Pile of Bones

by Bailey Cunningham

  His pleasures at the basia remained varied. Although he’d never call himself a cinna, he’d lain with both men and women, often at the same time. He followed beauty, wherever it happened to lead. Being with a man wasn’t too different, although it did sometimes require a knowledge of calculus. His first time was with an older man, bald and bearded. He’d liked the silky feel of the man’s chest hair, the warmth of those bare feet pressed against his shoulders. They’d seemed fragile at the time, and Babieca wanted to shield them, to rub oil into the cracks of those precious soles. He died, forgetting the kindness.

  “Is there a lar in the room?” He asked to break the silence, and to keep himself from touching the auditor’s hand.

  “No,” Roldan said. “Although I am feeling something rather odd. It’s like an itch, or a sneeze that I can’t quite expel.”

  “There are things to help with that.”

  “What kind of things?”

  Babieca blinked. He couldn’t stop himself from making dirty jokes, but Roldan was generally oblivious. He trusted sentences. He gave words the benefit of the doubt, even when they sounded impossible. The more he thought about it, the more he could see a shadow of Roldan, a fragment that was part of him, yet distinct. They shared some things. Both Roldans were honest and direct, but only one could speak to lares. The other was surrounded by what looked like furniture—a stack of chairs, lamps, and nested glass tables—but they didn’t resemble anything from Anfractus. They were made of something between wood and stone, no grain or veins, just smooth. It repulsed him. Then the image was gone.

  He wanted to ask Roldan about the alien furniture, but his body had already started to pick a fight with itself. His mind was thinking of another question, while everything south of his mind was beginning to demand attention. He grabbed the edge of the stone bed. It was sharp against his fingertips, and the light pain focused him.

  “Tell me about lares,” he said.

  Roldan looked at him. At the same time, he managed to look away slightly—it was something that he could do. His eyes demurred.

  “Everything has a chaos,” he said. “An element that holds us. For us, it’s air. Water would kill us, but air lets us pass, lets us breathe. The chaos of the undinae is water, although most of them are amphibious. The chaos of the gnomoi is earth. They breathe basalt like the undinae breathe water.”

  “And the salamanders breathe fire.”

  “Sometimes their breath is like flaming ale.”

  He laughed. “What’s it like to hear them?”

  “Some of them are louder than others. Undinae sound like water on rocks. Salamanders make your ears sweat. Gnomoi have a bit of a stony accent. Sometimes they don’t speak at all; they just hum, or tap, or thump the ground. Conversations aren’t guaranteed.”

  “How do they survive outside their chaoses?”

  “They spend time in the gaps where chaoses meet. Light a lamp, and eventually some salamanders will come to investigate. Hang out at the water’s edge, and you’re bound to meet a curious undina. I mean, you’re lucky if they’re just curious. Sometimes they’re starving.”

  “So”—Babieca smiled at the thought—“we’re lares too. Our chaos is air.”

  “Some say that we destroyed the lares of the air. We took their chaos by force and replaced them.”

  “What were the original lares called?”

  “Caela.”

  “And they’re all dead?”

  “We don’t know. They hide in storms and smoke. I’ve never heard one, though. I don’t think anyone has in a very long time.”

  Babieca looked closely at Roldan. At first, the auditor didn’t quite look back. He studied him obliquely, as you would a grotesque in the margins, still secondary to the text. Gradually, though, he looked Babieca in the eyes. His face was uncertain, but at the same time curious. That was a window that didn’t stay open for long, the most exciting of moments, when the letters might leap from the page. He couldn’t be sure of the auditor’s preference in this area, but he had caught Roldan staring at him, once or twice, in the apodyterium. Babieca looked at everyone, but Roldan had only been looking at him. At his collarbone, not his cock. Staring fixedly at his neck with an expression that Babieca recognized.

  “They haunt us,” Roldan continued unsteadily. “Someday, they’ll probably want their chaos back. I doubt we’ll be able to fight them. Lares and love are Fortuna’s perfect inevitabilities. I heard that once. I don’t remember when.”

  Babieca took his hand. It was soft, and the knucklebone of his index finger jutted out slightly, a little unmoored island. He kissed the spot.

