hands like hams—but a slave no longer. The man now wore a liberty cap; clearly he had been manumitted in Balbus’ will. An inducement, perhaps, to break his master’s neck?
And last of all came Fabia, walking with her head high, her hair and grey clothing loose. Pliny looked closely as she passed by: her eyes were dry. And the son who should have walked at her side? Nowhere to be seen.
While the wailing of the women continued, the pallbearers wrestled the casket up onto the stack of pine logs that occupied the middle of the paddock. Given the condition of Balbus’ corpse, the casket remained closed. For Balbus there would be no toga, no laurel wreath, no coin in the mouth. Charon, the boatman of Hades, must go unpaid.
A makeshift podium had been set up beside the pyre for the eulogists. And now here was Diocles mounting it and commanding silence. Did the man ever miss an opportunity to exercise his golden throat? It was a bravura performance, Pliny was forced to admit. Praise for the deceased mingled with veiled condemnation of Roman arrogance and insinuations of divine wrath—but all so carefully dressed up with allusions to Agamemnon and Xerxes and other ancient tyrants who met unhappy ends that it fell just short of treason. One remark struck Pliny as odd. Diocles had spoken of the dead man’s loyalty to his friends. Friends? As far as Pliny knew, Balbus didn’t have any.
After Diocles, a couple of others spoke, straining to find something nice to say about the procurator. And finally Pliny delivered a few words—honest public servant, dutiful husband and father, sadly struck down in the prime of life by a cruel twist of Fate—that sounded hollow even to himself. Then the pyre was lit, the flames crackled and leapt up, and they called the dead man’s name one last time, as custom required.
Afterwards, the guests milled around in the atrium, the only space large enough to accommodate the funeral meal. Fabia was encircled by the wives, including Calpurnia, making consolotary noises. With Suetonius in tow, Pliny joined them; he had every intention of confronting the widow head on. “Once again, my deepest sympathies, lady. And may I say I’m sorry not to see your son here. Surely he wanted to bid his father farewell?”
“He is unwell, confined to his bed.”
“I am sorry to hear it. In fact, I mentioned your son to my physician, Marinus, and he would very much like to examine the boy. Possibly something can be done—”
“No.” She backed away, nearly upsetting an end table. “Thank you, no.”
Seeing her distress, Calpurnia stepped between them and drew her husband away. The wives closed in again.
“What was that about?”
“I’ll explain later. Somehow,” he said under his breath, “I will get that woman to crack.”
“There you are, Gaius Plinius!” Diocles pushed through the crowd with his bantam strut, several cronies in tow. “And Suetonius Tranquillus too. Here’s someone I’d like you to meet, he’s a pillar of our community though I can seldom persuade him away from his country place. Protarchus, may I present the governor and his lady. And this, I believe, is his youngest son—I’m sorry, what is the young man’s name? Ah, yes, Agathon.”
“An honor.” Protarchus nodded a shaggy head. “Sad occasion and all that.” He was a shy man who found words difficult.
“I’ve wanted to meet you for the longest time, sir.” Agathon stepped forward and spoke with an easy smile. “You know, I’ve never been inside the palace. I’ve heard it has some interesting old mosaics. It happens I’m quite interested in art.”
“Well—,” the young man’s enthusiasm was nearly overwhelming. “You don’t say. You must pay us a visit then. You know my wife’s an artist. She’s fixing the place up. You and she should have a lot to talk about. She’s—well where has she gone? She was here a moment ago. ’Purnia?”
***
A long train of carriages wound its way back to the city. The evening was damp and cool. Pliny and Calpurnia huddled together under a rug in their covered coach. The driver, in his box, hunched over the reins.
“Well, that’s over with,” Pliny sighed.
“I feel for Fabia.”
“Do you? I never met a less sympathetic woman. It’s clear she doesn’t want me to talk to her son, and without her permission I don’t see how I can. There’s a mystery there—they know something. But how to get it out of them? She’s a woman of wealth and rank, I can’t treat her like