Furies Read online

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The Icarian stepped in and punched him hard in the stomach. Viator had to hold him upright for a moment as Aculeo doubled over in pain, trying to catch his breath. “Now, where did you put them?” Theopompus asked slowly, as if he were talking to a slow-witted child.

  “He’s not telling you a fucking thing,” Pesach snarled. Theopompus gave him a pleasant smile, then backhanded him across the face. Pesach shook it off, then grinned at the man, blood dripping from his split lip. “Ooh, that one tickled a bit. You’d better try harder than that, you Icarian assfuck.”

  “Shut up, Pesach,” Aculeo said, trying to think, his head spinning.

  “Tell me, Theopompus,” Pesach gasped, “do Icarians really have cocks like radish sprouts? Your mother told me that’s why your women prefer to be fucked by donkeys ...”

  Theopompus struck him across the face again, then kneed him in the groin. Pesach cried out in pain, collapsing to the floor.

  “Sorry, Pesach,” Bitucus whispered.

  “Fuck you … up the ass … with Vulcan’s poxed cock,” Pesach moaned.

  Theopompus turned to Aculeo, considering him for a moment, then punched him in the stomach. Aculeo fell to his knees, crying out in agony when Theopompus kicked him in the back and kidneys. He curled in on himself, covering his head with his hands, trying not to vomit.

  “Where … are … they?” Theopompus demanded, punctuating each word with another well-placed kick.

  “Don’t worry, your mother’s still a respectable woman, Theopompus,” Pesach managed to gasp from where he lay. “She does like it up the ass, though, like mother like son I suppose …”

  “Pluto’s stinking hole, shut up, Pesach!” Aculeo groaned.

  Theopompus had clearly had his fill. Aculeo closed his eyes and turned away as Theopompus proceeded to savagely beat the naked man. Pesach lay on the ground, unmoving, his blood staining the water that pooled beneath him.

  “Do I have to … beat you both … to death?” Theopompus huffed, out of breath from the exertion. “Come on, Aculeo. I can’t say I even blame you for killing Gurculio. I only want to know where they are.”

  “What … what are you talking … about?” Aculeo gasped, breath jagged and sharp in his chest. “I didn’t kill Gurculio.”

  “I told you,” Bitucus whispered.

  “Shut up,” Theopompus snapped, then turned to Aculeo. “Who did it then?”

  “My guess is Panthea,” Aculeo said. “The Blue Bird was abandoned the next day. She’s long gone.”

  The Icarian licked his lips, thinking – it seemed he hadn’t considered this. “Even if that’s true, the whore’s not clever enough to have done it on her own. She’d have needed help. I’m guessing it was you, Roman. Now where are they?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Flavianus’ tablets, what else? It’s a bit late in the game to play stupid, isn’t it?”

  “Flavianus’ tablets? Are they the same ones Iovinus was murdered for?” Aculeo asked.

  Theopompus stared at him, startled. “You mean you really don’t know?” He started to laugh.

  A shrill squeal of pain echoed through the chamber. Viator turned to see what was happening, his grip loosening just enough. Aculeo seized the slave’s hand and bit it, feeling the bones and tendons crunch between his teeth, a warm gush of blood filling his mouth. Viator screeched in pain and Aculeo swung his fist up hard into the man’s groin. He slumped to his knees, chirping little moans of pain. Pesach was standing nearby, battered but quite alive, a strigil in his hand, smeared with blood. Bitucus stumbled from the room, his face grey and pallid, holding onto a ghastly wound across his belly that threatened to unleash his innards.

  “Shit,” Theopompus said under his breath. Pesach started towards him and the Icarian squealed in terror and ran. Viator found his feet and limped after them.

  “Should we follow them?” Pesach asked. One of his eyes was swollen shut, his nose looked broken and he was missing a tooth, but he managed to grin.

  “We wouldn’t get too far chasing them naked through the streets,” Aculeo said. “Thanks, by the way.”

  “Fuck you and your thanks. I still need a place to sleep, don’t I?” Pesach narrowed his eyes at him. “What was all this business about the tablets?”

  “I’m really not sure,” Aculeo said as they headed back towards the change room, holding his tongue for the moment.

