Furies Page 17

  “Let go of my wine,” Aculeo said, meeting the other man’s gaze.

  Capito put the cup down. “Why did you ask the recluse about Gurculio? What were you fishing for exactly?”

  “I’m not sure myself. It’s a tough thing to fish when your net’s as tangled as this one.”

  “When we found the murdered hetaira by the canal, you said you’d seen her at Ralla’s symposium. You saw Gurculio there too, if I recall correctly. You think the two of them are connected to these murders as well?”

  Aculeo held his tongue. The Magistrate drummed his fingers on the tabletop, his mouth tightened into a narrow slit. Aculeo looked away. Part of him wanted to reveal what he knew to his friend, but the rest of him held back. What do I know, exactly? One hetaira is missing, while another is murdered along with some random river slave. And their murders are connected somehow by a length of yellow thread. And I’m still no closer to finding who murdered Iovinus and stole my fortune than I was before.

  “It’s just foolishness,” he said at last, forcing a smile.

  “I’m invited to a symposium at Ralla’s villa tomorrow evening, so if you’re truly expecting him to start murdering his guests I’d like to know beforehand so I don’t get my best tunic soiled.”

  “It was nothing. It was the recluse that murdered these women. End of story.”

  “Doubt can nag at you like an old woman, eating away at the edges of any brief joy a man may feel,” Capito said. “Just let the murder court do its job now. The Archipegaron will try Apollonios, convict him and execute him. As for us, we’ll be done with it. Ah! I must be getting drunk. This fellahin piss is actually starting to taste good. Come on, let’s find some decent wine and women to match so we can forget about this scabrous world at least ‘til morning.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Quite.”

  “Fine, sit and muse amongst your fellow sophists then. Good night. And try to find yourself a little pleasure, will you.” With that Capito stood a little unsteadily, braced himself, then walked out the door and into the street.

  The evening breeze had picked up outside, whistling through the unmortared bricks of the kapeleion walls, rattling the door in its frame, the dry palm fronds that made up the roof rustling restlessly overhead.

  Aculeo’s thoughts returned to the missing merchant Posidippus of Cos. What happened to him, I wonder. And what’s the moneylender’s interest in him? A thousand sesterces’ worth. With a merchant, there’s always money to guide you, as surely as the river leads to the sea. And at the head of this river – the moneylender Shimon-Petrus, who’d loaned the Cosian a small fortune, none of it repaid according to the documents. Was it possible Shimon-Petrus was somehow involved in Posidippus’ disappearance? And perhaps Iovinus’ murder too? It was difficult to conceive of – the man had always seemed quite honourable in any encounters they’d had. Still, being owed vast sums of money could adversely affect a person’s view of the world, as he himself well knew. Could he be connected to the rest of this somehow? If nothing else perhaps he can shed a little light.

  Aculeo threw back his wine, his eyes watering as the harsh liquid seared his throat, and headed into the early evening streets towards the Agora.

  Shimon-Petrus ran his enterprise from one of the high end shops along the Painted Stoa in an immaculate part of the Agora. The shops there were graceful and fashioned of heavy blocks of lime and marble instead of the mud brick used in poorer sections of town. A wind had picked up, sweeping in from the darkening sea, clattering the leaves of the date palms and sweet acacias that grew like weeds in tight groves along the Canopic Way. The early evening sky had turned a pale orangey-pink, like the inside lip of a seashell, ready to wink out on the horizon to the west, a warm fresh breeze blowing in from the harbour.

  Shimon-Petrus was a negotiatore, not a moneylender of Gurculio’s sort but an investor in legitimate businesses, working on his own behalf and that of wealthy backers. He’d been an associate of Corvinus’ for many years, even partnered with him on occasional mutual opportunities. While Aculeo knew the man socially, he’d dealt with him directly only once. As they’d sought out bridge investors for the second fleet, Aculeo himself had approached Shimon-Petrus. The old man had listened but politely declined the opportunity, stating the deal was just too risky for his comfort. He’d also strongly encouraged Aculeo to reconsider his support of the deal for the same reason, but hubris had prevailed. And if I’d listened to the man, what then? My life would have continued along quite a different course.

