Roldan was still looking at the door. Babieca wanted to say something to him, to reassure him somehow, but the words caught in his throat. Everything had seemed simple when they were together, like two joints gliding into place. They’d made something with bright edges, a sealed mechanism dancing on its own. Apart, they had only words. Babieca had always preferred notes to nouns. Both deceived, but you had to forgive music, because it was older and somehow more necessary than conversation.
Fel turned to Morgan. “You and I are on equal footing. We both carry a die. We both have a gens behind us. I get the sense, though, that you’re the leader of this company. So I’ll defer to you. How should we proceed?”
Morgan looked surprised for a second. Uncertainty flashed across her eyes.
Roldan stepped forward. “We’ll follow you. Whatever your decision is.”
“I reserve the right to haunt you,” Babieca said, “should this turn out badly. That aside—I’ll do what you ask.”
She nodded slowly. “Good. Each of you has a unique strength, and if we combine them, we may actually succeed. Our first step should be recovering that killer bee. As long as Basilissa Latona controls it, she can loose another swarm of silenoi on Pulcheria.”
“Silenoi hunt in packs,” Roldan said, “not swarms. You’re mixing metaphors.”
“Thank you for that clarification.”
Babieca raised his hand.
Morgan gave him an odd look. “You can just speak.”
“With your leadership being official and all, I just wanted to make sure that I was following protocol. I wouldn’t want to—”
“Don’t press me, lyre-boy.”
“Very well. I think we should go back to the artifex. She knows more than she was willing to admit. I could see it in her eyes when she was talking about that thing. It filled her with curiosity. And the eunuch must have had some reason for choosing her.”
“She could easily betray us.”
“To whom? Narses? The girl’s implicated—she’s the one who gave us the fucking bee. If she tries to sell us out, she’ll end up rotting alongside us in the carcer. The other prisoners will find all manner of unseemly uses for someone like her. I think she’ll keep quiet about what we’re planning.”
“I’d like to hear more about that,” Roldan said. “What comes later, I mean, once we’ve spoken with the artifex. How are we getting back into the arx?”
“One plan at a time,” Morgan replied.
It was clear that she didn’t know the answer, but Babieca wasn’t as worried as he might have been. The Arx of Violets had many subtle points of entry. Like any fortress, it was designed to resist a frontal attack. Its murderous curves allowed invaders to be herded in, like cows led to the slaughter. But there must have been a postern gate, a tunnel, some passage that could be used for the transfer of supplies. The lime-walled undercroft, full of food and other precious things, must have been accessible from the harbor. In stories, the basilissa were always fleeing by boat—no mention was ever made of them leaving by the front gate.
“What do you know about this artifex?” Fel asked. “Besides the fact that she’s curious and probably wants to save her own skin.”
“Well”—Babieca cracked his knuckles—“we know that she’s tired of fixing fountains for the basilissa. She was manipulated by the eunuch, just as we were.”
“Don’t sound so surprised. That’s their job.”
“She’s young,” Morgan said. “But smart. I’m inclined to agree with Babieca. She may not be an ally, but we’re in the same cauldron.”
“What’s her name?”
Morgan managed to look slightly chagrined. “We don’t know.”
“Excellent. You want to charge into the Gens of Artifices, demanding to speak with an unknown girl. That couldn’t possibly fail.” She turned to Morgan. “Not that I’m questioning your decision, of course.”
“It’s morning.”
The miles frowned at Roldan. “I can see that. Because I have eyes.”
Her tone failed to bother him. “What I meant was, because of the hour, she won’t be in her quarters. Instead, she’ll be at the tower, paying respect to Fortuna. We may not know her name, but we’d still recognize her.”
“Fel has a point, though,” Morgan conceded. “Storming the tower in search of a red-haired girl is no better than roaming the halls of the gens.”
“We don’t all have to hang about,” Babieca said. “I can go alone. The lot of us would attract attention, but nobody’s going to notice a single trovador. They’ll just assume I’m playing for coin. Musicians are always underfoot.”
Fel didn’t seem totally convinced. “Even if you find her, what’s to keep her from screaming when she recognizes you?”
“He can be charming,” Morgan said. “At times.”
They left the house and walked toward the edge of the Subura, where the Tower of Artifices was located. The sun was punishing, and it gave them the excuse to lower their hoods. They formed a tight circle around Morgan, trying to obscure her appearance. Both the aedile and the arquites would be looking for a renegade sagittarius, but the rest of them might still escape notice. Babieca doubted that the tale told by the tower guards—involving a magic lyre and a fainting mechanical fox—had been received as anything close to an accurate report. It sounded like the type of story you’d make up after being caught asleep at your post.
Fel was probably known to the other miles, but that could work in their favor. Even if they disliked her, as she’d suggested, her presence lent them a certain respectability. A meretrix would have been better, but a miles certainly worked in a pinch. As they made their way through the crowded streets, Babieca felt for the first time that he was part of a company. Two of them were die-carriers, and another could speak to lares. His cithara was obviously the weak link, but he possessed something else, something more valuable. Unlike the auditor, the miles, or the sagittarius, he had no reputation. Most people ignored him, because he was simply the entertainment. That gave him freedom to move about unchecked.
