They are not poor!" flashed Rhodope. Look at these women, see how they are dressed." It was true that they were richly adorned. among their crimson, blue and purple robes, chain necklaces were draped in clusters, rows of bangles lined their thin arms, anklets and ear-rings twinkled with gold disks and spindles. Sure of her victory, Albia proclaimed, There burns your man. Your hopes are flying up to the heavens in the smoke. Sit and weep for him. Helena Justina will comfort you." Albia gathered her skirts in one hand and began to pick her way disdainfully between the seated Illyrian women. As if emphasising their lack of interest in Rhodope, she offered, I will go and fetch food and wine for you."
They are hung with gold!" insisted Rhodope, almost beseechingly. Albia turned back. She was a few years younger than Rhodope, yet visibly more sensible. Perhaps she realised that Rhodope's father must have allowed her uncontrolled shopping throughout her short life.
Gold," Albia commented drily, which they are not allowed to spend, I think."
When the trouble began, it happened unexpectedly. The sheep had had its throat cut, which caused unusually loud applause. The priest barely had time to drop the entrails in a dish before unexpected assistants snatched the carcass and had it slow roasting. The pyre had now been lit, though it was not drawing well. As the smoky flames began to flicker around the corpse, close male relations of Theopompus should have been giving his eulogy, but none of the Illyrians stepped forward for that role. Still, we all knew he had been a flashy dresser who drove too fast. Rhodope would probably give him a huge memorial stone later, extolling virtues his colleagues had never noticed. Despite her conviction that she was among friends, I thought few would linger until she inaugurated the stone. The flames began to crackle around the flower-decked bier at last. I saw Albia boldly seeking refreshments for Rhodope as she had promised. She had pushed her way past nearby groups who were cooking up their own cauldrons and approached a grand feast set out on a temporary table, the official catering provided by Posidonius. She helped herself to a bowl and a goblet, waiting for a turn with the food and drink. Picnics with the dead at the necropolis were standard. This was just being done on a huge scale. There was a disorganised buffet queue. The caterer had sent slaves to empty the hampers and lay out the delicacies neatly, but the nervous waiters looked overwhelmed as Illyrians and Cilicians started taking over. Women grabbed serving dishes; men leaned to snatch the best morsels, while holding out cups to be filled by overworked waiters. Albia refused to be ignored or barged aside. Helena had her eye on our girl, and so did I. Albia was young and on her own there. It was no surprise that one of the men in seaboots was eyeing her up. As she turned back to us, he followed, not realising Albia had a wild past. He made his move. Barely stopping in her tracks, she elbowed him away and flung the contents of the goblet she was carrying right in his face. Then, unperturbed, she brought the foodbowl to Rhodope.
Someone jogged me. I shall fetch you more wine." I'll come with you!" Rhodope had seen what happened. She stood up in sudden solidarity. The little queen of the party now flushed with embarrassment and turned into a good hostess. I was already removing the man, with stern advice he didn't want.
Let's not spoil the party. Suppose you get lost."
Wait, Falco!" Rhodope's voice rang out above the hired mourners' moans. Something had disturbed her. She seized one of the pyre lighting torches and brandished it overhead. It was broad daylight, a blissful August day; she did not need to light the scene. Albia, looking impressed by the theatrical stand, squared up beside her. Rhodope flung out her white-clad arm dramatically. Ask that man where he obtained his boots!" He tried to squirm out of sight. I grabbed his arm. He was a sallow, unshaven wretch with eyes that wandered off on their own some where when anyone looked at him. He wore a loose grey tunic and a rather good black belt, probably stolen. The boots to which Rhodope was pointing were soft tan-coloured calfskin with red straps criss crossed up the shins. They had bronze hooks and tiny bronze finials on the ends of the straps. I would not have been seen dead in them but clearly this fabulous footwear was special to the stricken teenage girl. The trouble had started. Rhodope was too distressed to sustain her initial rage, but she could still manage drama. I know those boots," she whispered in horror. I bought those boots for Theopompus. He was wearing them when he was dragged away, the night he was taken from me. Whoever killed him must have stolen them." She decided to faint. Albia was having none of it and hauled her back upright.
