Furies

by D. L. Johnstone

  Aculeo looked sharply up at him. “Have you read it already?”

  “The seal remains unbroken, does it not?” Xanthias asked, a thin varnish of defiance coating his anguish.

  Aculeo picked the scroll up, weighing it in his hand for a moment. The paper felt cool and heavy, smooth, the finest quality. He took a knife and slit the seal open, unrolling the document. His hands started to shake and he felt a pang in his heart when he saw the elegant handwriting, something he had not seen in the longest time. The air was sucked from his lungs as he read through the letter, then let it fall on the table. “She’s divorced me.”

  “Oh, Master!” Xanthias wept.

  “She’ll be getting remarried in a month’s time to someone by the name of Spurius Lartius Carnifex. A senator’s son, apparently, and a dear friend of her father’s, she says. She requests that I permit him to adopt Atellus as well.”

  Xanthias made a broken, wordless sound.

  “So that’s it, it’s over. Carnifex is a good man, no doubt. A man of privilege and honour. The gods know I’m a long way from being that again.”

  “Master, I …”

  Aculeo stood up suddenly and headed to the door. Xanthias, brave Xanthias blocked the door with his crooked old body. “Out of my way.”

  “Where are you going?” the slave demanded.

  “If I had the coin, I’d take the first ship to Rome to cut off Carnifex’s balls and feed them to him. As it is I can barely afford to get blinding drunk. Any objections?”

  Xanthias sighed and stood aside. “No, Master. None at all.”

  Aculeo was pulled from the dark shroud of sleep when he hit the floor. He looked up, head swirling with thick starbursts of pain. “What the fuck?” he mumbled, thick-tongued and muddle-headed.

  Two dark figures loomed over him. “Get up!” one of them growled, punctuating his order with a sharp kick to the ribs.

  Aculeo cried out in pain. “Pluto’s cold cock, what’s this about?”

  “I said get up!” Aculeo curled in on himself, tensing against the coming blow.

  “Give him a chance, will you?” a familiar voice pleaded.

  The second kick never came. Aculeo looked up from his place on the floor and saw Viator and Vibius, Gurculio’s slaves, glowering down at him. Bitucus stood just behind them in the doorway. In my bedroom, he realized dimly, I’m in my bedroom. “What’s going on?” he gasped, trying to catch his breath.

  “Please, Aculeo, you need to come with us,” Bitucus said in an apologetic tone.

  “Fuck off, Bitucus, I already told you I don’t know where Gellius is, now …”

  Viator kicked him again, this time in the side of his stomach. Aculeo felt like he was going to retch.

  “Stop it, stop!” Xanthias cried. Vibius lashed out at the old man, striking him across the face.

  “Leave him be,” Aculeo said, rolling onto his back, panting. “Just leave him be.”

  “Come on, Aculeo,” Bitucus said. “Gurculio just wants to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “I … I’m not sure.”

  “So you’ve gone from Roman to beggar to Gurculio’s messenger boy now, is that it?” Aculeo asked.

  “I’m sorry, Aculeo, truly.”

  “Did I not already tell you to fuck off?”

  The three men escorted him through the crowded noonday streets. Aculeo felt nauseous, his head throbbed, his ribs ached where he’d been kicked with every breath. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d broken something. It was almost noon, the sun high in the sky and hot enough to cause a sour sweat to drip down his ashen cheeks. The previous night was a blur. He recalled reading the letter from Titiana, which was followed by an undetermined number of kraters of undiluted quaff in some nameless back alley tavern. And then this.

  “Is this how you took Trogus?” he asked Bitucus.

  “Aculeo, it’s not like that,” the man replied.

  “Isn’t it? You led Gurculio’s goons to me as you did him. Now you’re taking me to your master like any good slave might do.”

  “I’m no one’s slave, damn you!”

  “Oh? You had me fooled.”

  “Just shut up and walk,” Bitucus said bitterly.

  The Great Harbour was thick with flax-sailed skiffs and barges sliding up to the jetties near the Emporion, loaded down with grain, amphorae of wine and other tradewares. A dirty white cloud of seabirds kited across in the early morning sky, drawn by the ripe, briny stench of the arriving fishing boats, their shrill cries clawing at Aculeo’s aching skull.