  “Hah, just like you,” Pesach scoffed. “About to get yourself murdered and you’ve no idea why. Well, come on then, I might as well see the little shithole you’ve crawled into.”

  That evening, after Pesach and Gellius had both passed out on the floor of Aculeo’s little flat, their stomachs filled and the wine amphorae empty, Aculeo returned to the ruins of Gurculio’s villa. It was raining steadily. He stepped into the ianua, protecting his torch from the drizzle. The place carried the stench of rot and wet ash. A steady stream of water dripped from the tiled roof through the impluvium and into the mossy green pool in the centre of the entrance hall. The villa had been well looted, stripped of tapestries, statues, vases and furniture down to its cracked tile floor and scorched walls. Not too thoroughly, Aculeo hoped as he climbed carefully up the skeletal stairs to Gurculio’s cubiculum. And there it is, he thought, the obsidian mirror at the foot of where the moneylender’s bed had been. It would have been worth a small fortune if it hadn’t been cracked from the heat of the fire. It was all but worthless now.

  Aculeo traced a finger along the line of hardened wax dripping down the smoke-stained wall below. He found a marble bust of Gurculio – a disturbingly good likeness not even the looters had wanted – and heaved it against the mirror. Shards of obsidian rained on the floor, along with three wooden frames. The type used to hold wax tablets.

  Were they worth dying for, Iovinus? Aculeo wondered, crouching down to retrieve the frames. But what wax had once been there had melted in the heat of the fire, leaving nothing but bare wooden backboards. And whatever had been written there was now long gone.

  The rain cast a damp chill on the evening. The smart thing would have been to return home and get some rest. Instead Aculeo found himself standing outside Calisto’s villa. It seemed she already had a visitor, though, for a handful of slaves he didn’t recognize lingered just outside the gates of her villa, standing guard. The rain spattered on the paving stones and tapped on the clay tile roof, but Aculeo stayed where he was. Thunder crackled overhead, rumbling across the sky like rocks through a hollow cavern. The air smelled sharp, earthy, and the rain began in earnest, but Aculeo simply closed his eyes and listened, the rain running down his face, soaking his robes. He thought he could hear Calisto’s cries from beyond the walls. Whether they were of passion or pain he couldn’t tell, but the ache that roiled up from the depths of his heart punished him nonetheless.

  He watched the rain falling all around him in glistening sheets, washing down the rutted streets, spilling into the gutters and the canal. We all play a role in this life, Zeanthes had said. A hero, a villain, or just part of the chorus. He may well be right about that, but the question remains, do we even have a choice of what role we play?

  The alley reeked of vomit, piss and unwashed, sweaty bodies as the gamblers gathered around, placing their wagers. I’ve nothing left, Aculeo thought as he threw down more silver then cast the dice against the wall, vaguely registering the roar and curses of those around him.

  Whatever secrets Iovinus and Gurculio may have hidden have gone to Tartarus with them. It’s all been for naught – and I’ve been a fool. There’s nothing here for me. Calisto’s not even within my reach. She’s Ralla’s hetaira. Bought and paid for. The crowd roared again as the dice landed. More silver fell, another call to place bets.

  Silver, Aculeo thought miserably, putting down more coins. It always comes down to that, doesn’t it? What happened to Titiana when the silver was gone? Back to Rome to marry Spurius Lartius Carnifex, no less. Le
t her. I can do nothing to stop her anyway. I’ve nothing left.

  Calisto’s no different. I can’t afford her, not on any fucking level, he thought, casting the dice into the dim shadows against the wall, the crowd aroused, pushing and shoving, roaring and scrabbling, straining to see them land. He downed his wine, harsh and sickeningly sweet, spiked with cheap perfume, spilling half of it down his chin. He emptied his purse on the ground to the glee of those around him then gathered up the dice again.

  Albius fucking Ralla. Friend of the Prefect, no less. What was his role in all of this? I suppose I’ll never know. There’s no one left to tell me – Iovinus is gone, Corvinus, Neaera, Myrrhine, Petras, Gurculio … That bastard’s outplayed me on every fucking turn. He must have laughed to see me at his symposium, blind fool that I am. Everything I touch has turned to shit.

