Furies

by D. L. Johnstone

  “This way,” Sekhet said, and led Aculeo up the back stairs to the roof, where they sat beneath a sun-bleached canvas awning. They had a fine view of the river from there, a winding sapphire ribbon feeding out towards the dark Egyptian Sea.

  Aculeo told her of the porne Philomena, Neaera’s necklace and of his final interrogation of Apollonios. Sekhet listened quietly, the sun warming her lined, weary face as she gazed out towards the sea. When Aculeo was done, the healer remained silent, her eyes closed, as though she was sleeping. She looked up at him finally, staring at him with her dark, penetrating eyes. “Why should Apollonios have wanted to kill himself?”

  “He feared prison, trial, execution …”

  She snorted. “I doubt whether he was even capable of committing these murders much less almost getting away with it,” the healer said calmly.

  “Oh? And what do you think happened then?”

  “Let’s define exactly what we know. First, the river slave’s murder. The Temple of Sarapis is a destination for the ignorant who seek to be healed. We know for a fact she’d been mortally wounded days before she ever reached the temple. She may well have gone there on her own accord to pray to the god to mend her wounds. By the time she reached the sanctuary, she was almost dead.”

  “A witness saw Apollonios attack her there.”

  “Your so-called witness sounds confused at best,” Sekhet said with a dismissive wave. “He was frightened, it was dark, and much time had passed when he finally spoke to you about what he saw. The mind often fills in details over time, changes them, trying to rearrange them to make sense of chaos.”

  “We know for a fact that Apollonios attacked the porne Philomena,” Aculeo said. “He tried to murder her.”

  “Yet for that he had a motive. A deranged one, I admit, but a motive nonetheless. What motive did he have to murder a dying slave?”

  “The same one he had for all the other murders!”

  Sekhet shrugged. “Again, I question whether he murdered anyone.”

  “You say that so easily!”

  “You may be a Roman but that doesn’t give you the privilege to stop using your head. How many pornes do you know that would have gone with a man like him in the first place? None. They’re not fools. Apollonios was clearly deranged, an unwashed, scar-faced beggar. Pornes learn early on to judge who to go or not go with, else they don’t survive on the streets long.”

  “Philomena went with him, didn’t she?”

  “And when he turned on her she stabbed him in the throat,” Sekhet said. “One of the first things pornes learn is how to defend themselves. They can still fall victim, clearly, but not at the hands of a man like Apollonios. It’s inconceivable.

  “And then there are the hetairai. Petras, and after her Neaera, then Myrrhine. Do you honestly think Apollonios could have seduced any of them, drawn them away from their world of symposia, sophists and song, made them vanish with barely a trace, even thinking to send and pay for one of them to be embalmed at the Necropolis?” She stared at him, her black eyes glittering and fierce.

  Aculeo leaned back in his chair, hands covering his face, exhausted all of a sudden. “My head’s spinning from it all.”

  “Think about it – a man like him wouldn’t have been permitted near a hetaira. They’re never alone when they’re in the street – they have slaves and bodyguards protecting them at all times, guarding their owners’ investment. No, it had to be someone closer to them instead. Someone who can move in their circles, not draw suspicion.”

  Two women arrived then, carrying platters of unleavened bread, lentils, pickled cucumbers, onions, and long strips of saltfish. The old man followed, truculently bearing a large jar of beer that he practically threw on the table, letting it slosh over the sides of the jar. He muttered something under his breath to Sekhet, who shot him a scowl, sending him scuttling back down the stairs after the women.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Aculeo asked.

  “My brother’s just not a big lover of Romans. Not an uncommon sentiment in this part of the city, I’m afraid. Still, I suppose if Egyptians can bear our conquerors’ yoke for the past few centuries, those conquerors can bear the occasional display of resentment. Eat up – this should do wonders to restore your humours.”

  Aculeo dug into the food, surprised at how hungry he actually was. The plates were emptied in no time, and the cups refilled several times. At last he sighed and sat back in his chair. “So if Apollonios wasn’t responsible, what do you think happened?”

