His eyes widened. “Are you saying that you can make one?”
“I can try. I’ve got all the spare parts that I could ask for, and like I said, I’ve studied the fibula. I’m no expert, but I may be able to fashion something close.”
“I can see why Narses chose you.”
She looked slightly embarrassed. “Don’t sing my praises yet. Much of this is beyond repair. Just try to be quiet, and watch the door.”
He fell silent, watching her instead. She was too distracted to notice. Her hands moved quickly, lifting and sorting, occasionally removing a piece to lay it aside. She assembled a collection of small gears, a silver beak, three lengths of wire, a brass disc, and something triangular that he couldn’t identify. He watched her break brooches, sifting through their interiors and taking what she needed. The resulting hoard seemed random to him, but she stared at it thoughtfully, examining bright fragments. Eventually, she began to fasten things together. She tested gears, rubbing their brass teeth along her thumb. Like the artifices he’d seen on the steps, her mind was entirely focused.
Something moved in one of the piles.
“Did you hear that?”
She ignored him. The room was silent for a moment. Then he heard it again, a discrete rustling in the debris. He prepared himself to face a murderous machina, or perhaps the crazy old artifex that she’d mentioned earlier, whose stinking tunica he wore. What emerged from the pile, though, was neither of those things. He actually felt relief when he saw those familiar black orbs, swiveling in their brass sockets.
“Sulpicia! How long have you been here?”
At this, the young artifex looked up. Whatever she’d been assembling dropped from her suddenly nerveless grasp. Her eyes widened.
“Long enough to see that this one knows what she’s doing.” The fox regarded her mildly. “You’re trying to reconstruct a fibula, correct?”
She stared at the fox’s whirring tail. “Are you—what I think you are?”
“Her name’s Sulpicia,” Babieca said. “And yes.”
Gently, as if reaching toward insubstantial smoke, the artifex held out her hand. Sulpicia raised a single brass paw. Girl and machina touched, briefly. She stared at the fox in wonder. Her mouth moved slowly, but no words came out.
“You’ve done a nice job,” Sulpicia said. “You’re missing something, though. Here.” She nudged a small piece of brass across the floor. “Use this. It won’t be pretty, but that’s not really the point of the thing.”
“I thought you lived in the Arx of Violets.”
“Every now and again, my brother and I like to visit this place and check on the builders. Mostly to ensure that you don’t forge a weapon or burn down the city.”
“And”—she looked uncertainly at Babieca—“you know each other.”
“I fainted in his friend’s arms,” Sulpicia said. “Or pretended to, at any rate. Now go on. Attach the last piece. I want to see if it works.”
With shaking fingers, she attached the final component. What she held resembled a short rod with gleaming parts. Nothing happened at first. Then Babieca heard a low clicking noise, which seemed to come from the fibula. The artifex looked at it uncertainly, as if it might catch fire or devour her hand.
“What’s it doing?”
“You’ll see.” The fox lay down, examining her paws. “There aren’t many devices like that left in the city. If the creature is nearby, it should—”
Babieca heard a buzzing. At first it was faint, but it grew louder. A smile broke across his face when he saw a blurry spark rush through the open doorway. Like a scrap of quicksilver, it flew directly toward the fibula. The artifex, to her credit, stayed still. The bee circled her hand, then alighted on the fibula, as if it were a flower petal. Babieca drew closer. He could see the insect’s wings, fluttering rapidly. He noticed an unmistakable spot of green on its reflective underside. A dot of emerald blood.
“The killing instrument returns.” Sulpicia scratched her ear. “Not much to look at, but then again, its function has always been more defensive. Artifices of old used such machinae to distract silenoi—along with other things that have excellent hearing.”
The artifex stared at the bee. Her expression was a puzzle. She’d been far more astonished by Sulpicia, which was understandable.
“It’s under your control now,” Babieca said. “Didn’t you say that you could make it return to the one who forged it?”
“I—perhaps, but—”
“That’s simple,” the fox said. “You have the whole fibula now. The creature must obey. All you need say is: Return to your maker.”
