by Assaph Mehr
At home, her guard disappeared to the slave quarters when we were safely inside, and her girl went to arrange a bath. I hesitated for a moment, but when Aemilia bade me goodbye I wished her a good evening, adding, “Give my regards to your mother,” over my shoulder as I stepped back out to the street.
I don’t know what I had expected. The last time I had seen Cornelia she treated me as a play-thing, having her fun with me on a sea voyage. Her behaviour remained a mystery. Though I keep myself fit, my looks are nondescript — dark curls framing dark eyes, bumpy nose, and a clean-shaven chin. It must have been my dubious charms. She made it clear I was merely a diversion for her and nothing could continue in Egretia. Aemilia, on the other hand, seemed always to dislike me, right up until I rescued her from being sacrificed to Vulcanus.
I didn’t know what to make of them. They had both recommended me to Flaccus — but then saddled me with Aemilia. That meant was less freedom to act and more trudging up and down the volcanic slopes upon which our city nestles as I provided her an entertaining glimpse at the plebeian world before she settled into the life of an elite socialite. It certainly didn’t mean that I became a sought-after guest for high-society dinner parties.
By the time I returned home, I was too tired to follow through with my plans for night-time investigation of the insula. Instead, I resolved to leave Aemilia to do the trudging tomorrow and preserve my energy for some of the less savoury aspects of my investigations the following night, without her watchful eye.
Chapter V
The next morning began the same way as the previous had — by meeting Aemilia under the arches of the Aqua Sexitae. I had some ideas about how to proceed with the magia side of the investigations, but I wanted to wear Aemilia out before we got to the exciting parts — to make the eventual resolution appear more satisfying and bonus-worthy.
We began with the third insula, the one on the Vicus Fabricii. Like the insula we’d visited yesterday, we discovered an abandoned building, a faint acrid smell of magia I could not place, and the now-familiar second-hand tales of gibbering voices, homicidal statues, and living murals. A fun way to spend a sunny morning, hearing stories of suffering and loss.
One particularly gruesome incident was told by the laundress from around the corner, and she swore it was the one that caused most of the tenants to leave. A young family had rented the eastern apartment of the first floor. The man had been a new quaestor in the treasury, at the start of a promising public career. He, his wife, and their six-month-old son had lived there with a couple of slaves. In the nursery, they had hung a picture done in encaustic of the baby Hercules fighting off the snakes in his crib. A charm perhaps, or just an inspiration for the young boy.
That night there were no unnatural screams. Instead, the tenants had been awakened by altogether human wailing that began when the mother checked on her son in the middle of the night and found that the snakes in the picture had come alive and were devouring her child.
The laundress’ vivid description of the two serpents entwined in the crib, each gulping one of the torn halves of the baby’s corpse had shaken Aemilia to the core. We stood in the sunny street, myself and the bodyguard to one side as Aemilia sought solace with her handmaiden, Na’ama. I felt sorry for her, of course, pretty little flower that she was. But it was her idea to accompany me on this case. The quicker she was exposed to the harsh realities of Egretian life, the quicker she would make her choice — to grow up or go back to her sheltered life.
I led us away from that place, walking in the sunlight to help ease Aemilia’s distress until I found a friendly tavern. We sipped spiced wine in silence till our meal arrived. Aemilia poked the poached gull eggs in anchovy sauce, probably wondering if using her hands might be safer than the dirty spoon. Once she finally tried an egg, her eyes widened, first in surprise and then pleasure. While the decor may have been the Subvales standard of decrepitude, the food was top-notch.
“How do you make sense of today’s crop of paranormal occurrences and desiccated corpses?”
“According to the philosophers,” she said, over a piece of bread dipped in olive oil, “one should be able to use pure logic to separate truth from exaggerations and lies. Since we interviewed second-hand witnesses, we cannot discount the possibility that their recounting of events is flawed. So, we shall assume there is a grain of truth to it and strive by reason to extract it from the spun yarns.” She put the bread aside as she warmed to her topic.
