Street fighter

13

The sun had not yet risen as the cart trundled through the quiet, cold streets of the capital. The cockerels kept within the city’s walls had yet to crow and the numberless people crowded into tenement blocks and houses still slumbered. Festus and his men led the small procession of cloaked figures. Led by a mule, a two-wheeled cart came next, carrying a simple bier on which the body of Corvus had been laid, wrapped in a plain white sheet. Marcus held the mule’s bridle, Portia following the cart with Lupus a short distance behind her. The body lay atop the faggots of firewood to be used for the pyre, with an axe to cut down any further lumber required. No one spoke as they made their way to the city gate and were passed through by the sleepy sentries nearing the end of their watch.

Outside, a thin mist covered the ground as the cart clattered along the road leading south towards Campania. A short distance from the gate they passed a large open grave where the bodies of the unknown and uncared for were dumped and sprinkled with lime. Low mounds on either side of the road marked the position of earlier mass graves. Further along the road the first of the tombs loomed up. It seemed from a distance to be floating on the slow swirl of the mist. Marcus could not help a nervous tremor at the sight of further tombs stretching far ahead and spilling out on either side.

‘What is this place?’ he asked in awe.

‘The Necropolis — the city of the dead,’ Festus explained in a quiet voice. ‘This is where the remains of generations of Romans have been laid to rest. The laws of the city forbid the cremation or burial of the dead within the city boundary for all but the most honoured of citizens.’

Marcus nodded as he glanced warily at the dim outlines of the tombs on either side. They continued in silence a while longer before Festus halted.

‘Up there.’ Festus pointed to a bare hillock a short distance away. Marcus nodded and steered the mule off the paved surface and on to the uneven ground. The cart jolted as it rumbled between the silent tombs before emerging on to open ground. The route to the hillock was well travelled and two ruts led to the crest, where Festus gave the order to halt. As he tethered the mule to the withered stump of a tree, Marcus saw that the ground was marked with the scorch marks of previous cremations.

Festus gestured to Lupus and Marcus. ‘It’s customary for those closest to the dead to make the pyre, but would you prefer that my men and I did it?’

Marcus glanced at Lupus but saw from his trembling lips that the scribe was not ready to speak. He cleared his throat. ‘Lupus and I can do it.’

‘And me,’ Portia added.

For a moment it seemed as if Festus would protest, but then he nodded. ‘As you wish, mistress.’

While Lupus and Marcus lifted the bier from the cart and carried it a short distance away, Portia, having taken one of the faggots, followed them and laid it beside the body.

‘No, that’s not the way to do it,’ Festus said gently. ‘Let me show you.’

He returned to the wagon and fetched the two trestles he had packed in with the faggots. With the help of his two men, he raised the bier up and supported it at each end, so that it was waist high. ‘The faggots go underneath,’ he explained.

Once the two boys and Portia had packed the last of the faggots and kindling tightly together under the bier, Festus took a tinderbox from his haversack and struck sparks into the fine sheets of charred linen. As soon as he had coaxed a small flame to life he set fire to the bundle of dried moss at the foot of the bier. The flames spread rapidly with a light crackling noise, working their way through the faggots then licking up around the shrouded corpse.

Marcus watched for a moment before his attention was caught by a distant glimmer a mile away, on the other side of the tomb-lined road. He was puzzled briefly by the ghostly flames wavering in the mist before he realized he was watching a second cremation take place. As he stared he noticed yet another flicker, then one more on the far side of the Tiber, beyond the tiled roofs and columned temples of Rome. Marcus realized there were other people out there, mourning the loss of a friend or member of the family, death being the one thing that made everyone equal in the end.

No, he corrected himself. Not everyone. Of all the pyres burning this morning, it was almost certain this was the only one to honour the death of a slave. He turned his gaze back to the flames consuming the body of Corvus. Death was a tragedy only for those who were free. For the slaves it was a release, Marcus realized.

The flames roared up around Corvus’s corpse, charring the white shroud and burning through its folds until they began to scorch the dead flesh. The aroma of burning meat filled the air and Marcus felt his stomach tighten in disgust and horror. The bier and the trestles eventually burned through and the body crashed down into the heart of the blaze, sending sparks whirling into the dawn. As the sun crested the line of hills to the east, filling the sky with a pink hue, the fire began to die down. The small party stood in silence until the last flames flickered feebly and then faded to nothing but thin trails of smoke rising up from the ashes and charred remains.

Festus brought a spade and a small urn from the wagon, then broke up the larger chunks of blackened material with the edge of the spade before he swept them into the urn. He pressed the stopper back into the wax-lined top and held out the urn.

‘Who will bury this?’

Portia shook her head, then Marcus gestured to Lupus. ‘He was your friend.’

Lupus nodded, tears running down his face as he took the urn and held it to his chest.

Marcus touched his shoulder. ‘I swear by all the gods that we will avenge Corvus. We will find those responsible for his death, and they will pay for it with their lives.’

Marcus had no idea how he would do it, but he made a promise to himself and to Corvus’s memory that he’d do everything in his power to see this through.