Furies (39 page)

“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. “
W
hat 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. Let 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.