“First, all accounts mention chittering voices in the dark of night. We could conclude this was a common start to the affairs, as witnesses across all the buildings are unlikely to have known each other. As for dead babies and desiccated husbands, I think we are safe ascribing it to exaggerations in the retelling. Yes, I’ll grant you people have died. People die every day in this city, for myriad reasons. So, night noises of burrowing insects followed by a death, and perhaps a shifting of Vergu which leads to statues falling, or a leaky roof that causes paint on murals to run and resemble blood all become fuel for wild claims.” The more she talked, the more animated she became. “A wild snake somehow making its way into the city or escaping its handler is more plausible than a repeat of old legends. Tie a natural event to people’s propensity for exaggeration, and let the gossips retell the stories. With repetition comes elaboration and embellishment. Now a shoddily held statue becomes a moving one that creaks and speaks and causes the death of a man — who might have already been sick with the ague. No mystical horrors here, just the superstitious reading in events what they wish to find there.”
I was impressed, both at her analysis and at her recovered emotions. “You present the sceptic viewpoint,” I said, “but what if you are wrong? What would you consider the gamut of possibilities?”
“Pure superstition on one end, as noted. A random shift in the flow of magia comes second. Don’t look at me like that! I may not be trained, but I am educated — I read the treatises of the Arval Brethren. The magia flows throughout the city, till a random shift coupled with a focal point in one of the insulae causes these phenomena. As before, this is a natural phenomenon that lends itself to superstitious misinterpretation. A third explanation is directed occurrences. This theory is supported by the fact that the strange events seem to afflict only my uncle’s properties, and nothing around them. Perhaps a curse, by a dissatisfied tenant.”
“Fourth,” I added, “events directed, but not by a human hand. Has your uncle been diligent in maintaining the colleges of the lares and di penates of his buildings? A dissatisfied spirit might cause these events.”
“Pchah! Spirits! According to Plinius, there are no intelligent numina. These are the uneducated irrational explanations for natural magia.” She tore into her bread again with gusto.
“And if you’re wrong?” I asked. “On any point, from the inflated accounts of events to the presence of intelligent gods?”
“I go by the best scholars,” she replied, “I can’t see where they would all be wrong.”
“Let’s go back to the case, then,” I said, as this wasn’t the time for a philosophical discussion and I was loath to admit to her that her reasoning was actually sound and similar to my own. “How would you proceed in determining the exact root cause — whether an exaggerated natural phenomenon or a directed event?”
She chewed thoughtfully on a pickled cabbage leaf stuffed with barley and prunes, recovered enough to continue eating while discussing dead people. She wiped the fish sauce from her fingers and said, “We only spoke with the agent and tenants. My mother told me she has seen you perform a location incantation when…” She paused, giving me a sidelong glance, “You know when. Do you know any incantations that can locate the source of the trouble?”
“It doesn’t quite work like that. The rituals I know ask a specific question, expecting a particular type of answer. They are also not always reliable. But you are right, that is probably our next step
. I use old-fashioned investigation and interviews to narrow down the options. Running through every possible incantation is too time consuming, costly, and draining. But once I get a clear picture of what is happening, I can find the right ritual to ascertain the answer. We’ll start with your sceptic view, stating this was directed by a human hand. Not,” I added, “because I agree with your view about the numina, but because given that the strange events have been happening only in your uncle’s insulae, it smacks too much of a directing hand to be a coincidence.”
***
We stood again in the inner courtyard of yesterday’s abandoned insula, the one on the Vicus Bellonae. “We’ve decided to start with the human angle,” I said to Aemilia. “So, we need to explore what might a man do to achieve these effects.”
We climbed up floors to inspect the apartments and identify those where the atrocities happened. We heard tales from the neighbours we interviewed, but I wanted to examine the evidence for myself.
