The Chariots of Calyx by Rosemary Rowe Page B

worked closely with him – to take their turn at the dirge.
    A moment later the door to Monnius’ chamber opened again and a sulky-looking young man in a black-edged toga came out, shepherded by a white-faced Lydia. She had been all in black before, but she had now added a shapeless long mourning cape to her attire, not unlike the one that Fulvia had worn. Where Fulvia had looked a picture of elegance and grace, however, on Lydia the garment bunched in awkward folds, making her look scrawnier than ever – an impression she did nothing to dispel by clutching the garment to her with one arm, like a wounded bat. As soon as the door was shut behind them she began to talk to the boy, in a piercing undertone, with all the righteous outrage of an insulted Vestal virgin.
    ‘Well Imagine that! Brushing you aside and following the corpse herself. Jove only knows what your father would have said. Still, never mind. You began the lament, that is all that matters. You closed his eyes and put the coin in his mouth, and so you should have done. You are his son – and you are legally a man, if only by a week or two.’ She hitched her cloak a little closer round herself. ‘And if that woman tries to contest the will, we’ll see what the courts say about that!’
    The young man pouted. From the set of his features that seemed to be his habitual expression. He looked a little younger than his fourteen years, although he must have been that age to have lost the childhood
bulla
round his neck and be wearing the plain white
toga virilis
which was the mark of legal manhood, and to which the mourning stripe had been hastily attached. His hair was short and curly, slightly reddish under the ashes with which he had adorned himself, and his plump, pale face was petulant.
    ‘Oh, do not fuss so much, Mother. I don’t know why you insisted on making such a spectacle of me in front of the undertakers. With Father’s body lying there, too. His spirit won’t even have left the house by this time. He’ll think we have shown him disrespect, and then we shall be lucky if he doesn’t come back to haunt us.’ His lower jaw jutted defiantly. ‘Don’t blame me if the milk curdles and the slaves start dying. What else can you expect, making a scene in the funeral chamber?’
    ‘I didn’t make a scene!’ his mother said, with more animation than I had thought she possessed. ‘Monnius knows I would never offend his spirit. It was that woman, coming in and wanting to interrupt. Well, she can lament now all she wants. She didn’t begin the ritual, you did, and nothing can ever alter that.’
    Filius – this had to be the famous Filius – brightened slightly. ‘There is one good thing about it, I suppose. I have done my duty now. I won’t have to go in and do any more lamenting till the funeral.’
    He seemed to be quite serious. It occurred to me that only Fulvia appeared to feel any real emotion at Monnius’ death. I was about to step towards the pair, but at that moment Filius noticed me.
    ‘Is this the fellow the governor sent?’ he asked, looking me over from haircut to sandals, but addressing himself to Lydia, as though I had no ears.
    ‘Yes, Filius dear,’ his mother said. She had lost her animation suddenly, and was now speaking in the wheedling, apologetic tone I had heard her use before. ‘Your grandmother sent for him. Don’t scowl, dear. I expect the gentleman will want to talk to you. After all, you are your father’s heir.’
    ‘Well, I didn’t send for him, and I don’t want to talk to him,’ Filius burst out, his voice suddenly emerging in a squeaking falsetto, which rather undermined his dignity. ‘There’s nothing to tell him anyway. I was sleeping in the annexe with you. I didn’t hear about this rotten old murder till this morning – and then no one would let me come anywhere near the place. I didn’t see anything until you took me in there, and then they had him covered up, so there wasn’t anything to