Furies

by D. L. Johnstone

  “I shall treat her with the utmost reverence,” Sekhet said with a small bow.

  Calisto took out her purse and counted out five gold coins, her fingers trembling. “This should cover things, I pray.”

  “Exactly enough,” the healer said, accepting the coins.

  Calisto turned to Aculeo, put a hand on his arm. “Walk me to the litter please.”

  They left the little building, walking in silence for a moment. She took a deep breath. He sensed she was trying to recover her poise, not wanting to appear upset in front of Idaia, who had climbed back into the litter and now watched their approach from behind the partially raised curtain. She was clearly shaken, pale and trembling.

  “Myrrhine had words with her patron last night,” she said at last.

  “Who is her patron?”

  “Albius Ralla. I overheard them arguing about something at the symposium. I’m not sure what it was about.”

  “Do you think it’s possible …?” Aculeo paused, not daring to speak the words.

  “No, no, I realize it makes no sense,” Calisto said and glanced towards the litter, shaking her head. “Please, if you learn anything, anything at all about what happened to Myrrhine, you’ll come and tell me,” she said with soft urgency. “I have to know.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Thank you. For all you’ve done.” Calisto kissed him on the cheek, her perfume rich and dense, her lips warm and soft against his skin, then climbed into the litter. Idaia lifted a corner of the curtain and smiled tentatively at Aculeo.

  Sekhet sniffed as the Nubians hoisted the litter up and carried it away. “The slave carrying the front left corner of her litter has a bad left hip. He looks far too old for this sort of work if you ask me, but at least his mistress will save getting a blister on her pretty feet.”

  “Perhaps she should carry him instead?” Aculeo asked.

  “It might be a pleasant change.” She gave Aculeo a critical look. “Are you drinking your cucumber juice?”

  “Of course,” he said, his head throbbing.

  “Really? Because you look like shit. I say that as a healer, you understand, not as a lowly old fellahin woman to one of her omnipotent Roman overlords.”

  A slave escorted Aculeo into the Blue Bird’s atrium. Most of the little tables scattered about the courtyard were occupied by men and pretty young women. Sunlight streamed in from the compluvium, scattering in the rippling water of the rectangular pool beneath it. A dark skinned beauty approached him with a lovely smile and a cup of wine.

  “Welcome, my name’s Sabina,” the girl cooed, snaking her arm around his and pressed her body against him.

  “I’m looking for Tyche,” Aculeo said, and politely disengaged from the girl, who shrugged and returned to one of the rooms off the atrium. A moment later, Tyche emerged, a wary smile fixed on her face. Her eyes brightened when she saw Aculeo. “Can we go someplace private?” he asked.

  She signalled a slave, who approached the table. “Two sesterces for fifteen minutes,” the slave announced. Aculeo handed him the coins. “Third room.”

  Tyche took Aculeo’s hand in hers and led him down the dark hallway to a room. There was a small, crude painting of a threesome on the wall outside the doorway. Tyche opened the wooden door and they stepped into the tiny cubiculum, hardly big enough to hold the narrow pallet.

  She turned around and pressed his hand to her lips. “I’m grateful to see you again.”

  “And I you,” he said. “How’ve you been?”

  “Well enough,” Tyche said, though her eyes were far too burdened for one so young. “Please, sit.”

  “I only came to talk with you.”

  “Just do as I ask,” she whispered anxiously.

  Aculeo sat on the pallet and Tyche knelt on the floor before him. She unstrapped his sandals and pulled a basin of water from beneath the bed and started to wash his feet.

  “Don’t,” he whispered, taking the sponge from her hands. “Listen to me a minute. Iovinus was murdered.”

  “What?”

  “I went to Neaera’s flat as you told me. There was no sign of her there. She hasn’t been seen in days. She left all her possessions behind though. I fear something may have happened to her as well.”

  “Oh!” Tyche cried, her face crumpling in grief as she stifled a sob.

  The door rattled in the frame and opened a crack. Tyche climbed onto the pallet next to Aculeo, placing a hand on his thigh as she kissed him hard on the mouth. The door closed again as the watcher moved on.