A few apartments did not have any discernible signs of the nightmares that took place there, but most did. There was a mural on a wall depicting a pastoral scene in a green meadow, where the colours ran and smeared to the point that the sheep were deformed and covered with blood. A room where all the furniture was smashed, and five long lines ripped the paint on the walls resembling scratches made by inhuman claws. Bloody footprints and hoof-prints, tracing the steps of an intricate, macabre dance.
In each of those places I stopped, closed my eyes, listened, concentrating on the tingling of my skin, sniffing to see if I could find traces of the particular odours of magia.
Aemilia has dismissed her girl for making too much fuss. Then she sent her bodyguard to guard the girl, since a lone girl on the street would be a juicy target for mischief. While I was concentrating, she poked at the gruesome evidence with a stick.
“Can you really sense it?” she asked.
“Sometimes.”
“How does it work? I know the incantatores have the visus verum, the true sight. They can see the flow of magia. Is that what you are doing? Following magia flows?”
“I don’t have the visus verum. It’s why I need quiet to concentrate.”
“But how does it feel? Is it like seeing the wind blow?”
I sighed and opened my eyes. “Yes, the incantatores can ‘see’ the flows, when they focus on them. No, I have no idea how it actually looks beyond the same descriptions you probably read yourself. Acquiring the true sight is a lengthy process, and students start out with basic senses first — touch and smell mostly. The graduates tend to forget it, though, and rely too much on their eyes. But just like the blind will tell you, sometimes the other senses can show you things you can’t see. Smells linger longer. Textures carry information not visible to the eye alone. Now, please, let me concentrate!”
I made Aemilia go to the insula’s latrines, sniff about, poke her head down dirty holes, and tell me if she could spot anything that did not belong in the sewers. Not that I was expecting results, but I needed a few minutes of quiet concentration without constant questions and chatter. I drew a deep breath, shut my eyes, placed my hand on the wall to match a bloody handprint, and tried to sense its original owner’s unfortunate demise.
She came back and announced, “Nothing there. I even dropped a burning torch down one, but all I could see was the flow of water in the shunt to the nearest cloaca line. I didn’t see any bloody marks on the seats, or anything unexpected floating down there.”
“Good. I think we should return you to your mother now,” I said.
“Oh,” she sounded disappointed, “I thought you might have seen enough to try an incantation.”
“I need to do research first — a task we’ll tackle tomorrow,” I answered. Privately, I planned to come back to the insula that night, unobserved by any except the shades of those who died there.
On our way out, I froze when I absentmindedly turned a corner, stumbling across something unexpected. The old basket-weaver told us of poor people who tried to squat after all the occupants left and were never seen again. Four human figures — presumably an actual family, by the apparent sexes and ages — were huddled in the corner. Stretched entrails extended from their little clump of limbs and bodies, clinging to the floor, walls, ceiling. I could not comprehend what manner of being would eviscerate each one in turn and arrange their guts in geometric designs that twisted and turned upon themselves. It made my mind reel.
A strangled cry restored my wits. I turned and scooped Aemilia in my arms, shuffling her out. But she had glimpsed enough. She was trembling as her spirit tried to come to terms with something not meant for civilised minds.
She clutched my tunic, burying her head in my shoulder. I could not ignore the scent of her hair or the warmth of her against me as my own spirit recovered from the sight. After a brief moment she stiffened slightly, withdrew from me, and turned away to compose herself.
“Go outside,” I instructed her. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
This allowed her to resume her proper dignity and gave me a moment alone. I stepped back inside that room, forced myself to examine the atrocities in detail. I extended a hand gingerly, brushing my fingertips against the nearest end of the pattern of viscera on the wall. It was as if I scuffed my feet on a carpet and touched a metal rod. A spark flew up my arm, making my hairs rise and my skin break out in goosebumps. My senses flooded; a vision too brief to understand flashed like lightning in my mind. Magia has flavours. This was not one I cared for.