  Roldan raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

  “Saying hello.”

  “You usually do that with sharp words.”

  “I know more delicate salutations. Perhaps this is how lares greet.”

  “Lares are territorial. They scream when they see each other.”

  “Roldan.”

  “What?”

  “Back at the oecus, when Morgan was about to cast her die, all I could think of was how long your sleeves were. How much I wanted to fix them.”

  “You were thinking about my tunica?”

  “I was thinking about you.”

  He looked at Babieca’s hand on top of his. “And now?”

  “Still you.”

  “I didn’t think—” His eyes demurred again. “I always imagined that you saw me as a friend, and nothing more.”

  “Friends mean a lot to me. I have only two.”

  “That isn’t an explanation.”

  Babieca smiled. “I’ve never tried this with Morgan, if that’s what you’re getting at. She’s more of an annoying older sister.”

  “I—” He looked at Babieca again. Then his expression changed slowly, as it had in the apodyterium. “—don’t care what the explanation is. I just realized that.”

  Babieca kissed him. Roldan was slightly taller, so he had to stretch slightly to meet the auditor’s lips. They were soft, a bit worried around the edges, but in a way that reminded him of gently frayed cloth. He smelled of Domina Pendelia’s raspberry soap. Babieca kissed deeper, and Roldan squeezed his hand. His tongue was a hot wire, a lock-pick, a string whose snap produced the unlikeliest note. Roldan’s other hand grazed his neck, returning to the site of earlier fascination. Still kissing, Babieca wormed halfway out of his tunica, pulling away for a second to yank the fabric over his head. Roldan smiled. He didn’t smile often—not in the way that he was smiling now—and seeing it made Babieca want to crow.

  Roldan touched the fur on his chest, lightly and with a kind of disbelief, as if he were running his thumb along the edge of some weapon. He was shaking slightly. Babieca fought with the auditor’s tunic, pulling it down to reveal the plane of Roldan’s throat. He kissed his way south, tonguing the small nipple, which drew a shudder. Roldan had very little fur, just a few innocent curls that Babieca nuzzled, inhaling the smell beneath the soap. They were pressed against the wall now. Roldan, surprisingly, reached down Babieca’s tunica. He touched the coarse hair between his legs, then farther down, teasing his cock. Babieca smiled as Roldan took hold of him. In the curve of his friend’s hand, he felt strangely at ease.

  They shed their tunicae, not gracefully, but with extraordinary clumsiness. Roldan nearly fell over with one leg still trapped, while Babieca’s sandal got caught in reams of fabric. They laughed while it was happening. There was no shame in being odd to each other, in cavorting around with a single nude leg or a stuck sandal. There were no false notes, only quiet little surprises, like the rose-tinted mark on Roldan’s thigh. A daub of extra color, which must have dropped from Fortuna’s paintbrush when she wasn’t looking.

  Roldan lay on top of him. That was a surprise as well, but Babieca didn’t mind. It was sweet to be pinned in this way, held in place by one of Fortuna’s inevitabilities. Roldan’s chest was warm and steady against his own. Babieca moved his hips. They rocked back and forth on the stone pallet. The
heat of their bodies was startling. Sweat stood on his forehead, while his feet made dark prints on the bed. Roldan’s hair was slick. Babieca grabbed some, pulling him into a kiss that was feather tongues, hot babble, cinders.

  They were a crossroads. Roldan ground against him, until Babieca died suddenly and sharply. It was such a remarkable surprise that he bit Roldan’s lip, harder than he’d intended. His muscles clenched as he held the auditor, dazed and swimming in fire. He buried his head in the curve of the man’s neck, heart racing, feet trembling like strings on the verge of suicide. Roldan said something that he couldn’t quite hear. Then Babieca felt him die. He slumped forward, breathing hard, trembling as if he might fly apart. Babieca held him close. Roldan laid his head on Babieca’s chest, and they stayed like that for a while.

  “That was”—Roldan was still trying to catch his breath—“quite friendly.”

  Babieca laughed. “I thought so.”

  “You said something.”

