Furies

by D. L. Johnstone

  “Who?”

  “There was Gemellus. And Hirpinius I think. And Posidippus …”

  Aculeo looked at her in surprise. “Posdippus of Cos?”

  “You know him?”

  “Yes, I know him. What was his relationship with Petras?”

  “They were quite close for a time,” she said. “There was even talk of him buying her from Panthea, of emancipating and marrying her. That was until Ralla set his eyes on her as well.”

  “Ralla?”

  “Yes. Posidippus sold off what properties he held and made Panthea an offer for her, but Panthea wouldn’t go against Ralla.”

  “When was that?”

  “I’m not sure, Februarius perhaps?”

  “That was a month before Petras was murdered. Ralla’s women don’t survive for long, do they?” Aculeo said bitterly.

  “Aculeo…”

  “Did you know Petras was with child when she was murdered?” he asked.

  Calisto gave a sharp intake of breath and closed her eyes. “Oh …”

  “The priests mummified the child she carried as well, it was not three months along. So small I could have held it in the palm of my hand.”

  “Please, no more,” she said weakly.

  “Who’s next? You? Then Tyche? Idaia even? Whatever madness that drives him, whatever reason he has to do these things, what makes you think he would stop now?” Calisto buried herself in his arms, crying, unable to speak for a while. “Come with me,” Aculeo whispered. “We’ll take the girls and run away.”

  “You say that so easily. Where would we go?”

  “Anywhere but here.”

  “You have money?”

  “A little. Enough for us to get away at least. After that …”

  “After that we’ll be paupers. I can’t even sell my properties,” she said. “It’s all such a mess right now. Everything I have is held through Ralla.”

  “Ralla? Why?”

  “Because I’m a woman. I can no more own property directly than if I were a slave or a freedman.”

  Aculeo stared at her a moment. “What did you say?”

  “I’m not permitted to own property. I had to put the title in Ralla’s name in order to …”

  Aculeo bolted from the bed. “I have to go,” he said, pulling on his tunic.

  “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “I’ll explain later. Pack your things. You need to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Understand me?”

  “No, I don’t ...”

  “Then trust me.”

  What was it Zeanthes said? Aculeo thought as he rushed along the street towards the Titles Office in the administrative district. Follow the string to find your way out of the labyrinth. The Titles Office, though, proved to be a dead end – they had no record of properties in Alexandria or the surrounding area under the freedman Callixenes’ name. Little surprise – it would have been quite a long shot for that to have fallen through the administrative cracks, as only freeborn citizens of Rome and Alexandria were permitted to own any property. Freedmen could only act as tenants, yet Callixenes could clearly not afford rent – he raised no crops, only farmed a few foul pigs. That meant whoever did own it must have known exactly what it was used for. The problem was, without a specific lot number, no bribe could have enabled the clerks to find out who actually did own the farmland down on Lake Mareotis.

  Aculeo headed home, frustrated by his lack of success. There must be a way, he thought, I can’t have come this far only to hit a wall. He paused in the middle of the street, closed his eyes, thinking of the Iberian porne, Tisris, being taken to that ghastly little farm, her friend Heraïs, who never returned. Myrrhine, Neaera, the river slave, Petras … and Calisto will surely be next if I can’t find a way to get her to leave with me. And what about the Cosian? What linked a man like Posidippus to all of this? What a mess. How am I to…?

  The Cosian! Did Calisto not say he’d sold off his properties to buy Petras? Now what in Pluto’s cursed name did Pesach and Gellius do with his documents?

  Aculeo, Pesach and Gellius spent the next hours poring through all the papers documenting Posidippus’ crumbling enterprise one more time, piece by piece, trying to make sense of the tangled mess of deeds and property records.

  “The Cosian owned properties from here to Canopus,” Gellius said at last.

  “All of them shitholes, I’ll wager,” said Pesach, scratching himself. “I’m hungry and the pantry’s empty. Let’s get something to eat.”

  “Wait. What about this?” Aculeo said when he noticed a small square of parchment that had been stuck to the back of another.

  “What’s it say?” Gellius asked with a yawn.

  Aculeo scanned it quickly, then stopped and read it word by word to himself before saying anything. “It’s a receipt of the sale of twenty arouas of land on the shore of Lake Mareotis five months ago. Twelve hundred sesterces.”