  He looked past the warehouses that littered the harbour, following the even lines that webbed across the city, broken only by the Canopic Canal twisting like a blue umbilicus around the eastern edge of the city before turning southwards to empty into the inland harbour where they now walked. A billowing trail of smoke and a glint of yellow firelight spilled forth from the mouth of the Lighthouse, shining out over the sea. Zeus-Soter stood atop the peak, welcoming all travellers and prospective citizens to this cruel and joyless city. Mocking him, it seemed.

  The wooden amphitheatre stood just ahead. Aculeo could hear the roar of the noonday crowds erupt from within as they approached the gates. “Is this where we’re going?” he asked.

  “Gurculio’s hosting some friends here,” Bitucus explained.

  “Your master’s tastes are so refined.” Bitucus ignored the jibe. Built decades ago to host gladiatorial games, one of the Roman conquerors’ favourite pastimes, the amphitheatre never lacked for attendance. Personally, Aculeo despised them – the idea of watching men attempt to slaughter one another on blood-soaked sand wasn’t his idea of an afternoon well spent.

  They led him through the noisome, stinking crowds and up the steps to the second level. Aculeo spotted the moneylender settled into one of the smaller boxes beneath a grey canvas awning. Look at him sitting there, he thought, like a fucking spider in his web, for all the world to see. Half a dozen men, merchants and bankers, Aculeo recognized, all of them already boisterous and drunk – sat next to the moneylender amidst a flock of pretty young girls who fawned over them all.

  Anger churned under his skin like poison as he watched Gurculio laugh and talk to his associates. The man stole everything from me, he tore my family apart, orchestrated the downfall of dozens of my friends, twisted Iovinus against me then murdered him, and here I am, unable to do anything but stand here at his fucking command. What’s wrong with me? His heart felt lodged in his throat all of a sudden. He felt massively unprepared, foolish and weak. What does he want of me now?

  A flash of scarlet hair caught his eye – Panthea herself was sitting next to one of the men, laughing politely at whatever banality he’d uttered. The girls were all pornes from the Blue Bird, he realized. He scanned the group but saw no sign of Tyche. Panthea caught his eye – there was a flash of recognition, then she turned back to her seat mate, placing her hand on his thigh and squeezing. Aculeo watched as another of the guests grinned wolfishly at a dark- skinned girl and took her by the wrist, pulling her into one of the small canvas tents set up just behind them. Sabina, Aculeo recalled.

  In the stadium below, a pair of dwarf praegenarii strode through the gates to the raucous welcoming cheers of the crowd. The praegenarii raised their small wooden swords overhead in salute, then turned to face one another. A trumpet sounded and the little gladiators charged towards one another, accompanied by a great clash of cymbals from the orchestra. The crowd roared in delight as the mock battle carried on, trumpets and cymbals erupting with every blow to mimic the sound of steel on steel.

  Bitucus squeezed his way past the other guests and whispered in Gurculio’s ear. The moneylender finally deigned to notice Aculeo. He smiled, giving him an imperious wave to take the vacant seat next to him. Aculeo reluctantly complied. Gurculio was heavier than he recalled, the thick slabs of muscle that ran across his back and shoulders gone to fat since his rise from the gutters not so long ago, but he was still a dangerous,
powerful looking man. His liberal use of unguents provided but a thin floral skein over his foul body odour. Sour sweat ran down his cheeks, darkening the neck and armpits of his tunic. The wormlike veins that branched across his cheeks were an angry violet.

  “I’m so glad you could join me,” he said magnanimously. “Bitucus, fetch our friend some wine.” Bitucus gave him a look as though he’d just been slapped in the face, but went all the same to do as he was told.

  “Your men hardly gave me a choice but to come,” Aculeo said.

  Gurculio laughed. “My apologies. But would you have come otherwise?”

  The dwarfs made wild swings of their wooden swords at one another, turning somersaults in the sand to the clash of cymbals. The audience howled in laughter at their act.

  “Do you enjoy the Games?” the moneylender asked, popping a handful of snails into his mouth with a crunch. He was behaving like a noble Roman, or his image of one at least. He wiped his greasy fingers off on a crust of bread which he tossed to a dog that lay at his feet.