  Shimon-Petrus’ shop, it turned out, was closed for the evening. A neighbouring shop owner informed him it was the Jewish Sabbath and that the old man had already headed off to temple to worship. To Delta then, Aculeo thought.

  The columns outside the Great Synagogue in Delta had been lit with oil lamps, making the entire area almost as bright as day. While there were numerous Jewish temples scattered about the city, Israel’s Glory was something else entirely. An enormous, oblong building of pale limestone quarried from distant lands, it rested within an exquisite double colonnade as a golden yolk lays within an egg’s shell. Broad marble steps led up from a garden to a pair of great bronze doors, a gold-gilded Star of David gleaming above the entrance, facing Jerusalem far to the east. The granite plaques on the walls next to the doors proclaimed that Augustus Caesar himself had been a patron of the temple, along with his wife Livia and eventually his successor, Tiberius Caesar. The worshippers slowly filed up the steps into the temple to join their brethren, the mournful sound of a gong echoing through the streets, summoning them to worship.

  Aculeo covered his head and stepped inside with the other worshippers, the soot-stained walls dimly lit with torches. The interior of the temple was a vast hall, which quickly filled with worshippers, each standing amongst their own, goldsmiths with goldsmiths, bankers with bankers, blacksmiths with blacksmiths. Along the collonaded sides of the huge central hall, men often continued to conduct business and socialize during service.

  In the centre of the temple sat seventy-one golden chairs arranged in a ring within which were seated the elders with their oiled white beards, fine tunics and himations. One of them, an elegant looking man with a neatly trimmed white beard, was Shimon-Petrus. A Jewish priest climbed atop a wooden platform in the centre of the ring and called the worshippers to prayer. The temple was so vast that as he read from the book of prayers a second priest would wave a red flag so the worshippers in the most distant sections would know when to answer for each blessing.

  Aculeo listened to the worship, his head bowed, his eyes closed, hypnotic threads of solemn prayer and cries of Amen rising up through the windows cut near the temple ceiling, spilling against the darkening sky.

  When at last the worship ended, Aculeo followed Shimon-Petrus and a small group of men out into the street as they chatted good naturedly with one another. He approached him with a friendly wave.

  “Shimon-Petrus?” Aculeo said. “My apologies for the interruption.”

  The man looked up, his pale brown eyes clouded with cataracts, squinted at him then gave a puzzled smile. “Tarquitius Aculeo. Well, well, such a pleasant surprise.”

  “Kind of you to remember me, sir. I was hoping to speak with you about something.”

  A young man looked warily at Aculeo and took Shimon-Petrus by the elbow. “This is my son, Eli. We need to get home for our dinner. Come, Aculeo, we can talk as we walk. You’ve been well I trust?”

  “Well enough,” Aculeo said as they headed down the well-lit street. “I would have fared better had I listened to you about my last investment.”

  “You had a bad turn, I know.” Shimon-Petrus placed a hand on his shoulder. “I was sad to learn of the deaths of Corvinus and his lovely wife. A terrible loss. I considered them dear friends.”

  “Corvinus was like a father to me. This is an unrelated matter though. At least, I think it is. I understand you had business dealings with Posidi
ppus of Cos.”

  “Yes?” the old man said, puzzled.

  “He’s disappeared.”

  Shimon-Petrus paused for a moment, his smile slipped off his face. “Is this true?”

  “Quite true.”

  The man looked shaken. He shook his head and tapped his son’s arm. “Let’s keep walking, Eli. Ah, this is not good news. Not good at all. Any idea where he might be?”

  “No. By the looks of his warehouse, he left quite quickly, either on his own or against his will. I understand he owed you quite a bit of money.”

  “He did indeed. But how did you know that?”

  “He left some documents behind.”

  “And so you’re wondering if I might be involved somehow in Posidippus’ disappearance?”

  Aculeo glanced at the elderly man walking beside him at his son’s arm, frail, gentle, his vision failing. Any suspicion he might have had suddenly dissipated like smoke, leaving him with nothing. “Nothing like that. I’m simply trying to find him. I was hoping with your connections you may have heard something.”

