Severus’ funeral passed with neither incident nor enlightenment, and if anyone thought he was being disposed of with indecent haste, they did not say so in Ruso’s hearing. All the members of the Petreius family who were old enough to behave themselves had been marshalled at the little cemetery on the hill behind the Senator’s house. Marcia and Flora looked suitably drab and dishevelled and inappropriately cheerful. A funeral meant another day away from the privilege of studying music and poetry.
Ennia spent most of the funeral weeping on the sloping shoulder of Zosimus the steward, breaking off only occasionally to glare at Claudia. Fuscus, as a respectable magistrate, stood well away from Probus, the financier, in the ranks of solemn-faced local worthies come to pay their last respects to the agent of My Cousin The Senator. Several drivers dozed by expensive carriages, ready to facilitate a quick escape for their masters when the funeral feast — to which the Petreius family had not been invited — was over.
The grief and fear on the faces of the estate staff was all too real. Ruso counted at least thirty of them, and there would be others back at the house busily cleansing and purifying.
As the burning wood crackled and the column of smoke rose into the clear sky the smell of incense failed to disguise the stench of burning flesh.
Ruso glanced around the mourners. Everyone he knew who might possibly have a motive for poisoning Severus was here. If he were the Senator’s investigator, which one would he decide to accuse?
The answer was obvious. The only certain way to save himself would be to reveal that Claudia had bought the honey. And if he did that, Probus would bring the fragile edifice of the family debts crashing down around him. He would survive as the powerless guardian of a family with nowhere to live. Tilla would have to choose whether to stay here and share his disgrace, or travel home alone.