Furies

by D. L. Johnstone

  The Street of Lagos was lush with ornamental acacia, fig trees and date palms and a long stretch of pretty white garden walls, the tops of which were blanketed with fragrant pink blossomed boughs. And there, the Shrine of Ares – across from it stood a particularly beautiful villa just as Gellius had described it. Two lush plum trees stood on either side of the entrance, their branches drooping down, heavy with purple-red fruit. No drab little flat near the Tannery for this one, Aculeo mused. Sweat trickled down his brow and back from the exertion of the walk. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand as he approached the gates.

  Someone within was playing an aulos, the sound like the melodious buzzing of wasps haunting the air. He knocked at the gatehouse and the music ended. A child, perhaps seven or eight years old, darted to the gate, her feet bare, her eyes wide when she saw Aculeo standing there. It was the little thief from the Agora who’d stolen the wooden top from the merchant’s cart. He realized where he’d seen Calisto before – she was one of the hetairai he’d seen in the Agora that same day.

  “Greetings,” Aculeo said. “I’d like to talk to your mistress. Please tell her I’m a friend of Gellius’ and come at his recommendation.” The girl stared at him, unmoving. He smiled. “I believe I may have seen a little girl who looked just like you steal a red top in the Agora two mornings ago. Are you enjoying it?”

  The girl gaped at him in astonishment, then turned and ran back inside. Several moments later a very large, intimidating looking Nubian appeared and opened the heavy gates. The slave silently escorted Aculeo through the auleios that led to an inner courtyard. Peacocks strutted across the grounds, fanning out their tail feathers in proud display, and an ivory ibis strode about stilt-legged in a garden pond, spearing fish that splashed and darted around its feet. The little girl was standing at the edge of the courtyard, watching him. He gave her a small wave. She smiled shyly then disappeared into the garden. The Nubian stood off to the side, silent, watching.

  Aculeo heard a swish of sandals across the mosaic floor behind him. The birds looked up from their preening. He turned and saw a young woman walking towards him. Calisto. She was tall and slender and wore a loose ivory chiton pinned at the shoulder with an exquisite gold fibula. She had a pale olive complexion and rich, amber-coloured eyes, but her features were too sharp and angular, her nose too thin, her mouth too serious to be considered beautiful. I could find a dozen prettier pornes walking down any street in the Tannery, and at a fraction of the price for the lot of them, no doubt. What’s so special about her then?

  “Greetings,” she said. “I’m Calisto.” Her voice had a slight dusky accent, the origin difficult to pinpoint.

  “Greetings, I’m Decimus Tarquitius Aculeo. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all. You said you were a friend of Gellius.”

  “I am,” he said. “He sends his greetings.”

  “Please give him my regards,” she said graciously. “How may I help you?”

  “I was hoping you might know a woman named Neaera,” Aculeo said.

  Calisto looked at him, caught off guard. “Yes, of course … but why do you ask?”

  Aculeo retrieved the portrait he’d taken from Neaera’s flat from his satchel and laid it out on the little table between them.

  “Where did you find that?” she asked.

  “I took it from Neaera’s flat in Delta.”

  “But I don’t understand – what’s this all about?”

  “Neaera disappeared a few days ago.”

  “Disappeared?” Calisto said, her voice trailing to a wisp. “I don’t …”

  “I’m a colleague of her patron, Iovinus.”

  “Yes, of course, I know him well. But I still don’t understand.”

  “I’m afraid Iovinus was murdered yesterday morning.”

  “Oh … that’s terrible.” Calisto’s face went pale.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yes. Yes. I’m just … I’d heard he’d drowned months ago. How could he have only just …?”

  “I’m trying to answer the same question, frankly. That’s why I was looking for Neaera. I hoped she’d be able to help me.”

  Calisto looked as though she might faint. Aculeo took her by the hand, helping her to sit and poured her a cup of water. She appeared younger and less certain of herself than she had initially. How old is she, I wonder – twenty-three or so?” This is very upsetting. I don’t know what to say. What … did something happen to Neaera?”

