Furies

by D. L. Johnstone

  The triclinium was a spacious room with a dozen finely crafted couches placed in a squared-off circle around the perimeter on a low platform, with a swill-channel running down the middle. The room, lit with coloured lanterns and a smoking hearth fire, had a compluvium cut into the high ceiling where the smoke spiralled up to escape into the starry sky. The decorations were outrageously gaudy, the walls covered in garish murals of what appeared to be the heroic exploits of Aeneas and his men. Many of the couches were already occupied by other guests. Aculeo spotted a pair of familiar faces – the sophists Zeanthes and Epiphaneus.

  Zeanthes smiled warmly. “Aculeo, my dear friend,” the sophist said. “What a delightful surprise to see you again. Come join us.”

  Aculeo and Capito settled on a pair of empty couches next to the sophist. “I must admit, Ralla’s symposia are always among the finest in Alexandria. Still, you’ll both be a breath of fresh air amongst all the stuffy types that usually attend this sort of thing. Such as Epiphaneus and myself.”

  The other sophist sniffed in annoyance. He looked relatively well-groomed and sober compared to the last time Aculeo had seen him. The haunting sound of aulos, the double-reeded flutes, filled the air, played with admirable skill by pretty young girls who wandered between the couches. A few handsome youths wandered through the room as well, playing their lyres. In front of each couch were small wooden tables filled with platters of food – figs, cold roasted swan, broiled eel and great reed baskets of bread.

  Two young men entered the andron. Aculeo recognized them from outside the gates of Ralla’s symposium – a plump, moon-faced boy dressed in an expensive looking pale blue tunic and a thick rope of gold chain about his neck, and a small, rodent-like man who seemed to laugh uproariously at everything the portly one said. They were much younger than the other guests, in their early twenties at most. The moon-faced boy gazed at Aculeo, then turned away, bored.

  “Who are they?” Aculeo asked.

  “The little one is Asinius Camillus, I believe,” Capito said. “The other is Avilius Balbus.”

  “Avilius? As in the Prefect Avilius Flaccus?”

  “His son, yes.”

  The youth Camillus grabbed a passing flute girl by the wrist and pulled her close, interrupting her play. The girl looked frightened, uncertain what to do. Flaccus the younger brayed in laughter as the other guests did their best to ignore the situation and carry forth with their conversations.

  Gurculio arrived then, along with his retinue of Viator and Vibius. The moneylender, dressed in a garish yellow tunic and scarlet-edged toga, scanned the triclinium, widening his eyes slightly when he spotted Aculeo, then took an empty couch near Capito.

  “Let us offer a libation for the health of the Emperor Tiberius, may he bestow honour and pleasure on our evening together,” Ralla proclaimed, his voice grating as stones clattering on a clay-tile roof as a slave brought forth an amphora and set it in the centre of the mensa. Ralla poured some of the unmixed heavy black wine into a cup, drank from it then passed the cup to one of the flute girls, who brought it to each of the guests in turn.

  Aculeo tasted it, thick and sweet, and passed the cup back to the girl. She was quite pretty and wore a peplos of a silvery gauze, revealing the shadows of her young breasts and the slenderness of her waist beneath. She glanced at him in recognition, then bowed her head. Tyche, he realized – her lip still swollen, her cheek still discoloured beneath her makeup. And there was Panthea standing at the edge of the triclinium, watching. Her harelipped slave stood a few steps away from her. He briefly caught Aculeo’s eye, then looked away.

  After the food was done, slaves moved in to take away the tables and sweep the floor of bones, shells and discarded fruit. They brought forth large bowls of warm, fragrant water and fine cotton towels for the guests to wash their faces and hands. Ralla then signalled one of his slaves and a large amphora was carried out to the middle of the chamber.

  “A fine fragrant wine of Lesbos,” Ralla announced, “aged in my cellars for many seasons, in honour of our honoured guest, the esteemed sophist Zeanthes of Araethyrea.”

  “Also aged for many seasons,” a young poet named Hipparchus said to much laughter. The poet’s face was painted with white lead, his lips and cheeks rouged like a woman’s.

  “Make sure you mix it well this time, if you will,” grumbled Epiphaneus. “It was far too thick last time, gave me a raging headache for days.”