  “I’ve heard nothing at all I’m afraid. Posidippus did indeed owe me money. I let it carry on too long. I should have been more careful, but he’d always been a fair man to deal with, a little rough about the edges perhaps but a shrewd businessman.” Shimon-Petrus paused, deep in thought. “He missed a repayment of his loan five months back and came to me for further investment. A bottomry loan. I declined until he could give me a better sense I’d ever be repaid. Posidippus is not an easy man to say no to, but I had little choice. He got quite angry but he finally went elsewhere.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “I had heard he received funding from the Concessionary Bank of Arsinoe the Consummator.”

  It wasn’t unusual, of course, Aculeo thought. Unlike the Imperial banks, which were dedicated solely to the always thriving business of tax collection, the Empire licensed out a small number of concessionary banks responsible for greasing the other parts of the machine required for a successful marketplace, including bottomry loans to ship-owners, loans against land holdings and tax farming. The Bank of Arsinoe the Consummator was one of the largest of these. “Do you know who at the bank he might have dealt with?”

  “Ah, well, a loan in the amount he was looking for, twenty thousand sesterces if I recall correctly, he would have had to deal with the principle owner directly. Ralla, that is.”

  Aculeo stared at the other man. “Albius Ralla?” he said, trying to hide his shock.

  “Yes. I’m not sure whether or not the venture was even successful, although Posidippus has yet to settle his debt to me. I have doubts now he ever will.”

  They had arrived at the gatehouse of a lovely home in Delta, the rich smell of broiling fish wafting through the air. “We should go in now, Father,” Eli said. “You should eat.”

  “I’ll come in a moment, you go ahead.”

  “But Father …”

  “Do as I say.” Shimon-Petrus smiled as the young man turned and entered the gates of the home. “He worries about me too much.”

  “He’s a good son who honours his father,” Aculeo said. “Do you know Ralla well?”

  “Well enough,” the old man said.

  “Do you think he could be involved in the Cosian’s disappearance?”

  Shimon-Petrus looked directly at Aculeo with his milky eyes and reached his hand out to touch his arm. “You should take more care with your words when it comes to men like Ralla, my friend. Wealth and influence are everything in Alexandria, and he has a great deal of both.”

  “I’m merely asking questions,” Aculeo said.

  “Well, I doubt a man of Ralla’s stature could be involved in such a sordid thing. And even if he were …” The old man shook his head in dismay.

  “Did you ever have any dealings with Iovinus?”

  “Your negotiatore? Of course, on several occasions. Why do you ask?”

  “Did he ever approach you directly seeking investment? Since Corvinus’ death I mean.”

  Shimon-Petrus gave him a look of genuine surprise. “Did he not drown when your fleet sank?”

  “That’s what we all believed, until he returned to Alexandria a week or so ago and was found murdered.”

  “Oh?” The old man’s cheeks turned pale. “That is most troubling news. Are these things connected?”

  “I don’t know. I think they must be somehow, but …”

  “Father,” called a voice. Eli stood in the entranceway of their home, his jaw clenched as he glared at Aculeo.

  “My family is expecting me,” Shimon-Petrus said. “Please, join us for dinner.”

  “Thank you, but no. I appreciate your counsel.”

  Shimon-Petrus patted his arm. “Troubling times. I wish you good fortune. But a word of advice from an old man. Take care with the questions you ask. Some words can turn to poison before they even leave your mouth.”

  The sun was beginning to set over the western harbour, the ships bobbing in the golden waters, the Lighthouse towering above, its fiery eye gleaming like a second sun in the sky. Capito was dressed in a splendid tunic of a coppery sheen and a splendid ivory toga that Aculeo could only envy, for his own tunic, albeit his best one, was fraying at the edges while his toga had been repaired three times already – and Xanthias’ fingers were not as nimble as they had once been. The prospect of standing out like a country peasant at Ralla’s symposium was disconcerting to say the least.

  “Aculeo,” Capito said, greeting him with the slightest of nods.

  “I’m pleased you were able to extend an invitation, Magistrate. You have my gratitude.”

