The Curse-Maker (14 page)

My back itched. I turned around, and a pair of rodent eyes were peering at me from the western room.

“Excuse me, Philo. Thanks again. We'll talk soon.”

He stared at me and then turned back toward Vitellius, a slave trailing behind him with a bottle of scented oil.

I walked into the dimmer room with the smaller pool of magic water. Calpurnius was lurking in a niche on the end closest to the Great Bath.

“Where've you been? I've been waiting!” he hissed.

“You're early. What've you got to tell me?”

He glanced around the stone, which in the murky light looked like the color of old cream.

“I can't stay much longer. I have to empty the spring tonight.”

“When?”

“Sundown. Senicio and I.”

“Then talk. What did you mean about Bibax and his curses?”

He shrugged. “I think you already know.”

“Maybe I guessed, but you can tell me more. Like what happens to certain offerings—the ones made by former customers.”

His narrow eyes got bigger. “You—how did you—”

“It doesn't matter how. I'm after three things. One—who
Ultor
is. Someone being blackmailed? Maybe. Or someone who figured out the game and didn't like the score.”

He looked increasingly nervous. The pool around us was not quite empty, and someone standing at the other end could still see us talking.

“Two. Who's behind the Bibax scam. He had a partner, or maybe more than one. The dead don't collect blackmail.”

Calpurnius was breathing harder, and his knuckles were white.

“Three. I'd like to find out, before I leave, what the hell is wrong with this city. It's got too many goddamn ghosts.”

He looked up from his lap, where he was holding on to his hands as if they might fall off. There was a curious light in his eyes.

He whispered:
“Cui bono?”

I remembered my Cicero but still didn't understand the reference.

“What do you mean?”

He bit his lip and searched the room again. “I can't talk now. Meet me tonight. By the spring.”

“We've got a dinner party—”

“Make it late. The fifth hour of night.”

I nodded brusquely. “All right. Fifth hour. By the spring.”

Calpurnius got up from the wooden bench and faded into the stone like a small patch of mildew.
Cui bono.
Who the hell profits?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The walk home was drier but more uncomfortable. Calpurnius and his
cui
goddamn
bono.
Sulpicia, who made me feel like the new girl at the discount whorehouse. Then there was the small matter of strangers telling me what was wrong with my wife. Or, more specifically, not telling me.

I looked up and found myself at the door to the villa. I wasn't in the mood to discover anyone else fawning over Gwyna, and I banged the door extra loudly.

Well-trained slaves appeared, as they always did in this house. Ligor melted back into them while a shepherd detached himself from the flock and ushered me into the
triclinium.
Gwyna wasn't there.

“Where's my wife?”

“In the bedroom, sir. I believe she is dressing for dinner.”

He gave me a look like I should be dressing for dinner, too, and wasn't I just a wee bit embarrassed to be running around Aquae Sulis with a mud-spattered tunic and my hair unpomaded?

I grinned at him. “Thanks. What's your name again?”

“Lineus, sir.”

“Well, Lineus, I will now go into my bedroom, with my wife, and change for dinner. Is that right?”

He bowed stiffly. “If you are going out to dinner,
Dominus
.”

I murmured, “Remind me when I don't use the right knife with the appetizer.”

He raised his eyebrows, bowed, and withdrew. Damn good servant. I bet
he
knew what was wrong with Gwyna.

I walked down the corridor and softly tapped on the bedroom door.

“Is it you, Ardur?”

I said yes and heard some whispers, rustling, and a drawer being shut. The kinds of noises you always hear whenever a woman is behind a locked door and wants to make an entrance.

The door opened, and one of the other slaves skittered out. She looked at me and smiled. Thin woman, carried herself with a certain Gallic fashion. Probably a dressmaker.

“Come in, Ardur. I'm ready.”

No lutes, but the Muses were doing a group chorale somewhere in the garden. She was taller, wearing some sort of high-heeled cork sandals. Her hair swept up from her neck and was piled high in gently falling ringlets of golden blond.