  “What I wouldn’t give for twelve hundred sesterces right now,” Gellius said.

  “Who was the purchaser?” Pesach asked.

  “It doesn’t say,” said Aculeo. “The sale took place in October last year. Lot #384. No other details.”

  “Yet another shithole. What of it?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Come on.”

  “Where are we going?” Gellius asked in surprise.

  “To get some food, I hope,” Pesach said. “I’m thinking spiced pork and a jar or two of beer.”

  “We’re going back to the Titles office,” said Aculeo.

  “Why would we go there? I doubt their pork is especially renowned.”

  The clerks back at the Titles Office found the title to lot #384 easily enough this time. The property was described in their documents as being twenty arouas of arable farmland, located on the southwestern shore of Lake Mareotis. It had been sold on a writ on the twenty second day of October. The purchaser was none other than the Concessionary Bank of Arsinoe the Consummator.

  “Another dead end,” Gellius grumbled. “The damned Cosian sold it to the bank, along with everything else. His business was a mess, he owed a small fortune. He likely just sold off everything he could and defaulted on his lenders. Satisfied?”

  “Yes and no,” Aculeo said. “The owner of the Concessionary Bank of Arsinoe the Consummator is Albius Ralla.”

  “Ah?” Pesach said with a harsh laugh. “Well, we’re well fucked now, aren’t we? Are we going to eat or not?”

  The rain fell in full force the following morning, pounding down from an iron-grey sky, pocking the water’s surface from the moment they’d left harbour, casting up an oppressive shroud of mist across the inland sea. The shore lay at the edges, all in shadows, while the chilly dampness seemed to seep into every pore of their skin. They could hear the birds call out to one another along the water with their haunted, echoing cries.

  “I don’t know why I listened to you, coming all the way out here,” Capito grumbled to Aculeo. The two Roman soldiers accompanying them looked similarly glum about their situation that morning as they huddled, shivering beneath the only bit of shelter on the barge.

  “Forgive a simple fellahin woman from asking foolish questions,” Sekhet said, “but is it not the duty of city officials like yourself to investigate crimes of this nature on behalf of your blessed Emperor?”

  “We already arrested the madman Apollonios for the crimes.”

  “A crime he didn’t commit,” said Aculeo.

  “That didn’t stop you from murdering him in his cell,” Capito shot back.

  “He killed himself. We’ve been through all this,” Aculeo said.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t arrest you. All told, it gives me little confidence in your judgment, or my own for listening to you in the first place. What would a man like Posidippus of Cos even have to do with the murder of a hetaira?”

  “That’s what we’re here to discover. Trust me, it’ll be worth our while,” Aculeo said.

  “Let’s hope so.” As they rea
ched the salt pans near the south-western shoreline, they saw a group of fellahin sitting in the rain, watching them. One of the young soldiers gave a friendly wave, but the natives simply stared back like ghosts from the shore.

  “We’re almost there,” Aculeo said at last.

  Capito sneezed. “And what do you expect us to discover in this cursed place exactly? Besides mosquitoes, mud and crocodiles that is.”

  “Answers.”

  “And I don’t even know what the questions are.”

  They anchored the boat and slogged through the shallows, the rain still teeming, whining clouds of mosquitoes greeting them with shrill enthusiasm, burying their red-hot needles into any exposed bit of flesh they could find. And they seemed to find them all, behind ears, armpits, elbows, backs of knees, thighs. Capito and the soldiers were cursing before they even set foot to shore. They walked up the rough pathway, past the crude wooden shrine to Poseidon, past the abandoned barges that lay in the sand. Even Sekhet looked uneasy.

  “What is it?” Aculeo said.

  “I have the feeling someone’s watching us,” she said.

  Aculeo peered into the dense brush, heavy drops dripping from the leaves, listened to the birds chippering all around them, but he could see nothing there. They carried up along the path, Capito and the officers keeping their short swords ready.

  There was a rustling sound in the bushes next to them. One of the soldiers started in surprise, then charged in, emerging a minute later, dragging a skinny slave girl out with him. She struggled and hissed, making odd, guttural sounds like a wild animal.