The artifex hesitated. “Is that such a good idea?”
“We need to know who fashioned this thing,” Babieca said. “Anyone that powerful might be able to help us. Whoever it is, we need to reach them before Latona does. They’re in danger just as surely as we are.”
The artifex sighed. Then she murmured to the bee: “Return to your maker.”
The insect leapt from its perch. It hovered in the air for a moment, as if uncertain. They all watched it dancing in the dark of the undercroft, wings whirring. It almost seemed to be thinking about something. Perhaps it was recalling the face of its maker. Then it shot through the open doorway.
“Follow that bee!” Babieca cried.
They ran out of the undercroft, catching a glimpse of silver as it flew upstairs. The bored artifex who’d been reading stared at them in surprise. They ignored him, running up the stairs in pursuit of the insect. They found it flying in a circle within the tabularium. Was it waiting for them? Babieca couldn’t quite tell. It flew outside again. He grabbed his tunic and cithara, falling a step behind the fox and the artifex as they kept pursuit. The bee left the tower through a window, and they burst through the front door.
Roldan, Morgan, and Fel were waiting by the entrance.
“What are you—” Morgan began.
“No time!” Babieca broke into a run. “Keep up!”
They flew through the city, past wagons, messengers, and lean furs cleaving to alleys. They seemed to float above the stones as they ran, their sandals touching air. Sweating, panting, breaking into laughter, they followed the silver bee. Surely, they looked absurd: a man in a reeking tunica, clutching his instrument as he tried to keep pace with a red-haired artifex. Behind them, a miles was struggling to keep up, her single bronze greave catching the sunlight. To her right was a sagittarius, and to her left, an auditor, legs pumping, eyes straining to see what resembled an erratic star flying ahead of them. Babieca crowed. His body was on fire with joy. He was running along the spokes of Fortuna’s wheel. As long as he stayed in motion, he would never fall. None of them would.
The bee led them to the lowest part of the city. Here the cobblestones gave way to patched earth and marshy pools. The habitations fell away. The path was overgrown with reeds and tall osiers, brittle from the sun. They came to a marble-fronted building, silent and smelling of incense. Babieca watched the glint of silver as it flew into the necropolis. There was no time to question its motivations. The company followed.
Inside, the mausoleum was dimly lit by oil-fed lamps. The first graves were modest, arrayed in a plots that resembled dice. Babieca saw brittle wreathes, rusted baubles, and other gifts left by the living. Someone had placed a hen’s egg next to a child’s marker, symbolizing rebirth. They passed a row of red-and-black urns, decorated with funerary portraits. The ground sloped as they continued, drawing them deeper into the earth. The air was cool and sweet-smelling. He wanted to read the inscriptions, but there was no time. A few tired lupae watched them as they passed, saying nothing.
At last, they came to a section deep within the necropolis. They found the bee circling a grave marker with a rusted hammer beside it. The artifex had reached the grave first, and she was staring at it strangely.
Babieca peered at the letters on the stone. “‘I was Naucrate,’” he read softly, “‘the artifex. I maintained the fountains. May the god
dess protect my daughter, Julia.’”
The artifex held out her hand. The bee alighted once again on the fibula, regarding her calmly as it fluttered its wings. Then it grew still.
“Naucrate was my mother,” Julia said. “She did more than maintain the fountains. She was a true artifex. I barely hold a flake of her talent.”
Babieca stared at her. “It was your mother who fashioned the bee,” he said. “All this time, you’ve been the missing piece.”
She looked bitterly at the insect. “This was all that she left me. It didn’t fly, or make noise—it was just a useless thing. I could never understand why she wanted me to keep it. When the spado offered to buy it in his master’s name, I—” She was on the verge of tears. “The money was too good. I couldn’t say no.”
“Wait,” Morgan said. “What do you mean, ‘in his master’s name’?”
