Furies

by D. L. Johnstone

  “She treats him far better than he deserves,” Hipparchus said.

  “But no better than he pays for,” Epiphaneus said. “Ah well, good to see Myrrhine’s death hasn’t rent his heart too deeply.”

  “Why would Myrrhine’s death affect him?” Aculeo asked.

  Hipparchus looked at him, eyebrows raised in amusement. “Ralla was Myrrhine’s patron as well. Every fine stitch on her hired back, every jewel around her pretty neck, even the roof over her head, all of it paid for by Lucius Albius Ralla.”

  Aculeo’s mind reeled. He turned away, trying to think, the wine doing little to clear his head. Ralla was patron to Calisto, Neaera, and now Myrrhine as well? And what of Posidippus who owed the banker fifteen thousand sesterces, went bankrupt then disappeared? Capito was staring at him, jaw clenched tight. Clearly he’d overheard. Say nothing, he mouthed, and turned back ostensibly to watch the dancers.

  Slaves brought out fresh wine – it tasted different than the previous sort, infused with cinnamon and sweetened with honey, all masking a bitter undertaste. The music grew harsher as a handsome lyre boy entered the central area. He wore a satyr’s costume, with a wooden phallus strapped about his waist and long donkey ears atop his head. The guests applauded as the two girls broke apart from one another and began dancing around the boy, who made thrusting grabs for them, his wooden phallus bouncing up and down. As the girls danced about on the floor, the satyr seized the chiton of one. She pulled away and her chiton tore and fell to the floor. The men all cheered as the girl’s lithe, naked body was revealed. She was quite beautiful to be sure, but too young, her breasts as small as ripe figs, and still with the rounded belly of a child. The satyr then grabbed the other girl, who squealed and tried to pull away, her chiton tearing as well. The music rose to a high pitched frenzy.

  “You see,” Hipparchus said dreamily, “symposia favour all the senses. Beauty for the eyes, music for the ears, food and wine for the mouth, perfume for the nose, fine talk for the intellect and lovely dancers for the cock.”

  Ralla stumbled back into the triclinium by himself, then fell onto his couch and settle back to watch the show. Aculeo saw a flash of red and gold silks and caught Calisto’s eye before she disappeared into the shadows towards the garden. He felt a hand trace along his hip and turned to see a pretty flute girl slide onto the couch beside him.

  “Would you like company?” she asked, stroking her soft fingertips across his thigh.

  Aculeo politely moved her hand away then climbed off his couch, slipping past Capito’s couch as he made his way out of the triclinium. “Where are you going?” Capito hissed. Aculeo ignored him and headed towards the garden. The night air seemed to dance around him as he walked, his head spinning. The path was dark, with statues standing here and there like silent guests in the dim lantern light. Minerva with her sword and shield. Venus, an arm covering her breasts, Cupid at her knee. Apollo with his bow at the ready. He found Calisto standing in a distant corner of the gardens near a fountain, the music of the falling water masking the sound of her crying. She looked up at him in surprise, then turned her head away.

  “Are you alright?” Aculeo asked.

  She looked at him then, tears streaming down her face. “What are you doing here? You don’t belong in this place, with these people.”

  “Who belongs with them then?”

  “You couldn’t even begin to understand, Aculeo.”

  “The Magistrate arrested Myrrhine’s killer yesterday.”

  “What?” she said, startled, wiping her tears away. “Who?”

  “The recluse. He attacked a porne in Epsilon two nights ago. She led us to him. As we thought, he was a disciple of Sarapis.”

  “I … I can’t believe it. That’s wonderful news.”

  “Is it?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “I don’t think he did this on his own. I think he may have acted under someone else’s orders.”

  “But whose?”

  “Ralla’s.”

  “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “It’s not meant to be. Ralla has connections to a number of people who’ve met unfortunate ends. Iovinus, Neaera, Myrrhine. Why didn’t you tell me he was her patron?”

  “Why would that matter?”

