“Is she alright?” he asked.
“She will be. Philomena,” the healer said gently. “Are you awake, dear?” The girl reluctantly turned to face them. She was young, no more than twenty. Her left eye was red and swollen almost shut, the other bloodshot, her lower lip split and puffy, her neck bruised black and blue. Her good eye widened when she saw Aculeo. She began to cry and turned away to face the wall. Sekhet sat beside her on the bed, stroking her head. Philomena flinched. “Shhh, don’t worry, it’s alright, I promise you. He’s a friend of mine.”
“Leave me alone,” the girl pleaded, her voice muffled by the blanket.
“He’s here to help, dear one. His name is Aculeo. He only wants to find the man who did this to you.”
Philomena turned over in the bed and looked at him with her one good eye. “Why?”
“Just tell us what happened,” Sekhet said, stroking her hair.
The girl took a deep, trembling breath, then told them her story of how she’d been attacked and almost murdered near the funerary monuments. Her voice trembled at first, uncertain, frightened, but she gained confidence as she went, until, near the end, she was sitting up in bed, more angry than anything.
“You’re lucky to be alive I think,” Sekhet said, squeezing her hand.
“You said you knew the man who attacked you,” Aculeo said.
“I … I think so.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
“Orpheus.”
Damn, he thought. “How’d you know him then?”
“I used to see him sitting on the steps of a little tavern in Epsilon. He’d sit there almost every night, waiting for me, wanting to talk. It’s on my route, see?”
“He hired you?”
“Once,” the girl admitted, blushing.
“Did he hurt you that time?”
“No.” She closed her good eye, thinking. “I mean, yes. I … I didn’t think he meant to do it, he always seemed so harmless.”
“What did he do to you that time?”
“He grabbed my arm was all,” she said, touching her fingers to her throat.
“So what was different this time? Why did he attack you?” Aculeo asked.
“Maybe he was jealous. I don’t know. I was with another man. He’s a different sort, you know? Maybe he was confused, thought just because we’d been together that one time.”
“You said you always saw him sitting in the same place,” Sekhet said. “Where was that?”
“In Epsilon Quarter at the Tavern of Sefu. He’d sit on the steps there and wait for me.”
Such attacks are likely common enough, he thought. It’s possible that the attack is linked somehow to the murders, but for that matter so could a dozen other assaults that take place on any given night. “Sekhet, I don’t know…” he began.
“Show him your wrists,” the healer told the girl.
Philomena looked at her oddly, then pulled her hands out of the blanket and held them up in the dim lamplight. She wore a number of bracelets on both wrists made of silver and copper and bronze. On the left wrist, she also wore a bracelet of yellow twine.
Aculeo felt his heart pound in his chest. “You worship Sarapis?”
“What?”
“That yellow cord tied about your wrist – that’s part of your worship of Sarapis, isn’t it?”
She looked at her wrist and bit her lower lip, puzzled. “I’d forgotten about it. He gave it to me that first time. He may have said something about Sarapis, I can’t remember really …”
“What does this Orpheus look like?”
“Very skinny, his hair and fingernails are filthy, and he has a big scar across his face, running across his lips and down his chin. Must have almost split his head open whatever made that.”
Apollonios, Aculeo thought, his heart pounding. It had to be. “And you’re sure his name was Orpheus?”
“He called himself that. Kept calling me Eurydice. I thought he was being sweet,” she said, her voice trailing off. “You know all I could think of when he attacked me? That this is what must have happened to those poor girls who disappeared. That I’d be the next one. Just another missing porne that everyone forgets about in a day or so.”
Aculeo stared at the girl – more stories of missing pornes like the ones that frightened Tyche, or is there some truth in it? “Do you know who Gurculio is?” he asked.
“Who?” the girl said, a look of confusion on her face.
“Gurculio the moneylender. Did he ever hire you for any private parties?”
“No,” she said, her lower lip trembling.
“Aculeo,” Sekhet said.
“What about Ralla? No? Iovinus? Think, damn you!”