“Well—it wasn’t Narses who paid me. It was another spado, a younger one. His servant, I guess. I wasn’t sure how he’d heard of the thing, but artifices like to gossip. It was finely crafted, even if it didn’t do anything. I could see why he’d want to buy it. So I took his coins and erased it from my mind. The last piece of my mother. I was happy to see it go.” Her eyes widened. “Then, last night, it came buzzing at my window. I’d already heard talk of the bloody banquet. What was I supposed to do? I yelled at it to go away. It flew off.”
“Why did you lie to us?” Babieca asked.
“I was frightened and ashamed. I just wanted you to leave me alone. How was I to know that my mother’s brooch would cause so much trouble? Look at it. Would you imagine that such a little thing could be so dangerous?”
“Julia—” Morgan gave her a long look. “Describe this young eunuch.”
“I don’t know. He was sort of fat. He wore a green cap, like they do sometimes. He had soft hands, and a high voice. He carried the seal of Narses.”
“He was at the Hippodrome,” Roldan said. “Standing by Narses. And I saw him once before that, eating lemon sharbah.”
“We spoke with him at the banquet. He was polite. Harmless, I thought.” Babieca chuckled. “All this time, we’ve had our eye on the wrong spado. I don’t think Narses had anything to do with this. It was his servant. Basilissa Latona must have made some kind of deal with him.”
“A power-hungry spado,” Roldan said. “Could that really be it?”
“Remember what Felix said.” Babieca was nodding now. “He never spoke with Narses about the fibula—only to one of his attendants. He must have stolen the seal. Maybe he showed it to Felix as well.”
“I don’t understand.” Julia placed the fibula in her tunic. “Why would a spado try to murder a basilissa?”
“Because he wants a promotion,” Fel replied. “Narses wouldn’t allow this. Latona must be trying to work around him. Fortuna knows what she promised the young eunuch, but it most likely involves his master’s head on a pike.”
Morgan turned to Julia. “If you’re through lying—perhaps you can help us. We need to get Basilissa Pulcheria to safety.”
Julia looked thoughtful. “I might know a way into the arx. It’s not pleasant.”
Morgan was about to reply when she suddenly wrinkled her nose. She looked at Babieca in astonishment. “Did you piss yourself?”
“It’s the tunica!”
“You might want to accustom yourself to that particular smell,” Julia said. “The place I have in mind is a lot worse.”
4
THEY PLAYED IN THE NECROPOLIS UNTIL nightfall. Julia collected stones for latrinculi, and the ground served as their board. After they’d grown tired of losing to Fel, they traded dirty epigrams, writing them on scattered bits of paper. They tried to make an alquerque box out of twigs and twine scraps, but it wouldn’t hold, so they scratched spaces into the earth instead. They invented a game involving red clay shards, which they’d gathered from a broken amphora. Then Roldan persuaded a bored salamander to exhale small rings of fire. Very few people came near their corner of the mausoleum. Most would rather visit the basia than the city of the dead. Only a handful of mourners descended those dark steps.
Once every game had been exhausted, they returned to the surface. Julia led them out of the reedy corner. They kept to the city’s most obscure angles, walking down blind corners, avoiding the densely populated Via Rumor. As the setting sun doubled shadows, they came to the Tower of Trovadores. Babieca heard bawdy music from above. Failing light struck the yellow-tinted windows, until they burned like gold leaf on papyrus. Without a doubt, bards of variable desire would be lounging on the steps, getting drunk and composing trenchant verse. No member of the gens even suspected his existence. He was a nemo, a pathetic strummer destined to chap his fingers begging in doorways. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the clamor of bad decisions being made by the beautiful.
Julia led them down an alley that ran behind the tower. At the very end was an iron grill set into the wall.
“This leads to the cloaca,” she said. “The sewer runs throughout Anfractus, splitting off into various branches fed by the aqueduct. Not only does it connect to the baths, it also runs beneath the Arx of Violets.”
“Shouldn’t it be locked?” Roldan asked.
“Furs use it,” Babieca replied. “Every night, bodies are dragged into the cloaca. At one time, there was probably a lock, but the aedile grew tired of replacing it.”