  Images of Titiana rose in his mind unbidden like smoke, the pain he’d seen in her eyes when she’d learned of how he’d lost their fortune, and their family honour with it. It was as though a cord tying them together had been severed, never to be repaired. And what of Atellus? My own son to be raised by another man, to call him father, to take his name. What will happen to mine? Atellus will lose it – he won’t even remember it.

  Aculeo threw the dice. The crowd roared again, a handful of sweaty silver was shoved into his hand as others pounded him on the back. A rare winning toss.

  “Come on, darling, let’s find some place quiet,” a woman’s voice whispered in his ear. He felt a soft hand taking him by the arm, pulling him away into the dark alley. He looked blearily at her, her dark hair tangled with curls and a sloppy, drunken grin on her face. “Let’s help you spend some of that.”

  “Why not?” he said, slumping against the wall, his eyes unfocused as he gazed at her. So young, he thought, so sweet. “But another drink first. I’m so thirsty.”

  “Already flying with the birds, aren’t you? Come here,” she said, leaning down to kiss him on the mouth, her breath sour and dirty. He could hear the crowds still playing dice, roaring in the darkness as the next player tossed.

  “What’s your name?” Aculeo slurred as she fumbled with her chiton, helping his hands find her.

  “Philomena,” she said.

  “Philomena … how do I know that name?”

  Someone opened the back door of the kapeleion and dim yellow light flooded into the alley. He recognized her when he saw her face, the dark bruise under one eye, the swollen lip. She turned away self-consciously. Aculeo cupped her chin, touched her throat, a cold wave of sobriety flooding through his clouded head. The girl pulled away, frightened now, but Aculeo held her tight. “Wait.”

  “Let go of me,” she whimpered. “Please!”

  “I’m not going to hurt you. Just tell me where you got this?” Aculeo asked, holding up the necklace Philomena wore around her neck.

  Neaera’s cameo necklace.

  The recluse lay curled up on a pile of straw on the floor, his breathing rough, laboured. Flies swarmed about his festering wounds, filling the hot, fetid air with their relentless buzzing. His skin was sallow, his wounds puffy with a greenish haze blooming beneath the flesh.

  “Apollonios!” Aculeo growled. The recluse started, squinted up at him, his glassy eyes slowly coming into focus. Aculeo held out his fist. The man flinched, drawing away in fear. “Do you remember this?” Aculeo opened his hand, revealing the necklace he’d taken from Philomena.

  Apollonios looked at it, blinking. “So pretty,” he whispered, then resumed muttering to himself.

  “You stole this from Neaera, didn’t you?” Aculeo said.

  “Such a pretty thing,” the recluse whispered.

  “Then you gave it as a gift to the porne Philomena. Your Eurydice.”

  A flash of recognition, touched with regret. “She loved me.”

  “She’s a porne, fool. You paid her to love you. Not to let you almost kill her though.”

  “Eurydice…” Apollonios whispered, tears running down his filthy, wounded face.

  “Yes, well, she’s alive at least, not like the others, eh?” Aculeo weighed the necklace in his hand, looking down at the broken man before him, trying to piece the horrific pieces of the puzzle back together. How could I have gotten myself mixed up in all that madness about Ralla? Spinning twisted fantasies, trying to make sense of things when it was this filthy wretch behind the women’s murders all along! “What did you do with Neaera? Did you toss her body in the canal as well?”

  Apollonios hugged his knees to his chest, his eyes closed, rocking back and forth as he muttered nonsense to himself.

  “How did you even take her in the first place? Did you lie in wait for her? Attack her when she was alone on the street then murder her and steal her necklace?”

  The recluse looked at him in confusion. “I took the necklace from the slave. Sarapis provides … gives me sanctuary. I must give sacrifice.”

  “You’re tripping over your own lies now, fool,” Aculeo growled. “The necklace belonged to Neaera, not the slave.”

  “I went to the temple of Sarapis to … to seek forgiveness. To give worship. To pray. Please, I must give sacrifice … sacrifice … I must give sacrifice.”

  “Is that it then? You killed them in sacrifice to Sarapis?”

  “Nononononononooooo …” Apollonios said as he covered his ears, closed his eyes and rocked back and forth.

  “Their blood still stains your tunic. The supplicant Cleon saw you murder that slave.”

