In Numina: Urban Fantasy in Ancient Rome (Stories of Togas, Daggers, and Magic Book 2)

by Assaph Mehr

  I still intended to locate some past residents, of course — look for ground-floor shop owners who might have stayed in the area and such. I just didn’t have much hope for success. The situation with this particular insula was different. It was a better address, which meant less of the invisible, transient people and more of those that had regular paying jobs.

  It also had some remaining tenants. Aburius had kindly provided us with a list. A very short list, as only three apartments remained occupied.

  We had a chat with the guardian on the way up, but he only recently came to Aburius’ employ and was new to this post. The first apartment door was answered by an ageing steward. Once we spoke loudly enough for him to understand, he admitted us and fetched his mistress, a woman in her eighties. For her, we had to speak even louder than with her manservant.

  This was one interview made easier by the presence of Aemilia. The old woman took a shine to her, claiming she reminded her of a great-granddaughter she hadn’t seen in years. In fact, I think she just saw me as a bodyguard. Aemilia carried the interview through with charm and grace.

  There was nothing that Minucia, the old woman, could tell us. Having lost her husband many years ago, she lived alone with her steward and a cook in that apartment. All were too old and too set in their ways to notice anything. All noises were either missed or attributed to rowdy neighbours. She hadn’t noticed any other supernatural events, and when asked, maintained that her devout worship of the Bona Dea would protect her from anything.

  By the time we left, Aemilia was calling Minucia avia and promising to visit again. If she was disappointed at not uncovering a horror story of ghosts and shades, she hid it well.

  ***

  We trudged up the steps to the third floor, the second being completely unoccupied. The top two floors each had ten apartments, built as suites of two rooms.

  A female slave named Elpis occupied the first apartment. She accepted our explanations without pause. Her master, she said, was away on business. He was an officer on a trading ship and had sailed in spring at the opening of the shipping season. He spent his winters at the apartment and his summers on voyages, only stopping for a couple of nights at a time whenever trade carried him back to Egretia.

  She was in a talkative mood, but I got impatient when she got to ruminating about a Hellican friend and their plans to buy her freedom and a start a small business. When I interrupted her and explained the full reason for our visit, Elpis paled, and the stories gushed out.

  First there were noises. Scratching sounds in the dead of night, like rats in the walls. Baited traps were set, but no rodent was ever captured. The scratching noises were then accompanied by chittering — high-pitched sounds, like a plague of locusts, making the skin of anyone who heard them crawl.

  The tenants banded together to put pressure on Aburius, who — considering this was the third insula to be hit — hired a veneficitor to place traps for all types of pests, from rats and roaches to things less mundane. The veneficitor came in with his bundles of herbs and poisons, buried them in the garden and in holes in the walls, chanted as needed, and left.

  At first it seemed his charms worked. No noises were heard for several nights and the occupants slept with ease.

  Then the screaming began. Piercing, horrifying screeches, as those of a man being torn apart by harpies. These happened in the dead of night and went on for several minutes. All the tenants had awakened and gone around carrying lamps and torches searching for the source of the disturbance. Yet no cause had been found and all residents had been accounted for and unharmed. After the second night of screams, tenants began looking for alternative accommodations.

  Stories of Valerius’ other affected insulae began to percolate through the neighbourhood. Amplified by gossip, these tales were enough to scare tenants at his other properties. Though nothing extreme had happened in that insula, no one wanted to wait around till it escalated. Potential renters were scared away too, and only those without options remained behind.

  As we made our way to the last apartment, I asked Aemilia, “What do you make of her story?”

  “What do you mean? I thought you were after first-hand accounts of events.”

