They are hung with gold!" insisted Rhodope, almost beseechingly. Albia turned back. She was a few years younger than Rhodope, yet visibly more sensible. Perhaps she realised that Rhodope's father must have allowed her uncontrolled shopping throughout her short life.
Gold," Albia commented drily, which they are not allowed to spend, I think."
LV
When the trouble began, it happened unexpectedly. The sheep had had its throat cut, which caused unusually loud applause. The priest barely had time to drop the entrails in a dish before unexpected assistants snatched the carcass and had it slow roasting. The pyre had now been lit, though it was not drawing well. As the smoky flames began to flicker around the corpse, close male relations of Theopompus should have been giving his eulogy, but none of the Illyrians stepped forward for that role. Still, we all knew he had been a flashy dresser who drove too fast. Rhodope would probably give him a huge memorial stone later, extolling virtues his colleagues had never noticed. Despite her conviction that she was among friends, I thought few would linger until she inaugurated the stone. The flames began to crackle around the flower-decked bier at last. I saw Albia boldly seeking refreshments for Rhodope as she had promised. She had pushed her way past nearby groups who were cooking up their own cauldrons and approached a grand feast set out on a temporary table, the official catering provided by Posidonius. She helped herself to a bowl and a goblet, waiting for a turn with the food and drink. Picnics with the dead at the necropolis were standard. This was just being done on a huge scale. There was a disorganised buffet queue. The caterer had sent slaves to empty the hampers and lay out the delicacies neatly, but the nervous waiters looked overwhelmed as Illyrians and Cilicians started taking over. Women grabbed serving dishes; men leaned to snatch the best morsels, while holding out cups to be filled by overworked waiters. Albia refused to be ignored or barged aside. Helena had her eye on our girl, and so did I. Albia was young and on her own there. It was no surprise that one of the men in seaboots was eyeing her up. As she turned back to us, he followed, not realising Albia had a wild past. He made his move. Barely stopping in her tracks, she elbowed him away and flung the contents of the goblet she was carrying right in his face. Then, unperturbed, she brought the foodbowl to Rhodope.
Someone jogged me. I shall fetch you more wine." I'll come with you!" Rhodope had seen what happened. She stood up in sudden solidarity. The little queen of the party now flushed with embarrassment and turned into a good hostess. I was already removing the man, with stern advice he didn't want.
Let's not spoil the party. Suppose you get lost."
Wait, Falco!" Rhodope's voice rang out above the hired mourners' moans. Something had disturbed her. She seized one of the pyre lighting torches and brandished it overhead. It was broad daylight, a blissful August day; she did not need to light the scene. Albia, looking impressed by the theatrical stand, squared up beside her. Rhodope flung out her white-clad arm dramatically. Ask that man where he obtained his boots!" He tried to squirm out of sight. I grabbed his arm. He was a sallow, unshaven wretch with eyes that wandered off on their own some where when anyone looked at him. He wore a loose grey tunic and a rather good black belt, probably stolen. The boots to which Rhodope was pointing were soft tan-coloured calfskin with red straps criss crossed up the shins. They had bronze hooks and tiny bronze finials on the ends of the straps. I would not have been seen dead in them but clearly this fabulous footwear was special to the stricken teenage girl. The trouble had started. Rhodope was too distressed to sustain her initial rage, but she could still manage drama. I know those boots," she whispered in horror. I bought those boots for Theopompus. He was wearing them when he was dragged away, the night he was taken from me. Whoever killed him must have stolen them." She decided to faint. Albia was having none of it and hauled her back upright.
He's a murderer!" squealed Albia. Don't let him escape." I was conscious that we were surrounded by a huge crowd, many of whom were this man's relatives. Slowly, people stood up, amidst a wave of muttering. Petronius Longus appeared at my side. Now they had two of us to attack. So far, they were holding back. Petro was larger than anyone else present. He was much larger than the man in the disputed boots, whom he now gripped with an arm up his back, lifting him by the neck of his tunic so his toes dangled. Let's have the boots offhim, Falco." I removed the boots. It entailed dodging wild kicks until Petro made sure, very efficiently, that his captive stopped struggling. This was entertainment for the crowd, who saw we could be violent and began to revel in the scene. The man who had been wearing the fine bronze-toggled boots, ended up white-faced and trembling; Petronius dandled him playfully. Helena stepped forward, took the boots and carried them to Rhodope. Are you quite certain these are the boots you bought for Theopompus?" As the centre of attention, Rhodope revived. Yes!" She tried fainting again, but again Albia dragged her upright, shaking her fiercely, like Nux with one of the children's rag puppets. Albia had a no-nonsense attitude to first aid. No slumping or whimpering would be allowed. Petronius told the captive not to give him any trouble, or he would end up as ashes on the pyre. By now members of the vigiles had become aware of the problem and were filtering towards us through the mourners. Petronius turned to the assembled groups of sailors. Thrusting the captive in one direction then another, he cried harshly,
Which of you brought this boot-thief to Italy? Whose is he?" Laughter came from Cratidas, surrounded by grinning Cilicians. Petro aimed the captive at him. He answered with his usual sneer.
Not ours." Lygon, who was alongside in his flamboyant coat, also shook his head quickly. Then they jeered at another group, who must be Illyrians. I pretended to watch the action, but I was searching the crowd. Eventually I found the man I was looking for. Cotys. I wanted to tackle him myself but there was too much opposition here. Edging up to Rubella, I muttered, Group over there by the food table. villain in the plum-juice cloak, can your boys take him?" The tribune appeared not to hear me. I had faith. Rubella himself strolled over to the buffet as if he wanted a fistful of skewered meat, nodding to one or two vigiles troopers as he made his way. He was fit and fearless; one thing you always had to say for Rubella was that when it came to action, he was utterly sound. A drunken innkeeper hit him once and said it was like punching masonry. Cotys sensed trouble. But he was still drawing his knife when Rubella, one-handed, knocked him flat. Then the tribune stood on Cotys" knife arm, and calmly ate his skewered titbits while he waited for the noise to settle down. There was a hush. When a heavy ex-centurion stood on someone's wrist with his whole weight, everyone could sympathise, but certainly not try to help the man on the ground.
This the one you want, Falco?" Rubella called conversationally, as if he had just picked out a flatfish at a fishmonger's. He cleaned his teeth with his little-finger nail. Who is he, and what has the bastard done?" I retrieved the boots from Helena. He's Cotys, an arrogant Illyrian. He took me on a forced ride on his leaky liburnian, tried to drown me, and he stole my sword, for starters. These boots come into the story. Yesterday, I saw the man Petronius has arrested clomping around in them. He and another filthy character carried a chest aboard the ship. Cotys claimed it was his sea-chest but, you'll be interested in this, tribune, it's the same one the two scribes brought to Ostia with their ransom for Diocles."