  “They watch everything here,” she whispered, clinging to him, her tears wetting his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I had better news.”

  “It’s as I feared, I only hoped I was wrong.”

  “A woman was murdered last night. A hetaira named Myrrhine.”

  “Who?” Tyche asked.

  “You didn’t know her?” Aculeo asked.

  “No. What happened?”

  “She attended a symposium last night. Her body was dumped in a canal in Gamma. She’d been stabbed to death.”

  Tyche bowed her head, her shoulders trembling. I shouldn’t have come here, he thought, she can’t help me, I’m only adding to her worries. He decided to change tack. “Did Neaera ever mention Albius Ralla or Marcellus Gurculio?”

  “Of course. Ralla used to own her,” she whispered hoarsely.

  “Oh?” Aculeo asked in surprise. “But I thought Iovinus …?”

  “Yes, but first it was Ralla. He was … a very cruel man,” she said. “Neaera told me how he liked to bind and beat her before forcing himself on her. She wanted a way out, any way she could, even death. He finally tired of her and sold her back to Panthea perhaps six months ago. That’s when she met Iovinus. She was so happy, she’d finally found a way out. She was wrong, there is no way,” Tyche wept, burying her face into his shoulder, clinging to him as though she were drowning.

  There was a rap on the doorframe. “Two minutes,” the slave called.

  “Did you know a hetaira named Petras?” Aculeo whispered.

  “Neaera’s cousin?” Tyche asked. “I’ve met her, yes, but I haven’t seen her in months.”

  “Any idea where she went?”

  “No. We all prayed she’d simply run away.”

  Aculeo strapped his sandals back on as Tyche huddled in the corner of the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. She tried to smile but faltered, her haunted eyes filled with tears and she looked away. He put his hand on Tyche’s, so small, so fragile, and squeezed it tight, promising himself at that moment that someday he would take her from this wretched place, that he would find a way to change her fate. He didn’t dare speak the words aloud though – she’d had enough broken promises already in her young life.

  “Time,” called the slave.

  Aculeo awoke drenched with sweat, his heart pounding in his chest, his head spinning. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, watching shadows flit across its cracked surface. He thought of Iovinus, the sound the rope made as his corpse had swung back and forth in the backroom of that foul little tavern. Someone murdered him, stole his tablets, tried to make it look like suicide. His porne, Neaera, fell off the face of the earth. Myrrhine’s body pulled from the canal after an evening at Gurculio’s symposium. And a random river slave is murdered in the Sarapeion. What was the sense of it all?

  He climbed out of bed and pulled on a tunic, trying not to wake Xanthias as he slipped out the door. He walked along the streets, the torches that lined the lime-paved streets making them appear as bright as daytime. A pair of soldiers from the Night Guard watched him curiously as he passed but didn’t bother challenging him. Clots of drunken men stumbled out of the many taverns that lined the streets, arms thrown about one another’s shoulders, singing and laughing in joyous camaraderie.

  He made his way to the Little Eagle in Gamma. It was still busy enough, the crowd consisting of a rough-looking group of sailors and some itinerant me
rchants, all of them deep in their cups. Aculeo took a torch from the wall and headed upstairs to Gellius’ and Trogus’ room. He knocked on the door. The door creaked open, the room was in darkness. “Gellius? Trogus?” he called quietly as he stepped inside, his torch casting a flickering glow. The room was empty, all their meagre possessions gone, though the stench of illness and unwashed bodies lingered. Perhaps they’d found the money to leave the city after all. Or had something happened to them?

  He headed back downstairs and spotted Bitucus sitting at a corner table, looking much like his old self, surprisingly enough – clean-shaven, hair trimmed, and wearing a fine new tunic, though his pale eyes were glassy from drink. Aculeo approached the table.

  Bitucus blinked at him in surprise. “Aculeo.”

  “I thought you’d all left. Where are Trogus and Gellius?”

  “Is that who I think it is?” a cheerful voice boomed from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder – Theopompus, an Icarian merchant, met him with a huge grin, clapped him on the back and dropped down in the chair across from Bitucus.