  “But did we get that? You’ll note she told us about her Hellican lover, the freedman. Put aside all the tales of buying her freedom and opening a bakery. I’ll bet you coins to acorns that she has not been sleeping in the apartment for weeks. As soon as her master leaves on his voyages, she’s bound to spend her nights with her lover at his place. It won’t be possible for him to stay here, but she can account for a night’s absence when her master returns. She must only come here in the morning to care for her dominus’ residence. This will make the majority of her stories hearsay based on retellings by the other tenants in the mornings — before they all left, that is. Not the most reliable of sources.”

  ***

  One can always tell how classy an insula is by the floor on which they stop installing doors and hang cloth screens instead. This one was a decent affair, with only four floors and all apartments — even at the top — fitted with solid wooden doors.

  We knocked at the last occupied apartment in the building, located at the furthest end of the corridor on the top floor. There was a shuffling inside, and a bleary-eyed woman opened the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Good morning, neighbour. Are you Memmia, the washerwoman?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “My name is Felix, known as Felix the Fox. This is my — eh — associate, Aemilia. We are working for the owner of the insula and his agent Aburius.”

  “I paid my rent for the whole month in advance!” she proclaimed indignantly.

  “Oh, no, that isn’t why we came. We were hired by the landlord to resolve some disturbing events that have been happening of late. We wondered whether we might talk with you for a moment about them?”

  “I haven’t lived here long.” said Memmia.

  “How long is not long?”

  “Two nundinae.”

  “And in this time, have you heard any strange tales? Witnessed unexplained events?”

  “I don’t pay much attention to gossip,” she said, with curt efficiency.

  “No strange sounds at night? No unexplained sights?” asked Aemilia.

  “I saw something,” piped a tiny voice from behind her.

  “Marcus! Go right back inside! I told you never to come to the door!” A boy of around six years shrank back into the room. “I don’t have time for this,” she muttered over her shoulder at us, and slammed the door shut.

  ***

  “Does anything strike you as odd?” I asked Aemilia as we made our way down.

  She thought for a moment. “I find it really strange that she dismissed gossip of the strange events here. People of her ilk are usually superstitious. That’s why Aburius couldn’t get more tenants for my uncle — the rumours running wild have driven away the simple folk.”

  “Superstitious or not,” I said, “there is something more fundamental. None of the washerwomen I know could afford this place, and none would be at home during the day. Everyone has secrets, Aemilia. It’s our job to separate the ones related to our case from the noise.”

  “Oh! Ooohhh — do you think she’s involved with what’s been happening? Is she related to the cause? Somehow working illegal and nefas magia here?” My attempts at curing her naïveté were failing.

  “No, my dear. Adopt a cynic’s outlook. That she has something to hide is plain but jumping from there to nefas magia is a leap that defies logic. Have you seen how she got flustered when the boy showed his face? Perhaps she really used to be a washerwoman. Perhaps she got involved in something shady and is now hiding from someone. It is far likelier that her secrets have more to do with money and the boy’s father than anything nefarious.”

  At Aemilia’s crestfallen e
xpression, I added, “This is not life in the Clivi Ulterior. It’s not the place for hatching covert schemes and backroom deals for the fate of our city. This is the neighbourhood of simple people, from lowly craftsmen and traders to pimps and thieves. If we chased everyone shifty, we would see the new year without any results. Time to learn to focus on what matters, which requires developing a gut instinct, which — in turn — involves much time spent in insalubrious environs.”

  “So, what did we find here today?” she asked, eager to learn.

  “A senile old woman who wouldn’t hear the house crashing around her, gossip from a slave that doesn’t sleep here, and a door closed in our faces by a desperate woman hiding with her boy. Prepare yourself for many such disappointments.”

  Chapter IV

  We decided to visit one of the completely abandoned insulae for which Aburius had given us directions. With several hours of daylight left — and with Aemilia’s bodyguard in tow — I thought it quite safe. I wanted to uncover any traces of the unsavoury events, follow up on the claim that even squatters abandoned the buildings, interview potential witnesses or at least build a list of such — all while we still had good light. I could always return Aemilia home before dark and investigate more at night if needed.