“No! No no no no no no!” Philomena held her fists tight against her temple, her arms tucked tight to her breast and curled against the wall, sobbing like a child.
“Hush, you’re fine now,” Sekhet said, stroking the girl’s head. She glanced at Aculeo, her expression more troubled than her tone implied. “That’s enough for now. You just close your eyes and rest.”
Sekhet led Aculeo out of the room and closed the door. “I told you not to upset her. The poor child was attacked once already today,” the healer seethed.
“I had to see if she was hiding anything.” Sekhet shot him a withering look. “I’m sorry.”
“And what did you learn?”
“Apollonios is the one who attacked her.”
Sekhet raised a puzzled brow. “She said his name was Orpheus.”
“And he called her his Eurydice,” Aculeo said, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. “It’s from schoolboy stories. Orpheus was a Thracian king, Eurydice his wife. She went out walking in the valley one morning, whereupon she was raped and murdered. Orpheus followed her shade down into Tartarus where he tried to convince Hades to allow him to bring her back to the land of the living. Hades relented on one condition – when Orpheus led his wife’s shade from Tartarus, he must not look back at her until they reached the safety of the sun. They set out at once, and as soon as Orpheus felt the sun on his own face again he was overjoyed and turned to kiss Eurydice’s lips – but part of her was still in shadow. She disappeared as soon as his eyes touched hers, losing her forever.”
“So perhaps in his madness he thought he was trying to save this woman,” Sekhet mused. “From the streets. From that life.”
“And when he couldn’t, he tried to kill her instead,” Aculeo said. “Her, Myrrhine, the river slave, Neaera. It’s been him behind these murders all the while. The question is whether he acted alone.”
“We can only guess.”
They almost missed him. Drawn by the sweet scent of bread, spices and grilling meat and the friendly chatter of the customers, Apollonios wandered past the courtyard of the white-washed little tavern in Epsilon later that afternoon, hoping for handouts. He hardly looked dangerous as he shambled barefoot along the crowded street, weaving his way amongst the other pedestrians, favouring one leg. He was skinny as a beggar, his beard and hair unkempt, likely crawling with vermin. His chiton was as filthy as the rest of him.
A cold rage coursed through Aculeo as he watched the man, his mind filled with the horrific images of the poor women raped and murdered, their savaged bodies left behind like garbage. Could a wretch like him be working on Gurculio and Ralla’s behalf? Why not hire a mad dog to commit a mad crime? He nodded to Capito, who considered Apollonios for a moment, then signalled the two soldiers to move in. The recluse squatted down outside the tavern, picked up a scrap of food he saw on the ground, sniffed it, tasted it before tossing it aside.
The soldiers drew closer, only fifteen cubits from him. Ten. Apollonios scratched an armpit and stretched, watching the people walking by. Capito nodded to the lead soldier, who headed straight for their quarry. Apollonios suddenly stood up and slipped quietly into the back alley. The soldiers followed, Capito and Aculeo right behind them.
As they entered the back door of the building, Aculeo saw the recluse waiti
ng for them with a steaming copper kettle in hand. “No!” he cried, but too late. The lead soldier screamed in agony as the boiling water poured over him, scalding his face and outstretched hands. The recluse threw the kettle at the others and bolted through the back kitchen, knocking over a table of food and plates behind him where they smashed on the floor. The servants and patrons looked up in amazement as the three furious men came crashing into the dining room, then burst through the door out onto the street behind their quarry.
They spotted him just ahead, limping at a furious pace down the street, weaving his way through the crowd. Aculeo, Capito and the remaining soldier chased after him, knocking aside any pedestrians that got in the way. Ah, there now, he’s turned up a blind alley. But as they rounded the corner, they saw he’d managed somehow to squeeze himself through an impossible spot between two buildings. They could only watch as Apollonios scrambled up over a wall and into another side street.
