Because they weren’t yet a company, they had pieces of business, not quests. A quest could earn you far more than money. People would talk about you. Doors that remained closed to most would gradually open for you, once you’d proven yourself. A group of three wasn’t a company. If they ever planned to get anywhere, they’d need a fourth. But who would join them? He wasn’t even sure why Morgan remained. She’d certainly had offers, even if she never spoke of them. Babieca would be fine on his own. Trovadores weren’t exactly known for being the type to join a company. Roldan wasn’t sure what kept them together. It obviously wasn’t him. A miles or a medicus would be far more useful. Auditores could become powerful, but in the beginning, they were stubby candles that burned out quickly.
Babieca put down his ale. “We should go. First, I have to visit the murals.”
Roldan had to as well, so he followed Babieca down the dim, rush-strewn passage that led to the toilets. They waited in line for their turn on the wooden seats with key-shaped holes. The fumes were inescapable, as were the various gut songs, but people still talked to pass the time. There were paintings on the walls, meant to encourage laughter and distract everyone from the situation. In one, two sages exchanged advice. Fortuna says if your shit is tough, don’t give up. He’d never seen the women’s murals, but they were probably nicer. He looked around the room, at all the men laughing and straining and the few that had fallen asleep, so delicate with their bare knees and nethers fit into keyholes.
They paid the ale-wife and left the tavern. Outside, the paving stones baked like spangled pie crust. Babieca cast a look toward the basia but said nothing. He often visited that part of the city. He had streams of revenue that he didn’t like to talk about, and Morgan let it slide because he was usually more focused after he’d spent some time in love’s undercroft. Roldan was never quite sure how to bring up these visits. Were men supposed to talk about what they did underground, the bodies they glided over in the dark? Roldan couldn’t brag about bruised pillows or mumbling mattresses. He had very little experience, and some uncertain part of him thought that it might be rude to talk about such things in front of Morgan. In reality, he was simply scared that Babieca would ask him to supply his own stories. No narratives, as yet. Only a few awkward stanzas, quick and ill-rhymed.
Anfractus shone beneath the heat, a maze of sand-colored stone filled with oblique alleys like the one he’d emerged from. People wandered above them, peering down from the stone skyways that joined the buildings. They walked past a fountain made of green, cloud-veined marble. A meretrix in a silver mask rested on the rim. She wore a cream-colored silk tunica that exposed her arms. Her hair was tall, in the style of the basilissa, and her slim belt was studded with carnelians. She’d taken off her cork-heeled shoes and was letting water from a grotesque’s mouth cool her feet.
Morgan looked dubiously at Roldan’s tunica. “You’ll have to re-dye that soon. It’s also fraying along the sleeves.”
“I’m not sure it can survive another repair.”
“It barely looks convincing as it is. The scarlet dye is patchy, and you’re practically tripping over the ragged hem. Eventually, it’s going to unravel.”
“I’ll steal another one,” Babieca said. “It’s easy to steal from auditores. Most wouldn’t notice if you set fire to their sandals.”
He’d first met Roldan in the house of Domina Pendelia. After a few days in the city, Roldan had realized that he wouldn’t be able to survive by gambling, as some did. Fortuna didn’t favor him. Like most new visitors, he became a pedes. They had no gens to protect them, although their unseen labor was what allowed the city to function. He found himself working in the cramped kitchen of Domina Pendelia, which always smelled of baking boar. He dropped more vessels than he managed to deliver, but the domina had a tender spot for him. A flurry of shards would explode at his feet, and she’d simply laugh. Babieca worked in the undercroft, stoking the hypocaust that warmed her bath. Neither of them was good at his job. One night, after cursing the cold water, Domina Pendelia sent Roldan to the undercroft. Normally, she would have sent one of the more experienced pedes, but they were occupied.