  “Much like Hipparchus,” Zeanthes rejoined.

  Aculeo watched Ralla carefully as the man settled onto the central couch. A slave girl poured the amphora into a deep ceramic krater, then added a measure of water, swirling the mixture around before pouring it into a jug. Tyche carried the jug around the circle, pouring wine into each man’s cup. The other girl continued to mix kraters of wine until there were five in all.

  “Five kraters, Ralla?” one of the guests howled in surprise. “Are you trying to kill us all?” Ralla laughed, waving off the man’s complaint as he downed his first cup and held it out for more.

  The first of a dizzying number of delicacies to be brought forth that evening, a gold platter of pheasants stuffed with sugared grapes and olives, accompanied by a silver platter of peppercakes and beestings pudding, made from the milk of new mother cows. The slaves brought the platters to each diner’s small tables in turn, then went back to ready the next course.

  “Did anyone attend this morning’s lecture by that Skeptic fellow, Varialus?” Epiphaneus asked.

  “The fellow with a big mole on his chin?” Hipparchus said with a frown. “I thought he was Neo-Platonic.”

  “No, definitely Skeptic. And he’s from Crete of all places.”

  “Now that’s a hideous place, bad wine, lots of flies and no culture at all.”

  “How in the world could Skepticism have become so popular of late, and fools like Varialus be received with such acclaim?” Epiphaneus grumbled.

  “Ah, there you go,” Hipparchus said archly. “Always wondering when you’ll be cast out of the Museion like nightsoil from an overflowing chamber pot.”

  “If I am, so be it. At worst I shall have to return to teaching some backwards merchant’s squawling little brats in Phaleron or some such blightful place. There as here I’ll serve no master except my own ideas. The rest of you can rot in Tartarus for all I care.”

  “And what is it that you … do?” Hipparchus asked Aculeo.

  “Grain export.”

  “Truly?” the sophist said with a melodramatic shudder.

  “Oh? And how is it any lesser than what you do? Instead of grain, you sell your words and ideas. Few men die from an empty head. An empty belly is another matter.”

  “Some do quite well with empty heads in fact,” Epiphaneus muttered.

  “Another cup of wine for my friend Aculeo,” Zeanthes laughed. “A speaker of truth, thus a rare and curious man indeed.”

  “What truth is there in discounting the philosopher’s worth?” Hipparchus asked. “Did Plato himself not proclaim that man has progressed through the five stages of evolution, and at its zenith is the philosopher, who pursues wisdom in and of itself?”

  “And so, according to you, mankind’s zenith consists of buying expensive clothes and dallying about the baths with pretty young men?” said Epiphaneus.

  “Of course, what else? If I’d wanted to experience boredom and ugly fashion I’d have stayed in Cyrene.”

  “Then maybe the rest of us could have experienced a pleasant evening for once.”

  The slaves returned with the next course, a great filagreed cage constructed entirely of honeyed sweets and packed with live songbirds. The diners all applauded as the slaves broke open the cage, setting the birds loose to fly about the triclinium then out into the night, filling the air with their song.

  “Ah, here she is,” Zeanthes said. Aculeo glanced up toward the doorway and felt his breath catch – it was Calisto, her delicate red and gold peplos clinging to her slender body, her face lit with the
soft light of the coloured lanterns. She seemed transformed by the context of night into an exotic and beautiful creature. I’m a fool – I never even thought she might be attending as well.

  “Calisto!” Ralla called, clambering off his couch and almost falling on his face as he tottered towards her. He took her hand to kiss it. Calisto quickly scanned around the room, a smile dancing on her lips. Her smile faltered when she saw Aculeo, then she looked away. Ralla had turned his attentions to a passing flute girl, pulling her towards his couch to openly grope her amidst the derisive laughter of Balbus and Camillus. Calisto passed by without a word, engaging instead with the other guests.

  “She does look lovely, doesn’t she?” Zeanthes said.

  “A vision,” Capito agreed.

  “Her skin is a bit dark,” Hipparchus sniffed. “Is it only her tonight then?”

  “Looks like.”

  “Myrrhine was murdered four nights ago,” Epiphaneus blurted, his eyes puffy and sodden with drink.

  “Is that true?” Hipparchus said in shock, his fey affectations forgotten for the moment. “What happened?”