  “What?”

  “As you were dying, you said something. A word.”

  “I didn’t have much control over my tongue. I’m not sure what I said.”

  “‘Carl.’”

  The voice made them both jump. Babieca looked down. A mechanical fox had emerged from the bed and was staring at both of them. Her gears moved quietly in thought. She didn’t have a proper expression, but he would have bet money that she was amused. He’d heard of the foxes, the basilissa’s wondrous automata, but he’d never seen one.

  “Are you—”

  “Sulpicia,” the fox supplied. “My brother and I attend the basilissa.”

  “What are you doing in this room?”

  “I was searching for Eumachia, and someone locked me in. The door, as you’ve no doubt noticed, is tricky. I was investigating the bed, to see if there might be a hidden mechanism somewhere, and then you came in. I decided to conceal myself until I knew what your intentions were.” The links of her tail clicked against the ground. “That became clear immediately.”

  “Did I really say ‘Carl’?” Roldan stared at the fox distractedly. It didn’t seem to bother him that she was a network of wires and bright bolts. He looked directly into her swiveling black eyes, as if their spark of life were obvious.

  “That was what I heard,” Sulpicia replied. “You said it clearly. ‘Carl.’ Then you spilled your seed.”

  He blushed and looked down. “What is Carl? Why would I say it?”

  “This isn’t the first bed that I’ve been trapped under. You people say all manner of nonsensical things before you spill.”

  “But—Carl?” He frowned. “Is it a place? A name?”

  It sounded oddly familiar to Babieca. He could even hear himself saying the word, his mouth settling upon it with familiarity. For a second, the contours of the room shifted. The tapestry and the trash were gone. He saw high windows, and a ceiling with no impluvium. There was a balcony, though, overlooking a road paved in smooth black stone. He was sitting in a strange little chair, made from tight bands of cloth. On a small table next to him was a glass bowl filled with ashes. The image hovered before him, then disappeared. He blinked. Roldan and the fox hadn’t even noticed. He was putting his tunica back on, while Sulpicia studied one of her paws. Babieca wiped himself on the tapestry, then dressed.

  The door opened. Felix stepped in, holding a lamp in one hand, a sack in the other. He looked at Roldan and Babieca. Even beneath the mask, his expression was clear. Babieca was a little surprised by what he saw. He’d expected Felix to be annoyed, even angry. But his eyes held disappointment. The expression vanished as quickly as it appeared. As a meretrix, he’d probably been trained to keep his emotions in check, to perform when the need arose.

  That was what made the flash of naked disappointment so unusual. Babieca recalled the way he’d looked at Roldan, the way he’d taken every opportunity to touch him. He’d assumed that the meretrix was just playing a role, trying to use Roldan’s desire against him. But perhaps it was more than that.

  “I see you two found a way to pass the time,” he said. Then he looked down, and his eyes widened beneath the mask. “Sulpicia. Were you here the entire time?”

  “Lamentably.”

  The meretrix sighed. “At least you both stayed put.”

  “What about Morgan?” Roldan asked. “Have they taken her to the tower?”

  “Yes. She’s to be questioned by the arquites.” His jaw tightened. “The kind of questioning that normally involves sharp edges.”

  “Those games won’t start for a while,” Babieca said. “They’ll wait until the fear sets in before beginning the interrogation.”

  “If you’re talking about the sagittarius,” the fox replied, “she’ll be under heavy guard. How do you intend to free her?”

  “I”—Babieca gave Sulpicia an apologetic look—“don’t mean to offend you, but you’re the basilissa’s attendant. Logic dictates that we shouldn’t trust you.”

  “Actually,” Roldan said, “logic dictates that Sulpicia shouldn’t trust us. We’re uninvited guests in her home.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Both of you are right.” Sulpicia crossed her paws. “Neither of us should trust each other. But my brother saw what happened in the oecus, which means that I saw it as well. Your friend saved the life of Basilissa Pulcheria. She does not deserve to be tortured for that.”

  “You serve Latona,” Babieca protested.

  “No. We serve the sisterhood. All machinae do.”