“What are you waiting for, let’s go!” Capito cried, and kicked in the back door to one of the buildings then charged inside, the soldier right on his heels. Aculeo turned back and ran down the alley out to the street. He pushed his way through the crowds again, trying to see where Apollonios had come out from the alley.
We can’t have lost him! So many people, how in Pluto’s name are we going to … ah, there. Apollonios was walking slowly along the street, head down, trying to blend into the crowd. Aculeo pushed through the pedestrians, trying to get closer. He was approaching the Agora now. The recluse glanced back over his shoulder just then, saw his pursuer drawing nearer, and ran.
The man was like a silverfish the way he slipped through the crowds, never missing a step. “Hoi, stop him!” Aculeo cried in vain. Apollonios veered to the right suddenly. He’s heading to the canal – he crosses that and he’s into Rhakotis, a cursed maze – we’ll never find him there! Aculeo sprinted after him, heart pounding, lungs burning. The recluse slipped down onto the dry mud bank and plunged feet first into the canal, wading across, the water up to his chest in a hurry, his filthy chiton billowing out behind him. Aculeo stood back on the bank, ready to plunge in after him, when he saw Capito and the soldier appear on the other side of the canal. They must have crossed at the bridge down the way, he thought, then he jumped into the water, bellowing at the top of his lungs to drive Apollonios forward.
They seized the recluse as he climbed dripping onto the opposite bank. He roared in fury as they held him down, wept in despair as they bound him hand and foot. “What do you want with me?” he cried. “What did I do? Sarapis, Benefactor of all that is good, protect me! Get your fucking hands off me!”
“Just gag him while you’re at it,” Aculeo gasped, collapsing in exhaustion on the bank of the canal.
The stairway leading down to the underground cells was rank with the stench of human waste and death. They could hear rats scrabbling about in the darkness, startled by the sudden influx of torchlight. The prisoners cried out in a dozen different languages, begging for food, water, freedom as Aculeo and Capito passed their cells.
Apollonios’ cell was in a distant corner of the complex. The man lay curled up in a pile of fetid straw on a mud-brick platform, his breathing harsh, laboured. The guard opened the cell door. Aculeo held up his sputtering torch, stinking of sulphur and pitch.
Capito sent the guard away. “Get up,” he growled. Apollonios didn’t stir. Capito grabbed him by his dirty hair and dragged him onto the cold stone floor. The recluse cried out in pain as he looked up blearily at the two men. In the dim, sickly light of the cell, they could see his jaw was swollen, likely broken, his upper lip split and caked in blood. It seemed the guards had had some sport with him.
Apollonios touched his mouth with a trembling hand. “Hail Sarapis, who weighs the lives of men, know that your sacred place in my heart …” he whispered, barely audible. He began coughing, then resumed his fervent, mumbling rant.
“Your brother told us you fought at Teutoburg,” Aculeo said. “Decorated by Caesar himself – is that right?” Apollonios made no reply but stopped his wretched mumbling at least. “They say the waters there were still dark with blood a year after the battle was done. How could a man like you have survived?”
“Hail … Zeus-Soter, God of All Men,” the recluse stammered, “may you protect these men who know not your love, may you teach them.”
“So the Gods saved you?” Capito asked.
“I serve only Sarapis, ruler over all that is good and light, may others learn to worship you as I so humbly do and offer you your rightful tributes throughout eternity.” Apollonios blinked and looked up, as though noticing the two men for the first time. “Who are you?”
“Don’t you remember me, recluse?”
A light of recognition filled the prisoner’s bruised eyes. “Hail to Hades, Lord of Shadows, may you curse this lover of his own mother!” he snarled and spat a thick wad of phlegm on the floor.
“He seems to remember you well enough,” Aculeo said.
“And do you still remember the porne you attacked last year before you fled the city?” Capito asked.
“Let him drink of the waters of the white cypress of Lethe so he loses his mind in the eternal fire of your foul and hideous realm!” Apollonios muttered, turning to face the wall.
“We know what happened at the Sarapeion,” Aculeo said. “You murdered a slave there.”