They reached the tower. A few younger artifices were milling around the entrance, playing with gear-driven toys that sputtered steam. Babieca turned to Morgan.
“Wait close by. I’m not sure how long this is going to take, but if things heat up, you should be prepared to run. Don’t wait for me.”
“We absolutely won’t,” Morgan replied.
“I was expecting the tiniest bit of resistance.”
“Just go. Try not to make her scream or throw you out a window.”
He approached the entrance. The artifices glanced at his cithara, then returned to urging on their machines. Babieca walked up the spiral stairs. Builders hugged the walls, intent on assembling or stripping down devices. Tiny brass wheels and other mechanical entrails littered the stairs, and he had to look closely to avoid them. One of the artifices was working on a tripod with golden wheels. The tripod gave a sudden lurch, its wheels grinding, and Babieca realized with a start that it could move on its own.
“Excuse her,” the artifex said absently. “She’s newly made.”
The towers had always intrigued him. Built to please Fortuna, they provided a haven, court, and school for each of the day gens. The Tower of Artifices, over time, had become more of a workshop than a place of worship, and Babieca saw very little obeisance going on. You were supposed to turn inward, to regard yourself and your place on Fortuna’s wheel, but the artifices concentrated entirely on deciphering scrolls and tablets. They were thinking about their next project, not their fate. He didn’t know what went on in those towers devoted to the night gens, but he’d heard stories.
The meretrix would know. He’s of the night gens.
The Tower of Meretrices, he thought, must be a giant basia fucking the skyline. A monument to love and coin. He pictured Felix kissing the wheel. He must have had his reasons for taking the mask. As Roldan had pointed out, trovadores and meretrices were separated only by a spoke on the wheel, para
llel gens that watched each other uneasily. Music’s reverie was not so far from love’s. Both songs loosened the limbs, both made you close your eyes, wishing to lock the moment in amber. Perhaps it was useless to assume any moral high ground.
Babieca reached the top floor. Light cut through tall, red-tinted windows, making everyone look as if they’d been drawn fresh from the forge. Unlike the sanctum of sagittarii, which had been sparse and well ordered, this room was a blaze of activity. Builders were gathered in loud groups, comparing machines, swapping parts, decrying the tools of their rivals. Devices leapt and played at their feet, sparking, clattering, making awkward circles, while their creators looked on with fierce pride. The altar to the goddess was covered in mechanical debris. Her wheel turned, powered by water, but its hiss was drowned out by the cries of the builders. Only a single artifex knelt before it. Babieca spied a lock of red hair, which had escaped from her cowl, and smiled.
He knelt beside her. “What do you ask of Fortuna?”
She turned, and her eyes widened. “What are you doing here?”
“Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”
The young artifex glanced around the room. “You’re wanted, you know. You, the auditor, and the crazy archer who felled the silenus. Anyone in this tower could find a dozen ways to spend the reward they’d earn for your capture.”
“They’re distracted, and I have an unremarkable face. Answer my question.”
“I’m asking forgiveness.”
“Well, you should. That bee nearly killed a basilissa.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“You can’t deny that you’re in as deep as we are.”
“You’re practically underwater. I’m still clinging to the shore.”
“Let go of the branch and help us.”
Her look was between fear and anger. “I’m not yet a builder. Just a nemo with no die and no machina to serve her. Basilissa Latona won’t hesitate to kill me.”
“Nor us. It’s going to be a huge killing party, which is why you should come.”
“How are you so flippant about this?”
Babieca held his hand out to Fortuna’s wheel, letting it graze his fingers as it passed. Though the motion was artificial, it still made him feel less alone.
“I’m scared,” he said. “Like you, I’m no die-carrier. I’ve no right to ask a boon of the goddess. All I have is music and a bit of luck. But my fear doesn’t matter. If Basilissa Pulcheria dies, there will be war. Die-carriers and dominae are going to decide the course of that war. But the nemones—you and I—will be ground underfoot. We won’t have a chance. I don’t know about you, but I love this city. I want more time. I want to grow. If Anfractus goes to war, I’ll be stoking a hypocaust again, if I don’t become a meal for some hungry silenus.”
The artifex considered his words for a moment. Then she leaned in, speaking even lower in spite of the noise around her.
“I may have an answer,” she said. “But it’s in the undercroft.”
“Can you sneak me in?”
“We’ll need to find you a proper tunica. If nobody’s looking too closely, you might pass for a builder. Follow me.”
She led him to the floor below. It was an empty tabularium. The stone shelves were filled with scroll cases and pumiced covers, along with ragged strands of decaying papyrus. Next to one of the shelves, someone had placed a wooden crate. Babieca saw that it was filled with an odd assortment: lenses, gears and bolts, a sandal, bent wires, a broken nutcracker.
“What is that?”
“A vessel for lost things. Every floor has them. Artifices are incredibly forgetful.”
