Canidius?’ I said to the informative barber. ‘He here?’
‘The quaestor?’ He pointed. ‘That’s him, behind Manlius’s shoulder. The long drink of water.’
I followed the pointing finger with my eye, and grinned: ‘long drink of water’ summed the guy up perfectly. Tall, thin as a rake, early- to mid-forties, pasty-faced, looked like his nose had a permanent drip, and that there was something nasty under it. A prime candidate, obviously, for a pint or two of my barber pal’s good red blood.
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
‘The quaestor?’ He pointed. ‘That’s him, behind Manlius’s shoulder. The long drink of water.’
I followed the pointing finger with my eye, and grinned: ‘long drink of water’ summed the guy up perfectly. Tall, thin as a rake, early- to mid-forties, pasty-faced, looked like his nose had a permanent drip, and that there was something nasty under it. A prime candidate, obviously, for a pint or two of my barber pal’s good red blood.
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
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