  “The answer starts with the river slave,” Sekhet said. “Her path intersected with Neaera’s, that much is clear, for she had her necklace. She most likely stole it and planned to sell it when she could. She was injured though. She managed to make her way to the Sarapeion, seeking to be healed. Apollonios came across her there, but it was too late for her, her injuries were too severe. She died there, and Apollonios stole the necklace. Eventually he gave it to Philomena. When you interrogated him, reminding him of what he’d done to her, his gift to her in your hands, it was more than he could bear. And so he offered himself as final sacrifice to his god.”

  “It’s possible,” Aculeo admitted.

  “It’s more than possible,” Sekhet said sharply. “It’s brilliant. What am I missing?”

  Aculeo recalled another detail he’d almost forgotten. “I found a symbol drawn in blood on the Furies’ shrine near the Sarapeion when the slave was murdered.”

  Sekhet narrowed her eyes and called out something to one of her cousins, who quickly brought some scraps of used papyrus, a brush and a block of ink. “Show me,” she said.

  Aculeo daubed the brush in the inkblock and drew the symbol he’d seen on the Furies’ shrine.

  She smiled, took the brush from him and drew the following symbol.

  “This is Djew,” she said. “The Egyptian hieroglyph for mountain, and the cosmic mountain range that holds up the heavens. Now this,” she drew a circle between the two peaks, and two outstretched lines below it.

  “This is Akhet. The circle is the sun, which rises and sets between the mountains, while lion deities sit upon each peak to guard it during its journey. The Nile flows from it, the source of all life.” She lay the brush down. “It’s a symbol of tombs where the Great Kings of ancient times were buried. A symbol of the afterlife. The slave likely drew it before she died.”

  Aculeo watched the children run laughing down to the canal to splash and play in the dark blue waters. “But what about Myrrhine? Or Petras? What about the yellow cords they wore on their wrists?”

  “That I don’t know yet, but it’s a start,” Sekhet said. “Learn where the river slave came from and you’ll find where Neaera was taken.”

  “You think she could still be alive?” The thought was almost too much to hope for.

  Sekhet looked dubious. “Anything’s possible, I suppose. If the gods are less kind, you may at least learn who her killer is. Not to mention the killer of Petras and Myrrhine.”

  “Someone close to them,” Aculeo said. “Someone who can move in their circles and not draw suspicion. Someone like Ralla.” He shook his head bitterly, his eyes closed in exhaustion. “If I’m right, we haven’t a chance.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not the way the world works, that’s why. Ralla is much too powerful, too well connected.”

  Sekhet knitted her brows, narrowed her deep-set eyes at him, unsmiling now. “There are other women at risk as well you know. Your friend Calisto most of all. He’s her patron, is he not?” Aculeo gave a reluctant nod. “And what of the girl you entrusted to Calisto. Tyche? How long before Ralla gets his hands on her? And the little one after her.” They could hear the shouts and laughter of the children down at the canal ringing through the afternoon air.

  “That can’t happen,” Aculeo said.

  “Don’t be naïve. Of course it can. In fact it will. Calisto can’t stop him. She’s his chattel.”

  “I won’t let it happen.”
<
br />   “Oh? And what will you do about it then?” the healer scoffed. “Change the way the world works?”

  “Just a small part of it. My part.”

  Sekhet laughed suddenly, patting his hand. “See, you’re looking better already.”

  The monkey leapt off the man’s shoulder onto the wagon of fruit, landing without a sound. The monkey’s owner, an old man with dark skin like ancient, cracked leather, winked at Idaia and Tyche as his pet clambered noiselessly up the fruit, pausing every so often to sniff a piece or to scratch itself. The fruit merchant never noticed it, calling greetings to the patrons as they strolled past. Idaia admired the silver fur that covered the little creature from the tip of its long, curving tail to the top of its head, save for the patches of white and black fur that marked its little face like an actor’s mask.