She reached all the way to the bottom, withdrawing a soiled tunica. It was covered in grease spots and sported multiple tears. Brushing the flies away, she shook out the tunica, then handed it to Babieca.
“This has been here for weeks. I think it belonged to one of the more ancient builders. He’s a bit touched now, and sometimes he leaves his clothes in the oddest places.”
“Did he piss in that?”
“I imagine so. Put it on.”
“You’re joking.”
“Were you planning to knock someone out and steal their clothes? There’s hardly time for that, and it will draw notice, even from this lot. Put on the tunica. I’ll say that you’re my idiot brother and I’ve just dragged you from a ditch somewhere.”
“I feel as if you planned this.”
He undressed, folding his own tunica neatly and laying it in the vessel. Then, shuddering, he put on the soiled garment. This close to his skin, it smelled faintly of vomit, among other things. He stifled a gag. His flesh was crawling, but he couldn’t argue with her logic. Attacking an artifex would be stupid. This might actually work, unpleasant though it was.
Babieca followed her down the spiral stairs. A few of the less-distracted builders looked up as he passed, wrinkling their noses. Their interest waned after a moment, and they returned to their tasks. A filthy artifex wasn’t enough to fully divert their attention. The air grew chill as they passed underground, to the lowest level. A bored builder stood by the entrance to the undercroft, reading a tablet. He looked up, and his eyes narrowed.
“Who’s he? Why does he reek?”
“Found him passed out beneath the aqueduct,” she replied. “He’s family, though. What can you do?”
“If I found my brother in that state, I’d leave him there.”
She gave him a long look. His expression suddenly changed, as if he’d only now recognized her. Then, paling slightly, he nodded.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
They passed through the door that led to the undercroft.
“What was that about?” Babieca whispered.
“It’s complicated. I’ll explain later.”
His reply died softly as he took in the room. It was twice as large as any undercroft that he’d seen before, with a vaulted ceiling. Mosaics on the walls depicted Fortuna as architect, laying the foundations of Anfractus. Devices of every shape and size were gathered in piles, some of which came close to brushing the ceiling. Babieca saw clusters of lodestones and glass spheres for kindling fire. There were alarm clocks, door openers, self-trimming lamps that would burn all night if left alone. Discarded sundials and water clocks had been pushed against the walls, next to rusted pumps and lengths of broken chain. One pile was composed entirely of wooden birds, which must have warbled at one time but were now silent.
“We keep all manner of things here,” she said. “Broken machinae, toys that never worked, devices no longer in fashion.”
Babieca regarded a giant water screw leaning against the wall. Its teeth reminded him of a savage, burrowing animal. Next to it was a glittering case with a brass disc inside.
“What’s that thing?” He pointed to the small box.
“You can attach it to a wagon. It chimes with regularity, letting you know what distance you’ve traveled.”
“Strange,” he said, surveying the clocks and dials, “how officious we are about parceling out time. All that really matters is day and night.”
“Time is rhythm. Without it, there’d be no music.”
“You’ve got an answer for everything.”
“That’s what my mother used to say.”
He followed her through the chamber. Glass counters winked at him from the mounds, resting amid shattered spokes and bits of leather. He saw dispensers with coin slots—which he knew had once been popular—huddled next to a cracked water organ. In one corner was a frightening mechanical likeness of Fortuna. The paint was peeling from her face, and she held a libation cup whose gems had been pried off.
“The cup used to pour milk,” the artifex said. “And her eyes moved, or so I’ve heard. Such things are deemed ostentatious now. Latona buried it here, along with whatever else she thought was too bright or loud.”
“She may have been right about that one,” Babieca admitted. “I wouldn’t want Fortuna’s torso splashing milk on me.”
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He followed her to the dimmest fold of the undercroft. There sat a pile of rings, fibulae, and other adornments. Most were rusted, but a few still held chips of onyx and chalcedony. They were fashioned into countless shapes: diminutive wheels, vine leaves, nightingales, and the inevitable cock meant as a fertility charm.
“Fibulae used to be a huge business,” she said. “You could fit them with all kinds of concealed mechanisms. A bird would chirp at your breast. A snake would writhe about your finger, driven by the teeth of tiny gears. A few of them, the older ones, even had real power. They could let you walk unseen in the middle of the day or give you the gift of many tongues. But that art was lost centuries ago. Now, they’re just bright, useless things.”
“If they’re so useless, why did you take me here?”
She looked away. “I’ve done a bit of research on the bee fibula.”
“I knew it.”
“I tore through every tablet. Some of the schematics and descriptions were beyond my understanding, but I did find something that mentioned a similar device. It had multiple functions—the most obvious being a sonic diversion, meant to draw the attention of the silenoi. Like a dog whistle.”
He watched her dig through the abandoned lapidary. She picked up a copper bird, examined its base for a moment, then put it back.
“What are you looking for?”
“The bee is only part of the mechanism,” she said absently, plunging her hands deep into the gleaming pile. “With the base, you can call the insect to you, or even send it flying back to the one who made it. We may not have the original base, but according to what I’ve read, they were all built along the same principles.”
Pile of Bones Page 22
