by Gary Corby
“Thank you for coming,” he said.
“How are you coping?” I asked him.
“I must carry the spear of vengeance,” Petros said sadly. “I don’t know if I can.”
The spear of vengeance is always carried at the funeral of a murder victim, by the victim’s closest relative. It meant the carrier assumed the responsibility to pursue the killer. Once the spear of vengeance had been held, the carrier had not only a moral and ethical duty to avenge the deceased, but also an obligation enforceable by law.
“I’ve carried that spear myself,” Diotima spoke up.
“You have?” Petros looked at her in surprise
“For my father. It’s not easy, but if I can do it, so can you.”
Petros turned to me, puzzled, because it was inconceivable that a woman would carry the spear if there was a man to do it for her.
“It was before we were married,” I explained. I didn’t bother to add that though I’d been at that funeral, there was no force on earth that could have wrested that spear from my love’s hands.
Petros nodded his understanding. “Ah. Then what would you advise me? I must carry the spear, as is only right and proper, but what do I do then?”
I said, “Petros, you’re obliged to prosecute your brother-in-law’s killer. That’s the law.”
“Yes.”
“But the law doesn’t say you have to do all the work yourself. Let Diotima and me find the killer. Then you can prosecute him.”
Petros wrinkled his brow. “You would do this for a metic? Why?”
“I liked your brother-in-law,” I said, thinking of the time we sheltered together out of the rain.
“I see.” He thought about it for a moment. “I have no way to pay you.”
“I’m under commission to cleanse the impiety in any case. You may as well take advantage of it.”
“That would not be honorable,” Petros said.
“I’m making the offer,” I said. “And please don’t be offended, Petros, but a man with all your problems can’t afford to be too worried about niceties. Think of it as my Dionysiac gift to you.”
“Then I accept.”
Diotima and I left the house. Petros had left a bowl of seawater outside the door, as custom demands. We washed our hands then, lacking a towel, dried them on each other’s chitons.
We stood outside, waiting for the procession to begin.
The family didn’t leave the spectators waiting. Petros and the other men of the house emerged, holding between them a board on which lay the body of Romanos. The women and children followed. They had rubbed soot and dirt into their faces and hair. Every one of them had short, ragged hair, as befits a mourner. But of course, professional mourners always wore their hair ragged.
Petros separated himself from the bearers. I saw that he carried a spear in his right hand. Diotima and I knew that he was nervous, but no one could have told from his manner, which was calm and somber. His eyes met mine for an instant, and he nodded.
In every funeral I’d ever seen, the body was placed on a cart, to be taken to the city’s official cemetery in Ceramicus. But there was no cart to be seen. Instead, the six grim-faced men who carried Romanos turned as one to face north. Petros spoke a word and they simultaneously lifted the board to their shoulders.
Petros spoke another word, and the bearers began to walk in time. A young lady among the mourners carried a flute. Another held a lyre. They raised their instruments and began to play the epicedium, the funeral song in praise of the deceased, a slow, sad song in the Lydian mode.
The bearers walked with identical manner: heads down, shoulders bowed as if under the weight of the world. Their steps dragged in the dust. They might have been marching to their own funerals. They said not a word.
Petros stepped in behind the men who carried the body. Maia was by his side. Petros raised his arm, so that everyone could see the spear of vengeance.
The other members of the household filed in behind them. They began the customary sobbing and cries of despair. The rest of us—friends, neighbors, and the simply curious—took our places behind the family. Diotima and I were careful to place ourselves directly behind the official mourners, so that we could watch.
The funeral procession marched north at a slow pace. Most families would carry their dead along the main roads, to garner the most attention. Instead, the professional mourners wended their way through all the minor streets, a long, unwieldy path. It seemed an odd decision, if only because it forced everyone who followed to squeeze together. But the choice of route had an interesting effect. People who weren’t used to funerals passing down their street poked their heads out of windows to see what was happening. Many of these were interested enough to join the line, to watch the show. The tail of followers became longer and longer, and the more it lengthened, the more interesting the event became and the more joined.
By the time we arrived at Ceramicus, there were many hundreds of onlookers. The long line passed through the gates of the cemetery.
Ceramicus has been the official burial ground of Athens since time immemorial. I didn’t know how many of my ancestors lay in the ground beneath my feet, but the line must have stretched back to the time of King Theseus and beyond. I knew that one day I, too, would lie here.
The bearers stopped by a funeral pyre that had been freshly built. They placed the board that carried Romanos upon the exact center, then stepped back, rubbing their sore arms.
Beside the body, upon the pyre, the women laid out three changes of clothing, which was the maximum that the law allowed. They returned with sweet cakes, which they placed beside his hands, for Romanos to eat on his journey to the underworld. Normally a family would send a loved one to Hades with some decent jewelry or fine belongings, but here there was nothing, until Maia approached.
Maia held the only extra grave goods that the family intended to offer. In her right hand she carried the mask of tragedy, in her left the mask of comedy. She laid the masks reverently beside her brother.
