And now ensued a repulsive scene, one without which no great man’s funeral would have been considered as properly performed.
Through the crowd pushed two small parties of gladiators, three in each, hired for the occasion of a company that let them out. Then ensued a fight—not mimic, but very real, in front and round the pyre. Now a hard-pressed gladiator ran and was pursued, turned sharply and hacked at his follower. This was continued till three men had fallen and had been stabbed in the breast. Whereupon, the survivors sheathed their swords, bowed and withdrew.
The torches were now put into the hands of Duilia and Domitia, and with averted faces they applied the fire to the fagot, and a sheet of flame roared up and enveloped the dead man.
And now the mourners raised their loudest cries, tore their hair, scarified their cheeks with their nails; pipes, flutes, horns were blown. In a paroxysm of distress, partly real, partly feigned, a rush was made to the pyre, and all who got near cast some offering into the flames—cakes, flowers, precious stuffs, rings, bracelets, and coins.
Duilia, in tragic woe, disengaged a mass of artificial hair from her head, and cast it into the fire. Then rang out the sacramental cry:—“I, licet! You are permitted to retire,” and gladly, sick at heart and faint, Domitia was supported rather than walked home.
Some hours later, when the ashes of the defunct had been collected and deposited in an urn, which was conveyed to the mausoleum, Lucius Lamia came to the house and inquired for the ladies.
He was informed that the widow was too much overcome by her feelings to see any one, but that Domitia was in the tablinum and would receive him.
He at once entered the hall and stepped up into the apartment where she was seated, looking pale and worn, with tear-reddened eyes.
She rose, and with a sweet sad smile, extended her hand to Lamia.
“No, Domitia,” said he gently, “as your dear father gave me permission on the wharf at Cenchræa, I will claim the same privilege now.”