Free A Pattern of Blood by Rosemary Rowe

Excellence. I bow to your decision. My house is at your command. Obviously.’
    Marcus ignored the hidden barb in the last remark, but I knew that he had noted it, and that it would not be forgotten. Sooner or later, Maximilian would pay for that, and for his earlier rudeness. Marcus took his position very seriously. For the moment, though, he contented himself with a tight smile. ‘In that case, perhaps we could make a start?’
    ‘Of course.’ Maximilian gave a brief nod to one of his attendants, who scurried away instantly. ‘And with your permission, I shall begin preparations for the lament.’ His voice was carefully polite, but his manner was still defiant. By proposing to begin the lamentation he made it deliberately difficult for Marcus to send for him for questioning: one cannot interrupt a mourner’s wailing without showing serious disrespect to the dead. I saw Marcus’s jaw tighten. I did not care for Maximilian, but I was tempted to utter a warning. This was a dangerous game.
    It was Sollers who spoke. ‘Permit me a suggestion, Excellence. My friend has, of course, left instructions for his funeral. He revised them shortly after he was stabbed in the street. I witnessed them myself, and no doubt Mutuus knows where to find them. Ulpius wished, I know, to have a burial – in order that Julia might be interred with him – and had already purchased a stone coffin and a tombstone, and named the professional mourners and arrangers that he wished to have. Since there is all this to organise, could you graciously break with tradition and deal with some of the menials first, and let them return to work? The gatekeepers, perhaps, so that we can admit the anointing women and funeral arrangers when they come; and the personal slaves who were on duty in this part of the house at the time? While you are doing that, perhaps I could, with your permission, make a start with my own duties. If poor Ulpius is to be cleansed for burial, his wounds must be decently dressed and covered.’
    Marcus looked at me, and I nodded. It was exactly what I should have chosen myself. Maximilian, however, shot Sollers a poisonous look. ‘I shall be needed for the ritual too. I am the heir here. It may be your job to tend his wounds, but it is my place to close his eyes and burn the herbs and light the candles around the body.’
    ‘Of course,’ Sollers said smoothly. ‘Perhaps you should be spoken to immediately after the servants – that will give you time to take a little sustenance before the lament begins.’ I realised as soon as he had spoken that this was exactly what he had always intended. ‘Perhaps the other citizens could also go to the triclinium?’ Sollers went on. ‘I have already spoken to the cooks, and they are preparing a light meal.’
    It was neatly done: in one deft and deferential move Sollers had promoted himself over Maximilian as the organiser of the household. I glanced at Marcus, wondering how he would react – it should have been his place to decide on the order of interrogation – but he was nodding approvingly.
    Sollers’s suggestions also overcame a difficult social dilemma for all of us. By custom a household does not offer formal meals while officially in mourning, except for the funeral banquet – presumably lest the spirit of the departed might feel neglected or peckish and return in spectral form to join the feast. On the other hand, there were important guests in the house who must be offered hospitality. By suggesting refreshment before the lament, Sollers solved the problem delicately.
    Not everyone, however, was so pleased. ‘You spoke to the cooks? In my father’s house?’ Maximilian cried, heatedly. ‘I seem to have no position here at all.’
    This outburst restored my patron to positive good humour. ‘Very well,’ he said, ignoring Maximilian. ‘Sollers, please see that it is arranged. Libertus and I will take refreshment in the study, and we will deal with people in the order