Furies

by D. L. Johnstone

  “Wait. Wait. Would you like something pretty?” he said, his eyes lit with a strange light.

  “Silver and bronze are as pretty as they get these days.”

  The recluse wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, watching her, drawing closer. She could feel the heat from his body, and that awful smell, he probably hadn’t been to the baths in years. Which baths would even admit him? She watched him fumble in his dirty tunic, then he held his closed fist out to her. A thin braid of yellow twine was tied around his filthy wrist, she noticed, like a makeshift bracelet. “Guess what I have here.”

  “I don’t know, darling. Really, I have to…”

  “Here, see, I brought it for you,” he said, sliding closer to her, close enough to touch her, his breathing hard and ragged. He licked his lips, still staring at her with his eerie, unblinking eyes. She looked at his clenched fist, wondering what it held, until finally curiosity got the better of her. She held out her hand. He was frighteningly fast the way he seized her wrist.

  “Ow, stop it,” she gasped, trying to pull away, but he twisted her wrist, forcing it around, then opened his fist and dropped something into her open, trembling hand before finally releasing her.

  She looked into her open palm cautiously, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “Is it real?”

  He stroked her hair awkwardly, breathing hard, pulled her close, tried to kiss her on the lips, his breath foul, his teeth rotting and brown as old apples. “Eurydice,” he whispered.

  She pushed him away in revulsion. “Oh no, please.” She looked in her hand, then up at him and she sighed. “Not here at least.”

  The skies were a tattered grey from the morning rains, but the sun was at last beginning to peek through near the horizon, the husk of clouds peeling back to reveal great blue swaths beneath. The air smelled of copper from the rain. Decius liked to watch the pink worms wriggling on the paving stones as they tried to escape the morning light. His teacher’s house was just up ahead, he could see the peaked roof above the tops of the date palms. School was always so boring, so many lines to memorize, music to learn, and the teacher smelled of garlic. How much better would it be to run about and play instead? Why do grownups insist on making life so dreary?

  “You’ve memorized your Phocylides?” the slave Scato wheezed, limping along the road after him.

  “Umhm,” Decius said, profoundly disinterested in the whole matter. He looked at the little woven reed boat he’d made, turning it to and fro in his hands. A master shipbuilder couldn’t have done better, he thought.

  “Put that silly thing down and pay attention,” Scato said.

  “Do you think it will float this time?”

  “How should I know? You have your music today as well. Your teacher said you weren’t paying attention last class, that he had to flog you before you’d listen.”

  Decius shrugged. “He likes to flog boys. He’s odd that way.”

  “So you were paying attention?”

  “What?” Decius asked, barely restraining a smirk.

  “Don’t test me, boy.” The child could be such a challenge sometimes. Still, Scato regularly thanked the gods for granting him the brains to be permitted to serve as the child’s pedagogue and not one of the normal household slaves. He was getting on fifty after all – he doubted his old body could have taken the sheer physical drudgery of that sort of work anymore. “Ah, let’s slow it down a bit, my hip is stiff.”

  “But I want to try out my boat.”

  “On the way home we shall.”

  “You always say that, we never have time.”

  “Decius…”

  “I’ll tell father you stopped off to drink wine with your friends again and made me late for school.”

  “Tell him what you like, little Master, but if you don’t slow down I’ll take the rod to you myself and tell your father how rude you’ve been.”

  “I’ll just be a minute,” the boy said, and ran ahead towards the banks of the canal. Scato yelled after him, of course, but there was no chance of the old slave catching him. The canal wound through the city before feeding back down to the tributaries that led from the Nile. Whitewashed, single-story buildings rose on either side of the banks, their red-tile roofs crisp against the morning sky. Decius ran through the little gardens that lined the banks, the plants still wet from the rain, then kicked off his sandals and slid barefoot down the muddy banks to the water. He could hear Scato cursing behind him, though his thin voice was growing fainter.

