more unfortunate accidents. Where is Zetso? He will know where the body was left, and he can lead us to it.’
I shook my head. ‘I do not know, Excellence. I have searched all the public rooms. Perhaps he has hidden downstairs, in the cellar or one of the storerooms. If he sees the hand of the dead in this, he must fear for his own safety. It was Zetso who staked out the corpse.’
Marcus gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘Perhaps. See if you can find him, Libertus. He can take us out tomorrow to find the herald in that comfortable carriage of his.’
‘Us’, I noticed. It seemed my customers would have to wait another day. ‘Yes, Excellence,’ I said humbly, and seizing a smoky taper in a holder I set off to look for Zetso.
The house was built on a slight rise, so there was an area below the rooms where we had been dining. It seemed the appropriate place to start.