The undercroft was lit by a few hanging lamps. The earth floor beneath him was damp and poxy with stones that might cleave his sandals. He found Babieca in the hypocaust chamber, filthy and stripped to the waist. He’d forgotten the fire and was playing his pipe. Roldan tended to distrust people, but there was something about Babieca that drew him in. Maybe it was the song, or the flash of teeth against his ashy face when he grinned. Maybe the smoke and the smell of packed earth was making him dizzy. Either way, he’d found himself agreeing when Babieca talked of escape. It wasn’t hard. Pedes came and went every hour. He was still surprised that he’d had the courage to ask Domina Pendelia for eight maravedies. For dyes and tablets. He’d looked her in the eyes without blinking. She’d hesitated, then reached into a drawer and counted out the coins. That was nearly six months ago. It was hard to believe that his false tunica, made cheaply for a pedes, had lasted this long.
They passed by a crossroads shrine with a winking lamp. Rinds and bread crusts filled the stone embrasure. Roldan tried to listen past the sounds of the crowd. Softly, below the hum of the flame, he could hear the salamanders scratching. There must have been at least three of them, feeding on bread and lamplight. If he were an oculus instead of an auditor, he could actually see them. Most oculi went crazy, though. Hearing was safer than seeing. Morgan tossed some seeds into the bowl, and they kept going.
The road widened as they neared the Hippodrome. People were gathered near the entrances, forming clouds of colored tunicae. Most of them were gaming. The food stalls were packed, and he smelled fish sauce, roasted almonds, and sesame balls. The building was massive and fronted in pale yellow marble. People streamed in and out of the entrances, jostling each other, spilling their drinks, cursing. Fights erupted often, since they were all half-drunk and carrying daggers, but miles broke them up before they grew too serious. The miles circled the Hippodrome, baking in their mail loricae. Roldan was entranced by their leather boots, which were soft and woven into curious patterns. A young boy, probably a fur, drew close to the nearest entrance. He looked hungry. One of the miles made a warning gesture, halfway drawing his falchion, and the boy hurried away.
They paid the admission fee and entered the Hippodrome. A race was in progress. The charioteers kicked up dust as they pursued each other, and everyone stood, screaming bets and epithets. One of the drivers had night-black horses, while those who pulled his rival were the color of thrice-bleached linen. Roldan was hypnotized by the chariot wheels, bronze spokes flashing as they scattered sand. The whips were loud enough that he could hear them over the inebriated rumble of the spectators. Just as they managed to find a spot, the driver with the black horses pulled ahead. Those who’d bet on him cheered ecstatically. For a moment, they were two comets, dark and light, trailing debris as they circled the Hippodrome. Then the driver with the black horses won. The fortunate cheered louder, and the losers cursed.
“This could get ugly,” he said. “Why would anyone want to conduct business in the middle of a race?”
“It’s public,” Morgan replied. “Less chance of a violent mishap in front of so many witnesses, no matter how drunk they are.”
Once the race was over, a few attendants ventured onto the sands. They cleared away debris, then vanished. Moments later, doors opened on opposite sides of the Hippodrome, and two miles stepped out. There was a new wave of cheering. They made their way slowly to the heart of the circle, pausing at the shrines to give oil and crumbs. One of them wore a lorica of segmented leather, reinforced with metal plates. She had a single greave and a painted oak shield. A tarnished helmet covered most of her face. The other had on a lorica of bronze scales that rippled, like the sand. His helmet boasted graven neck guards. His shield was heavier, and scalloped mail protected the area below his studded belt. His vanbraces were silver-striped and had hungry edge
s.
Everyone looked to the high balcony, with its purple drapes. The basilissa wasn’t there. In her place, Narses, the spado, presided over the spectacle. He wore the moss-colored tunica of his gens, along with a hoard of jewels. His red hair was beginning to thin, but it was still his own. Being high chamberlain, he knew every secret that danced through the Arx of Violets, or so it was said. Next to him sat a younger spado, and Roldan realized that it was the one he’d seen earlier on the street, licking lemon sharbah.
The high chamberlain raised his hand in a ceremonial gesture.
The miles drew their swords.