  “Her throat was slit and her body dumped in the Canopic Canal,” Capito said.

  “How absolutely ghastly,” the sophist said, his face drained of colour. “We saw her just days ago, didn’t we?”

  “She was murdered that very night,” Aculeo said, glancing towards the banker again. Capito gave a warning clearing of his throat. Aculeo ignored him. Ralla’s eyes were already pink-rimmed and glassy. The flute girl had managed to slip from his clutches somehow and he had turned his attention to filling his belly instead.

  “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

  “And poor Neaera is missing as well,” Zeanthes said. “She hasn’t been seen in over a week.”

  “Neaera too? We’ll pray to the gods she’s alright,” Hipparchus said.

  “Is there any idea who may have murdered Myrrhine?” Zeanthes asked.

  “We arrested a lunatic named Apollonios just yesterday,” Capito said.

  “Well then,” Hipparchus said, then raised his cup in a toast. “Health and prosperity to you and your offices then, for clearing madmen off the streets. Perhaps you could turn your attention to the Museion next.”

  Aculeo watched Calisto out of the corner of his eye as she moved about the room, greeting others with a warm smile, an embrace and a kiss.

  “Must one be mad to commit murder?” Epiphaneus asked.

  “It depends on the circumstances,” said Zeanthes. “A soldier in a battlefield kills to achieve a military goal.”

  “Also to guard his own life, and the lives of his comrades,” Capito said.

  “Spoken like a soldier, not a general,” Hipparchus laughed.

  “A man may also kill to steal another’s property for himself,” said Aculeo.

  “Out of greed, yes, but to kill for lust?” Epiphaneus asked. “To put one’s life and liberty in jeopardy for the sake of a moment’s passion? Surely that is madness.”

  Calisto at last made her way to their section of the triclinium. “My dear, you look breathtaking,” Zeanthes said. “Feeling better than the other day I trust?”

  “Much better, thank you,” Calisto said, lowering her eyes. She wore a garland of violets and lotus and stood a mere hair’s breadth from Aculeo, such that he could feel the heat from her body, her smell intoxicating.

  Hipparchus smiled at her, then looked to the skylight where the moon had just disappeared behind a cloud. “You see, even Diana hides her face when Calisto appears, so envious is she of her charms.”

  “Now who’s been drinking too much?” Epiphaneus muttered.

  Ralla clapped his hands and the slaves brought forward another krater of wine (the second or third? Aculeo couldn’t recall) while the flute girls played their aulos even louder, switching from soft, subtle melodies to a mad buzzing sound like a hive of angry hornets. Two lovely young women in diaphanous chitons came dancing and spinning into the centre of the room, moving to the music, their hair flying in their faces as they spun about, taking one anothers’ hands as they came together, pressing their bodies against one another, their backs arching, then pushing away again.

  Balbus and Camillus were clapping with the other guests as the girls danced, cheering as the girls suddenly paused to kiss one another on the lips then pushed away again. Slaves appeared carrying more platters of food. Aculeo watched as Hipparchus took a pomegranate from a passing slave.

  “You appear deep in thought,” Zeanthes said.

  “I just remembered something,” Aculeo said.

  “Oh? What is it?”

  “Yes, tell us,” Hipparchus said as he bit into the fruit, the bright red juice running down his chin.

  “Pomegranate seeds were found in Myrrhine’s mouth when her body was pulled from the canal.”

  Hipparchus spat the seeds out on the floor in disgust. “Now you tell me?”

  “I think it fascinating,” Zeanthes said.

  “You would,” Hipparchus muttered as he flushed his mouth out with wine, spitting it on the floor. “What’s this evening’s conversation degrading into? Dead hetairai and pomegranates.”

  “The pomegranate has a special place in the lives of our most ancient Gods, since the time of Arcadia,” Zeanthes said. “Perhaps even before that.” He asked a slave to pass him one of the fruits and delicately tore open its thin waxy peel. He pressed the tip of his thumb into the fruit and scarlet juice dripped down his hands and arms. “The colour of blood, you see, and a symbol of death.”

  “Why did you have to get him started?” Hipparchus sighed.

