“That was a very accomplished song you delivered,” I commended. “Especially when you consider what short notice you had.”
“You are too kind. Actually, it was just a variation on a funeral song I wrote years ago. I’ve employed it a number of times, making changes where necessary to fit the deceased. This was the first I’ve done for a Roman though. The real challenge was getting the chorus rehearsed. Luckily, I’ve had some experience in that art, and the chorus here is excellent. Of course, the whole citizenry sings, but these are the ones who take part in the theatrical productions.”
“In Rome we have nothing like your Greek choral singing,” I noted. “The closest we come is everybody piling into the Circus for a chariot race. The sounds we make there aren’t very musical I’m afraid.”
“So,” he said, “you’re thinking of putting off your pirate hunt until you’ve determined who killed Silvanus? That seems an odd sort of activity.”
I explained to him some of the reasons why it was urgent that I set the matter to rest as soon as possible. “Of course,” I added, “I cannot let an especially insolent or egregious act of piracy go unnoticed. It would be bad for Roman prestige.”
“And for your political future,” Flavia pointed out.
“Yes, there is always that. By the way, Flavia, while I realize your husband is a banker, does he, by any chance, ever deal in frankincense or have dealings with any who do?” It was clumsy, but I thought it worth a try.
She laughed. “Frankincense! Why ever would you ask that? Are you planning to go into the business yourself? Shame on you! And you a senator!” She went off into peals of laughter. Quite inappropriate at a funeral, but others were laughing as well. The wine wasn’t good, but it flowed freely.
“Well, I suppose that answers me. Believe it or not, the question is pertinent to my investigation.”
“I have little to do with my husband’s business, but I’ll ask him for you if you want. Frankincense, indeed!” She seemed to find the very idea inordinately funny. I doubted there was any aspect of her husband’s business she didn’t know about, but it was not unusual that she would deny it. Men were often suspicious of women who were too knowledgeable about such things as business, politics, and war. Of course, she had not been shy about flaunting her knowledge of the latter two subjects. Shyness was not among this woman’s attributes.
Nor was she abstemious about the food or the wine. She put away large quantities of both, apparently one of those lucky women whose immoderate gustatory habits had no effect on her figure, which was voluptuous but not quite to the point of overabundance. Like me she had brought her own wine, and frequently signaled her slave girl for a refill. Each time she did this, she slid her hand along the young woman’s body with the unconscious ease of a woman stroking a favorite pet. The girl seemed to take this quite naturally, and once leaned close to whisper into her mistress’s ear something that set them both laughing uproariously.
“Will Silvanus have funeral games?” Alpheus asked.
“I don’t believe he was that important,” I answered him. “Ordinarily, munera are only held in memory of the most distinguished men, consuls at the very least. At one time only former consuls who had triumphed were allowed gladiatorial displays, but our standards have slipped somewhat of late. This is at Rome, you understand. In his hometown, his family may hold any sort of funeral games they wish. For all I know, Silvanus may have been the most distinguished man in Bovillae or Lanuvium or Reate or some such place. Senators who are political nobodies in Rome are often very important men in their ancestral towns. He may have provided for games in his will.”
“He was from Ostia,” Flavia said, her words beginning to slur a bit, “same as my husband. And yes, his family is a great one in that town. There’s usually a Silvanus serving as one of the duumviri. I think he held the post three times. Yes, I think we can expect a good show after his ashes arrive home. I hope we’re back in time to attend. I love the fights.”
“You will be,” I assured her. “Believe me, they take time to arrange. It will be a year or two before he gets his final rites. Look at Faustus Sulla. He celebrated the Dictator’s games twenty years after his father died.
You’re lucky you live in Ostia. Women aren’t allowed to attend the munera in Rome.”
“Rome is so stodgy and straitlaced,” she said. “You should go to Baiae when there’s a festival. I spend the summers there when I can. They do things there that would drop Cato and his tiresome crowd dead with shock.”