The Rome Prophecy

7

My corpse has been bathed.

My colourless skin sags as it is oiled and perfumed by the skilled hands of the pollinctores.

Bless you, gifted artisans from the temple of Venus Libitina.

Bless all of you who have put your judgement aside and now prepare me to stage a dignified escape from my death.

I see familiar faces around me.

My family and friends are dressed in the dull mourning wools of vestes pullae, their bodies unwashed, their hair uncombed, their nails uncut and clothes unchanged since I passed.

Flutes play outside in the darkness where they are waiting for me. The conclamatio has begun.

I hear my name being chanted.

Cassandra… Cassandra… Cassandra…

One by one they bend over me to say their final farewell, my extremum vale.

Musicians lead the way as they carry me feet first with my face respectfully covered.

The female praeficae follow. Their tearful funereal dirge further chills the cool night air.

Sadly, there will be no stopping in the forum. My redemption in death is not complete and the honour that should befall me as the wife of a senator has been denied because of my unjust shame.

The walk to my resting place is a long one. Way beyond the city walls, as decreed by the code laid down in the Twelve Tables.

The dirge has stopped by the time we reach the ustrina, the sacred enclosures. Those who have carried me are tired but do their best not to look pained or drawn.

Much work has been done to observe proper ceremony. My husband has shown me more attention in death than in life.

My altar is high. Four equal sides of strong timber. A fine exit.

In the dead of night, the pyre is lit.

The flames rise endlessly into the night sky and reach beyond the earth.

So does my spirit.

Cassandra is unshackled.