  “Gah, she stinks,” the soldier named Machon gasped. “Grab her, Dryton, she’s stronger than she looks!” The other officer grabbed her by the shoulder, but the girl quickly spun around and bit his hand. He cried out in pain and released her. Capito cursed, drew his sword, ready to strike her.

  “Hold off!” Aculeo cried. It was the same slave girl he’d seen on his trip here before. He held up his hands, palms forward, showing her he was unarmed. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with terror, her thin face filthy with grease and ashes. “It’s alright, don’t be afraid.”

  She struggled again to free herself from the soldier’s grip, kicking her bare heels back into his shins, making her strange, barking sounds as she flung herself about. “Is she a halfwit?” Capito demanded.

  Sekhet stepped forward then, spoke gently to the girl in Demotic. The girl calmed herself almost immediately, gazing at the healer in surprise. “Let her go,” she said to the soldier, who looked to Capito for confirmation. Capito gave a reluctant nod and the soldier released her. The girl simply stood there, watching Sekhet.

  “Look at her legs,” the healer said.

  Aculeo looked down at the slave’s legs, which were streaked with the same reddish clay they’d seen on the river slave. And there, running the length of her left calf, the telltale whitish ridge of a guinea worm. She came from this place then, Aculeo thought, his blood running cold. Neaera too. Could she still be here somewhere?

  “Ask her about Neaera,” he said. Sekhet said a few words to the slave, but the girl shook her head. The healer reached her hand out gently, stroked her cheek, spoke to her again, her voice soft and soothing.

  “What is it?” Capito asked.

  The girl reluctantly opened her mouth. Sekhet peered inside her mouth, then nodded. “Someone stole her tongue.”

  “Shit. At least she’s likely not a fool, then. Ask if there’s a cage somewhere.”

  “What cage?” Capito said irritably.

  Sekhet talked to the girl, who grunted in reply, then turned and ran into the brush. They followed her along a rough, broken path, winding and twisting through the thick underbrush, slipping on the slick wet mud, tripping over tangled tree roots, trying to keep up with the slave.

  It stood in a clearing, a rough, empty wooden cage about the height of a man. The door hung agape. Two stout wooden posts had been pounded into the dirt inside the structure, links of rusted chains secured to them. Thunder crackled through the morning sky, the rain fell heavier now, the rainwater streaming down the slope of the cage’s dirt floor, the runoff tinged pink from the clay, like the stain of old blood. Aculeo felt his stomach turn at the sight. Sekhet spotted something at the edge of the clearing, bent down, brushed aside the debris and held it up to show Aculeo – it was a broken mask of a snarling panther.

  They made their way back down the path to the farmhouse. The pigs grunted hungrily from their pen. The door of the farmhouse hung open on its leather hinges, like a mouth agape. There was no sign of Callixenes or his Molossian dog. “Ask her what happened to her master,” Aculeo said.

  Sekhet spoke to the girl, who looked back at her, puzzled. Sekhet talked to her again, but the slave merely shook her head. Aculeo led the way into the house, taking care with every step, certain that the freedman would be waiting for them. The house was filthy, strewn with rubbish on the table and floor. No sign of Neaera or Callixenes. There was what passed for a bed in the corner of the shack, barely more than a wooden box with a jumble of tattered flea-bitten hides on it. Beneath the bed, three baskets. One was filled with potshards. Another held a stinking, filthy looking tunic. The third was filled with fine silk chitons – brightly coloured, beautifully embroidered – half a dozen at least, some of them stained with blood. A clump of long dark human hair was caught in a crack in the bed’s frame, a crusty scab of dried flesh holding the clump together – from whatever scalp it had been torn from.

  He shuddered and pulled the bed away from the wall. There was a small, finely carved wooden chest with enamel inlay, tucked into the corner against the wall. The box was filled with jewellery, most of it cheap gilded terracotta, but there were some fine engraved ivory hair combs and a few silver fibula pins as well. And an earring, encrusted with pearls, lapis lazuli, and caked with red-brown blood about the filigree.

  Sekhet patted his arm. “Look.” He turned his gaze to where she was pointing. Something had been scratched into the mud brick wall over the bed, barely visible in the dim light. Aculeo held the torch closer, squinting for a better look.

  He caught his breath, then passed the lamp over more bricks, then the rest of the wall. More, more, a dozen more, all the same thing.

