“As you wish, dominus,” Barca said.
As one, the eight men lifted their load, causing Batiatus to struggle for a moment, but only for balance. Distributed among eight sturdy men, the dead form of Pelorus weighed little.
Batiatus chuckled, despite himself.
“You are amused, good Batiatus?” Verres asked, his voice slightly muffled on the other side of the bier.
Keeping time with the slow drum, the bearers began to advance.
“The weight of man is not so momentous,” Batiatus said, keeping his eyes focused ahead. “Litter bearers never make mention of that.”
“I do not follow.”
“This job is not so difficult. The slaves should silence tongue.”
Two women in black began to screech and wail, stumbling ahead of the coffin in exaggerated pantomimes of desolation. They tore at their hair, and yelled defiant, confrontational questions at the sky.
Lucretia sighed, and turned to say something to Ilithyia, but the Roman woman was still sulking to herself. True to noble tradition, Lucretia maintained a stoic, unmoved disposition and walked on calmly, letting the professional mourners do the official grieving.
Red-faced with effort, the two mourners screamed and sobbed, entreating the gods to be merciful upon the dead man in the afterlife.
“Be merciful,” they cried, “on our dear
Batiatus tutted, despite himself.
“Something is wrong, Batiatus?” Verres asked. “Your load is not so easy to shoulder as you imagine?”
“I carry this dead weight with ease,” Batiatus replied. “I merely wish someone had informed those ignorant whores as to the pronunciation of the name Pelorus!”
Verres chuckled.
“Workers of worth are a challenge to procure,” he agreed. Batiatus smiled weakly to himself, and plodded on toward the cemetery.
There was no great crowd assembled for the funeral of Pelorus. No Neapolitans gathered by the roadside to bow and bid a fond farewell. Pelorus the great New Man of Neapolis was already a forgotten figure, an unidentified corpse borne by eight men on a slow journey out of the city, accompanied by mourners bearing lit torches at midday. The horns of the musicians were intended to clear the way, but Batiatus had always imagined them doing so through a crowd of well-wishers. Instead, the horns announced the approach of ill omen. Batiatus heard doors slamming up ahead, and shutters clattering fast. Through the keening music of the band, he heard the occasional scuffle of sandaled feet on the road as mothers herded their children indoors. In the yards they passed that were open to the street, he caught momentary sight of recent occupation-well-water left sloshing in its pail, or unattended spinning wheels grinding slowly to a halt.
“Careful now,” Verres said. “Presently we begin to move uphill.”
“Of course we fucking do,” Batiatus muttered in resignation, glaring upward at the threatening black mountain that dominated the landward side of Neapolis, looming above the city like Nemesis herself.
They continued on their way, past villas and houses that seemed recently deserted, as if the ashen hills had suddenly been stripped of all human life, leaving only the buildings. Once, Batiatus felt a positive thrill of relief at the sight of farmers working in the fields, but as the procession drew near, he realized that they were slaves, ordered to remain at their posts, and hence unable to flee the bad fortune that approached them.
Lucretia walked beside a statuesque, shapely woman whose robes clung tightly to broad sinuous hips and an impressive bust, her face hidden beneath a black silk veil.
“Lucretia, of the House of Batiatus,” she introduced herself, with a sad smile fashioned to suit the occasion. “United with you in mourning and grief.”
The woman turned to look at her. The wind tugged momentarily at her veil, revealing a red mass of puckered flesh and scar tissue, as if she only had half a face.
“Successa,” the woman replied in a small voice. “My name is Successa, of no house.”
“Were you well acquainted with Pelorus?” Lucretia began, already regretting her attempt to socialize.
“I was present in House Pelorus, the night he met his death,” Successa said. “I was offered a rich purse to ensure his guests were adequately entertained. I believed it good coin!”
She spoke as if in jest, but Lucretia knew not to laugh. The pause that followed the woman’s statement stretched into a silence, and Lucretia found herself deeply relieved at the sight of Ilithyia drawing near.
“Ilithyia,” she stated. “Wife to Gaius Claudius Glaber. United with you in mourning and grief.”
Successa turned to meet Ilithyia’s gaze, allowing her veil to blow fully aside.
“Oh sweet gods!” Ilithyia exclaimed.
“The lady Successa was present the night of the incident,” Lucretia said hastily.
“Oh, I see,” Ilithyia said frostily. “My… condolences.” She turned to face forward, as if Successa had suddenly disappeared.
Successa did not wait around for further insult, but graciously modified her pace so that the two women moved ahead of her.
“We have been lured to this place under pretences, I can only describe as false,” Ilithyia muttered.
“What is your meaning?” Lucretia asked.
“You promised a gathering of the great and the good.”
“Well,
“Indeed I am, a companion to disfigured whores and masked slaves.”
“One of the pallbearers is the new governor of Sicilia!”
“I should never have come.”
“An invitation upon your insistence!”
Ilithyia pouted and marched on with heavy steps.
The funeral procession wound along the road, the doleful music silencing birds in the trees, the wails of the professional mourners putting everyone on edge. Batiatus felt the ground start to level out.
“We approach the summit…?” he wondered aloud.
“Of this mountain, not at all,” Verres answered. “We merely wander in its foothills. This smoking peak stretches far above us, into the mists and beyond.”
“I cannot imagine Pelorus desiring such a lofty funeral?”
“We approach our destination,” Verres said calmly from the other side of the bier. “The cemetery is not at the summit.”
Batiatus was surprised to see that despite the empty roads, the procession was growing in size. Small boys wielded saplings like staffs, alongside grubby men with unkempt hair, old women with hungry eyes, and bony, pock-marked girls who had already seen better days.
“More professional mourners?” Batiatus whispered.
Verres shook his head.
“Beggars and souvenir hunters. Pay them no heed.”
“From where did they come?”
“Do not let it trouble mind. They are nothing.”
“They appear as if from an amphitheater’s dirty crowd,” Batiatus mused.
“Then Pelorus will be cremated among friends,” Verres laughed.
“But why would they come here…?” Batiatus said.
“For the same reason they will surely flock to the arena,” Verres replied. “The violence and bloodshed of the fight.”