  As we made our way down the southern slope of the Meridionali into the warren of alleys that make up the stews of Egretia, I stopped at a stall I knew which sold decent street food and bought us all squid-on-a-stick. Her slaves — Na’ama and Titus — thought nothing of the snack, but Aemilia approached it with a mix of excitement, curiosity, and trepidation. She was clearly not accustomed to eating on the go and held the skewer awkwardly lest the fish sauce drip on her clothes. Her behaviour again reminded me of the sheltered life she had led. Women of her class seldom roam the streets, and certainly not on this side of town.

  We reached the tenement building, located not far from the intersection of the Vicus Bellonae and the Clivus Amulae. All insulae are separated from adjacent buildings by streets and alleys, which is how they got to be named ‘islands.’ The side of this building facing the Vicus Bellonae had shops at ground level — all closed and locked. Above the shops rose tiers of shuttered windows hiding, I imagined, increasingly cramped dwellings as the number of stairs to reach them increased. I counted nine floors — a place for the wretched.

  The entryway into the building was dark and quiet. Piles of leaves swirled under stairs, windows and doors were shuttered, and neither the light of a torch nor the sounds of life escaped from inside. I suggested to Aemilia that she should wait outside with her girl and guardian, but she remained obdurate, insisting she would be safer with me. It was a fair point, so I loosened my dagger in its scabbard and told her bodyguard to remain alert.

  As we stepped inside, the sounds of the surrounding streets dimmed along with the light, the cries of vendors and noise of traffic becoming distant and surreal. The place was derelict, a stark contrast to the teeming neighbourhood. Smells of rot and decay hung in the air like the miasma that accompanies marshes, making it hard to breathe at first. Aemilia gagged and covered her face with a fold of her stola, but when I suggested she wait outside she just waved me onwards.

  The vestibule opened to the inner courtyard. Upper-class insulae usually divide this space between the ground-floor apartments for use as garden-beds, but in the Subvales it was common to have a fountain or well and other shared facilities for the tenants.

  The scene that greeted us was grim. The fire-pits were filled with rainwater, the alcove housing the shrine to the insula’s household gods piled with leaves. Everywhere were closed windows, abandoned sundries, and discarded clothes.

  And silence. Not even cooing pigeons or scurrying rats.

  I shut my eyes and breathed in deeply, ignoring Aemilia, who was clutching at my arm. I concentrated on the scents of the place and the sensations of my skin. Proper incantatores, graduates of the Collegium Incantatorum, have the visus verum, the true sight. If they concentrate, they can see the flow of magia. I, however, never graduated. I developed some sensitivity, though, and can feel when I am close enough to the presence of a source of magia.

  The more I concentrated, the more goosebumps dappled my skin, and the acrid smell of bad magia suffused every corner of my imagination. But that was probably just my mind playing tricks on me, amplifying the background noise of Egretia, with its flows of magia from things as large as the Pharos lighthouse to thousands of trivial superstitious charms. Nothing conclusive.

  ***

  “Before we go digging here,” I said to Aemilia, “We should interview the neighbours from the shops and buildings across the road.” The divination I had in mind for this place was best done after dark — and without putting Aemilia’s pretty nose in danger.

  We crossed the street to a basket-weaver’s shop, where a bent-backed, grey-haired woman in her fifties hunched on a low stool. Her fingers flew as they worked threading wicker, but her eyes and ears were trained on the street. She was just what I was looking for — a perfect gossip.

  After pretending to be interested in a hanger for potted plants, I asked about business.

  “Business is well, praise Minerva. Me baskets are respected, and them people come in from all over the Subvales for ‘em.”

  “That is good to hear. The streets are a bit empty, what with that insula there looking completely abandoned,” I said.

  The woman spat on the ground and muttered a formula for protection. “A nasty business. A curse! By gods or men, it’s a curse.”

  “That sounds ominous! What happened?” Aemilia asked.