  “No more than I enjoy your company,” Aculeo said. Gurculio shot him a dark look. Clearly the man had grown fat on flattery of those seeking his favours.

  The gates opened and out drove a tiny chariot driven by a monkey, pulled by a team of goats. The monkey brandished a javelin and drove the chariot straight towards the combatants, who turned and ran into one another in another ringing clash of cymbals before somersaulting into the sand and running from the arena, the little chariot in hot pursuit. The audience roared its approval.

  “I don’t know what it is you want,” Aculeo said. “I already told your dogs I know nothing about Gellius.”

  “Word is Gellius already left the city,” Gurculio said. “I’ve no need of him anymore anyway. Trogus already settled their debt.”

  Aculeo felt a chill descend despite the stifling heat. “Settled it how?” he asked. “With a knife across his throat? Or did you just sell him to the fullery as you did to poor Pesach?”

  “Don’t be so fucking dramatic,” Gurculio said, shifting in his seat which groaned beneath his heavy frame.

  “What of Iovinus? Did you murder him too?”

  The moneylender smiled. “Word was he drowned months ago.”

  “You know very well he did nothing of the kind. What was the deal the two of you made? Whatever it was, it couldn’t keep him alive, could it?”

  “You really are a fool,” Gurculio laughed. “Men like you, Gellius, Trogus, Pesach … your days are done. You need to adjust to that new reality as Bitucus has done if you mean to survive.”

  Aculeo’s blood was boiling now at the audacity of the man, a mere moneylender daring to talk to him like that!

  The gates opened once more and through them stumbled a full-sized gladiator, a murmillone, a sea fish glinting on the crest of his silver helmet, chain mail covering his sword arm. He carried a gladius in one hand and a short, oblong shield in the other. Skinny and stumbling, and having trouble even lifting his sword, the murmillone looked around at the crowd in confusion. The man was likely a nexus, a convicted criminal they often tossed into the Stadium for quick sport. Next through the gates strode a retiarius, a fisherman, a giant of a man, nearly twice the size of the poor murmillone. He carried a trident and net, with armour extending from the left side of the chest and length of his arm to the shoulder, while a metal shoulder shield covered his neck and the lower section of his face. The crowd buzzed in anticipation.

  The little dog which had climbed into Gurculio’s lap began to yap, startled by the noise. “Hush, Felix, hush,” the Roman cooed, stroking its ears. “Did you know my grandfather was born into slavery? And yet he died a free and wealthy man.”

  “You had family? I’d always assumed you’d been squeezed out of a pig’s ass one cursed morning.”

  The moneylender’s eyes flashed with irritation. “Watch your tongue, ceveo.”

  “Call me that again and you’ll join your ancestors soon enough,” Aculeo growled.

  Gurculio ignored him. “My grandfather always said to make sure you cover your own ass, because nobody will do it for you. Especially now.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  In the stadium below, the retiarius raised his trident over his head as he swung his net, getting ready to cast it. The murmillone stumbled backwards to stay out of reach, then tripped over his own feet and fell in the dust. His helmet slid forward, covering his eyes as the net sailed over his head. The crowd cheered – this contest was even funnier than the dwarfs! The murmillone scuttled away like a crab, struggling to right his helmet.

  “I heard you were sniffing about after Calisto. Even went to her villa the other day,” Gurculio said, looking sideways at Aculeo with his tiny, pebble-like eyes. “Why?”

  “What business is it of yours who I visit?” Aculeo demanded, though in truth he was caught off guard. How could he have known?

  The retiarius, picking up on the crowd’s mood, decided to draw things out and have some fun with his opponent. He slammed his trident hard into the murmillone’s shield, piercing the thick wooden plank, then tore it from the man’s shaking hands. The murmillone wheeled backwards in a panic as the retiarius kicked the shield off his trident and advanced.

  “Calisto’s not just some Tannery toe-toucher.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “You might well know it, but you clearly don’t understand its significance,” Gurculio said, then shoved a piece of black winecake in his mouth. “She’s a companion to men of wealth, power, influence. You’re none of those things. Not anymore. Understand me? That means when men of any import shit upon your noble-born head, you’re to thank them and tell them that it smells of myrrh.”

