Free Murder in the Forum by Rosemary Rowe

elementary precaution earlier.
    The attendants hoisted the litter, and the mortal remains of Felix were borne away upstairs to be washed, anointed, dressed in the finest toga in his possession, and – since he had been a person of some importance – arranged on the funerary couch and brought back to the atrium for a few days of lying in state. Matters were in the hands of the professionals. There was an audible murmur of relief as the litter jolted out of the room and up the narrow stairway. The spectacle was over. By common consent the remaining guests ignored the elaborate social ritual of compliment and counter-compliment which precedes departure from a feast, and prepared to leave without further ado. Social precedence, however, was not so easily flouted, and many people held back doubtfully. Marcus, as the highest-ranking individual, should properly leave the banquet first.
    My patron caught my eye and signalled me to him. At last, I thought. The vision of my humble bed floated invitingly before my eyes. And Junio would doubtless be awaiting me with a beaker of honest mead. It had been a long day.
    Suddenly, however, one of the funeral attendants reappeared in the inner doorway. ‘A thousand pardons, Excellence,’ he said, addressing himself with practised courtesy to Marcus and ignoring me entirely, ‘but who should close the eyes? And, being a gentleman from Rome, should someone observe the Roman convention?’
    Kissing the lips of the deceased, he meant. It was a custom often practised in Rome, supposed to speed the departing soul. Marcus was looking at me. I shook my head. My duties to my patron encompass many things, but kissing the dead Felix was not one of them. The prospect was only marginally less horrible than the notion of kissing the living one.
    That train of thought, however, gave me an idea. ‘With respect, Excellence, surely you should call on Zetso for this? In the absence of his daughter, who is still on her way, Zetso must know Felix better than any of us.’
    Marcus frowned. ‘Zetso? But he is a mere carriage-driver. It is not seemly for him to perform the rites for such an important man.’
    I permitted myself a smile. ‘In that case, Excellence, the duty should fall on the most senior and influential man present.’
    ‘Then . . .’ Marcus began, and then realised who that would be. ‘Yes, perhaps you are right, Libertus. Zetso should close the eyes at least, and perhaps tell us also what grave-goods and funerary meats we should provide. Where is Zetso? I saw him earlier.’
    But Zetso was not to be found, in the passageway or in the servants’ ante-room. The undertaker’s boy was still looking at us enquiringly.
    ‘Libertus,’ Marcus said darkly, ‘you shall have the commission for the commemorative pavement. But think of something. Someone has got to do this.’
    For a blind moment I thought it would have to be me, but then inspiration struck. ‘Surely, Excellence, the owner of the house? He is, officially, the host.’
    Marcus rewarded me with a beam. ‘Of course.’ Gaius was sitting miserably on a stool in the corner, and Marcus gestured to him, saying smoothly, ‘Gaius Flavius Flaminius, you have been chosen for a singular honour . . .’ and the poor old fellow was led away into his own bedchamber to perform his grisly task. We could hear him, a little later, piping up a feeble lament and periodically calling Felix’s name as tradition demanded.
    Marcus turned towards me, smiling. ‘Well, I believe we have done all we can. The council will meet tomorrow to arrange the funeral. A public ceremony, naturally, with a pause in the forum for the body to be displayed and someone to proclaim a eulogy. So I must be sure to find that herald and bury him decently before then. We want no more unfortunate accidents. Where is Zetso? He will know where the body was left, and he can lead us to it.’
    I shook my head. ‘I do not know, Excellence. I have searched all the public rooms.