Path of Smoke

by Bailey Cunningham

  Babieca descended a short flight of stairs, and then the corridor widened. He set down the lamp and walked toward a new source of light, until he found himself in the atrium of the black basia. The floor was covered in a mosaic of blue, green, and white tesserae. It depicted Fortuna as the mother-meretrix, spinning her wheel, as various couples danced beneath. The mosaic was tamer than the friezes, in which every possible act of love (and a few impossible ones) were displayed in vibrant colors. Even the lares were pictured, although nobody was quite sure how they mated. Salamanders joined tails, while undinae gathered in an underwater embrace, their ragged hair filled with shells and seaweed. Gnomoi kissed beneath the earth, like blind moles in love. Only a few people had ever seen a gnomo, so the depiction was a bit fanciful. They resembled pale children with long fingers, each ending in a claw that could scrape rock and sift through precious minerals.

  The fourth family of lares—the caela—hovered in the borders. The artist had used dark tesserae, rendering them as clouds or scraps of mist. Nobody had seen one in centuries. They’d been included purely for the sake of continuity. Their eyes were voids. Babieca found it difficult to look at those pinpricks of plaster, holes in the world that threatened to devour him. Those eyes saw him for what he was, and for a moment they held him, pinioned to Fortuna’s spinning wheel. He blinked and looked away. They weren’t coming back anytime soon. They’d been gone when Anfractus was still a primitive settlement—a warren of huts, caves, and cook-fires.

  The atrium was full of revelers, all wreathed and spilling wine on each other. He fit right in. A few of the more cautious ones stood against the pillars, nursing a glass of sweet hippocrene while they watched the festivities. He noticed more than a few women on the edges, carefully considering what they might want. Some were veiled, while others had trimmed their hair short, in the style of the female barbers who worked beneath the aqueduct. The women didn’t drink nearly as much. They needed to remain on guard, even in a space as removed from the city as this. A delicate transaction always had the chance of turning deadly, and it was better to be armed. The meretrices carried numerous weapons—Felix had pointed a few of them out to him—and Babieca was amazed at how a comb, a necklace, or a ring could be transformed into a killing device. His own stubby gladius, barely a blade at all, seemed paltry in comparison. Poor old thing. He’d been meaning to replace it, but money was tight.

  A spado passed him, wearing a mint-green tunica and an embroidered cap. His heart seized for a moment. But it wasn’t Mardian. Just a smooth, round man with wispy blond hair, scanning the room with a practiced eye. His chin was bare, save for a few pale whiskers. Mardian was more solidly built. This one was a palace eunuch, perhaps one of Eumachia’s retinue. Babieca imagined him tucking in the daughter of the basilissa, wishing her sweet dreams as he snuffed out the lamp by her bedside. Or maybe he sang to her in his sweet, trilling voice. A song about the Anfractus of memory, where salamanders danced in the streets and the fountains poured wine. There was no curfew, no hurried running for cover at sunset. The silenoi remained in the forest, lacking the temerity to approach the gates. Like bears or mountain lions, they were an abstract part of nature, safely removed from everyday life. A city whose streets weren’t perilous by night. That would have been something to see, if it had ever existed.

  The musicians sat in their alcoves, playing languidly on the cistrum. Their tempo was a slow burn, filled with the gentle clinking of bronze rings, the slap of bare feet on marble. Babieca looked down at his own feet, dirty in mended sandals. The nearest block of marble had been carved with a cheerful phallus, beneath which was the message: Here resides pleasure. This one didn’t have wings, or a dwarf riding sidesaddle. Its crudity suggested that it was older than the rest of the atrium. There were similar paving stones throughout the city, meant to provoke laughter and guide people toward the Subura. Occasionally, the meretrices would pass out loaves of bread and sweetmeats that were shaped like sex organs. Tonight, the only fare was roasted chestnuts—the kind sold at the Hippodrome—and he’d already eaten too many.