  “I’ve no idea. I thought she might have run away, but she left her jewellery, lyre and some clothing behind at her flat in Delta.” And an unkept promise of helping the little porne, Tyche, escape the Blue Bird, Aculeo thought.

  “Did she ever say anything to you about wanting to leave Alexandria?”

  “No, no nothing. She … she was ...” Calisto’s voice trailed to a wisp and she began to cry. Aculeo waited until she finally managed to regain her composure. “It’s all so terrible.”

  “I fear Iovinus’ murder and Neaera’s disappearance are linked somehow,” he said. “When did you see her last?”

  “I don’t know. Five or six days ago perhaps, I can’t recall exactly. She came here for a visit. We had a … a lovely afternoon.” Calisto’s voice caught with emotion.

  “Did she say anything to you? About any troubles she’d been having? Anything about Iovinus?”

  “No, nothing. She was happy, happy and calm as I’d ever seen her.”

  “Was there a mention of some tablets that Iovinus possessed?”

  “Tablets?” Calisto asked, confused.

  “Never mind.” Aculeo indicated the portrait once again. “What about the third woman? Who’s she?”

  Calisto glanced down. “That’s Petras. Neaera’s cousin.”

  “Is she a porne as well?”

  “A hetaira,” Calisto corrected him.

  “Of course. Where can I find her?”

  “I haven’t seen Petras in some time. I never really knew her all that well.”

  All these women running off, Aculeo thought irritably – are they running from or to something I wonder. “I’m sorry to have brought you such unwelcome news,” he said. He could hear the sound of a child playing and laughing in the garden, singing a song in a strange tongue.

  “I … appreciate knowing at least,” Calisto said, then started to weep again. “I’m sorry, it’s just …”

  “I understand.”

  She took a deep, quavering breath, and dabbed at her eyes with a square of linen. “It’s late. I’m supposed to be getting ready. I’ve a symposium to attend this evening.”

  “Of course,” Aculeo said, and stood to leave

  “This is madness,” Calisto said. “The last thing I want to do is go out tonight and entertain while I’m worrying about Neaera. I doubt the host would understand if I didn’t come though.”

  “We don’t always get to choose such things. May I ask who the host is?”

  “Marcellus Gurculio,” she said. “Do you know him?”

  “I do,” Aculeo said, forcing a smile. Is this what fate dictates for me now? he thought bitterly. Scraping about in the streets like a beggar selling my wife’s wedding jewels for food and rent while moneylenders host symposia with my stolen wealth? Fuck the gods!

  “Are you not well?” she asked with sudden concern.

  “I’m fine. Again, my condolences.”

  Calisto stepped closer to him, touching his arm with her soft cool hand. Her touch, the closeness of her body, the scent of her, wild flowers mixed with sweet wine. “I’m indebted to you. Please, if you find out anything else, anything at all, you’ll let me know.”

  “I will indeed.”

  She stood back then, managing a small smile. “Fortune be with you, Aculeo.”

  “And you, Calisto.”

  “What do you think that man wanted?” little Idaia asked Myrrhine. They sat in a cloistered area at the bottom of the garden, watching Aculeo walk back up the path toward
s the outer gates.

  “I don’t know, little bee,” the fair-haired hetaira replied, returning her attention to her small silver mirror as she applied dark grey galena to her upper eyelids with a flat stick of ivory.

  “I like him, he has a nice smile.”

  “That’s a silly reason to like someone.”

  “Don’t you like him?” Idaia asked. Myrrhine shrugged. “Do you think Calisto likes him?”

  “Idaia, please, enough with all your nonsense!” Myrrhine said, picking up a jar of green malachite which she began to apply to her lower eyelids, complementing her golden hair in such a fetching manner.

  “Let me try it,” Idaia said, reaching for the jar.

  Myrrhine held it out of her reach. “Not until you’re older.”

  “I’m old enough now.”

  “You’re still a child. You need to be thirteen at least. Old enough to marry.”