  “You told me they argued at his symposium the night before she was murdered,” Aculeo said.

  “Yes, but …”

  “Then there’s Posidippus of Cos.”

  “Who?”

  “A merchant. He worked with us through Iovinus. His warehouse is empty, his accounting records showed he was heavily in debt. He was in no position to repay his lenders, which put his life in jeopardy. The moneylender, Gurculio, even offered me a bounty to find him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The Cosian’s main lender was Albius Ralla. Is the image clearer now?” Calisto made no response, just pulled her arm from his grasp, not meeting his gaze. “You’re protecting him.”

  “Why would I?” she cried, her eyes blazing. “I’m his whore, not his confidante! I get to live like a bird in his pretty cage only to serve him!”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Myrrhine?”

  “And what else should I have told you? What would you like to know? Should I tell you of the vile things I must let him do to me whenever the mood strikes him? Or the things he has me do to him? It’s my place in life, and I keep my place! At least I can help keep him away from the things he shouldn’t have!”

  “What things?” Aculeo asked.

  “Oh don’t be such a blind fool!”

  “Yes, I suppose I am a fool,” he said. “Trying to grapple with everything falling down around me while Ralla sits at the heart of it all like a viper. My fortune stolen, my family torn from my breast.”

  “But, it’s not true – it can’t be.”

  “Now who’s being the fool?” Aculeo took her hands in his, pulled her close. “Calisto, you need to let me help you. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” She lifted her face up towards his, so close he could taste her breath, warm and sweet as flowers. He felt the warmth of her thigh as she pressed against him, letting him take the small of her back in his hand and pull her close.

  “Don’t,” she said, her head tipped back, her neck arched, her throat pale and perfect. He kissed it gently at first, then hard, tasting the perfume that suffused her skin, then kissed her on the mouth, her lips pressing hard against his. She pushed against him a little, biting his lip softly, and his hands reached up, brushing over her breasts beneath the fabric of her chiton, her nipples hardening beneath his fingers. He felt like he was going to explode.

  “No,” Calisto whispered, pushing him away. “We can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  She took his hand and pressed it to her lips, her dark eyes glistening by the light of the coloured lanterns. “You can’t afford me.”

  Aculeo’s face turned hard. “Is it only gold you want then?”

  She gave him a stricken look. “I meant you can’t afford to be with me. Nor I with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Our lives are marked out by the gods. I have to go back inside,” Calisto said. “You should go. And please, Aculeo, I beg you, leave Ralla be. For your own sake if not for mine.” With that, she turned and left.

  The back hallways of the villa were dark and quiet, dimly lit with torches on the walls, the distant clatter of slaves cleaning in the backroom and strains of music and laughter from the triclinium. Calisto’s probably right, Aculeo thought bitterly. I can’t help her, even if she wanted me to. It’s a different world, one I have no part in anymore. I can do nothing to affect it. Nothing of any import at least.

  Down the hall, the sound of muffled shouts. He walked quietly through the shadows down the hall to the foot of a stairway.

  “You dog-eyed porne, who do you think you are?” a man’s voice cried. It came from upstairs, Ralla’s private chambers. Aculeo listened carefully but the respon
dent spoke too softly for him to make out the reply. It sounded like a woman’s voice. He took up a torch and was about to head upstairs when he heard soft footsteps moving quickly down the corridor just ahead. He followed them. The footsteps stilled.

  He continued quietly down the corridor until he entered another foyer at the far end, lined with three doors. The first room was a pantry, containing amphorae filled with grain, cheese, beans, spices and oil. The second room held baskets of yarn, bolts of cloth and extra chairs. The third door was locked. Aculeo slid his knife blade into the lock and turned it, listening until the bolt snapped, then slipped into the room. It was empty, save for a pair of wooden chests bolted to the floor in the corner.