  “Fuck you, moneylender,” Aculeo spat, barely managing to hold his temper.

  “Hold up, I’m not through with you yet,” Gurculio said.

  “I’m not going to sit here listening to whatever shit dribbles out of your lips.”

  “You’re well out of your depth on this one. Do you even know who her fucking patron is?”

  “I couldn’t care less,” Aculeo said.

  “I trust you know who Lucius Albius Ralla is.”

  Ralla? Aculeo thought in surprise. Calisto belongs to Ralla? The thought of him lying in her bed, touching her, fucking her … Enough, he thought, trying not to expose himself. It’s hardly my concern. “What of it?”

  “Ralla’s not a man to cross. He’s not likely to be all that appreciative of someone like you showing an interest in his rightful property. Now do you understand?”

  “I’ll bear it in mind.”

  “You’ll need to do a lot more than that if you want to keep that empty head atop your shoulders!” Gurculio snapped.

  “If this is the only reason you summoned me…” Aculeo said, rising from his seat.

  “Don’t be in such a hurry. I’ve a proposition for you. You remember Posidippus of Cos, I trust?”

  Aculeo was caught off guard a second time. He knew the Cosian slightly, a low-level grain merchant who operated well outside the usual channels. He’d never trusted the man personally, though he recalled Corvinus had mentioned him as someone who got things done. “I know of him,” he said cautiously. “Why?”

  The retiarius caught his net on the fish-shaped crest on the murmillone’s helmet and pulled. The other man cried out and fell to his knees, dropping his sword in the sand. The crowd roared and stomped their feet against the walls of the amphitheatre.

  “He disappeared two weeks ago,” Gurculio said, “and no one knows where he is. Not his business associates, not his friends, not his family. I need to find him.”

  “What do you expect me to do? I barely know the man,” Aculeo said.

  “He used to work with your old patron, Corvinus, didn’t he?”

  “And Corvinus died months ago. Any connection I would have had to Posidippus died with him.”

  Gurculio raised an eyebrow. “Don’t devalue your connections.
It’s the only thing you have left in your favour. There’s a price on Posidippus’ head. One thousand sesterces if you find him for me.”

  The offer represented a small fortune, at least in terms of Aculeo’s current circumstances, and Gurculio surely knew it. But it made no sense – why offer such a price for a middling merchant like Posidippus of Cos?” And what will you do with him once you find him?” Aculeo asked. “Sell him to the fullery? Or just murder him like you did with Trogus?”

  “Don’t be such a spineless cunt,” Gurculio said irritably, fanning himself as the sweat filled the crevices between his fleshy chins. “I never murdered anyone. Besides, I already settled matters with Trogus. He’s a free man now.”

  The retiarius advanced on his fallen opponent. The crowd stood on their feet, swept up in blood lust, screaming for gore. The murmillone fumbled in the sand for his weapon.

  Aculeo looked at the moneylender in surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  “My business is my own. Yours is to do what I tell you, which right now is to find Posidippus. Understand?”

  The man’s arrogance was astounding. “Find him yourself, moneylender. I’ve better things to do.”

  “Wait,” Gurculio said, pointing into the stadium, “you should really watch this first.”

  “So I can witness a man getting slaughtered like a staked goat?”

  “He’s found his sword at least.”

  Aculeo glanced down into the stadium in spite of himself and saw the poor murmillone had indeed managed to find his sword. He held it trembling before him, for it seemed to weighed heavy in his hands. The retiarius made a side-to-side dodging move as though wary of approaching a dangerous beast, making the crowd laugh. As he did so, the retiarius tripped over his own feet and stumbled. The murmillone took a reluctant check swing with his sword, catching his opponent’s right calf.

  “There, he’s had it,” someone cried and the crowd started chanting the words, laughing at the great sport. The retiarius looked down at his shallow wound in surprise, then simply stepped in and stabbed the other man in the midsection with his trident. The murmillone cried out, a sound of agony woven tight with surrender as blood spilled from his wounds. The retiarius put his boot on the man’s chest and shoved him off, tearing his trident free. The murmillone stared down at the fresh gore of his guts spilling from his body and tried in vain to hold them in.