The Rome Prophecy

5

My eyes are closing now.

Shutting for the final time.

Through the milky veil of death I see Arria, my body servant.

Sweet Arria, do not look so sad.

She calls me Domina, then gathers her robes and kneels beside me in the dirt.

The last of the crowd moves away.

Even they know that they must scavenge no more.

The time has come.

I am cold.

Colder than I have ever been. Arria is so alive she seems to burn like a fire next to me. She has brought blankets to wrap around my cooling husk.

No doubt she also has my shroud.

I have not the strength to move a muscle.

Oh, that I could smile to show her my gratitude. But I cannot.

I feel her warm hands press the cloth around me, as she tucks me tight like she once did when I was an infant in a manger.

Her old and bony fingers hold my one remaining hand.

Dearest Arria, I thank you.

In my palm I feel a coin. Enough to pay Charon the Ferryman. Enough to take me across the Styx to the gates of the underworld and stand before great Pluto.

I am being lifted up and carried. I cannot see who bears me. Nor do I wish to.

My eyes are closed fast now.

The lids that once upon the sight of a lover fluttered faster than the wings of a butterfly are now too heavy to move.

I am done.

The unseen hands drop me.

I thud and bounce on the rough wood in the back of a dusty cart.

I feel the heat of the sun surfacing from behind the clouds. Great Apollo, I praise you. Wondrous Pluto, I seek your kindness.

Through the muffled tunnel between life and death I hear the cart wheels trundle towards oblivion.

Someone lifts my head.

It is Arria. I recognise her smell. Her face is close to mine. She knows that my time is over, and as no relative is here, she performs her final duty.

I feel her hand across my bosom, her fingers seeking out my fading heartbeat. She is bent low. Her lips touch my face.

She is ready.

Ready to catch my last breath in her wise old mouth.