Verres chuckled wryly, leaning down with the others to grab a purchase on the bier.
“The gods, Batiatus,” he whispered. “The gods see your actions and note them.”
“Fuck the gods,” Batiatus snapped in retort. “Once again they conspire to fuck me.”
“Ah,” Verres said. “Timarchides arrives. We are ready.”
Batiatus followed Verres’s gaze, to see a man he knew only from correspondence moving toward them. He was a towering, burly Greek, his hair in tight black curls against his head, his deep tan marked in places by thin white scar lines. He was clad in a dark toga edged incongruously with a white border, as if in defiant reversal of everyday wear. In his belt he wore a rudely fashioned wooden sword. Batiatus squinted at the flat of the blade, making out enough letters scratched in it to know the name it bore was Timarchides’s own.
“And a freed gladiator,” Batiatus muttered, acidly. “All the great and good are present.”
With careful deliberation, Timarchides raised a mask to his head, strapping it in place. He turned to look at Batiatus, his face a golden parody of Pelorus himself.
“Surely the best of all the imagines,” Verres said. “That is based on Pelorus’s own death mask. Set in wax upon his face and painted by the swiftest and most diligent of craftsman.”
“So Pelorus may walk among us, even in his own funeral procession,” Batiatus said.
“Indeed so. And he will walk among us as a giant of a man.”
“Larger in death than he was in life-” Batiatus began, only to gasp at the sight of another figure, suddenly raised above the bier. Looming above the whole procession was a giant winged creature in black, a cowl covering a face that was featureless and shadowed. Standing twice as tall as a man, the imposing being was held up on a frame by an unseen slave, creating the impression that a Titan walked among the lesser mortals of the procession.
“Nemesis,” Batiatus breathed.
“A goddess of some importance to Pelorus, I believe,” Verres said.
Batiatus nodded.
“Vengeance herself?” he said.
Verres gazed up admiringly at the figure of the goddess.
“I thought it particularly fitting,” he said, “in consideration of the manner of Pelorus’s passing. And my intentions for the games that celebrate him.”
The band struck up their music, a discordant clash of cymbals, limned by moaning pipes. The horns blew a grave fanfare, announcing to the world ahead that a dead man was on his last journey, and Verres signaled to the other bearers.
Barca gestured for Batiatus to stand aside, seeing a burden to be shouldered, but Batiatus shooed him away.
“Barca,” he said. “Ever my protector. Today shall be some small Saturnalia, when you walk unencumbered and your master bears a slave’s burden.”
“As you wish, dominus,” Barca said.
As one, the eight men lifted their load, causing Batiatus to struggle for a moment, but only for balance. Distributed among eight sturdy men, the dead form of Pelorus weighed little.
Batiatus chuckled, despite himself.
“You are amused, good Batiatus?” Verres asked, his voice slightly muffled on the other side of the bier.
Keeping time with the slow drum, the bearers began to advance.
“The weight of man is not so momentous,” Batiatus said, keeping his eyes focused ahead. “Litter bearers never make mention of that.”
“I do not follow.”
“This job is not so difficult. The slaves should silence tongue.”
Two women in black began to screech and wail, stumbling ahead of the coffin in exaggerated pantomimes of desolation. They tore at their hair, and yelled defiant, confrontational questions at the sky. Why did he have to go? Why him? Why have the gods treated us so?
Lucretia sighed, and turned to say something to Ilithyia, but the Roman woman was still sulking to herself. True to noble tradition, Lucretia maintained a stoic, unmoved disposition and walked on calmly, letting the professional mourners do the official grieving.
Red-faced with effort, the two mourners screamed and sobbed, entreating the gods to be merciful upon the dead man in the afterlife.
“Be merciful,” they cried, “on our dear Plorus. Witness us, in our grief for the dear departed Pilorux.”
Batiatus tutted, despite himself.
“Something is wrong, Batiatus?” Verres asked. “Your load is not so easy to shoulder as you imagine?”
“I carry this dead weight with ease,” Batiatus replied. “I merely wish someone had informed those ignorant whores as to the pronunciation of the name Pelorus!”
Verres chuckled.
“Workers of worth are a challenge to procure,” he agreed. Batiatus smiled weakly to himself, and plodded on toward the cemetery.
There was no great crowd assembled for the funeral of Pelorus. No Neapolitans gathered by the roadside to bow and bid a fond farewell. Pelorus the great New Man of Neapolis was already a forgotten figure, an unidentified corpse borne by eight men on a slow journey out of the city, accompanied by mourners bearing lit torches at midday. The horns of the musicians were intended to clear the way, but Batiatus had always imagined them doing so through a crowd of well-wishers. Instead, the horns announced the approach of ill omen. Batiatus heard doors slamming up ahead, and shutters clattering fast. Through the keening music of the band, he heard the occasional scuffle of sandaled feet on the road as mothers herded their children indoors. In the yards they passed that were open to the street, he caught momentary sight of recent occupation-well-water left sloshing in its pail, or unattended spinning wheels grinding slowly to a halt.
“Careful now,” Verres said. “Presently we begin to move uphill.”
“Of course we fucking do,” Batiatus muttered in resignation, glaring upward at the threatening black mountain that dominated the landward side of Neapolis, looming above the city like Nemesis herself.
They continued on their way, past villas and houses that seemed recently deserted, as if the ashen hills had suddenly been stripped of all human life, leaving only the buildings. Once, Batiatus felt a positive thrill of relief at the sight of farmers working in the fields, but as the procession drew near, he realized that they were slaves, ordered to remain at their posts, and hence unable to flee the bad fortune that approached them.
Lucretia walked beside a statuesque, shapely woman whose robes clung tightly to broad sinuous hips and an impressive bust, her face hidden beneath a black silk veil.
“Lucretia, of the House of Batiatus,” she introduced herself, with a sad smile fashioned to suit the occasion. “United with you in mourning and grief.”
The woman turned to look at her. The wind tugged momentarily at her veil, revealing a red mass of puckered flesh and scar tissue, as if she only had half a face.
“Successa,” the woman replied in a small voice. “My name is Successa, of no house.”
“Were you well acquainted with Pelorus?” Lucretia began, already regretting her attempt to socialize.
“I was present in House Pelorus, the night he met his death,” Successa said. “I was offered a rich purse to ensure his guests were adequately entertained. I believed it good coin!”
She spoke as if in jest, but Lucretia knew not to laugh. The pause that followed the woman’s statement stretched into a silence, and Lucretia found herself deeply relieved at the sight of Ilithyia drawing near.
“Ilithyia,” she stated. “Wife to Gaius Claudius Glaber. United with you in mourning and grief.”
Successa turned to meet Ilithyia’s gaze, allowing her veil to blow fully aside.
“Oh sweet gods!” Ilithyia exclaimed.
“The lady Successa was present the night of the incident,” Lucretia said hastily.
“Oh, I see,” Ilithyia said frostily. “My… condolences.” She turned to face forward, as if Successa had suddenly disappeared.