Sejanus

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The smoke from Dad's pyre gusted among the tombs, plain, ordinary wood smoke, with no spices or perfume to mask the more unpleasant smells. His idea, not mine, and specified in his will: Tiberius disapproved of extravagant funerals, and the old trimmer Messalinus had toed a politically correct line to the last. Specks of soot blew into my eyes, and I wiped them away. After so long in Athens I'd forgotten how windy Rome could be.

Beside me, Perilla touched my hand.

'Marcus?' she said. 'Are you all right?'

'Sure.' I watched as the logs shifted. The fire was at its hottest, and I couldn't see the bier any more; he wouldn't last long at this rate. 'Why shouldn't I be?'

'No reason.' Her fingers wrapped round mine as we watched the flames together. 'I was just checking.'

It had been a good funeral; the old guy would've been pleased that even for a consular he'd rated such a healthy turnout, and I was glad his senatorial cronies had done him proud at the finish. Both consuls had come, Memmius Regulus and Fulcinius Trio. Trio was ignoring me. That came as no surprise. The last time we'd seen each other I'd accused him to his face of treason, and he'd never forgiven me because it had been the truth.

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