  He heard someone murmur, and looked up from the cock near his toe. A woman was making her way slowly into the atrium. She leaned on an ivory cane, and her left foot dragged behind her, its delicate sandal grinding across the marble. Her left arm trembled as she moved, and the fingers of her hand clenched and unclenched, as if the hand possessed its own agenda. Her head lolled a bit to one side, and her face was narrowed in concentration as she took one step, then another, gripping the cane for support. Babieca was struck by her beauty. Unlike the fashionable dominae, whose hair was forever being teased into a tower of pins and golden thread, she wore a delicate braid that fell across one shoulder, tied with a scarlet ribbon. Her stola was made of cream-colored silk, with a hint of purple in the embroidery. Her ivory mask was carved with images that Babieca couldn’t quite make out. Like Felix’s mask, it seemed to shift in the lamplight, unsettled and full of possibilities.

  The musicians played more softly. People continued to talk, but they were all watching her. They didn’t even try to conceal their interest. Suddenly, Babieca was happy to be a nemo, an unknown. He couldn’t endure the weight of their stares, the bite of their curiosity. He watched them whispering to each other, clucking slightly or exchanging knowing glances, while she focused on each step. Their looks and murmurs couldn’t quite reach her. They stopped at her mask. She looked up, and Babieca saw that her green eyes were sharp. They betrayed nothing.

  She scanned the crowd and then gestured slightly with her right hand. A small crook of the finger. Although she wasn’t looking at him, Babieca felt that she could see him clearly, in spite of his nobodyness. He shifted. Felix was one matter, but this was Drauca, the house mother. You didn’t simply approach her. Not unless you wanted everyone to notice you, and that was the last thing that he needed right now.

  A boy emerged from the crowd. He was beautiful and unmasked, which marked him as an apprentice. He was clad in the tunica praetexta of a high-placed adolescent, with its red stripe signifying his youth. Drauca smiled at him. Then she made a strange gesture with her right hand. It was hard to discern the shape that she traced, but it reminded him of the sign language used by merchants in the Exchange. Different hand shapes corresponded to different numbers, and the merchants were able to have polite conversations with their clientele, while their hands clashed and bartered ruthlessly. These hand shapes were more complex, and he couldn’t tell what was being said. The boy responded in kind, even more swiftly than Drauca. She smiled with a hint of pride. Then she made one last hand shape, and the boy dissolved into peals of laughter.

  Now the whole atrium was staring. His laughter was high-pitched, almost braying. There was something sweet about it, but also a little odd. Then Babieca realized that he was deaf. He didn’t respond even slightly to the music, or the whispers. Instead, he concentrated entirely on the weft of Drauca’s hands. His own movements were steady and fluid, while hers wavered, on account of her trembling fingers. Perhaps it constituted an accent. She smiled and touched his smooth cheek with her hand. Then he disappeared into the crowd.

  Babieca felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw Fel. Usually she worked outside the basia. It was rare for her to venture inside. The fading light from the impluvium sparkled against her scale lorica. She reminded him of a frieze. Frozen miles. One hand rested on the chipped hilt of her sword.

  “There’s a drunk passed out in the hallway,” he said. “Don’t you normally deal with that sort of thing?”

  “Right now, I’m more concerned with the drunk in the atrium.”

  He scowled. “I’m perfectly lucid.”

  “Touch your toes, then.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “We have to go. The party will be starting soon.”

  “Nobody’s going to miss a nemo trovador. Here.” He started to remove his lute case. “You can give this to one of the servants from the
undercroft. They’ll strum just as uselessly in the background, I promise.”

  “She asked for you.”

  “That’s because she likes to see me suffer. It’s one of her pastimes.”

  He tried to catch Drauca’s gaze, but she was already shuffling out of the atrium. Her cane tapped a soft cipher against the ground. Everyone had returned to the business of drinking and sizing each other up. He sighed.

  “What’s your interest with the house mother?”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “Stay away from her, trovador.”

  “Why? I’ve charmed one meretrix, already.”

  “You’re as charming as a fart in the frigidarium.”