  Decius set his little boat in the water and let it go, watching it move steadily along in the gentle current, light as a feather, twisting and turning in the eddies before finally getting tangled in the reeds. The boy stepped into the murky water, up to his calves, almost slipped in the stinking black muck, and pushed the boat free. The reeds were high, almost up to his chin, the soft hum of insects skimming along the surface, ducks paddling lazily about. The sun appeared for a moment from behind the clouds, turning the water surface a soft hazy gold. Decius looked up – the boat was caught in a current, almost tipping over before righting itself, then it turned straight and floated well down the way, like a tiny trireme.

  “Decius, what in the name of the gracious Isis are you DOING?” Scato cried from the banks. “You got mud on your good chiton! You come back up here right now!”

  “But I have to get my boat,” Decius said as he waded along the shore.

  “Oh leave it be, you’re in enough trouble as it is.”

  “Just a second.” The ducks, startled, quacked in protest and beat their wings noisily along the water surface before rising up and over the bank. The little reed boat was just ahead, caught amongst some yellow palm fronds. Decius waded out towards it, the water up to his knees now.

  “There are crocodiles in there, child! Just leave the cursed thing alone!”

  “I almost have it,” said the boy. He grabbed a palm frond floating nearby and lowered it towards the boat. The boat bobbed about beneath the sodden and dripping leaves but remained caught in the reeds. Decius waded in further, the water up to his waist almost.

  “If I have to come down there …”

  The boy carefully moved the reeds aside, prodding the boat, which finally disentangled itself from the debris and floated free. Something moved in the silent darkness of the water towards him from the debris.

  “Oh!” Decius moved back with a start, his feet slipping in the black mud as he moved, his heart pounding in his chest.

  “Decius, get out of there now! Decius!”

  The boy tried to get away but the mud sucked at his feet, holding him back. He lost his balance and slipped, falling backwards into the debris. The slave cried out in horror. The thing rose to the surface just beside the boy, a pale orb bobbing towards him. The thing had gaping eyes, straggling dark hair across its pale face, puffy grey lips and a ragged slash across its pale throat.

  Decius screamed.

  Sekhet looked down at the woman’s corpse, her expression grim. Aculeo stood back, closing his aching eyes against the bright morning sunlight, his stomach sour. Rumour in the Agora about a dead woman being pulled from the canal had proven all too true. So far, Aculeo and Sekhet were the only ones on the scene save for a handful of curious onlookers and some dirty-faced children hovering behind them, watching her work.

  The woman’s throat had been viciously slashed, almost decapitating her. Her face, breasts and thighs had been cut several times as well, the wounds raw, grey and puffy from the water. She looked to be in her early twenties, slender of body, with strands of short dark hair strung across her water-logged cheeks. Her face was streaked with white makeup, her arched eyebrows and long lashes still dark with antimony, a dark beauty mark on the corner of her upper lip. Blue lines were etched along her arms, neck and chest to mimic veins beneath the skin to suggest pellucidity, the goal of every woman these days it seemed.

  “The wounds are fairly even,” Sekhet said, kneeling down beside the victim. “Short, slashing cuts. From
a knife I’d guess. Her body was dumped in the canal after she was murdered.”

  “You, get away from there!” a voice called from behind them. Aculeo turned around and saw a pair of Roman soldiers walking along the muddy bank towards them. The Junior Magistrate Capito was right behind them.

  Capito frowned when he spotted Aculeo. “How is it that you seem to appear wherever a dead woman is found?”

  “A peculiar hobby, I admit,” Aculeo said.

  Capito didn’t smile. “Is this your missing hetaira then?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” Aculeo took the portrait from his satchel and carefully unrolled it out on the stony ground.

  “What’s that?”

  “I found it in Neaera’s flat. What do you think?” Aculeo asked, indicating the image of Neaera. Capito gave the portrait a quizzical look and shrugged.

  “It’s not her,” Sekhet said. “The face is too long and narrow, and the eyes aren’t right, her eyes are brown, not green, see?” Aculeo nodded, somewhat relieved. Although this brought him no closer to finding Neaera, at least there was still a chance of her turning up alive.

