The Rome Prophecy

9

They gather my bones and ashes.

Loyal fingers seek out every part of me – what I was, what I am, what I shall be.

They search for the stone. The sacred triangle stolen from around my neck by the thief at the Bocca.

It is gone.

When they discover what has happened, they will find him. Find him and recover the precious scalene.

Then they will kill him.

They poke among the embers of a pyre that was soaked in cups of oil and bouquets of perfume.

My husband is not among the grubbers.

He is no doubt in our matrimonial bed, slaking his thirst for wine and boys.

Arria is here, of course. Sweetest Arria. She will be among the first to remember me at Parentalia. Was not Dies Parentales made for women with faces as sad as Arria’s?

The urn they have fashioned for me is a cheap one. From its lack of elegance I know already that they will not carry me to my husband’s tomb.

I am pleased. Lying with him in death would be even more unpleasant than in life.

I shall not wait for him beyond the three canine heads of Cerberus. I pray to Pluto that his wasted flesh sticks in their jaws and is chewed for eternity in Hades.

Before me I see my sisters. The others of the spirit world. Those who have for ever been and will for ever be.

They are the keepers of the secrets.

The prophetesses. The betrayed. The goddesses.

They surround me as the mortals take my burned remains to their dank resting place in the Columbarium. Here among the shelved peasantry is my place in the potted history of poorest Rome. My niche in society.

No ornately engraved plaque marks my spot. No statue or portrait. Nor any message of love.

Just a number.

My sisters and I wonder if beyond the grave they can hear us laughing.

The number is X.