  He blinked at her. “You’re full of crotchety wisdom tonight.”

  “When you stand in one place for hours on end, you learn to study people. I understand them, and I understand you.”

  “What do you understand about me?”

  “That you’re a kitten who likes to annoy great cats. Eventually, though, one of them is going to take a swipe at you.”

  “At least you’ve offered me an adorable metaphor.”

  “Let’s go.”

  He frowned at her. “It’s not like we live in different worlds. Aren’t we all just climbing the same ladder?”

  “If that’s true,” she said, guiding him by the arm, “then you’re on the bottom rung, and she’s near the top. Your chances of being shit on are remarkably high, but you won’t accomplish much of anything else.”

  “I’m a good climber.”

  “You can barely walk in a straight line.”

  “Fine.” He allowed himself to be led toward the door. “I’m a competent stumbler.”

  “Let’s fill that cup with water.”

  “No. It’s too late for that. If I sober up now, I won’t be able to play.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “You just don’t understand music.”

  They made their way through the crowd and exited the basia. The sky above them was the color of the boy’s tunica, a brilliant red stripe. As the sun set, people quickened their pace, in search of egress or entertainment. The basiorum were protected—mostly—which made them a preferred destination. A pack of silenoi weren’t going to break down the door. They wanted a proper hunt, and there was no sport in killing those who couldn’t at least run or put up a fight. The baths and cauponae were safe for that same reason. The alleys behind them were a different story, as were the skyways above. The silenoi thought of them as a network of stone branches, part of a giant tree that shaded the city, and they liked to climb.

  Anfractus was a very different place after dark. You rolled with your life every time you ventured down a blind alley, but it was a city of alleys. Unless you were willing to explore them, you’d spend all of your time gambling, eating, or stretched out in ecstasy. Not a bad existence, but it cost money. Fear had turned many into furs. Once you ran out of coins, either you learned how to steal or you fled.

  They walked down Aditus Papallona, which cut across the entertainment district. A few people looked suspiciously at Fel but said nothing. The sight of armor made them nervous. The commerce of the Subura wasn’t exactly beyond the pale, but it carried an element of risk. Nobody wanted to run afoul of the miles, who patrolled this area in force. They didn’t realize that Fel was barely a miles. The gens accepted her, but to them, she’d always be a sentry who guarded a brothel. Her contacts were unreliable. It was for that very reason that she escaped notice.

  “Why does she need another party?” Babieca asked. “Her fucking life is a party.”

  “Just be thankful that she never turned us in.”

  “Is that our measure of an ally? People who don’t try to have us killed?”

  She steered him away from a caupona. “There aren’t many safe spaces left for us. The basia is protected, and my gens doesn’t give a cracked die about me, so I can still roam the city. But you and Morgan have to stay hidden.”

  “Nobody knows me.”

  “People saw you.” She lowered her voice. “The basilissa’s daughter. Mardian. Those miles that we attacked.”

  “Felix.”

  “He’s protecting you.”

  “I’m not sure I’d call it that.”

  “I don’t know what game you’re playing with him, but you’d best stop. You aren’t the only person who needs his help. If he decided to turn his back on us, the entire company would be exposed.”

  “We’re not a company.”

  Babieca watched an auditor pass. He wore a patched tunica and was talking to something invisible that seemed to be following him. A salamander, most likely. The trotting shadow must have said something funny, because the auditor snorted, then kept walking.

  Everything has a chaos, he’d said. Salamanders lived in fire. Gnomoi lived beneath the ground, breathing basalt. Air was the chaos of humans. They’d stolen it from the caela, the lares of wind and smoke. Nobody remembered precisely how such a theft had taken place, but people were here, and the caela were gone. Did they lose a bet? Was it simply a bad spin of the wheel? Fortuna did like to keep things interesting.

