Uncle Marcus! Everyone has been searching for you."

I'm in trouble, then."

Well if they kill you at the funeral," Cloelia consoled me, that will be convenient. Would you like red roses or white ones on your bier?"

You choose for me."

The double ones are my favourites."

I lost my sword," I told Marius. Does Petronius have a spare here?" My nephew was not supposed to know, but he did and he fetched it for me straight away. It was a basic weapon in a plain scabbard, but sat in the hand well and was perfectly sharpened. Buckling it on, in the familiar high military position under my right armpit, I felt better at once. Thanks, Marius. Kiss the girls for me."

We'll be their guardians," Cloelia assured me in her solemn way, if Mother and Aunt Helena make you fall on the sword." While Marius was fetching the sword she too had scampered off, to return with Petro's second-best toga so that at the funeral I could be properly clad, with my head veiled in its capacious folds. Nice children. I decided not to mention that their great-uncle was a pirate's associate and that their grandfather smuggled art.

Marcus Rubella may have tried to prevent the funeral of Theopompus from becoming a wild party on a beach; what he had achieved was a wild party at a necropolis. Since Rhodope had chosen to give her lover his send-off at the Rome Gate, this was about as public as it could be. When I arrived, the event had been in full flow since sunrise, and its fervour showed no sign of abating. Everyone who passed by on the main road to and from Ostia must have been aware of it. Rubella looked glum as he supervised a group of vigiles, who were attempting to divert the crowds.

No entry!"

You tell them, son." With a cheery wave to the tribune, I eased in past his traffic controls. Aiming for the noise, I made my way between the rows of columbaria. The necropolis was laid out like a small town of miniature houses for the dead. They were solidly brick-built, many with pitched roofs. Some had their doors standing open; most had a main room, with niches all around the walls at two levels, for receiving urns. One wide, travertine paved street ran parallel to the main road from Rome; it was full of people, all heading for the Theopompus send-off.

Stop right there!" A fist hit my chest. Is that my toga?"

Oh, damn. I thought I hid that blob of sauce you copped last time you wore it." Petronius Longus was a sharp-eyed bastard, and he was growling.

That toga was clean when you filched it, Falco. I can see it's mine, not the hairy affair you normally trip over." My own toga, which I had left in Rome, had been inherited from my brother Festus, who had favoured a luxurious nap and an exceedingly long hem. I had never yet had it altered because I hated wearing it. This one was too long for me as well; Petronius Longus is half a head taller. I draped a fold of the borrowed garment over my lugged curls. This created a sad parody of a devout man going to a sacrifice, but I pulled a long face and used mincing steps for extra effect. Petro whistled flirtatiously. Stop sounding like a brickie on a scaffold, Petro – I need to be disguised."

Hiding from Helena? So where in Hades have you been? I had to give the whole port a going-over for you yesterday, then some mad message came."

Pa on good form I did not give him away. How is Helena?"

Apart from furious?"

I'm innocent. If the harbour master had done his job, he would have seen me being stolen away by a cut-throat gang of Illyrians."

The ones who are here today?" Petronius perked up and attached himself to me. Oh fun! Will they be angry you've escaped? I'll come and watch." He poked my toga, felt the sword, then showed me the pommel of the one he carried beneath his cloak. I admitted that I had borrowed his own spare. Mine is at the bottom of the sea. I wish I hadn't wasted effort polishing it first."

Lucky it wasn't you who fell in." I grinned weakly. The funeral was taking place in the middle of the wide road, which at that point was packed with people. The ceremony was getting under way, but it looked as if nothing much had been happening for several hours. Mourners who knew each other were sitting around in groups trying to remember the name of that fat man who got very drunk the last time they went to a funeral. People who knew nobody were stretching their stiff limbs and looking bored. There was no sign of the grief-stricken girl's father, but his money was well in evidence. That poor hound Posidonius must have paid for everything, starting with an enormous pyre, tended by half the funeral directors in Ostia, with a full Roman entourage, an orchestra, massed ranks of hired mourners, and religious celebrants. The very best in white mourning wear had been lavished on Rhodope, plus a mighty great feast for all comers. Hangers-on who had never met Theopompus were greedily tucking in. The procession had ground to a halt; Posidonius presumably did not own a tomb at Ostia so the cremation was taking place in the middle of the roadway. A cinerary urn, in the kind of Greek black figure my father imported, was ready on a stand. Pa knew Posidonius; I wondered if the ancient art had come off a ship near the Laurentine coast just yesterday. The corpse was still lying on its flowery bier. This looked a bit lop-sided; one leg of the bier was being discreetly levelled up by attendants poking stones underneath it. Florists and garland twisters had had a happy time, but the perfumiers would walk away with the crowns for best effort. We could smell the exotic oils from thirty strides away. Theopompus, last seen half naked and barefoot, had now been dressed up like a barbarian king. He would have loved the finery. Skilful work had been done on his bruises too. I thought the face paint effect was a little too much, and Petronius criticised his barber. Petro was a stickler for classical straight fringes. The undertakers had puffed up Theopompus" luxurious haircut and given him a radiant crown of locks. Very Greek!" said Petronius. By which he meant… what Romans mean by very Greek. We were still admiring the embalmer's art when our womenfolk found us. Helena was flanked by Maia and Albia; they approached me like a trio of Furies who had pre-menstrual headaches and some unpaid bills to query.

Anything to say?" demanded Maia, keen to see me squirm. Helena Justina, tightly wrapped in a heavy stole, said nothing. Albia looked scared to death.

It was not my fault."

It never is, brother!" I strode past my sister and clutched Helena in my arms. She could see my wrecked hair under its formal veiling and she felt me flinch as the sunburn hurt. She knew something bad had happened. I just held her. She buried her face in the shoulder folds of Petro's toga, shaking. I could have buckled and wept myself, but people might have thought I was upset over Theopompus. Maia had been watching us, with her head on one side. She put her arms around both of us briefly, pulled back my veiling and kissed my cheek. She had had troubles in her life; seeing other people with stretched emotions made her gruff. She took Albia to see the torches being lit to burn the bier. Petronius stayed with us, his eyes raking the funeral guests for known faces. To bolster myself, I began telling him quickly all that had happened yesterday after he left me at Portus. With her head on my shoulder, Helena listened. I got as far as being hijacked on the ship, trying to minimise talk of drowning. Then it turned out that Cotys had the chest with the scribes" ransom money; it must be the Illyrians who carried out the raid at the ferry."

I'd like to arrest this Cotys, if he shows," grumbled Petro. Bloody Rubella has ordered that unless it becomes unavoidable, we are to avoid confrontations."

Can't we make it unavoidable? Is Rubella obeying religious scruple or political diplomacy?"