  “Demeter, goddess of the cornfields, had a daughter, Persephone, by her brother Zeus,” Zeanthes began, settling back on his couch. “The young girl was gathering flowers with her friends in a meadow in Eleusis one day when she was spotted by Hades, who fell in love with her and stole her away to his kingdom in Tartarus. Demeter was grief-stricken, of course. She didn’t know what had happened, only that her beloved daughter was missing. She searched across the world for nine days and nights for the girl, but to no avail. Finally, on the tenth day she met with a young swineherd who told her of an extraordinary occurrence. He had been in the fields of his father’s land, feeding his animals, when there was a loud crack and the earth split open, swallowing his entire herd all at once. Even as he cried out in surprise, there was a pounding of hooves and a great black chariot appeared, drawn by four black horses. The chariots driver’s face was a visage of fire, and in his arm he held a screaming girl. The chariot thundered along the land before finally disappearing into the chasm, which then closed behind them.

  “Demeter was enraged, knowing at once that it was Hades who’d stolen her daughter. She demanded that Zeus help her get their daughter back, but he refused to go against his brother. This enraged Demeter even further, and while she has no dominion over the underworld, she has great power over ours. She cursed the earth, refusing to allow trees to bear fruit or crops to grow, and the race of man suffered and starved. Fearing that humankind would die out and there would then be nobody to make sacrifices to the gods, Zeus finally interceded and forced Hades to return Persephone to Demeter. On one condition. That she had not tasted the food of the dead while living in the underworld. She kept this promise until the very morning she was to return, when Hades tricked her into picking a pomegranate from his orchard and tasting six seeds.

  “Thus she was condemned to return to Hades for six months of each year, one month for each seed. This always made Demeter grieve, and she would again cause all the plants in the world to die, only to be reborn again in springtime, with the return of Persephone to her mother’s arms. The pomegranate seeds, then, are her taste of death. And as she tastes it, so do we all.”

  “So you propose now that Hades killed these women?” Hipparchus scoffed. “There’s little chance of stopping him then.”

  “I would offer a libation to my dear guests,” Ralla cried out drunkenly. “A good Roman wine,
in Caesar’s honour.”

  “I didn’t know there was such a thing,” Epiphaneus muttered.

  “What, good Roman wine?” Hipparchus said.

  “Yes, that, or Caesar’s honour. It’s like a Thracian virgin or a literate Gaul, the two terms are impossible to reconcile.”

  Hipparchus’ eyes narrowed. “I’d watch your tongue if I were you, old man,” he said softly. “The wine’s stolen your senses.”

  “I don’t need wine to speak the truth,” Epiphaneus sniffed. Zeanthes climbed off the couch and stretched. The other sophist looked at him in surprise. “Leaving already?”

  “I’m afraid so. A bite of food, a taste of wine, and a little talk with good friends and I’m done for the evening. What about you, Aculeo?”

  “I think Capito and I will stay a little longer.”

  The Magistrate muttered incomprehensibly, his attention on the dancers.

  “Of course, that’s the way it’s done,” Hipparchus clapped. “See the night out. You could learn from this fellow, Zeanthes.”

  The elder sophist smiled. “I’ve no doubt I could. Have a wonderful evening, dear friends.” He gave a small bow before going to pay his respects to their half-comatose host.

  Calisto was standing still as a statue as she watched Ralla grab Tyche roughly around the waist, pulling her onto his couch. Aculeo noticed the scar that ran along Calisto’s jawline had turned stark white against her olive skin. The banker kissed the back of the girl’s neck, then shoved his hand beneath her chiton to molest her right there for all to see. Tyche’s eyes met Aculeo’s for the briefest of moments, a desperate, pleading expression haunting her face. Aculeo started to rise from his couch, ready to intervene. But Calisto was already moving towards the banker.

  “Ralla, what do you think of the wine?” Calisto asked as she approached the man’s couch, reaching for his cup.

  “What?” Ralla asked in sluggish annoyance.

  “It’s too young, I think. Come, we’ll find you a more suitable vintage.” Aculeo smiled in admiration as Calisto graciously took the banker by the arm and helped him to stand, allowing Tyche to slip away. Ralla weaved on his feet as he was led from the andron, pausing only to vomit on the marble floor. A slave scurried forward to clean up the mess, mopping it into the swill channel that ran down the centre of the room.