  The monkey grinned at the girls from atop the mountain of gleaming fresh pears and figs, quite proud of itself. Idaia covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. Tyche smiled in spite of herself. Calisto was just up ahead, arm in arm with another woman dressed in yellow silks, as they examined a bolt of cloth, the litter bearers standing nearby paying little attention.

  The monkey crept along the fruit until it found itself a choice banana and sat on its haunches, peeled it with its tiny black hands and popped a piece in its mouth, chewing with great gusto. The fruit merchant kept calling to passersby, waving flies off himself, still oblivious to the little thief sitting atop his wagon. The monkey’s owner gave a little whistle and the monkey stuffed the rest of its banana into its already bulging cheeks and leaped back onto his shoulder.

  Calisto and her friend were further up ahead now, not watching them at all. “Can we pet her?” Idaia asked the man.

  He smiled – revealing his toothless purple gums – and had the monkey run down his arm and jump into a surprised Idaia’s hands. She squealed in delight as it curled its tail around her wrist, rubbed its head against her chest, then jumped onto Tyche’s shoulders, wrapping itself behind her neck, making her laugh as well. Idaia was so intensely happy at that moment, she felt like she would burst.

  The monkey peeked up suddenly from beneath the girl’s hair, its bright eyes wide, its black lips pursed in a small o shape, then bared its teeth and shrieked, startling them both. It jumped back into the man’s arms, scuttling up his shoulders to safety.

  “Look,” Idaia said solemnly, looking over Tyche’s shoulder.

  The older girl turned her head. Four men were staring at them from across the way. One of them had a harelip, the other three were dishevelled looking with wild, greasy hair and unkempt, salt-caked beards, like sailors just come ashore. Idaia felt a cold shudder when she noticed the way the men stared at them. One of the men licked his wormy lips and they began their approach.

  “Come,” Tyche said, squeezing Idaia’s hand tight in her own. As the girls made their way towards Calisto and her friend they spotted three other men armed with stout sticks advancing on her from the opposite direction. One of the litter bearers noticed as well and moved next to Calisto, protecting her. The men with the sticks made their move. The litter bearer knocked one of them to the ground but another attacker clubbed him across the head. Any nearby patrons and merchants scattered, unsure what to do except to save their own hides.

  The three sailors pushed their way through the crowd from the rear, heading straight towards the children. Calisto noticed them then. “Run!” she cried, pushing her friend away. She started to move towards the girls but she was so far away and the crowds so heavy. Tyche seized Idaia’s hand and they took off through the narrow laneways of the Agora, weaving their way through the dense bustling square of vendors’ carts, countless shrines and temples in the crowded marketplace, past open stalls of salt vendors, unguent boilers, sellers of ebony, cosmetics, sandals and myrrh, finally turning down a side street. They immediately realized the trap – the street was abandoned, hidden in the shadows of tall, windowless warehouses, and at the end of the street was a dismal little section of the canal. The men were right behind them now.

  Calisto reached them then but twisted her ankle on the uneven pavement and fell to her knees, crying out in pain.

  “What’s happening?” Idaia whispered.

  “Just run!” Tyche cried.

  “We can’t just leave Calisto.”

  “We need to find help. Now run!”

  The girls ran down the dark laneway, panicked, until they came to the end. There was a little dirt pathway that ran along the canal, littered with trash and broken mud-brick. And there almost hidden in a crop of tangled weeds was a forgotten shrine, its dedication hidden behind the tall yellow grass.

  “Wait here,” Tyche said, shoving Idaia behind the shrine. “Don’t come out for anything, understand?” Idaia nodded, terrified, and watched, sick with fear, as Tyche kicked off her sandals and ran down the muddy path in her bare feet.

  Idaia crouched behind the shrine, her heart pounding in her chest, her breath fast and painful in her throat until she couldn’t bear it any longer. She peeked out from behind the shrine and watched as Calisto stood to face the men, her face pale, her expression a mixture of anger and fear. “Osti,” the child whispered.

  One of the men called something in a foreign tongue to the others, who laughed. They approached Calisto then, one from the front, two from the side. The fourth man, the harelip, hung back, watching.