  A few months ago, they had sneaked into the Arx of Violets and committed treason against Basilissa Latona. They’d climbed up through the toilets and crept, reeking and scared, to the patio of lions. That was where they’d heard Latona say that Anfractus wasn’t enough. She wanted Egressus, and she was willing to kill Basilissa Pulcheria in order to take the city. Saving Pulcheria had been their first quest. But now they were three instead of four, and Latona wanted them dead. If there was something worse than dead, she wanted that too. He’d felt a flicker of hope while Narses, the high chamberlain, was leading them. But he was gone. Now there was only Mardian, his twisted apprentice, shadowing them at every turn.

  Of course, Babieca thought, if someone had burned my face off, I’d probably be looking for a bit of revenge too.

  They turned onto Via Rumor, the busiest street in the city. Most people were heading for their own alleys. They lacked the experience or the connections to remain after dark. That was where he should have been going, but Domina Pendelia offered them a certain degree of protection. There wasn’t likely to be bloodshed at her house. A lot of drinking, a few stolen kisses in the garden, but that was it. Even Morgan was safe there, so long as nobody figured out who she actually was.

  Her domus was in an old and fashionable vici, a bit removed from the clamor and foot traffic of Via Rumor. Glowing braziers flanked either side of the blue door. Fel knocked lightly. A member of the house staff appeared.

  “Do you have an invitation?”

  Babieca patted his lute case. “I’m the entertainment. She’s the muscle.”

  He looked dubiously at Babieca. “You’re drunk.”

  “Merely lubricated. Now let us in. Unless you want to explain to your domina that one of her instruments has gone missing.”

  “Fine. Don’t talk to the guests.”

  They walked through a dim corridor. The only light came from the lararium, where someone had lit candles and left a few scraps of oil-soaked bread. Flies buzzed around the crumbs, and tears of wax obscured the image of the lares. All he could make out were eyes and claws, indistinct against a peeling background. It was good luck to leave a coin, but he couldn’t spare anything. He stopped, briefly, to rearrange the bread crumbs. Fel looked at him strangely but said nothing. Then they kept walking until they reached the atrium.

  Every lamp in the domus had been lit, and even with the fresh air coming through the skylight, the room was hot. People lounged on triclinia, drinking, sucking oysters, and dipping crusty bread into bowls of fish sauce. The smell of the food was overpowering. Trestle tables had been set up throughout the room, and they were covered with delicacies: roasted boar, spiced quail eggs, and dormice rolled in honey. There were delicate mushr
ooms, and cow udders that had been stuffed with something that he’d rather not know about. He put a few mice into his tunica, before Fel could notice. Something nudged his foot. He looked down and saw a tiny frog machina, its gears whirring as it brushed against his toe.

  “Sorry. He got away.”

  Julia emerged from the crowd. She was wearing a head scarf, but a few strands of red hair had escaped, and they fell across her eyes. Brushing them away, she knelt down and retrieved the mechanical frog. It trembled in her hands.

  “So I’m not the only entertainment,” Babieca said.

  “What can I say? Drunken idiots go wild for things that hop.”

  “I thought you didn’t like playing with toys.”

  “I like the feeling of a full purse.” Julia looked up at Fel. “It’s nice to see you both. I suppose it’s been a while.”

  “More than a month,” Babieca said. “Not that we’re counting.”

  “I meant to send you a tablet.”

  “It’s fine,” Fel replied. “We aren’t—” She searched for the right word. “You know what I mean. There’s nothing that binds us together.”

  “Not anymore.” Babieca examined the frog. “It may be a toy, but it’s still a bit of genius. Did you make it?”

  She looked a little embarrassed. “I had help. But yes.”

  “Well done. Now, all you have to do is equip them with poison darts, and we’ll have a truly interesting party.”

  “That’s actually not a half-bad idea,” Fel observed. “You could make a fortune if you partnered with the Gens of Sicarii.”

  “I’ve got enough problems without involving assassins in my life.” Julia looked down at the metal amphibian, which strained against her hand. She was awkwardly silent for a moment. Then she smiled at Babieca. “Well, I should look for the rest of them, before they crawl under the domina’s bed. May Fortuna smile on your music.”