Both blades were short. One had a chipped stone pommel, its hilt wrapped in leather, while the other was gilded with onyx and jasper. Roldan had never understood the impulse to encrust things with gems, especially weapons. Everything was about status. The color of a tunica, the flash of stones, the well-placed kiss, all were devices. Luckily, his status was so low that he didn’t have to worry about reading signs.
Gilded sword was getting impatient. He swung high, but the other leapt back. She’d been waiting for something like that. Chipped sword feinted a blow to the chest, then ducked and slashed low. Her blade glanced off the other’s greave, hissing, and then she spun away before her opponent could retaliate.
“She’s playing with him,” Morgan said.
“That’s not smart,” Babieca replied. “The other miles has better arms. The fool with one greave should be worrying about her lack of protection.”
“Her shield is solid.”
“It’s practically tableware.”
“The wood may be soft, but that can be an advantage.”
“Because exploding wood is a distraction?”
“Because swords get stuck.”
Gilded sword pressed another attack, thrusting low this time. As Babieca had predicted, he aimed at his opponent’s right leg. Chipped sword brought down her shield. Roldan saw for the first time that it had an iron strip across its middle, enough to deflect the blow with a satisfying crack. Everyone cheered. Then chipped sword danced away. Her opponent gave pursuit. Chipped sword extended her arm, as if to swing, then ducked and lashed out with her shield instead. The shield caught gilded sword in the midsection, at the soft articulation between his belt and his scale lorica. He grunted, startled, and stepped back. Now chipped sword pressed her own attack. She cut high, and the glint of his weapon was sunlight moving over the face of the waters, one chaos mingling with another. Gilded sword managed to parry, but his movements weren’t as swift as before. He was getting tired.
Chipped sword made a quick motion, switching sword and shield. Now she fought left-handed, with renewed strength. Her opponent struggled. He started to retreat, and the crowd turned ugly. Craven! Cinna! Narses was there, so none dared cry Spado! He watched the battle without expression. He was probably late for a significant dinner. For a moment, it looked as if gilded sword would rally. Then chipped sword struck him just below the shoulder, finding another gap in his lorica. Blood hit the sand. He staggered, clutching at the slick ties that held his armor together.
The crowd erupted.
“Primus sanguis!”
Even Roldan murmured it beneath his breath. Those were the day rules. First blood meant that the battle was over. At night, the rules were different, but he’d never seen the Hippodrome after sunset. He’d only heard stories.
The victorious miles helped her opponent to stand. It was customary for both of them to doff their helmets, but neither did. The loser was embarrassed, and wounded, but why wouldn’t the victor reveal herself? Before, she’d been playful, like a cat who knew precisely the reach of her claws. Now she was suddenly modest. Roldan knew that there had to be another reason. Everything was a sign.
Chipped sword tried to help gilded sword, but the other pushed her away. He needed to save some face, at least. They made their way to the exits, one swiftly, the other limping and leaving a blood trail. After they’d both vanished, the attendants raked the sand. There would be a pause, then further entertainments. Roldan was about to suggest buying some lemon sharbah when an artifex in a checkered tunic sat down next to him. She had orange curls, limpid from the heat, and there were lines under her eyes. Maybe she’d been up all night working on something. Artifices don’t sleep. Their machinae sleep for them. Who had told him that? Babieca, most likely.
“Are you the auditor?”
Babieca cut him off before he could reply. “Yes. He’s quite skilled. If you had the gift of the vigili, you’d see a nest of salamanders hissing at his feet.”
“Right.” She reached into a leather case slung over her shoulder and withdrew a silk-wrapped bundle. She placed it in Roldan’s palm. “Take this to Vici Secreta, fourth door, second insula. Keep it covered until you’re safely inside. A friend of the basilissa will meet you there, in order to appraise the item.”
“I could appraise it here,” Roldan said. “It’s not an ideal spot, but there are still a few lares around. Taking it across the city doesn’t seem necessary.”
“I have my orders, and you have yours.” The artifex stood. “My part is done. You can improvise if you like, but if the basilissa discovers that you’ve disobeyed her, it won’t go well for you. Her carcer is deep, and littered with the bones of people who thought they knew better.”