  “One for each woman brought here,” Sekhet said, her voice low, bristling with anger.

  “What happened to them all?” Aculeo whispered darkly. Sekhet talked to the girl, who merely looked away, fidgeting. “Ask her where Callixenes took all the women.”

  Sekhet asked her, and the girl took her by the hand and pulled her back outside along the path toward the pigs. They were great, fat stinking beasts, a dozen in total, spattered with mud and waste, blinking at them in the rain, squealing and grunting. The slave led them to the pen’s gate where the huge slave they’d seen here last time stood in the pouring rain, watching the pigs. He glanced up at the intruders, his tiny eyes anxiously darting about, his face red, and began grunting like a pig himself, flexing his great fists.

  “Ready yourselves,” Capito cautioned.

  The girl put a hand on the other slave’s huge, meaty arm, stroked it, touched his red-blotched cheek. The man gazed down at her, his grunting stopped, he calmed down, stood aside for them to pass.

  “There are no more cages,” Capito said uneasily, looking about. “Where are the women?”

  “Come,” Sekhet said. She and Aculeo walked toward the abattoir.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Wait here in case Callixenes returns,” Aculeo said. They stepped inside the crooked little shack, rain dripping through the leaky roof, a thin grey light seeping through a rough hole cut near the ceiling. A heavy cleaver, greasy with blood, lay atop the wooden block table, a large salting tub next to it. The fetid air was filled with the drone of flies, drawn to the hot, gagging stench of the rotting hogsheads and sides of meat hanging from the rafters. Aculeo glanced up at them anxiously.

  Sekhet shook her head. “Not human.”r />
  “Where are they then?” She shrugged. They stepped outside again. The pigs were slashing at one another now, squealing in desperate hunger. The giant slave seemed to wake up from his reverie, walked to the trough and emptied his dripping bucket into it. The pigs squealed in delight, burying their faces into the slop.

  Sekhet watched them feeding, her eyes narrowed. “Move them back.”

  “What, and lose a hand? Are you mad?” Capito snapped.

  She glared at him in irritation, then grabbed a heavy sword from one of the officers and banged it against the trough, crying out at the pigs in Demotic. The pigs backed off from the trough in surprise, jostling one another in their attempt to get away. Sekhet thrust her hand into the slop. The pigs immediately charged, squealing in eager anticipation, throwing themselves up against the pen gates, rattling them. Sekhet almost fell through the rails of the pen had Capito not grabbed her just in time.

  “What was so important that you had to do such a stupid thing as that?” he demanded. Sekhet held up her hand. And there in her open palm, amidst the pasty grey gruel and vegetable peelings, was a human toe, the toenail painted a pretty shade of coral. The others cried out in horror.

  Aculeo put his hands over his eyes and shook his head. She’s truly dead, he thought miserably. It’s all over. He felt like he would be sick.

  A roar of anger sounded from the brush up near the shack, then a shrill whistling sound cut through the air. An arrow struck the soldier Dryton in his midsection. He cursed, staggering back. A second arrow thwacked against the wall of the abattoir next to Aculeo’s head. The others scattered for cover. The Molossian hound tore out of the brush and pounded along the dirt straight at them, teeth bared. Capito managed to strike the beast across the head with the flat of his sword, sending it twisting and yelping into the mud. It rolled to a stop, then dragged itself whimpering back into the brush.

  Aculeo grabbed the fallen soldier’s sword and followed the dog, slipping in the mud along the path, hoping it would lead to its master. He heard a rustling just up ahead and braced himself, heart pounding in his chest, sword at the ready. There was a blurring motion beside him – Callixenes charging him from the side, catching him by surprise, sword raised high. Aculeo stepped out of his path, barely managing to block the freedman’s deadly swing with his own sword, then turned and hacked at the backs of the man’s thighs as he passed. Callixenes cried out in rage and pain, falling to his knees in the mud. Aculeo managed to dodge out of the way, then cracked his sword pommel down hard on the man’s elbow. Callixenes bellowed like a hobbled mule, then head-butted Aculeo to the face. Aculeo felt his nose break, blood gushed from it, filling his mouth. Callixenes shoved him to the ground, then limped into the dense scrub. Aculeo staggered to his feet, dizzy with pain.