  He lifted the lid of one of the chests, held the torch over it. Inside was a stack of brick-shaped objects. He picked one of them up. There was an odd wrapping around it – dried leaves and faded red flowers. He peeled the petals away. Within was a brown cake the consistency of beeswax, its surface slick with beads of dark oil and coated with tiny black seeds. He pinched a small piece off and tasted it. It was bitter and pungent, smelling overwhelmingly of the flowers. Persian opium.

  He heard movement outside the room, soft, trying not to be heard. I’m being watched, he thought, holding still for several long, tense moments, listening. Nothing. As he stepped warily into the hallway, he sensed a blur of motion coming towards him. He stepped aside and ducked, instinctively swinging his arm up to protect himself. Something smashed down on his forearm in a sickening explosion of pain. He caught a brief glimpse of his attacker’s face – Panthea’s harelipped slave. Aculeo shoved his torch into the man’s face, making him howl and stagger back, slapping his hands against his now burning beard, trying to douse the flames. Aculeo kicked the slave in the crotch, dropping him to the floor with a gasp. Someone else grabbed Aculeo’s arms from behind, pinning him. He snapped his head back sharply, felt his skull crunch against something soft, then thrust his elbow back into his attacker’s stomach and twisted around to face him. Someone struck him on to the side of his head and everything went dark.

  By the time he regained consciousness and climbed to his feet, his head still swimming, his attackers had already fled. He staggered down the hallway into the garden and looked around … nothing.

  A figure approached from the triclinium. “Aculeo, there you are. I was …” Capito stared at him in sudden dismay. “What in Hades’ name have you been up to?”

  “Your concern for my well-being is touching,” Aculeo growled, blood dripping from his throbbing mouth down the front of his tunic. “Did you see two men run past here a moment ago?”

  “What men?”

  “Oh never mind.”

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  “Home. I hope our fucking host forgives me for not thanking him for his hospitality in person,” Aculeo said as he limped out through the gates of the villa into the street, wondering what in the names of all the gods had just taken place.

  The strings of blue glass beads that hung in the bedroom window caught the first light of the day, casting a dazzling violet design that danced like flames on the red terracotta tiles as the beads clacked and twisted in the morning breeze.

  Idaia stretched and yawned, then she threw off her blankets and climbed from the bed, enjoying the feeling of her bare feet against the cold tile. She stepped into her pretty sandals, the ones with all the colourful beads, and slipped out of the bedroom. She could hear a pleasant chatter from the kitchen as the cooks prepared breakfast, the wonderful smell of fresh bread with cinnamon and honey baking in the oven. A handful of slaves were whispering to one another in the courtyard as they swept and worked in the garden. A pair of white geese waddled down the pathway, flapping their wings and running awkwardly away when she chased them. The rooster crowed, trying to wake the household. A good idea, Idaia thought wistfully, wake them all!

  She spotted the little slave, Scato, holding a reed basket filled with grain, feeding the birds as they gathered around him, flapping their wings, making a fuss. She drew closer to him. He glanced up at her, smiling. “Yes, Mistress?” he asked.

  “Come play with me,” Idaia said.

  “But cook said I’m to feed the geese and peacocks and gather their eggs, Mistress.”

  “Put the basket down and play with me,” she commanded.

  “Yes, Mistress,” the slave said, and placed the basket at his feet. The birds all rushed forward and attacked the grain, spilling it onto the tiles, pecking savagely at one another to get at it. The boy gave a worried look at the chaos.

  Idaia laughed, grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the gate. There was a space on the side just wide enough for them to slip through, and soon they were out into the street without anyone noticing they were gone. She beamed at him triumphantly. Even Scato permitted himself a small smile.

  The sun was lovely and warm, the air filled with the extravagant perfume of all the spring flowers coming into bloom. Slaves walked about the outer grounds of the neighbouring villas doing their chores. Idaia smiled and waved at them. The slaves waved back, smiling wearily at the two children as they walked down the street.

  “Where are we going, Mistress?” Scato asked.

  “Stop calling me that, it’s bothersome,” she said.

  “Should I call you by your name then?”