***
I decided we’d had enough. I’d gathered several hints from spending time in the apartments — snatches of sounds, words and inhuman utterances, acrid smells, the occasional fleeting vision. I was sure the patterns of viscera on the wall had meaning, but my mind and stomach baulked at sketching the dead squatters. The image was indelibly lodged in my memory, enough for me to recognise or recreate later. What we had learnt was enough to give me something to start research on so that I could glean an understanding of how the forces were manipulated, and thus seek out and locate their sources.
I joined the others outside. “Time to go home, I think.”
“That… that was…” Aemilia stammered.
“Yes,” I said. “That was no prank of some hoodlum gang or a small-time magician. That was far more sinister. Your uncle was right to employ me.”
I kept breaking the promises I made to myself. I ended up walking Aemilia all the way up back to her domus. Our conversation veered away from the supernatural horrors to those of human origins as the topic changed to politics. We became engrossed in a discussion about why the wine-growers’ lobby in the Senate was trying to limit wind manipulation in the harbour due to its flow-on effects on rainfall on the other side of Vergu where their vineyards lay.
I was about to leave, having said my goodbyes to her as she crossed the doorstep into her house, when the family’s steward shuffled into the vestibule. “Your mother is waiting for you, domina,” he said in a wheezy voice. “She wishes master Felix to dine with her as well.”
A free dinner and a chance to see Cornelia were more than enough reason to accept. I was given the opportunity to refresh myself on the way and took time to admire the tasteful décor of the mansion on the way to the dining room. The many rooms and corridors, the internal gardens with fountains, and a glimpsed loggia with views to the bay, were all exquisitely done. I do not often get the chance to visit the private residences of the ultra-rich, but I learnt enough from my father’s antique business to discern the good taste of the decor.
Gilded pilasters were kept to a minimum, columns were modestly ionic, and the furnishings were not extravagant. The choice of artwork, though, was the sign of a real connoisseur. The paintings above the dados depicted varied scenes, each room maintaining its theme in both subject and colour scheme. All were expertly executed, as were the many statues hiding in niches and among
st bushes in the gardens. One in particular, of a boxer resting in between fights, caught my eye. A bearded, muscular, naked figure, sitting with hands on his knees and head turned to look over his right shoulder. His face showed complex emotions, frozen in time. It was done in bronze, with inlaid copper to simulate blood on its cut lips, broken nose, and droplets along his shoulder, arm, and thighs.
I reached the triclinium together with Aemilia, ahead of the domus’ mistress. Aemilia took the couch on the right, while I reclined on the one to the left.
A slave took my sandals off and washed my feet while I gazed around the room. The murals on the walls matched the kingdoms of food: a seascape, with frolicking fish and nymphs; a pastoral glade, with grazing sheep and cows; hills with fields of golden wheat; blue sky with white clouds, with flocks of ducks and geese crossing them. The floor mosaic held elaborate depictions of tables laden with dishes of fruit and meat interspersed with bright flowers, while on the ceiling were pictures of gods and goddesses dining on ambrosia and nectar, done in the Hellican style. I settled more comfortably on the couch and chatted with Aemilia about the statue of the boxer in the garden.
Before long, Cornelia arrived. I was struck again by the resemblance between mother and daughter. The same dark hair, milky skin, grey eyes. Cornelia’s voluptuous curves were accentuated by a moss-green tunic, which, despite its modest cut, still clung closely to her. She was accompanied by a friend, whom she presented as Icilia.
“Felix, how lovely to meet you again,” Icilia smiled at me, as she slid onto the middle couch with Cornelia, placing herself close to me.
“The pleasure is all mine,” I replied politely.
“Tell me, what brings you here tonight?”
The case was Valerius’ business, and so I said, “Merely an old acquaintance of the Cornelia.”
The Icilii were an old family, well respected for their contribution to our society in times of strife. Two minutes of conversation with Icilia, however, convinced me that this latest scion was not likely to rise to the same standards. A dumpy, frumpy woman, with too many pins in her hair and folds in her chin, whose incessant giggling was only marginally better than her outright braying laughter.