  “Fine.” He pointed at the meretrix. “I’m just going to come out and ask, then, since nobody else has mentioned it. What’s in Felix’s sack?”

  “I suppose you’ve been waiting all night to make that joke.”

  “We’re only a few hours past twilight, so it hasn’t been that long. But if we keep debating this, the shadows will grow. Maybe your pretty mask will protect you against the night horrors, but I’d just as soon get out of here, before another pack of silenoi arrive.”

  Felix drew a cithara from the bag. It was slightly larger than Babieca’s, and certainly not as dented. The wood had been brightly polished. He took the instrument, dragging his fingers across the strings. They were a bit unfamiliar, but they had a nice tone.

  “You’re a trovador,” Felix said. “Or nearly one, at any rate. You must be able to do something with this.”

  “You want me to serenade the guards? Even if I appeal to their romantic side, I doubt they’ll let us walk away with Morgan.”

  “Distract them. Hypnotize them. Obviously, we can’t just walk up to them with weapons drawn. They’d take us apart. But a half-drunken musician isn’t a threat to anyone. They’ll let you get close. Just be sure to pick the right song.”

  “I’m practically sober.”

  “Of course. A trovador would never let wine cloud his judgment.”

  Roldan missed the edge in his voice, but Babieca caught it. For a moment, he thought of hitting the meretrix, but the effort didn’t seem worth it. Roldan was oblivious to the awkward equation they now formed. Ignoring both of them now, he watched Sulpicia’s mechanical ablutions with great interest.

  “You’re right about the lack of time,” Felix said. “I’m safe because of my gens, but you and your friends are vulnerable. We’d best move quickly.”

  “I get why the fox wants to help us, but what’s your game?”

  “I’m just trying to keep the balance.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that you’d better sing for your life. Now let’s go. I can take you as far as the tower, and then—”

  “You’ll run away. I remember from last time.”

  “We all have something to lose, Babieca.”

  Was he talking about his reputation? Or did it have more to do with that look of disappointment from earlier? There was no time to figure it out. Morgan would be facing pincers and sharp hooks if they didn’t get to her before the arquites.

  “All right,” he said. “Ta
ke us to the tower.”

  Sulpicia followed them to the doorway.

  “Are you coming with us?” Felix asked.

  “Naturally. This promises to be interesting.”

  “You’re somewhat conspicuous,” Babieca said.

  “You certainly didn’t notice me under the bed while you were rutting.”

  “It’s settled,” Roldan replied quickly. “We’ll go together. And that’s the last time that anyone uses the word rutting.”

  They followed Felix’s lamp through a warren of passages, which eventually led them toward the atrium. Their path widened, and after stepping through a gap in the wall, they found themselves at the entrance to the Tower of Sagittarii.

  “This is where I leave you,” Felix said. “If you make it out of the tower, a friend of mine will meet you at the entrance to the arx. She’ll ensure that you have safe passage beyond the city. May Fortuna smile on you.”

  “And on you, Felix.” Babieca returned the blessing ironically.

  The meretrix turned and went back down the passage. For a moment, they could see his lamplight bobbing, like some peculiar spirit. Then he was gone.

  “I have an idea,” Sulpicia said. “Auditor, lift me.”

  “What?”

  “You heard what I said. Lift me, and watch the tail.”

  Gently, Roldan lifted Sulpicia from the ground. The fox settled against his chest, reminding Babieca of a cat.

  “I will pretend to be injured,” she said. “Don’t be alarmed if you see sparks. It should prove to be a fitting distraction.”

  “Sparks?”

  “I just told you not to be alarmed.”

  “It’s better than nothing,” Babieca said. “Pull down your hoods. If anyone recognizes us from the banquet, we’ll be pincushions.”

  They climbed the spiral stairs—Babieca holding the cithara, Roldan holding the machina to his chest with great care. Sagittarii lounged on the stairs, dicing, playing stones, or gazing out the small windows. A few fixed them with suspicious looks but relaxed when they saw Sulpicia in Roldan’s arms. They’d learned to associate the foxes with the basilissa, which meant that anyone bold enough to pick up the machina was probably not someone to be questioned.