  “No, that wouldn’t be proper. Don’t call me anything. We’ll go to the Agora, I think. I want to get some candied dates.”

  “We’ve pears in the kitchen, I saw them,” he said.. Perhaps cook would let us …”

  Idaia gave an impatient flip of her head. “Don’t talk so much. How fast can you run?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  She looked down at Scato’s skinny legs, his bony knees and his mop of intensely curly brown hair. He didn’t look all that fast. She slipped off her sandals and held them in her hands. “We’ll race and then we’ll see.”

  “Alright.”

  “But if my legs get tired, you’ll have to carry me the rest of the way.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  Idaia made a face. “Go!” she cried, and then she ran, her bare feet pounding along the paving stones, her hair flying out behind her, the sun warming her cheeks. She could see the whole city laid out like a precious mosaic below her, thousands of gleaming white houses and buildings with their pretty red rooftops, elegant, even streets with horses and wagons all heading to market, the Pharos Lighthouse standing tall in the harbour above all the little ships, all of it wrapped in a crescent around the brilliant blue jewel of the Egyptian Sea. She felt like she was flying over it all.

  She glanced back over her shoulder. Scato had almost caught up – he was faster than he looked! She squawked in surprise and picked up her pace, flying down the hill now, past the gates of the villas, the groves of towering palm trees, past the fountains and gardens.

  Her toe struck something sharp and she tumbled to the ground.

  Scato caught up to her then, trying to catch his breath. “Are you alright, Mistress?”

  “I’m fine.” The boy looked like he might burst into tears at any moment. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Cook will beat me if she finds out you got hurt playing with me.”

  “Well stop it, I won’t let anyone beat you. Come,” Idaia said, then she put her hand out and let Scato help her up. “Ah, it hurts!”

  “Let me see.” She held up her foot. The big toe was bleeding, her knees were skinned, her tunic torn and soiled. “Shall I carry you now?”

  “Not yet.” Idaia paused a moment, sniffing the air. “Do you smell something?”

  Scato lifted his nose and closed his eyes. “Something’s burning.”

  “Look,” she said, pointing to a black cloud of smoke that had spilled into the sky like a cloud of ink. They followed the winding streets of Olympia until they came to the source of the smoke, a villa that had burned down in the night. The fire seemed to have gone out, though citizens and slaves alik
e were still running back and forth along the path between the street and the house, bringing buckets of water from the fountains and wells. She could hear something yelping from somewhere within.

  “Whose house is it?” Scato asked.

  “Gurculio’s,” Idaia said, in awe of the smoke that seemed to fill the pale blue sky.

  The air still hung with smoke and the stench of wet ashes as Aculeo and Calisto approached the burned out shell of Gurculio’s villa. The roof was gone and shards of broken clay tiles were scattered on the ground. The scorched walls of the house lilted like frail black bones trying to stand upright. Aculeo thought he heard a small child crying from within.

  Calisto wore a simple linen chiton, the makeup from last night’s symposium washed away, her glossy black hair lay unpinned across her shoulders, yet she looked all the more lovely for being so unadorned. Aculeo held her hand, squeezing tight. He felt her tremble in return and smelled her hair, the perfume of her skin.

  “What happened here?” she asked, clinging to him.

  “I wish I knew.”

  The front door hung awry on its warped brass hinges. Remains of tapestries, now little more than burnt tatters, hung on the wall of the main entrance hall. They walked along the passageway of the main floor to the garden beyond. The whimpering sound was louder there, a desperate, haunting lament. The pathway that wound through the garden was smeared and speckled with dried blood stains. And there, dangling from a pine tree in the corner of the courtyard, hung Gurculio, quite dead. Little Felix danced on his hindlegs beneath his master, whimpering and yelping himself into a frenzy. Gurculio’s hands were bound behind him, his head twisted to the side, facing them. Calisto let out a horrified sob.

  Aculeo took her in his arms and held her tight as the dead moneylender’s bulging eyes stared down at them in wordless wonder.