  “The necklace … the necklace was the slave’s. I … I gave her my bracelet so that Sarapis would save her. Fair trade,” Apollonios said weakly, then he seized Aculeo’s hand with a frantic fury. “Do you know of the Great One’s divine purpose in this world?”

  “To Tartarus with your Great One! Tell me what you did!”

  “The Furies,” Apollonios cried, pointing a quivering finger over Aculeo’s shoulder. “Do their eyes not drip with the sickness of their desire for vengeance?”

  Aculeo glanced warily over his shoulder, then spat on the floor just in case. Pah, listen to him, getting me tangled again in his lunacy like some black foul muck. He grabbed the recluse by his grubby tunic and threw him up against the mud-brick wall. “Here I was thinking it couldn’t possibly be a mad recluse like you who killed those women,” he whispered hoarsely. “It had to be another. Gurculio, perhaps, or even Albius fucking Ralla, no less, a Friend of the Prefect’s!”

  “Please …” Apollonios gasped.

  Aculeo could smell the man’s foul breath, his flesh feverish to the touch. “Tell me what happened, damn you, before I feed you my knife and let your filthy blood drain into the dirt.”

  “Hail O Great One,” Apollonios choked, tears running down his scarred face. “May others learn to worship you as I so humbly do.”

  Aculeo shoved his forearm against the man’s throat, choking him. “Pray all you like, but your god has abandoned you. We’re all alone here, just you and me, facing what you’ve done at last.” Apollonios looked up at him, his confusion suddenly cleared like a passing storm, replaced by the oddest expression – a gentle smile. “What are you grinning about?”

  The recluse snatched the knife from Aculeo’s belt with startling speed.

  “No!” Aculeo cried, breaking free of the lunatic.

  “Hail Sarapis,” Apollonios cried, his eyes now lit with a fervent glow, then turned the blade and shoved it into his own belly. A gush of blood spilled from his mouth and he slid down the wall, gasping for breath.

  “What did you do?”

  “I … I give … sacrifice!” Apollonios whispered.

  Aculeo stumbled retching from the cell, stinking of blood and death, and called to the guards for help.

  “There was nothing anyone could do,” Sekhet said solemnly, closing Apollonios’ eyes. “Even if I’d gotten here in time, he was too far gone to begin with.”

  Aculeo said nothing as he looked down at his trembling hands, the front of his tunic still sticky with
the other man’s blood.

  “He was a soldier?” she asked, examining the heavy scarring on the man’s wasted limbs.

  “Many years ago,” Aculeo said. “A hero in the Battle of Teutoburg, his brother claimed.” The healer looked at him, puzzled – the battle’s name clearly meant nothing to her.

  Sekhet summoned the guards. “Take the body to the Necropolis, ask for the priest Paheri,” she said. “And don’t try to dodge this, it’s not a good idea to deceive those in charge of guiding your journey into the afterlife, understand?” The guards grudgingly carried Apollonios’ body from the cell. The healer looked at Aculeo and frowned. “When’s the last time you had something solid to eat?”

  “I can’t remember. Yesterday sometime I think.”

  “Come. We can talk of these things while you eat.”

  Sekhet’s home was a single story, mud-brick structure on the end of a row of similar houses built along the edge of the winding blue Draco River in Rhakotis. She led Aculeo through the anteroom into a large central room with a simple table and four mud-brick benches along the walls cushioned with reed mats. Behind that was another room with a low bench and two sets of stairs, one leading to the roof, the second down underground. She brought him a basin of water to wash up and a fresh tunic to change into.

  When he was done he went out to the back of the house where an open garden looked over the river. Half a dozen women, young and old, sat in the courtyard beneath the shade of a sprawling acacia while an old man sipped beer slowly from his clay jar. Gurculio’s little dog Felix sat on the old man’s lap, growling when it spotted Aculeo. A number of children ran up from where they’d been playing alongside the canal and gathered excitedly around Sekhet. The adults offered Aculeo polite nods of greeting, though they seemed not to have a single word of Latin or Greek among them.

  “My family,” Sekhet explained. “Too many names. You’ll never remember them.” She spoke to them all quickly in Demotic. The other women laughed and chattered to one another, while the old man cast Aculeo a suspicious glare.