  “It started with noises,” told the woman with apparent glee, eager to impress her new audience. “Strange ones first, then others that were downright disturbin’. From voices gibberin’ in hallways to screeches in the dead of night.” The old gossip modulated her voice to match the horrifying sequence of events. “We thought gangs at first, playing cacat pranks. Them tenants banded together and made the crossroad college sacrifice to the lares and penates. That di’n’t help. That night came unnatural howls, and in the morning,” she paused, her eyes gleaming with anticipation, “they found out why. The grocer owned a cat to keep mice from his wares. They found the poor thing, flayed and gutted, spread in a ‘orrible mockery of a mural on the ceiling of his shop.”

  “Oh, my!” cried Aemilia.

  “That was only the beginning,” said the basket weaver with an evil smirk. She went on to tell of the increasingly gruesome events which followed — of bleeding statues, animated homicidal furniture, missing children. “The worst was the night of the Kalends of Quinctilis,” said the woman. “There was a scream like Proserpina being dragged to the underworld. The next mornin’ a young couple was found tangled in bed. Them what cried out — their bodies was all dried up, squeezed of all juices. Like those pickled dead the Mitzrani worship. The embalmers, they tried to separate the bodies, but those dead ones snapped and broke like dry twigs. Wasn’t much to cremate, just dust and ashes.”

  “Is that when the tenants all left?” I asked.

  “No amount of propiti’ory sacrifices, of cleansin’ ceremonies, of blessings and chants by half a hundred fancy priests and wise-women helped. Petitions to the landlord di’n’t help either, not at first. His agent just posted an ex-gladiator whose brains were a-stirred from too much fightin’. Man was too drunk at nights to notice if his own nose was cut off. But one night he seen something and ran away, sayin’ he won’t come back even if they crucify him.” Her fingers never paused from weaving, but the woman spat on the ground to accentuate her point.

  “Finally, that agent paid for a proper incantator, and even them renters chipped in. The man showed up, sniffed around, chanted some incantations — which were, I have on good authority from a wise-woman who delivers babies what saw him work — absolutely worthless. Then he left, none of his business no more. That night…,” she paused, as if cons
idering. “Well, after that night, the tenants left. Whatever that verpa of a veneficitor did, angered whoever — or whatever — cursed the insula. The walls shook and oozed stinkin’ pus. People tried to run but was flung about as if by an invisible god. One man fell from an eighth-floor corridor screaming and flailing straight into the well — which then spewed some foul black liquid, like old blood.”

  She made a protective sign with her fingers to ward off evil spirits before continuing. “From that day on, the building stood quiet — except for once when a family of squatters came.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “If you go to the ground floor apartment on the western side, you’ll likely find what’s left of ‘em. After the noises what came from there that night, no one ever to set foot inside again.”

  We thanked the woman, who swore to us that at the first sign of any strange voices in her insula she would be moving to her sister in Parelae. I bought Aemilia a wicker hanging flower pot, and we stepped back into the sunny street, our eyes squinting as the glare of hot sunshine burned the shadows away.

  ***

  We canvassed a while longer and heard similar stories. Some of the shop owners in the vicinity had already moved. Those who remained had a variety of charms hanging about their person and premises. All had bolt-holes ready to run to on the first sign of trouble spilling beyond the afflicted tenement. But, so far, it seemed that only the insula was affected, and other buildings in the area hadn’t experienced anything even remotely similar.

  It was the eighth hour of the day, and I decided it was time I escorted Aemilia back. We faced a long climb from the base of the Meridionali to the highest reaches of the Clivi Ulterior where Cornelia had her ancestral residence.

  While we walked, we chatted about the day’s findings. My hope that exposing her to the rough life of the Subvales would scare her off the case was soundly dashed. Not even the horror stories of witnesses fazed her for long. I would have to keep an eye on her, which meant an eye less to spare for the investigation.