  “Theopompus, it’s been awhile,” Aculeo said.

  “Indeed it has, old friend. Why don’t you join us?” Theopompus said and called to the thrattia for another cup and some more wine. Bitucus looked away, holding his tongue. Aculeo warily sat down – he had a bad feeling all of a sudden.

  Theopompus, with his flashy clothing, jewelled rings on every stubby finger and chunky gold and silver bracelets covering both forearms, had always seemed friendly enough, like any good merchant, but Aculeo had always thought him a bit of a snake. “I’d heard you’d gone back to Rome,” the Icarian said with an easy smile, though his hooded eyes, rimmed black with kohl, watched everything.

  “My family did. I’m staying here for now.”

  “For now, that’s the thing!” the man barked as he poured Aculeo a generous cup. “There’s not much left of this fruit for most of us but the husk, is there?”

  “You, uh, haven’t seen Gellius about, have you Aculeo?” Bitucus asked.

  The two men seemed too watchful, too interested in what he might say. What game are they playing? And on whose behalf? “I haven’t a clue. I know they were planning to leave the city. As you said, there’s little left here but husk.”

  “Come on Aculeo,” Bitucus said, feigning jocularity, and doing a poor job of it. Aculeo glowered at the man, who faltered and looked away. The Icarian laughed again, though his darkened eyes hardened, unblinking.

  “Why are you looking for him?” Aculeo asked.

  “We’ve a business opportunity for him,” Theopompus said.

  “Oh? What sort?”

  The merchant didn’t bother to reply as he counted out ten silver sesterces and slid them across the table, the coins gleaming in the lamplight. “Just let us know if you run into him, will you?”

  Aculeo’s general unease was replaced with a sense of dread, though he tried not to show it. The Icarian stood to leave. Bitucus stood as well but Aculeo stopped him. “Before you go, a moment in private please. I trust you don’t mind, Theopompus.”

  The Icarian nodded. “I’ll wait outside then. Good to see you again, Aculeo.”

  They watched him leave. Bitucus gave a nervous smile. “Aculeo, I …”

  Aculeo grabbed the man by the front of his tunic, clutching at the soft linen, exquisitely embroidered with gold and purple thread. “What the fuck’s going on here, Bitucus?”

  “Wha … what d’you mean?” the man stammered, unable to look him in the eye.

  “What do you want with Gellius?”

  Bitucus pulled away, absently straightening out the front of his tunic. “This doesn’t involve you, Aculeo.”

  “You found Iovinus’ tablets, didn’t you!”

  “It’s nothing like that!”

  “And why just Gellius? Where’s Trogus?”

  “Come on, Aculeo, you have to understand …”

  Aculeo glanced down at the coins glinting on the tabletop. Everything came horribly clear. “Your loyalty to your friends comes cheap. You turned him in to Gurculio, didn’t you?”

  “Should I betray my family instead?” Bitucus cried.

  “The first defence of a traitor.”

  “At least I’m not a fool who refuses to see the tide’s turned until it’s too damned late!”

  Aculeo swept the coins off the table. They rang and rolled across the floor and a few other patrons scrambled to retrieve them. Bitucus tried to escape and Aculeo shoved him to the floor.

  He looked up at Aculeo in surprise and hurt. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “You’d better get out of here before I cut your damned throat.”

  “You were always a reasonable man.”

  “Fuck your reason, Bitucus! I’m a Roman, damn you, as I thought you were. What about virtue?”

  “Where’s virtue gotten either of us, you pompous prick?” Bitucus demanded as he struggled to his feet. Aculeo started towards him. The other man’s face showed a flash of fear and he scuttled quickly towards the door. “Come find me when you come to your senses!”

  Aculeo waited a minute, watching Bitucus and the Icarian through the window, engaged in a heated discussion. The Icarian threw up his hands and walked away. Bitucus followed reluctantly, shoulders slumped. Aculeo stepped outside, following the two men from a safe distance along the darkened streets. Where are they going? They led him deep into Beta along the winding, lovely streets. They came at last to Gurculio’s villa, still lit up in the depth of night, and the guards let them inside.