  Idaia sighed and sat back down. “Will you marry someday?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can I come live with you if you do?”

  “I suppose, if my husband lets you.”

  “You’ll have to make him,” Idaia said. “I should like to be a hetaira when I grow up.”

  Myrrhine hesitated a moment, then continued applying her makeup. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes I do. You get to dress up pretty, you wear nice jewellery, you go to parties all the time, and men give you beautiful presents …”

  “Men would want to do things to you too.”

  “What kind of things?” Idaia asked.

  Myrrhine sighed. “Never mind.”

  Idaia watched a peacock bobbing its head along the garden path, pausing to preen its long tail feathers. “I remember home.”

  “Really? You must have been a baby when you left.”

  “I can still remember. I remember a tree outside the house where I played, I remember my mother who’d sing me songs.”

  “You don’t remember your mother,” Myrrhine scoffed.

  “I do too!” Idaia said, tears welling in her eyes.

  “Oh stop crying!” Myrrhine said, then glanced at the child`s reflection in the mirror. “What’s that you’re playing with?”

  Idaia hid her hands behind her back. “Nothing.”

  Myrrhine held out a hand until Idaia finally surrendered the top. “You stole that.”

  “I did not! One of the slaves made it for me!”

  “Which slave?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Myrrhine shook her head. “I told you not to steal things anymore, you’ll get into trouble. They’ll cut off your hands.”

  Idaia burst into tears. “But I didn’t steal anything!”

  “Stop crying.”

  “I ... I’m n-n-not crying,” she sniffed. After a while she said, “Tell me what you remember about your home.”

  “I don’t want to. This is my home now. And yours as well.”

  “I know.”

  Myrrhine smiled at her, then pulled her into a hug, tickling her until she laughed, and kissed her cheek. “Don`t worry, little bee, we have one another now, right? Where we’ll both be safe and sound.”

  It had grown dark as the hours stretched late into the evening. Aculeo was tired of waiting in the shadows of the street outside Gurculio’s villa. A villa that used to belong to dear old Nigellus before he too lost everything when the damned fleet sank, he thought miserably. If the damned fleet sank that is, he thought, correcting himself. More likely stolen by Iovinus and whoever he was working with.

  So the moneylender lives here now, does he? Why not? A vast marble fountain stood outside the villa’s ornate iron gates, and the tops of its high garden walls were alight with coloured lanterns. He could hear music from behind the walls, the sound of flutes and lyres, laughter echoing into the evening airs. He watched as half a dozen slaves carried heavy amphorae in through the back entrance. Another slave stood at the front gates dressed as a satyr, complete with a long wooden phallus strapped to his waist and the ears and tail of a donkey, greeting guests as they arrived in their elegant litters, pretty young women accompanied by much older men.

  Aculeo recalled all too well the endless evenings he himself had either hosted or attended in the old days, hours filled with music, rich food, fine wine, entertaining talk, lovely dancers – a feast for the mind and the senses. The days before everything had utterly fallen apart. It seemed a lifetime ago. Could it actually be measured in mere months?

  Three young men arrived then, two slender and dark, one a fat, moon-faced boy who looked oddly familiar. Where have I seen him before? he wondered. A number of sophists from the Museion, among them a short, balding, barrel-chested man with a grey-streaked beard who stood back from the fray, smiling, taking everything and everyone in. How much actual philosophy will be talked tonight? And there, the host of the evening’s festivities, the moneylender, with his crudely cut features and chunky gold rings that flashed and sparkled on his thick fingers, displaying his ill-gotten wealth for the world to see. A tangle of purple veins branched across his nose and cheeks, the inspiration for his cognomen, Gurculio – Latin for mealworm. He appeared quite inebriated already, laughing uproariously as he bellowed greetings to the new arrivals.