The silk tunic showed off her collarbone and draped very low in the front. The purple glowed against her skin, and a red mantle clung tightly to her bare shoulders. Clusters of pearls were hanging at her ears. My mouth was hanging open.

She smiled at me. “I've done a bit of shopping. I hope you don't mind.”

I shook my head and dug around in my tunic for the necklace I'd bought her.

“For me? Why, thank you Ardur!” She sat on the bed and started to open the small pouch. “Why don't you get dressed? I found a toga for you—nothing special. At least it's one of the shorter ones you like better—not as many folds. It's on the other side of the bed.”

Still mute, I skirted around her, to where a gleaming white toga was lying on the blanket. It was stiff and uncomfortable. That made two of us.

Arms wrapped around my neck and lips showered the back of my head with kisses.

“I love it! It's beautiful—thank you, Ardur, my love, my husband, my—”

I turned around and kissed her long and hard. She ran out of breath before I did. I didn't need to breathe.

“Ar … dur. We—I missed you, too, and I'm glad you don't object to the shopping. I got the prices down, but it was still a little expensive.”

I looked at the toga. My togas usually got dirty in proportion to how white they were when we started out together. This one was very white.

“It's nice, as togas go.”

“Well, hurry and put it on. We don't have much time.”

She watched as I took off my tunic and shoes. It was nice to be stared at by my own wife for a change.

“I love the emerald necklace—and the Diana. She's a special goddess to me, did you—did you know that?”

“No. I'm glad I bought the right thing.”

She was quiet while I wrestled with the toga. Then her voice came out small.

“Ardur—you didn't buy this out of—of guilt, did you? You saw Sulpicia today…”

The toga was half on, and I had to yell through the cloth.

“Of course not! I bought it this morning, I'll have you know! What the hell does Sulpicia have to do with anything? Come here and help me with this thing, and bring some
fibulae.
”

I finally got my face out of the cloth and was starting to wrap it around myself when she came over with two pins.

“Well—I want to hear everything that happened today. Especially with Sulpicia.”

“I'll be happy to tell you. After the dinner party. I want to know what you did, too—Philo said you'd come by.”

She nodded, a satisfied look on her face. “That was a test. I wanted to see if he'd be more loyal to you or to me.”

“I'm not sure it was such a good idea to tell him about our ideas.”

“Why not? If he's involved, then it might make him do something rash. If he isn't, then he can help.”

She stood on tiptoe and started to pin my shoulder. I yelped.

“Sorry. I hope he's not tangled up in this. I rather like Philo.”

I looked down at her darkly. “Don't.”

“Now, Ardur. Don't be jealous.”

“Look who's talking! When poor Sulpicia—”

“Poor Sulpicia? Poor Sulpicia?! ‘Poor' Sulpicia as good as murdered her husband. Just because she makes you feel like a satyr in rut—”

“I am not a satyr in rut!” I protested.

The wicked smile came back. She raised her lips to brush my cheek.

“Yes, you are,” she murmured, “but we have a murder—several murders, in fact—to bring to justice. If Sulpicia doesn't quit trying to scratch her itch on you, there'll be another—and you'll know who did it.”

I was beginning to like togas. A lot.

*   *   *

The host greeted us with disappointment when he saw the litter bearers.

“No mare? But Arcturus—”

“She's not in heat, Secundus. If she goes into heat, we'll talk.”

He grumbled a bit and led us in. His wife, a great hulking toothy woman who seemed to fill the room to capacity by herself, greeted us with a ferocious smile.

“Welcome, welcome. Glad to have you both. 'Course, I know the little wife.”

She chucked Gwyna under the chin, and Gwyna flinched, her eyes narrowed. Materna cleared her throat and dragged forward a pretty young girl, obviously bored.

“Secunda. My daughter.”

Her tone implied that Secundus had very little to do with it.

Secunda nodded, showing some interest in looking over Gwyna's clothes and jewelry. When the survey was over, she closed her eyelids and slumped into the dining room. The other guests were already assembled.

Secundus offered me the so-called position of honor on the couches:
imus in medio
. I was glad for once. From the position on the low corner of the traditional square
C,
I could see everyone else's reactions, the reason why this was supposed to be an honor. Maybe the bad food and worse society would be worth it.