Petros took up a burning torch, one made of rags wrapped around a pole, the whole dipped in olive oil. He walked about the pyre, touching the torch to every part.
As the flames rose, one of the men cast scented oil from an amphora that he held under his left arm. He held a scoop in his right hand, from which he flung droplets across the entire funeral pyre as he walked about. The oil sizzled everywhere it fell and a pleasantly sweet smell enwrapped everyone who watched.
The fire had built remarkably quickly. Sometimes, if a fire hadn’t been stacked properly, the flames would exhaust before the body had been fully consumed, leaving the relatives with a gruesome problem and the guests with an unpleasant sight. There were no mistakes here though. I guessed the family of Romanos had used something to make sure the fire burned to the last bit of fuel. Nor was the pyre overstocked, another mistake that happened when nervous relatives overdid it, which would force the onlookers to step back from a conflagration. The pyre for Romanos was exactly hot enough, and exactly small enough for the mourners to stand respectfully close.
Romanos disappeared from sight behind the hot red flames.
Maia let out an ear-piercing scream that had my ears ringing. She collapsed to the ground. At first I thought she’d fainted. I made a step forward to assist her, as did several other men in the crowd, before I saw her twist on the ground and I realized it was part of her official mourning. She pushed her hands through the dirt and smeared them across her face and breasts.
Diotima had been right. This was the funeral to end all funerals, a mixture of elegance and drama. After this show, everyone, even the richest citizens, would be scrambling to match it.
The crowd slowly drifted away. As they walked, people talked to each other about what a fine funeral it had been. Diotima and I stayed to the very end.
Petros put his arm around Maia. She sagged against him, whether from exhaustion or sorrow I couldn’t tell, but if the shaking of her shoulders was any indica
tion then she was quietly sobbing.
When only the family remained I went to Petros, to repeat our condolences and express our appreciation of the spectacle.
“You must know a lot about funerals,” I said.
“We’ve had lots of practice,” he said. His face and hands were smeared with the soot of the fire. When it had cooled sufficiently, the women would scoop the ashes into a funerary jar of alabaster, which would be erected somewhere on the grounds.
“How did you get into mourning?”
Petros grimaced. “We’re actors, most of us. In Phrygia there wasn’t much work. We came to Athens because we heard there were lots of plays staged here. When we arrived, we discovered we weren’t the only ones to have thought of that.”
“Oh. I suppose it’s hard for a metic to get acting work.”
“Very much so.”
This talk reminded me of something I’d heard Romanos say, something that didn’t fit now that I’d met his talented family.
“There’s something that surprised me, Petros,” I said.
“Yes?” he said.
“We were there when Phellis had his fall.”
“A terrible accident,” Petros said at once.
“It certainly was.” I shuddered, remembering the sight of his leg. Which reminded me that we still had to find some money to pay the doctor. “When we returned to the theater, Sophocles asked for recommendations to replace Phellis. Romanos convinced Sophocles that the best course of action was for him to take the second actor’s job and to hire a new third actor. It proved a very sensible suggestion, if I may say so.”
“Yes?” Petros said politely. He was waiting to see where this went, perhaps a little bored, or distracted by the solemn occasion.
I said, “It’s just that when Sophocles asked for recommendations for a new third actor, it was Romanos who named Kebris.”
“Romanos recommended the replacement?” Petros looked genuinely surprised.
“You didn’t know?”
“No.” Petros sounded troubled. “He told me that Sophocles hired a new third actor. He didn’t say it was his idea.”
“Would you have taken the job if it was offered?”
“Do I look like an idiot? Of course I would have taken it in an instant.”
“Yet your own brother-in-law never mentioned you. Can you explain that?”
“I cannot.” Petros paused. “Unless he was worried about this …” Petros tugged his shorn hair. “But it should be irrelevant.”
“I noticed Romanos wore his hair unusually long.”
“When he started getting acting jobs, my brother-in-law swore he’d never do professional mourning again. He wouldn’t even help us when we were a man short. He swore he’d never attend another funeral.” Petros looked over at the remains of the funeral pyre. “Well, he got that wrong.”
“Er … quite.”
Diotima said, “How does this explain his hair?”
“Romanos grew his hair long to tell the world that he didn’t need to mourn for money. It’s the fashion among actors who have regular work,” Petros said. He sounded sad.
I realized the opposite was also true. That an actor with ragged hair was telling the world that he needed the extra work. Which must surely tell against him when he applied for a part. Which would force him to do more mourning. This acting seemed a hard business.
Petros must have read my thoughts. He said, “A man has to eat. And feed his wife. And his children if he has any.” He sounded defensive.
I said, “I understand, Petros.”
“It takes a certain skill to pretend you mourn the death of someone you’ve never met.”
“I’m sure it does.”
“It’s an acting skill,” he insisted.
“Yes.”
I felt sorry for Petros and all the others in his house. I thought they must have a difficult time explaining to their children what they did for a living, and why their hair was always shorn and ragged. I wondered if the other children taunted them in the street. But then I knew the answer. Of course they did.