“What made you think of this?” Morgan asked Julia.
“My mother used to mend broken pipes. She knew a great deal about water and its pathways through the city. The cloaca, she used to say, was the most impressive thing about Anfractus. In the beginning it was little more than an open trench, but the founders paved it in lava-stone, transforming it into a far-reaching road.”
“A furry shithole,” Babieca clarified.
“We shouldn’t run afoul of them, since they keep mostly to the south end. No fur in her right mind would walk directly beneath the arx.”
“Yet we’re just stupid enough to try it.”
Julia shrugged. “You wanted a way in. Unless you can change your form and walk through the front gate, or hover over the battlements like a shade, this is your only choice.”
Morgan smiled at him. “Plus, you already smell the part.”
“I told you—that reek was from the tunica.”
“I’ve smelled your wind before. Don’t blame it on the clothes.”
Julia kindled a lamp, and they stepped through the small door. A paved path ran through the middle of the cloaca, with churning water on either side. The stone roof was supported by concentric barrel vaults, their design solid and unpretentious. The founders, so it was said, had built Anfractus when their power was at its height. They’d also built roads connecting this city to others, but those had decayed over time. Now they were broken stone, smashed arteries overgrown by plants. The spine of the great via belonged to the spreading forest, which would one day cover the cities themselves, if the silenoi had their way.
They passed great pipes that led upward, carrying refuse away from thermae and a few extravagant homes. Water from the twin rivers flowed left and right, flushing the cloaca. This did little to improve the smell, though. Refuse floated in the watery margins, forming a scum that crept along the sides of their path. Morgan distributed fistfuls of old herbs, which they’d taken from the necropolis. Their sweetness was careworn and faint but better than nothing. Babieca saw various items floating by: a sword hilt, a leather purse, soiled smallclothes, and even a decomposing book. Roldan almost reached out to grab this, but Morgan, anticipating his desire, shook her head.
“Best to avoid the water,” she said.
There were rumors of animals that lived in the cloaca—giant rats and moths that would suck out your marrow—but all they encountered were questionable pools. This was the labyrinthine stone bowel of the city, where blood, dye, and piss all drained in equal measures. Once, they heard the sound of distant footsteps. Furs knew how to walk silently.
It must have been a company such as theirs, looking for something beneath the city. Julia covered the lamp. They stood still in the darkness, listening. The second company was moving away from them. After a moment, their footfalls were no longer audible. Julia continued, leading them farther down the slimy road. Her pauses and frequent backward glances told Babieca that the artifex wasn’t as confident as she seemed.
Eventually, they reached a place where several gray streams converged. A rust-caked ladder had been attached to the wall. Several of its rungs were either broken or covered in layers of filth, streaked by sinister greens and browns.
“This should lead to a bank of toilets,” Julia said, “that is positioned near the Patio of Lions. No sweet ascent, but it will get us inside.”
Babieca looked skeptically at the ladder. “What if we crawl out of the cistern just as some poor soul is taking a shit? He’ll drop dead when he sees us.”
Morgan grabbed the closest rung. “His shade will have to forgive us.”
Slowly, they climbed up the reeking shaft. After the fifth or sixth rung, his hands stopped shuddering when they touched the unimaginable. He focused on the hiss of the water, telling himself that the twin rivers were doing their best. Just as he was beginning to feel faint, he saw a square of yellow light. He stood in a foul cistern, a catch-all for the toilets above. Morgan lowered down a rope, and he took it, bracing his feet against the slick walls. It took some effort, but he managed to climb through the narrow aperture. He slid out of the disgusting keyhole, breathing hard while trying to push down the bile in his throat.
The midden was empty, save for a symposium of flies. Once everyone had reached level ground, they paused to retch and regroup. The herbs were next to useless. There was no way to conceal the horrific perfume of the cloaca.
“I’m having second thoughts,” Julia said, wiping a strand of spit from her lips. “Instead of continuing, I think I’d rather set myself on fire.”
Pile of Bones Page 23