“A cursed lie!” the recluse cried. “Hail Sarapis, who weighs the lives of men, know this wretched man before me is unworthy of your sacred love. May you strike him down with your beneficent fire and bring him to his knees, even as you cast this loathsome city into the sea!”
“A witness saw you attack that slave. You murdered her, covered her with your cloak.”
“She … she was already dying,” Apollonios said, his fury abated, muttering feverishly under his breath. “Already dead. Hail Sarapis!”
“Enough with your cursed Sarapis!”
“So pretty, such a pretty thing,” Apollonios whispered to himself. “She’d like it, wouldn’t she?”
Aculeo felt a chill run down his back. “What would she like? What would the pretty girl like?”
“Hold me,” the recluse said softly. “Please.”
“You murdered her then and there. And Myrrhine, whose throat you cut before you dumped her body in the canal. And what of Neaera?”
“I need to get out of here,” Apollonios said, covering his ears, rocking back and forth in his mud-brick bed. “Please, Sarapis, save me!”
“We know you murdered those women, damn you!” Aculeo snarled, grabbing the man by his soiled chiton. “Why did Gurculio want them dead?”
“What are you talking about?” Capito hissed under his breath. Aculeo ignored him.
The recluse covered his ears and curled up on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest like a frightened child. “Please, I couldn’t. He would never kill.”
“Come on, Apollonios,” Aculeo said. “You must have killed a hundred men to survive Teutoburg. What’s a few girls to that?”
“Why am I cursed with this miserable existence, O Great One?”
“Tell me about Gurculio, damn you, or I swear I’ll beat you to death here and now!”
Apollonios turned and grabbed Aculeo by the wrist with surprising strength. “Take my life then, Roman! Take it! Take it! Take it! Take it!”
“Unhand me!”
“Fuck!” Capito said, moving in to separate them.
The recluse suddenly released Aculeo and dropped to his knees on the stone floor, raising his wasted arms to the shadows overhead, the yellow cord bracelet slipping to halfway down his filthy forearm. “O Great One, have I not stood on every street corner of this wretched city, spreading the word of your divine purpose, invoking your sacred will? Have I not dedicated my very life to you?”
“Let’s get out of here,” Capito said. “We could have a clearer conversation with the rats that nest in his bedding.”
“Fine,” Aculeo sai
d, rubbing his now aching wrist, his heart pounding. Capito called for the guard to let them out again.
“Hail Sarapis, hail Isis, hail Harpocrates, your divine child,” Apollonios whispered in a feverish rush. “Please, please, please, won’t someone save me from this wretched vision?”
The walls of the tavern glowed with the soft yellow lamplight, shadows shifting across a mural of a priapic Pan and a group of nymphs dancing deep within a bucolic forest. The sound of slurred song and mindless laughter from the other patrons floated about as slaves carried forth jugs of wine and platters of food.
“The Library must be closed for the night,” Capito sniffed, glancing about the place, “all the great sophists have gathered here instead.”
“I felt like strangling the man,” Aculeo said.
“It’s your own damned fault. Everyone knows you should avoid the gaze of a murderer, lest you become infected with a murderous rage yourself.”
Aculeo said nothing, gazing deep into his krater of cheap palm wine, swirling the debris about. Capito reached across and gave him a clap on the shoulder. “Come on, Aculeo. Let’s celebrate. We caught the murderer today.”
“You believe Apollonios murdered them, don’t you?” Aculeo asked.
“Eh? Yes, of course he did, of course.”
“Myrrhine? The river slave? Neaera perhaps?”
“Yes, and who knows how many others?” Capito gave him a puzzled look. “What game are you playing at, Aculeo? You yourself convinced me of it.”
“I know it.”
“So what were you going on about, asking him about the moneylender?”
“Something doesn’t fit,” Aculeo said and went to refill his cup from the small amphora.
Capito snatched his cup away, sloshing wine on the table. He was smiling still, but his eyes were steely. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about or not?”
Furies Page 16
