Furies (46 page)

What was it Zeanthes said? Aculeo thought as he rushed along the street towards the Titles Office in the administrative district. Follow the string to find your way out of the labyrinth. The Titles Office, though, proved to be a dead end – they had no record of properties in Alexandria or the surrounding area under the freedman Callixenes’ name. Little surprise – it would have been quite a long shot for that to have fallen through the administrative cracks, as only freeborn citizens of Rome and Alexandria were permitted to own any property. Freedmen could only act as tenants, yet Callixenes could clearly not afford rent – he raised no crops, only farmed a few foul pigs. That meant whoever did own it must have known exactly what it was used for. The problem was, without a specific lot number, no bribe could have enabled the clerks to find out who actually did own the farmland down on Lake Mareotis.

Aculeo headed home, frustrated by his lack of success. There must be a way, he thought, I can’t have come this far only to hit a wall. He paused in the middle of the street, closed his eyes, thinking of the Iberian porne, Tisris, being taken to that ghastly little farm, her friend
Heraïs, who never returned. Myrrhine,
Neaera, the river slave, Petras … and Calisto will surely be next if I can’t find a way to get her to leave with me. And what about the Cosian? What linked a man like Posidippus to all of this? What a mess. How am I to…?

The Cosian! Did Calisto not say he’d sold off his properties to buy Petras? Now what in Pluto’s cursed name did
Pesach and Gellius
do with his documents?

Aculeo, Pesach and Gellius spent the next hours poring through all the papers documenting Posidippus’ crumbling enterprise one more time, piece by piece, trying to make sense of the tangled mess of deeds and property records.

“The Cosian owned properties from here to Canopus,” Gellius said at last.

“All of them shitholes, I’ll wager,” said Pesach, scratching himself. “I’m hungry and the pantry’s empty. Let’s get something to eat.”

“Wait. What about this?” Aculeo said when he noticed a small square of parchment that had been stuck to the back of another.

“What’s it say?” Gellius asked with a yawn.

Aculeo scanned it quickly, then stopped and read it word by word to himself before saying anything. “It’s a receipt of the sale of twenty arouas of land on the shore of Lake Mareotis five months ago. Twelve hundred sesterces.”

“What I wouldn’t give for twelve hundred sesterces right now,” Gellius said.

“Who was the purchaser?” Pesach asked.

“It doesn’t say,” said Aculeo. “The sale took place in October last year. L
ot
#
384. No other details.”

“Yet another shithole. What of it?”

“I’ll tell you later. Come on.”

“Where are we going?” Gellius asked in surprise.

“To get some food, I hope,” Pesach said. “I’m thinking spiced pork and a jar or two of beer.”

“We’re going back to the Titles office,” said Aculeo.

“Why would we go there? I doubt their pork is especially renowned.”

The clerks back at the Titles Office found the title to lot #384 easily enough this time. The property was described in their documents as being twenty arouas of arable farmland, located on the southwestern shore of Lake Mareotis. It had been sold on a writ on the twenty second day of October. The purchaser was none other than the Concessionary Bank of Arsinoe the Consummator.

“Another dead end,” Gellius grumbled. “The damned Cosian sold it to the bank, along with everything else. His business was a mess, he owed a small fortune. He likely just sold off everything he could and defaulted on his lenders. Satisfied?”

“Yes and no,” Aculeo said. “The owner of the Concessionary Bank of Arsinoe the Consummator is Albius Ralla.”

“Ah?” Pesach said with a harsh laugh. “Well, we’re well fucked now, aren’t we? Are we going to eat or not?”

The rain fell in full force the following morning, pounding down from an iron-grey sky, pocking the water’s surface from the moment they’d left harbour, casting up an oppressive shroud of mist across the inland sea. The shore lay at the edges, all in shadows, while the chilly dampness seemed to seep into every pore of their skin. They could hear the birds call out to one another along the water with their haunted, echoing cries.

“I don’t know why I listened to you, coming all the way out here,” Capito grumbled to Aculeo. The two Roman soldiers accompanying them looked similarly glum about their situation that morning as they huddled, shivering beneath the only bit of shelter on the barge.

“Forgive a simple fellahin woman from asking foolish questions,” Sekhet said, “but is it not the duty of city officials like yourself to investigate crimes of this nature on behalf of your blessed Emperor?”

“We already arrested the madman Apollonios for the crimes.”

“A crime he didn’t commit,” said Aculeo.

“That didn’t stop you from murdering him in his cell,” Capito shot back.

“He killed himself. We’ve been through all this,” Aculeo said.

“You’re lucky I didn’t arrest you. All told, it gives me little confidence in your judgment, or my own for listening to you in the first place. What would a man like Posidippus of Cos even have to do with the murder of a hetaira?”

“That’s what we’re here to discover. Trust me, it’ll be worth our while,” Aculeo said.

“Let’s hope so.” As they reached the salt pans near the south-western shoreline, they saw a group of fellahin sitting in the rain, watching them. One of the young soldiers gave a friendly wave, but the natives simply stared back like ghosts from the shore.

“We’re almost there,” Aculeo said at last.

Capito sneezed. “And what do you expect us to discover in this cursed place exactly? Besides mosquitoes, mud and crocodiles that is.”

“Answers.”

“And I don’t even know what the questions are.”

They anchored the boat and slogged through the shallows, the rain still teeming, whining clouds of mosquitoes greeting them with shrill enthusiasm, burying their red-hot needles into any exposed bit of flesh they could find. And they seemed to find them all, behind ears, armpits, elbows, backs of knees, thighs.
Capito
and the soldiers were cursing before they even set foot to shore. They walked up the rough pathway, past the crude wooden shrine to Poseidon, past the abandoned barges that lay in the sand. Even Sekhet looked uneasy.

“What is it?” Aculeo said.

“I have the feeling someone’s watching us,” she said.

Aculeo peered into the dense brush, heavy drops dripping from the leaves, listened to the birds chippering all around them, but he could see nothing there. They carried up along the path,
Capito
and the officers keeping their short swords ready.

There was a rustling sound in the bushes next to them. One of the soldiers started in surprise, then charged in, emerging a minute later, dragging a skinny slave girl out with him. She struggled and hissed, making odd, guttural sounds like a wild animal.

“Gah, she stinks,” the soldier named Machon gasped. “Grab her, Dryton, she’s stronger than she looks!” The other officer grabbed her by the shoulder, but the girl quickly spun around and bit his hand. He cried out in pain and released her.
Capito
cursed, drew his sword, ready to strike her.

“Hold off!” Aculeo cried. It was the same slave girl he’d seen on his trip here before. He held up his hands, palms forward, showing her he was unarmed. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with terror, her thin face filthy with grease and ashes. “It’s alright, don’t be afraid.”

She struggled again to free herself from the soldier’s grip, kicking her bare heels back into his shins, making her strange, barking sounds as she flung herself about. “Is she a halfwit?”
Capito
demanded.

Sekhet stepped forward then, spoke gently to the girl in Demotic. The girl calmed herself almost immediately, gazing at the healer in surprise. “Let her go,” she said to the soldier, who looked to
Capito
for confirmation.
Capito
gave a reluctant nod and the soldier released her. The girl simply stood there, watching Sekhet.

“Look at her legs,” the healer said.

Aculeo looked down at the slave’s legs, which were streaked with the same reddish clay they’d seen on the river slave. And there, running the length of her left calf, the telltale whitish ridge of a guinea worm. She came from this place then, Aculeo thought, his blood running cold. Neaera too.  Could she still be here somewhere?