  “Who is that woman?” Capito asked, indicating Sekhet.

  “She’s a healer from the Necropolis,” Aculeo said.

  “A healer? Why would we need a healer?”

  “She has a unique skill in getting the dead to talk.” Capito gave them both a wary look.

  Sekhet delicately touched the birthmark on the dead woman’s cheek, then peeled it off, revealing a rose-coloured pox scar the size of a small fingernail beneath. She ran her bony fingers through the girl’s weed-strewn hair and pulled out a few long strands that had been woven in, the colour of wild honey. “She wore a German wig.”

  The other hetaira at Gurculio’s symposium had fair hair, Aculeo recalled. Could it be her, I wonder?

  Sekhet held up the woman’s wrist – a thin braid of yellow jute rope was knotted about it just below her hand so tightly it dug deeply into the flesh. “There’s no bruising. The blood had already stopped circulating when it was tied onto her wrist. Whoever killed her must have done it after she died.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Like the river slave,” Aculeo mused.

  “What river slave?”

  “The murdered slave in the Sarapeion had a yellow braid tied about her wrist as well.”

  “She did?” An expression of profound unease marred Capito’s noble young face. “What are you suggesting? That the murders are connected somehow?”

  “It’s simply an observation.”

  Sekhet eased open the dead woman’s mouth – the jaw was quite stiff. “Two of her front teeth were broken recently – during her attack most likely. Ah. There’s something in here.” She reached her fingers between the stumps of broken teeth and extracted a small linen pouch. She opened it and emptied the contents out on her palm – six small white pellets. “Seeds. Pomegranate I think.”

  “What does it mean?” Aculeo asked.

  “I’ve no idea.” She tried with some difficulty to move the girl’s limbs. “She’s still quite stiff, not too bloated yet, her colour is fine, just a bit pale from being in the water. She was murdered six to ten hours ago, I’d say.”

  Capito queasily considered the dead woman’s wounds for a moment, then turned away and faced Aculeo instead. “I have a feeling you know something about this, don’t you?”

  “She’s a hetaira. I saw her at a symposium last night.”

  “Whose symposium?”

  “Gurculio’s.”

  “The moneylender?” Capito asked.

  “Yes. It seems he’s moved up in the world of late. Albius Ralla was in attendance as well.”

  “Shit,” Capito said under his breath, considering the dead woman more carefully now. No doubt calculating the implications of this incident to his career, Aculeo thought. It wasn’t some nameless Tannery porne this time but a hetaira who’d purportedly last been seen attending an event also attended by one of the most powerful men in Egypt. “You’re sure of this?”

  “Sure enough.”

  “What were you doing at Gurculio’s symposium in the first place?”

  “I didn’t attend. I happened to be in the area last night and saw her. She’s a hetaira.”

  “You just happened to be there,” Capito said dubiously. “And that’s all you know, is it?”

  I could tell him about Iovinus’ murder as well, Aculeo thought, but it would be a dangerous game for all concerned. Gurculio’s connection to both the murders and the likes of Albius Ralla was most disturbing of all. A powerful man and his powerful friends was not someone to be trifled with based on pure conjecture. Especially if it were true. Aculeo held his tongue. “That’s it.”

  Capito sighed. “Fine. I’ll leave them to help you if you need,” he said, nodding towards the soldiers. “But I expect you to come to me first if you learn anything else though. Is that clear?”

  “Of course, Magistrate.”

  “You never were a very good liar,” Capito said. He gave his orders to the soldiers then made his exit back up the muddy river bank to the street.

  Sekhet knelt down next to the dead woman, placing her gnarled hand over the eyes while closing her own. “We will shed our sorrows and put away our mourning, O Isis, and by your foresight you will enclose our days with wholesome health and beneficial wealth,” she said solemnly, reciting the entire prayer before finally climbing stiffly to her feet.

  “You!” she snapped at the soldiers, who looked up at her in surprise – they weren’t used to being spoken to in such a manner by a mere fellahin woman. “Fetch a wagon.”