  “Fuck your gratitude. I’ve enormous doubt about the wisdom of my assent, given your obsessions about this evening’s host.”

  “Can a man not simply seek a night of socializing?”

  The Magistrate rolled his eyes towards the heavens. “It’s bad enough for you to strain the limits of what influence I might have without you treating me like a pot-headed fool. Tell me what you suspect at least or I’ll leave you on your own to explain your attendance to Ralla.”

  Aculeo hesitated at first. He’d been as vague as he could in his note to Capito about why he wanted to accompany him to the symposium that evening but clearly the man’s patience had run out. And so as they made their way along the still busy Canopic Way past the crossroads at the Street of the Soma, the palm trees rustling in the evening breeze that swept along the broad and picturesque colonnade, Aculeo revealed what little he knew and what more he suspected. The evening air smelled of the Egyptian Sea, an evocative mix of brine and sweet acacia.

  When he was done, he felt a knot of doubt twist in the pit of his stomach. Capito kept his silence.

  “Those tablets Iovinus had,” Capito said at last. “Any idea what might be on them?”

  “No. Something important though – enough to draw him out of hiding. And get him murdered. Do you think me deranged then?”

  “Worse,” Capito sighed. “I fear you might be right. Which makes my bringing you here tonight an even stupider idea than it seemed before.”

  “I’m not about to confront the man in his own home.”

  “See that you don’t, or may Jupiter squeeze himself between your hairy cheeks.”

  They followed the winding street into Lagos, the exclusive deme where Ralla lived. It offered a fine view, the Lighthouse on Pharos, the Brucheion palaces and the neat, glistening gridwork of seemingly endless white-washed buildings that stretched toward the sea, awash in the orange-red glow of a dying sunset.

  They came at last to Ralla’s villa. The high garden walls were lit with glowing lanterns covered with pink, green and blue cloth. The evening air was laced with the smell of roasting lamb and strains of lyre music, pounding drums, jangling cymbals, singing and laughter. The pathway beyond the gatehouse circuited the front garden, leading towards a wide entrance hall bordered by tall columns of white and grey-veined Himmatean marble. They could hear the whisper o
f laughter from deep within the garden, the shadows of people moving along the many tributary pathways that branched away from the main path.

  Lucius Albius Ralla, dressed in an exquisite black tunic and silver-bordered toga, greeted his guests as they arrived, his face already flushed with drink. “Magistrate Capito,” he said, “you do me honour, sir.”

  “Such a gracious invitation, Ralla, it is my sincere pleasure,” Capito said, embracing the other man, kissing his cheek. Could he truly be behind it all then? Aculeo wondered. Ralla looked an ordinary enough man, almost frail with his pale, slender limbs, rounded belly and watery brown eyes. Could he have ordered Iovinus’ murder? And what of Myrrhine? Or Neaera?

  “You know Tarquitius Aculeo I trust,” Capito continued. “I hope you don’t mind me extending the invitation to him.”

  The banker’s eyes flashed towards Aculeo, measuring the man. “Of course,” Ralla said. “Aculeo, a pleasant surprise to see you again.”

  “The pleasure’s mine,” Aculeo said with a forced smile. “I’m looking forward to a splendid evening.”

  “And I hope to surpass your expectations. Please make your way inside. Ah, Vestorius, you do me honour sir,” Ralla said, moving away to greet another guest.

  Capito and Aculeo walked down the elaborate fauces towards a set of broad marble steps leading up into the triclinium. “Satisfied?” Aculeo asked.

  “The evening’s only just begun.”

  A pair of pretty young girls approached them bearing garlands of myrtle entwined with white narcissus. They were dressed as traditional Egyptian dancing girls, with translucent linen kilts, their pubescent breasts barely covered with elaborate necklaces, their eyes painted with kohl, and plaited black wigs atop their heads, crowned with fragrant perfume cones. They draped the sweet-smelling garlands around the men’s necks. A third girl, lovely with dark skin and almond-shaped eyes, anointed the two guests with perfumed oil, touching a drop of it on their foreheads while a fourth girl washed their feet with scented water.