That toga was clean when you filched it, Falco. I can see it's mine, not the hairy affair you normally trip over." My own toga, which I had left in Rome, had been inherited from my brother Festus, who had favoured a luxurious nap and an exceedingly long hem. I had never yet had it altered because I hated wearing it. This one was too long for me as well; Petronius Longus is half a head taller. I draped a fold of the borrowed garment over my lugged curls. This created a sad parody of a devout man going to a sacrifice, but I pulled a long face and used mincing steps for extra effect. Petro whistled flirtatiously. Stop sounding like a brickie on a scaffold, Petro – I need to be disguised."
Hiding from Helena? So where in Hades have you been? I had to give the whole port a going-over for you yesterday, then some mad message came."
Pa on good form I did not give him away. How is Helena?"
Apart from furious?"
I'm innocent. If the harbour master had done his job, he would have seen me being stolen away by a cut-throat gang of Illyrians."
The ones who are here today?" Petronius perked up and attached himself to me. Oh fun! Will they be angry you've escaped? I'll come and watch." He poked my toga, felt the sword, then showed me the pommel of the one he carried beneath his cloak. I admitted that I had borrowed his own spare. Mine is at the bottom of the sea. I wish I hadn't wasted effort polishing it first."
Lucky it wasn't you who fell in." I grinned weakly. The funeral was taking place in the middle of the wide road, which at that point was packed with people. The ceremony was getting under way, but it looked as if nothing much had been happening for several hours. Mourners who knew each other were sitting around in groups trying to remember the name of that fat man who got very drunk the last time they went to a funeral. People who knew nobody were stretching their stiff limbs and looking bored. There was no sign of the grief-stricken girl's father, but his money was well in evidence. That poor hound Posidonius must have paid for everything, starting with an enormous pyre, tended by half the funeral directors in Ostia, with a full Roman entourage, an orchestra, massed ranks of hired mourners, and religious celebrants. The very best in white mourning wear had been lavished on Rhodope, plus a mighty great feast for all comers. Hangers-on who had never met Theopompus were greedily tucking in. The procession had ground to a halt; Posidonius presumably did not own a tomb at Ostia so the cremation was taking place in the middle of the roadway. A cinerary urn, in the kind of Greek black figure my father imported, was ready on a stand. Pa knew Posidonius; I wondered if the ancient art had come off a ship near the Laurentine coast just yesterday. The corpse was still lying on its flowery bier. This looked a bit lop-sided; one leg of the bier was being discreetly levelled up by attendants poking stones underneath it. Florists and garland twisters had had a happy time, but the perfumiers would walk away with the crowns for best effort. We could smell the exotic oils from thirty strides away. Theopompus, last seen half naked and barefoot, had now been dressed up like a barbarian king. He would have loved the finery. Skilful work had been done on his bruises too. I thought the face paint effect was a little too much, and Petronius criticised his barber. Petro was a stickler for classical straight fringes. The undertakers had puffed up Theopompus" luxurious haircut and given him a radiant crown of locks. Very Greek!" said Petronius. By which he meant… what Romans mean by very Greek. We were still admiring the embalmer's art when our womenfolk found us. Helena was flanked by Maia and Albia; they approached me like a trio of Furies who had pre-menstrual headaches and some unpaid bills to query.
Anything to say?" demanded Maia, keen to see me squirm. Helena Justina, tightly wrapped in a heavy stole, said nothing. Albia looked scared to death.
It was not my fault."