Gwyna was below me and to the right. Below her was Big Belly, the councilman I'd met on our first day in Aquae Sulis. He was introduced as Quintus Pompeius—the town tax collector, a frequent dinner guest at every rich table in town. He nodded at us and scooted over. His wife was stuck in the bottom on the far right, in the lowest-of-the-low seat.

Above and next to me, middle on the middle couch, was a soldier, a middle-aged legionary with the unfortunate name of Marcus Mumius Modestus. He was the kind of man who never got beyond the middle, even at a dinner party.

The young Secunda was immediately above him, and mama Materna was keeping a beady eye on both of them. Her daughter might want to play “sheathe the
gladius
” out of sheer ennui.

Materna took up most of the room on the highest couch. To the right and above her, Secundus tried not to disappear. Their most interesting guest held on to the far right
summus in summus
position with his fingernails.

“Arcturus—this is Faro Magnus. You've probably heard of him.”

Faro the Great. The one who could raise the dead. Sounded easier than raising any life in this place.

I nodded at Faro while Secundus talked about him like one of his horses.

“I told you the wife and I are keen on theatricals. Well, Faro has agreed to do something special for us tonight. He's quite a little find, Faro is.” He winked broadly. “Right after we eat—can't keep the cook waiting!”

The food was as stale and tasteless as the party. We gummed our way through a watery oyster and anchovy appetizer, gnawed an overcooked capon stuffed with cold chestnuts and tasteless truffles, and glued our lips together trying to eat the honeyed dates. I proceeded to ruin another set of napkins. They weren't cheap. We couldn't afford any more free dinners.

Faro, at least, was interesting. Slight man, well groomed, with black hair, thick and curly. His skin was startlingly white, his eyes an eerie, penetrating gray. He looked the part. Like the rest of us, he ate without much appetite.

Materna watched everyone, her eyes shining like a beetle's back. A frightening woman. If I looked in her hand, I'd probably find some strings tied to Secundus's back. Somehow I didn't think she liked us. Especially Gwyna.

Our eyes met, and she bared her teeth at me. I smiled and accidentally swallowed a date pit. For relief, I turned to Mumius.

“So, Mumius—what legion are you with?”

He was picking date off his teeth. “II Augusta.”

“Oh—so you're at Isca Silurum?”

He nodded. “Right now I have a message for the fortlet outside Aquae Sulis, and then I'm to report for Household service in Londinium. Hurt my leg, so they transferred me.”

“How'd you injure it?”

He turned red and stared at his dates. “Tripped on a picket.”

I changed the subject.

“What do you do?”

“I'm a wheelwright.”

I was hoping for more fascinating conversation from this unexpected new source, but Secundus made a noise in his throat, and everyone except Materna looked at him expectantly. She was gazing at Faro, with a suggestion she hoped he would raise more than the dead. Poor bastard. That would be a real miracle.

Two slaves cleared the tray in front of the necromancer, and he sat up, moving as deliberately as a tightrope walker. His eyes stared across the room, unfocused and blank.

“Well, as I say, the wife and I—we're interested in things. Entertainments, and whatnot. And, if I may speak for you, dear”—Materna nodded her massive head at him graciously—“I—that is to say, we—think there's much to be said for certain talents.”

He cleared his throat again and looked around nervously, as if he were afraid we'd all take the chance to yawn and leave the party.

“Faro here, for example. Now, I'm sure you've all read about people raising ghosts, but Faro here can really do it. He can talk to the dead. Gets 'em to talk back. So I thought—that is to say, we thought—why not give him a go at the party?”

Secundus sat down and smiled at his wife like a dog waiting for instructions.

I glanced sideways at Gwyna. She'd been talking with Crescentia, Big Belly's wife, for most of the night. Now her eyes were enormous, and riveted on Faro. The black hair, the pale face, the expressive eyes—which seemed lifeless and dull, as if he had to empty his own soul to make contact with others. The mask was just about perfect. I couldn't tell if it was comic or tragic.