“What will you do now?” I asked.
“We might have to leave Athens.”
“Why?”
“The landlord’s heard that Romanos is dead. He says we are bad luck. He wants us to leave his house.”
I winced. The landlord was right. A dead body on the premises, particularly a murdered one, depressed property values, and people didn’t forget that sort of thing. It reminded me that we would have the same problem when I put Diotima’s house up for sale, something that I still hoped to avoid. There’d been a murder there too, years before. It would reduce the price we could get for the place.
Petros sighed. “I suppose it’s for the best. It’s not like we’re getting work here.”
I made a snap decision.
“Petros, I might know of a house for you,” I said.
“What’s this?” he said, surprised.
I looked at Diotima.
My wife knew what I was thinking. She nodded. “Whatever you say, Nico.”
I said to Petros, “We own a house that’s available for rent.”
“You do? You, personally?”
“Yes.”
“How much would you charge?”
“It’s free,” I told him.
Petros blinked. “This is impossible.”
“I am offering you the use of our house, which stands empty this moment. You can move in this afternoon if you like.”
“Why would you do this for us?” he asked suspiciously.
“It’s, uh, not in very good condition.” I admitted.
I explained about the mice, the rats, the roof, the puddles when it rained, the holes in the walls, the broken furniture. I hoped that with tenants in, I could delay the day when we would have to sell. The Phrygians would at least prevent the place from falling apart further.
I finished with, “So you see, this is no bargain. I am offering you the use of our house, at zero rent, but you’ll have to do some work to make it habitable.”
I could see Petros visibly relax once he understood what was in it for me.
“I see,” he said. Petros rubbed his chin while he thought.
“I accept, of course. We’ll never get a better offer.”
“Petros, will your family be all right?” Diotima asked, concerned. “Nico didn’t exaggerate when he described the house.”
“Do not worry for us. I think you will find that we Phrygians are very inventive people.”
INVESTIGATION IS AS much about finding inconsistencies in the witnesses as it is about finding clues on the ground. The funeral had provided our first real break in the case.
As we left the cemetery I said, “Did you hear what I heard?”
Diotima nodded. “Romanos didn’t recommend his own family for the third actor role.”
“Even though they’re desperate for work,” I added.
“And he lied to Petros about it.”
Romanos had not only failed to recommend his own family for the third actor’s job, he had actively recommended someone else, and then avoided telling Petros what he had done.
There was another possibility. I said, “Either that, or Petros lied to us when he implied Romanos lied to him.”
“That’s convoluted,” Diotima said. “Why would Petros do such a thing?”
“I don’t know.”
Up until now, Romanos had seemed a perfectly ordinary man, if you didn’t count the fact that he was dead. Now suddenly the dead man was exposed in what looked like a piece of chicanery, for no reason I could think of.
“Why would Romanos turn against his family?” I asked. “They seem happy to me.”
“Should we challenge Petros about this?” Diotima asked.
I considered the idea. “No, I have a better idea. Let’s ask him.” I pointed down the road, to the distantly retreating back of Kebris. He had been the only other theater person who had stayed for the funeral. We ran to catch up wit
h him.
I said, “Kebris? We haven’t spoken before, but we’re the investigators looking into the death of Romanos.”
“Yes, I recognized you at the funeral,” he said.
I’d seen before, when he first joined the cast, that Kebris was an old trouper. Now he looked like an old and very tired trouper. I looked about for a place to sit and saw a roadside tavern, a small one of the sort run by poor families. They had bashed a hole in their front wall through which to serve drinks to people who stood in the street. They had even placed a few stools and a table under a ramshackle awning. Diotima and I led Kebris to the table and I bought us all wine. It wasn’t particularly good wine, but it was wet and it refreshed our informant.
“This must all be difficult for you,” I said to him as he drank.
“Death happens,” he said. “I’ve seen enough of it. Would that I could see no more.”
“You’ve had another loss?” I intuited.
“My wife of forty years,” he said.
The pain in his eyes was there to see.
“She died last year. Such a pretty young thing when I met her. She was a farmer’s daughter. But she was willing to go on the road with a man like me, who could offer her nothing but constant travel and hard work and life in a tent. I promised her when I had enough money that I’d retire. We could live in one place and never have to travel again. Well, I did, and the next year she was dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
He sighed. “As I said, death happens.”
“So you were at a loose end when they asked you to join the company. I guess it took your mind off things.”
He shrugged.
“I admired the way you attacked the part,” Diotima told. “They said you learned it faster than anyone could believe possible.”
“That was sheer good luck. Or bad luck, rather. But the fact is, I already knew the lines.”
It took a moment for that to sink in. Then, “Say that again?”
“Romanos taught me the lines.”
“That was after Phellis had his fall,” I said, and waited for him to agree with my correction.
“No, it was before.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Of course I’m sure!” Kebris looked at me as if I were an idiot. He knew the difference between one day and another.
