My habitation, of course, is on the west side of the city on the marshy margins of the river — not a suitable place for cremations and inhumation. To reach the cremation site necessitated a long damp procession through the town. Fortunately the guards at the gates were used to funerals, and let us through without a murmur.
It was still drizzling.
‘We shall be lucky if he burns at all,’ Junio murmured at my side, and I was obliged to silence him. As chief mourner I had to maintain an appropriately lugubrious expression.
We crossed the town — taking the narrower lanes, to avoid the night-time traffic — and as we did so our procession lengthened, until by the time we reached the eastern wall there must have been twenty people in the retinue.
I glimpsed Junio’s face in the torchlight.
‘Who are they all?’ he mouthed.
I recognised some of them as other servants of Marcus. No doubt my patron had sent them, as he had sent me. I frowned severely. ‘People who knew the herald or belong to the guild, naturally,’ I whispered, in my best pompous manner.
Junio grinned. ‘Or who have contrived to attach themselves to the procession in the expectation of a free meal afterwards.’ He cocked an eye skywards. ‘Given the weather it is fortunate that we don’t eat the funeral feast at the graveside in these islands, as they are said to do in Rome.’
He spoke so softly that only I could hear him, and he almost made me smile. That would be unforgivable for a chief mourner and I had to scowl fiercely to put a stop to his levity.
We had passed through the far gates by this time, and reached the site where the guild held its cremations. Despite the damp evening the pyre was dry — it must have been covered with something — and a member of the guild was already standing by with a torch to light it, and an amphora of something liquid to pour onto the faggots to help them burn. Oil and fat perhaps, or distilled wine: I wish I knew their secret.
It was time for me to pay attention to the ceremony; according to the priest it was my job to scatter a handful of earth on the corpse before it was consigned to the flames.
I did so, and was preparing to take my place in the crowd again when the foreman of the guild came bowing over.
‘An oration, citizen?’
Of course! I had forgotten that. I was also expected to make some sort of flattering speech about what a good herald this had been. Without, of course, alluding to the manner of his death, or appearing to criticise Felix. There would be spies everywhere. Once more I mentally cursed Marcus for getting me into this. If one of the guild were making this oration I would have felt a great deal safer.
I cleared my throat. ‘Fellow. .’ — I was about to say ‘citizens’ but stopped myself in time — ‘Glevans. .’
It was not a good speech, but I managed something.
Then I had to be witness as a part of the corpse was cut off to be ritually buried — a grisly concession to custom which the average mourner is spared — and finally the bier was lifted from its gilded stretcher and placed rather clumsily on the pyre.
‘Not too close, citizen,’ the foreman murmured, gesturing me back.
He was right. The moment the torch was applied the flames sprang up, and once the liquid was poured onto them the heat and smoke became even more intense. Perhaps the cloth that covered the face had also been doused in something because, despite Junio’s fears, the whole corpse was soon burning fiercely.
‘Grave-goods?’ the foreman asked, in an undertone.
I shook my head, feeling foolish, but he was clearly not surprised. A slave does not often have possessions and a man cannot take into the next world what he does not own in this.
The aged priest muttered a prayer to his goddess, pausing and smiling to me at intervals. I muttered something inaudible which I hoped sounded appropriate, and soon the immediate formalities were over. I have always disliked the smell of burning flesh and I was glad when I was permitted to stand back with the crowd. Most of them had pulled their hoods over their heads against the drizzle. Gratefully I did the same and resigned myself to wait.
It promised to be a damp evening. Even the appearance of a drummer and piper did nothing to enliven it.
All the same, the pyre-builders knew their trade. They had developed combustion into a fine art: the fire and the torches were skilfully kept alight, and indeed it was not much more than an hour before the mortal remains of Marcus’s herald were reduced to ashes. They were then doused with wine and water and swept up — at least partially — into a funeral pot. To my relief I was not expected to take any part in that.
They handed the urn to me, though, when they had finished, and I was obliged to lead the procession and carry it — still warm — to the communal tomb building recently erected by the slave guild. I had not seen the edifice before, although there were already a number of burials within it. They call it a columbarium, a dovecote, because of the dozens of little niches set into it, and they are very proud of it. Besides, it saves money. Slaves die every day and a communal resting place removes the need to sacrifice a pig each time to consecrate the grave.
I put my pot warily into the recess the foreman indicated, and a guild functionary fixed it into place with damp mud. It would be sealed more firmly later.
I was afflicted by a terrible desire to wipe my hands on my dark-coloured toga, after handling the pot, but it would have been disrespectful to do so. I forced myself to stand still while the old priest muttered a quick blessing, first on the grave itself and then on the bread and wine which the foreman handed me.
‘No other grave-meats?’ he enquired, and again I was forced to say no.
He nodded. ‘There rarely are,’ he said, in his peculiar wheezing whisper. ‘And don’t worry, once the urn is in this grave, you won’t need to feed it further. There will be other funerals, with their own foodstuffs, and we sacrifice a bit for everyone at regular intervals.’ He stepped back and allowed me to place my humble offering in the appropriate place.
I regretted not having provided some grave-meats, if not to be cremated then at least to be offered now. This dry crust and dribble of thin wine did not seem much sustenance for the long journey into the next world, but it was all that the herald was likely to get.
I hoped there would be something more substantial offered to the living. I was cold and hungry and still stiff from my ordeal and I knew a funeral supper was to be provided. Knowing the guild, it was likely to be a single dish of stewed river eels and barley, a meal which I have never liked, probably accompanied by that revolting fish pickle. I told myself that after my eventful day I should be grateful to eat almost anything — and in any case, as chief mourner, I could hardly refuse.
Well, I would soon know. The priest was invoking the moon-goddess again and then it would be time for us to return to the city. Already the more impatient mourners at the back were beginning to drift away in the direction of the gates. At last the mumbling stopped, I added my ‘Vale’ to the dead man and the obsequies were over.
The guild foreman fell into step behind me. I ventured an enquiry about the funeral supper.
‘Eel stew, citizen? By no means. There is pork stew tonight, and fennel. I have had the kitchen slaves prepare it specially. Last night, with such a huge attendance, it was different — though of course not everyone attended the banquet.’
‘There were many mourners?’ I said, with more politeness than interest.
‘Crowds,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t tell you how many.’ In the flickering torchlight he smiled thinly. ‘Of course, with a big crowd like that there are always hangers-on. One fellow had to turn back at the gate because his father had been jostled to the ground in the crowd, and another came to me this morning saying that he’d been robbed. No doubt there were outlaws and thieves among us.’