Chapter 11
The funeral of Tullius Gaius Paulinus was an occasion of great local importance, and some regional import as well. The tragic and untimely death of a prominent public figure—a long-serving magistrate of good repute and high personal regard—was a genuine sensation for little Venta and beyond. My father was loved by those who knew him personally, and highly respected by most everyone else. Consequently, the countless details and preparations such a significant public event demanded quickly exceeded my young grasp.
Both Augustus and our good priest Tomos came to my rescue. They did their best to protect my feelings and interests, I know; but word spread through the town and countryside on winged feet and preparations soon grew beyond any involvement, much less control, I might have commanded. A grand procession was planned, a carved stone sarcophagus complete with plaque and plinth commissioned, a ceremonial service led by the bishop and burial in the church, followed by a funeral meal with speeches by dignitaries who knew Tullius and, perhaps more importantly, wanted to be recognized as worthy successors or at least bask in the warm glow of his memory.
None of this touched me. What did any of it matter? Devastated, numb with shock, and deep in grief, it was all I could do to rise each day, splash water on my face, and force down a morsel of the vast quantity of food that flowed into the house from neighbors and well-wishers. Dorcas, bless her, took it in hand to manage all the domestic dealings, and did so with a supremely gentle touch. Her kindly ministrations went unremarked by any in those difficult days, but I cherished her for it.
On the day of the funeral, I woke early, washed, gathered my hair into a loose braid held in place by a bone comb, and chose my long white mantle and wide yellow girdle; I brushed and put on my best gray cloak and fastened it with one of my mother’s fine silver brooches. Then, after lacing on my soft leather shoes, I squared my shoulders and stepped into the courtyard, determined to conduct myself with fortitude and dignity—neither of which I possessed: my stomach was all in knots over what was to transpire. Dorcas met me, took my hands, and gave me words of encouragement and a little sweetened wine—to settle my nerves, she said—and then priest Tomos arrived and we sat together with Augustus standing by while he explained the order of events.
Outside, the street sounds increased, growing louder, reaching my ear as a slowly building jumble of confused babble. Finally, there came a loud thump on the door. Augustus answered and returned to announced that it was time to go. Tomos rose and, taking my hand, led me out into the street where most of the townspeople were already gathered and waiting.
As the nearest relation of Tullius, I was to walk at the head of the procession and lead it to the church, but I clung tight to Tomos’ hand and insisted that he stay beside me. We were followed by Augustus in his role as adiutor of many years and, behind him, the very somber and upright Bishop Bevyn. Our bishop—severe for no good reason, as it seemed to me—was well-meaning withal and his attendance at this provincial ceremony was appreciated by all. Tullius had no living relatives that I knew of, so for comfort and succor I had only Tomos and another other cleric, Egan, a young priest who was new to Venta and did not really know my father.
Immediately behind the bishop in the procession came one of Venta’s worthies—a fellow named Grifud who, apparently, represented the town in some way or other—given the task of ringing a bell and leading the cart bearing my father’s body. The shroud-covered corpse had been placed on the door of the church, removed that morning to serve the purpose. A symbolic gesture, but a nice one: in death, as in life, Tullius would enter God’s realm through the wide-open and unobstructed portal of the faith—as expressed by its physical representation on earth, our stone-built church.
Mind, I cannot claim this learned observation as my own. It was Tomos who explained the significance of the church door to me. But I remember it as I remember few other details of what happened that day; so much occurred in such a short time that it all passed in a blur of muddled sound and motion around me. Having never been a member of a funeral party before, I did not know how to act, but I played my part, as best I could, hoping against hope that I would not dishonor the occasion by embarrassing myself or my father in some memorable and unforgivable way.
In the end, I need not have worried. The funeral service was populated with so many other dignitaries and celebrants from near and far that I was almost entirely overlooked. I might as well have been a passer-by who, arrested by the crowd, stopped to wonder what was taking place. Indeed, the only time a thought was given to me was when Bishop Bevyn looked down from the altar and beckoned me to bring the token that would be placed in the sarcophagus.
For this, Augustus and I had chosen an object that defined my father from my earliest memory: his well-worn penknife. Not for Tullius a golden bauble or silver trinket, but an item of humble service, one used to sharpen the reeds he used to write his innumerable letters and accounts day-on-day as a busy magistrate in pursuit of his official duties. Though the bone handle was worn smooth of its carved decoration and the blade whetted thin, Tullius was almost never without it when at his work attending to the affairs of the province.
The bishop offered a kindly smile when I handed him the penknife—he, at least, understood its worth—and then he returned it to me and gestured for me to place it atop the shroud. I accomplished this small task without falling over and Bevyn gave me a kindly nod of gentle dismissal; I returned to my place with Tomos and Augustus, and the service moved on.
Then it was to the church’s burial ground—a fine green plot to the south of the church—where my father would be placed in the grave which contained my mother’s remains of many years ago. A new stone was to be cut with his name and that of his wife, and would be set up when it was ready. As with many other things, I was not consulted—nor did I like to think about it anyway, so was content to allow events to take their course.
Though I could have collapsed into a sodden heap of sadness, I forced myself to stand like a marble statue and watch as my father’s body was lowered into stone box sunk in the earth with little heaps of dirt either side. . . .
And that’s the last thing I remember clearly, for I must have drifted away on clouds of memory: Tullius in his big chair, the tidy piles of messages arrayed before him, scratching away with his reed pen; or hearing his voice as he tromped through the streets hailing constituents; head to head with some local official, deciding the fate of this or that project; wine cup in hand discussing the day’s events with Augustus as they sat in the courtyard of a golden evening. . . .
When I returned to the world around me, my father was buried and Bishop Bevyn was singing the “Amen” to a prayer I had completely missed.
Most of the townsfolk dispersed after that and I was among the last to leave the burial ground. Tomos, good and true friend, stayed by me and accompanied me home where Dorcas and, I do believe, most of Venta’s widows had prepared a funeral banquet for our guests. This meal was more of an formal function than anything I might have arranged; still, it was a suitable event. I was heartened to see so many friends and neighbors filling both house and courtyard, and all of them sharing glad stories and fond memories of my father. I could catch but fleeting snatches of what they said, though the spirit animating their faces spoke more clearly than words. Dear hearts, every one.
The wine flowed and the tables were continually replenished and the talk grew louder. This went on far into the night, but I could not. The constant concentration and attention required to make sense of all the chatter around me, combined with the heavy emotions of the day eventually overthrew me. I stayed awake as long as I could until, dazed with fatigue and a little muzzy from food and wine, I crept away to my bed.
I slept long and rose the next day to a world now changed and, with it, my life as I had always known it.