  The man in front grabbed Calisto’s arm, pulled her in close against him, kissed her on the neck. She screamed, tried to push him away. He slapped her hard across the face then grabbed the front of her chiton, tore it open, baring her small, pale breasts, her necklace breaking, the jewels spilling on the broken street.

  Calisto reached into her belt as the man approached, found her small knife, the blade flashing in the sun as she swung it and sliced the man’s face open. He squealed in pain, stumbling backwards, hand pressed to his bleeding face. Two of the other men stepped back warily. Geta stepped in and grabbed Calisto’s knife hand at the wrist, twisting her arm around until she dropped the knife. One of the other men picked it up, moved forwards as the harelip held her fast, pulling her by the hair to make her stand upright, her throat and chest exposed.

  Idaia smothered a scream.

  “Hoi, let her go!” The attackers looked up in surprise. Half a dozen Roman soldiers dressed in bright red capes had appeared, Tyche right behind them. The harelip shoved Calisto to the ground and the men all scattered, the soldiers chasing them into the marketplace.

  Idaia ran from her hiding spot towards Calisto, sobbing in relief. Calisto sat up, her arms across her chest to cover her nakedness. Tyche helped her to stand. The litter arrived then. “Are you alright, Mistress?” one of the soldiers asked.

  “I’m fine,” Calisto said, trying to regain her composure. As he helped her to stand, though, she wavered, putting her hand against the side of the litter to catch herself. Her arm and hand were wet with blood.

  “You’re hurt!” Idaia cried.

  Calisto glanced at her arm and shook her head, her face pale as paste. “It’s not my blood.”

  “Tyche says…” Idaia began, but Tyche shook her head. “I mean…”

  “What?” Calisto said, looking at the girl.

  “Nothing,” Tyche said. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

  Calisto stroked the girl’s cheek thoughtfully then climbed into the litter. The girls followed her. Calisto pulled the curtain across the window, then bowed her head. They could see her shoulders were trembling. It sounded like she was crying.

  Idaia and Tyche looked at one another but neither of them said a word.

  “There are too many ships,” Pesach announced.

  Aculeo had tried in vain to ignore his interminable guests. Having settled rather comfortably into Aculeo’s modest lodgings – a little too comfortably, Xanthias had mentioned on more than one occasion – and continuously emptying the pantry in record time, Pesach and Gellius had since taken to entertaining themselves by nos
ing about in Aculeo’s private papers, including those in the chest of company documents Aculeo had inherited following Corvinus’ suicide.

  “What do you mean?” Aculeo said wearily.

  “I mean as I say – there are too many ships. How much grain is shipped to Rome each year?” Pesach asked.

  “How should I know?”

  Gellius snorted. “Far be it from Aculeo to trouble himself with such minor details as the lifeblood of his belated company.”

  “Allow me to educate you then,” Pesach said. “Fifteen million modii of grain are shipped to Rome each and every year. Two million for the annona that the government annually grants its citizens, the remainder sold to private hands.”

  “Fascinating,” Aculeo said, stifling a yawn.

  “Now, each ship can hold perhaps five thousand modii at most. So fifteen million divided by five thousand, that’s three thousand grain ships to Rome per year thereabouts. Yet look here. According to Corvinus’ records, the company chartered ships to carry three million modii last year just for the annona. That’s half again what Rome even grants in toto.”

  Aculeo laid his head on the table and closed his eyes. The left side of his head had begun to throb – this sort of detail always made him ill. “The records must be wrong. The balance probably includes what was shipped to private merchants as well.”

  “It’s little wonder he lost his fortune, he doesn’t pay attention to the details,” Gellius said.

  “Anyway, it was a large enterprise,” said Aculeo. “It’s not so difficult to believe we shipped that much grain.”

  “Was it large?” Pesach asked, the corners of his mouth lifted in a mocking smile.

  “Yes. What are you smirking about? Are you trying to make a specific point, Pesach?”

  Pesach shrugged. “All I know is, there’s not enough grain in the world to account for what’s claimed in Corvinus’ company records. The trouble is, we only have a partial record here.”