  Aculeo watched another litter being carried down the street and pressed his back flat against the wall, deep in the shadows. The Nubian litter bearers arrived at the gates and eased the elegant structure to the ground. Calisto emerged, wearing a bright red peplos with a matching, diaphanous veil over her head. She looked quite lovely, far more entrancing than she had at the villa. She’s in her element here, he thought. Next to step from the litter was the fair-haired hetaira he’d seen with her in the Agora the day prior. She was dressed in a tight coral chiton, without a veil this time though, her hair the colour of wild honey, with a garland of tiny flowers woven through it. She had a pretty face, with a large birthmark that marked her upper lip.

  Another figure emerged from a splendid looking litter – a balding, weak-jawed man in his forties, with a rounded belly and skinny limbs. Lucius Albius Ralla, Aculeo realized in surprise. Ralla was a very wealthy banker, not to mention confidante of the Roman Prefect Flaccus himself. What’s a man of his rank doing at a moneylender’s symposium? He was warmly greeted by Gurculio and the two of them fell to whispering with one another, laughing at some private joke. Aculeo felt his skin crawl. So the moneylender has enough money and influence to climb so high in society as this?

  Ralla approached Calisto, took her hands in his, leaned in close and kissed her on the lips. She accepted it graciously enough, then politely disengaged. Ralla then grabbed the fair-haired hetaira by the wrist, pulling her tight against him, kissing her on the neck as he grabbed one of her breasts. Half a dozen pretty young flute girls dressed as Maenads with fawn skins and wreathed in ivy emerged giggling from behind the garden gates and moved in amongst the guests. Ralla, distracted, turned to them with a drunken grin and released the hetaira as the Maenads crowned the guests with garlands, anointed them with scented oils and led them inside. The gates closed behind them then. Aculeo decided there was little to do but leave.

  “Hey, I’ve been waiting for you.” The recluse was sitting there in the doorway of the empty shop again, staring at the porne.

  Philomena’s head was spinning. A belly full of beer and little else, she’d had scant sleep in days, but the night was still young. “Ay, it’s been a busy night.”

  “Busy, yes, a busy night,” the recluse said with a shy smile. He moved over to make room for her to sit with him in the doorstep and passed over his jar of palm wine. He’s sweet enough, she thought, poor fellow. She took a long drink from the jar, shuddering at the harsh brackishness of the stuff. The night was filled with a dour yellow glow.

  “My Eurydice,” he said softly.

  She laughed. “Call me anything you like I suppose. What shall I call you?”

  “Orpheus.”

  “A
lright, Orpheus, you’ve been waiting for me again, have you? How long this time?”

  He hesitated, blinking rapidly, and scratched his beard. “I can't recall. A long time I think.”

  “You’ve been alright then? Got enough to eat, have you?”

  “Eat?” he said, licking his lips. “Yesterday…..yesterday, I think I ate, but…. I can't recall.”

  “Here,” Philomena said, and gave him some hard bread and figs she’d been keeping for later in her pouch. He looked at them, mystified for a moment, then gobbled them down. Poor thing, she thought, he’s like a stray dog, just sticks and hide, not even a cloak, and she could see his jutting ribs beneath his dirty chiton. “What happened to your old cloak?”

  He looked down at himself, mystified. “I don’t know.”

  “Aren’t you chilled?”

  “I’m kept warm by the love of Sarapis,” he said simply, as though the answer was obvious. His beard and hair were filthy as well, still, he’d probably not been bad looking once. Save for the knotted pink scar that twisted like rope across his face from ear to cheek, curving in cruelly across his lips to his chin.

  “Well listen,” she said, “I should …”

  “Do you know of the grace of Sarapis?” he asked suddenly, then closed his eyes, muttering, “may others learn to worship you as I so humbly do and offer you your rightful tributes throughout eternity.”

  “What? Oh, sure, I suppose.”

  “He rules over all that is good and light,” the recluse said fervently.

  “That’s nice.”

  He wouldn’t stop staring at her – it was unsettling. She took another draw from the jar before passing it back to him. “Well, I suppose I should go.”

  “Go? Where shall we go?”

  “I don’t know where you’re going, but I have to meet some people. I’ve business to do,” she said, standing up, staggering a bit from the beer and sheer exhaustion.