  So I was right, they’re working on the moneylender’s behalf, collecting on his loans. They probably have Trogus in there right now. Fuck! He heard the sickening sound of Gurculio’s braying laughter and resisted the urge to storm the gates and face the man. What would I say exactly? Bitucus may be a fool and a traitor, but he’s not wrong – the tides have changed. The question is, can they change back?

  The guards looked towards where he stood. Aculeo stepped back into the shadows, helpless, exposed and furious at himself for being that way.

  Aculeo turned south onto the broad Street of the Soma, the Great Crossroads, where the golden-domed Tomb of Alexander shimmered in the noonday sun, well behind him now, and headed up towards Olympia. The crowds had begun to thin at last as he moved away from the marketplace, leaving the tangled noises and smells of the streets behind. Here the air smelled of hyacinth and jasmine and he could hear birds singing in the acacia trees.

  His head was throbbing. He’d slept late after staying up drinking almost until the break of dawn, rolling his shrinking options around and around in his head like loaded dice. Meeting with Calisto again and asking her what she knew of Gurculio’s involvement with Iovinus was a longshot at best. Then again, it did give him a reason to see her again.

  As he neared the villa he spotted the little girl playing just inside the gates, feeding bits of bread to a flock of geese. Aculeo whistled to her. The girl looked up in surprise, then beamed at him. “Hello.”

  “Hi,” Aculeo said with a smile. “Is your mistress at home?”

  “Yes,” she said. The towering Nubian guarding the gate met Aculeo with a stolid glare. “It’s alright. Go fetch the mistress.” The man bowed and opened the gate for Aculeo, then disappeared into the house.

  “Come,” she said, and skipped just ahead of him as they made their way along the creamy marble hallway towards the atrium. There were half a dozen fine marble statues and some splendid tapestries on the walls, softening the sounds of their footfalls. They could hear the clatter of slaves working and chatting in distant sections of the villa. Aculeo’s heart was filled with a sudden sense of nostalgia at the scene – he half expected to see Atellus running down the fauces to greet him.

  “Have you found the man who killed Myrrhine yet?” the little girl asked, breaking the spell.

  “No, not yet. Did you know her well?”

  “Oh yes, of course, she was very nice, so pretty and such a
lovely voice. I’ll miss her terribly.” Idaia was quiet for a moment. “Do you have children?”

  “Yes. A son.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Three. He lives in Rome with his mother though.”

  “Oh.” The girl stopped skipping then and fell into step with him. “Why?”

  “His mother didn’t want to live here anymore, so she returned to Rome and took my son with her.”

  “Do you miss them?”

  “Yes I do. Very much.”

  “I’m sorry.” She slipped her little hand into Aculeo’s, surprising him. He’d forgotten the simple joy of holding a child’s hand as he walked. “Are you Roman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever met Caesar?”

  “No I haven’t.”

  “I met the Prefect once and he’s a friend of Caesar’s,” the girl chattered. “He was at a party we went to. I go to lots of parties, Calisto lets me come sometimes. Do you like parties?”

  “I used to, but not anymore,” Aculeo said.

  “I do. All the food and music and singing … Do you like Calisto?”

  “She seems very nice.”

  “A lot of men like Calisto.”

  “I would imagine so.”

  “She goes to parties all the time. She’s not only beautiful but terribly talented and clever as well.”

  A peacock gave a haunting trill, bobbing its head back and forth as it hurried along the marble tiles just ahead of them, as though to warn its mistress. The girl slipped her hand from his and chased it down the hall. Calisto was standing in the midst of the sun-filled atrium. The way the sun lit her face, Aculeo saw how truly beautiful her eyes were, a deep honeyed amber, with an exotic, Persian slant to them.

  She came towards him, took his hands in hers and kissed his cheek, the scent of her perfume multi-layered, evocative. “Aculeo! What a lovely surprise.”

  “Your pretty little slave let me in,” he said.

  “Idaia’s not a slave,” Calisto said, taking his arm and escorting him deeper into the atrium, her hand soft and cool against his skin. “I freed her the same day I purchased her. She comes from Phrygia, which is my homeland as well.”