  “A wagon? Why?” one of the soldiers demanded.

  “Would you prefer to carry the body all the way to Rhakotis?”

  They looked to Aculeo, who shrugged. “You heard the Magistrate, do as she says.”

  The litter bobbed back and forth as the occupants were carried along the road. Idaia could hear the grunts of exertion from the litter-bearers as they walked. The little girl pulled back the curtain of her window and watched their muscles strain against the weight, their dark skin gleaming in sweat. She smiled at one of them, who responded with a weary smile of his own.

  They had entered a poorer part of town, she saw, the fellahin part. The red-tiled houses and public buildings had given way to simple mud-brick dwellings that were much smaller than what she was used to in Beta, with narrow criss-crossing streets that adjoined the rank-smelling canal. A group of street children came running alongside them, calling out, laughing. She waved at them, wishing she could go out and play with them, they seemed to be having so much more fun than she was.

  “Idaia, please sit back,” Calisto said in a hushed voice. “And close the curtain – the air is bad in this part of town. You don’t want to get sick do you?” Calisto had been extremely upset ever since the little street urchin had arrived that morning with a message requesting she come to this place. Still she did her best to maintain her composure. Idaia didn’t want to add to her worry if she could avoid it.

  They stopped some time later. Calisto sat back, her eyes closed for a moment before at last she stepped from the litter. Idaia tried to follow but Calisto shook her head. “No. Stay here please,” she said.

  Idaia peeked out from behind the curtains and saw they were near the canal, a long azure ribbon that stretched through the city, sparkling beneath the morning sun. And there was the man who’d come to visit Calisto the other day, the handsome one with the nice smile. Aculeo, she recalled. He looked very solemn now as he stepped forward to meet Calisto, taking her by the arm, leading her towards a mud-brick structure.

  Idaia slipped out of the litter and headed towards the little building. She peeked around the doorway, watching. Aculeo stood next to Calisto. Standing beside them at a long table was an old fellahin woman who was touching something on the table covered in a plain canvas cloth – what is it? The woman pulled back the cloth. Idaia wasn’t sure what to think at first. I
t looked like a woman’s naked body, like a statue, or a big wooden doll, save that her pale flesh was marred with ghastly wounds. Oh, but she’s real, the child realized … and she’s dead. Idaia felt chilled all of a sudden, despite the morning heat.

  Calisto’s face turned pale. “No!” she cried in anguish, falling to her knees on the earthen floor.

  Idaia took a closer look at the dead woman’s face and gasped, unable to process what she was seeing. It looks like … Myrrhine. But no. It can’t be her.

  It can’t!

  Aculeo helped Calisto to her feet. “What … what happened?” she managed to ask.

  “She was murdered,” he said. “Her body was retrieved from a canal in Gamma this morning.”

  “Oh … oh no. I don’t understand, I was with her just last night,” she whispered, as if somehow that simple fact should have made the difference.

  “Myrrhine was with you at Gurculio’s symposium?” Aculeo asked, as if he didn’t already know the answer.

  “Yes,” Calisto said softly, her face ashen, and wrapped herself tightly in her himation, hugging herself, though the crowded little shed was quite warm and stuffy. “She left early though, she said she had another event to attend.”

  “What event?” Aculeo asked.

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Did she leave with anyone?”

  “No … I don’t know. She didn’t return home last night, but I … I …” Calisto gazed down at the dead girl, then sobbed and turned away. Aculeo looked at her awkwardly, unsure what to say in the face of her grief. She regained her composure and turned to Aculeo. “Could there be a connection with Iovinus’ murder?”

  “I’ve no idea. It’s as tangled as a ball of knots,” Aculeo said, rubbing his eyes, his exhaustion and hangover rebounding on him at last.

  “If you like, I can see to your loved one’s final journey,” Sekhet offered gently.

  “Oh please, yes,” Calisto said, her eyes glistening with emotion. “I want you to do anything you can to bring her comfort.”