She turned and disappeared into the crowd. Now he really wanted a sharbah, especially if they were walking all the way to Vici Secreta. He thought better of mentioning it, though. Instead, he looked at the sand, where spots of blood were still visible. If he listened closely, he could hear the unseen tongues, lapping it up like milk.
He followed them out of the Hippodrome. It was unfair. They’d paid for the whole afternoon.
They followed the aqueduct back to the center of town. People were gathered around the great clepsydra, whose wheel made a thunderous sound as it turned. Water from a series of tanks powered the clock, and every hour it would chime. Various aspects of Fortuna decorated the spokes of the wheel, each divided into day and night, since the goddess of fortune had very different faces after sunset. The two-toned heads turned with the wheel’s progress, now in the sun, now in shadow, as machinae chirped and hissed from their ingenious niches. Water from the aqueduct powered the device, flowing from the high nexus of the two rivers, Clamores and Iacto, that surrounded the city.
Arces was the wealthiest vici, due to its proximity to the Arx of Violets. The ground sloped upward, and the shops and cauponae were replaced by villas with grand patios. The city was divided into blocks, called insulae, where various streets converged to form natural islands of recreation and commerce. Most of these blocks were owned by the wealthy elite, and in times past, the city in its entirety had been the property of the basilissa. She had been queen, landowner, and executioner. Now she rarely left the arx. Roldan tried to imagine her, ensconced in her secretum of porphyry and purple tapestries, or idly playing with her mechanical throne, which she could supposedly raise until it touched the vaulted ceiling. Her mother, Driope, had been cruel. If you displeased her, she fed you to her lampreys. But her daughter, in spite of what the artifex had suggested, was not known for such sadistic displays. She was barely known at all.
“This is it,” Morgan said, coming to a halt. “The fourth door of the second insula.”
The door of the house was painted blue. Roldan looked up and saw a second-floor clerestory, with what could have been an attic above. The wide stone patio was empty but clean, suggesting that it had recently been used. There was no door attendant, so Babieca knocked. He waited a moment, and after there was no response, he knocked again.
Morgan shouldered past him and opened the door, which was unlocked.
“This isn’t a good sign,” Babieca said.
“Really? And you were so confident about this plan earlier.”
“You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
“Let’s just get our money.”
They walked through the narrow passageway, which l
ed to a grand atrium. Light poured in from an opening in the ceiling, under which had been placed an impluvium to catch rainwater. Couches were arranged around the room, covered in rich fabric and enameled with ivory or tortoiseshell. The floor was a geometric mosaic, incorporating several shades of marble. To the right was a study, also well lit. Roldan would have loved to browse through the scroll cases and books, all painted and pumiced, but this wasn’t the right time. A staircase nearby led to the second floor.
“Hello?” Morgan walked slowly around the atrium. “Is anybody here?”
There was no answer.
Roldan turned to examine a mosaic on one of the walls and nearly screamed. An enormous dog stared down at him, wearing a spiked collar. Its eyes were coals, and it had one paw raised, about to strike. He stumbled backward. Then Babieca began to laugh.
“Look,” he said, pointing down.
Near the base of the wall, the words guard dog were scrawled. Roldan stared at the dog again. He couldn’t believe it was only a painting. His heart was still racing.
“Clever,” Morgan said. “Let’s go.”
They left the atrium and walked through the dining room, which had its own set of gilded couches and carved bronze side tables. The walls were painted in a dizzying style that made their images appear lifelike, as the dog had been. Flowers and strange creatures met at curious angles, straining to escape their borders, while vibrant red and yellow squares depicted scenes from the city’s history. There was a horn bowl filled with fruit on one of the tables, and for a moment, Roldan couldn’t tell if it was real. Babieca stole a grape, settling the matter. The room led to a columned peristyle, which opened onto the garden. Violets flamed next to marble statuary, whose eyes seemed to follow him. There was a deep pool with chairs and tables beside it. A masked man was sitting in one of the chairs, reading.
Pile of Bones Page 2
