The Curse-Maker (25 page)

“Dream about all those
denarii.
What else?”

“Well, long about the fourth or fifth hour of the night, I look around from the dice game—I'm not winnin' that one so easy—and I see this young girl come in here. Now, we don't usually get young ones at the Nymph—them whores out there are all old enough to jerk you off before you knew you was hard, and this one was young and pretty.”

“What about Faro?”

“That's it. She came for him. That's who he was waitin' for, because he follows her outside like a dog. I want to see if she's goin' up against the wall, but it ain't like that. When I get outside, she's gone, and he's holdin' a note, starin' at it. So I say, ‘Where you goin' so late?' thinkin' he'll never answer me, but he just looks at me funny and says, ‘Where we'll meet again.' Then he climbs on the horse and rides off.”

He gave me a look that was supposed to tell me something. “I guess you know what that means.”

“Yeah. Is that it?”

He swigged the wine again. “Ain't it enough?”

“Yeah.” I stood up, and Draco echoed me. “Thanks for the game.”

He grinned. “Glad you thought of it.”

I lowered my voice. “Be careful. Funny things happen in Aquae Sulis, especially to people who talk to me.”

His nut-brown skin paled a little, but he shrugged and drank some more wine. “I can take care of myself. Be seein' you.”

Draco and I walked out into the night. It was cold. The moon was playing hide-and-seek with some clouds. I turned to him. “You up for a long hike?”

His brow wrinkled. “Where are we going?”

“To the place where Faro was murdered. To where we all meet again.”

He still looked puzzled.

“The cemetery, Draco. We're going to the cemetery.”

*   *   *

The walk was long, and my head still hurt. A seabird lost in a cloud somewhere shrieked, and Draco jumped. His eyes were whiter than the pale shadows he halfway expected to see.

Romans have an uneasy relationship with dead people. On one hand, they like to dress up in death masks once a year and imitate their famous relatives. On the other hand, they make signs and throw beans around the house during the
Lemuria
in order to keep dead family members—the ghosts of all those mothers-in-law—out of the house. Some people say ghosts are black, some people say they're white. Some say bad luck, some say good luck. Only, nobody—and that means nobody—wants to meet up with one of them.

Unless you're a necromancer. Then you've got a temporary address in the city of the dead—and it wasn't a ghost that made it permanent for Faro.

The cemetery was to the northwest, up a long hill with a low incline. Whenever the moon came out enough, I could see Draco clutching the handle of his old
gladius
as if it were his mother's hand.

A path large enough for carts led through the graves and monuments. I paused on the road, directly across from a marble tomb. I wasn't sure what I was looking for. Faro was told to meet someone here. Most likely to raise a ghost. Either he was very stupid or he trusted the lure. A woman—a young, pretty woman.

“Draco—let's split up.”

I could hear the gulp. “All—all right. What do you want me to look for?”

“Horse tracks. A horse. Anything that might have anything to do with Faro. Let's light the lamps.”

I pulled the corks out of the holes in the lamps and lit them with some flint. It took a few tries. The wind was kicking up. Dark tree branches bent closer to see what we were doing.

The lamps were small enough to fit in our tunics, so they didn't give out much light, but it was something. “If you find anything, yell. Don't go too far—this place is huge. Just keep your eyes on the lights.”

I was turning down one of the larger paths when I heard Draco make a small sound.

“What is it?”

“The—the lamp. Is it—I've heard ghosts—ghosts follow lights. Is it true?”

I rubbed my face with my free hand. “Draco—ghosts can't hurt you. They're dead, remember?”

“But—but they can curse—and haunt you—and your dreams—”

“We'll be lucky to get any sleep at all tonight, so don't worry about your dreams. Worry about some bastard knifing you from behind.”

He took a deep breath, then walked off in the opposite direction. I crouched down to examine the ground in front of me. Horse hooves, and recent. I kept to the path and found a pile of horse manure. Bent down and rubbed some in my fingers. Dry, but still clumpy. Could be a day or two. Could be Faro's horse.

I walked some more, noticed the graves were getting poorer. The largest monuments were always along the road, so anyone who walked by could see how prestigious you'd been, and might forget you were dead. Too bad you couldn't.

I wondered where Draco was. Ghosts never bothered me. Mainly because I figure we make them up. Probably because we need something more frightening than daily life.

Smaller path to the left. Small wooden markers. A few offerings of broken dishes and bread crumbs advertising the thin, flimsy lives of the poor.

I shook my head to clear it, which was a mistake. Stood for a while, listening to the wind. No trees in this section. Faro wasn't gullible enough to believe anyone would pay him to raise anything here but dirt and tears. Both of those you can get for free.

I walked back down the road, this time along the right, the graves on this side not quite as desperate. Up in the distance, I could make out Draco's small light. I looked down and noticed fresh dirt. Followed fifty paces ahead to a newly dug mound. Next to it, on the ground, was a wooden frame with a canvas covering, head shaped. Faro's last stand.

I stooped over the grave with the lamp to see who he'd been planning to raise. I should've known. Calpurnius.

No horse hooves in the fresh soil. Probably tied up at a small tree in the distance, closer to the main road. I turned to face the light and shouted. A breeze came out of nowhere and seemed to swallow my words. I shouted again. “Draco! Over here!”

The light was getting dimmer, and heading in the wrong direction. A cold, clammy hand grabbed my shoulder, and the hair on my neck stood up and immediately fainted.

“Mast—Arcturus. It's me. Draco.”

When my heart climbed back down my throat, I said: “How the hell did you get here so quickly?”

“What do you mean?”

I stared at him. “Draco—weren't you…”

I pivoted, and looked toward where I saw the light. Nothing there.

Fear and puzzlement spread over his face. “I was behind you, in that section.”

He pointed to an area immediately to my left. The hair on my neck started to rise again, until I slapped it down with my hand. The concussion. The goddamn concussion.

“Well, you're here now. This is where Faro was headed—where he met someone. Any sign of the horse?”

He shook his head. “No, but I found some tracks on the road, going back to town.”

I rubbed my chin. “The tanner said it was a nice horse. I've got an idea where we might find it.” I stared at Calpurnius's grave. “Let's go. Bring the frame. It's what the mask was nailed on before someone pulled it off and nailed it on Faro.”

Draco picked it up and tucked it under his arm. Neither one of us said a word until we were out walking on the road again, the lamps out and the gibbous moon leering at us from behind a wad of cloud.

“Mas—I mean, Arcturus. Did you—did you see something?”

“Holes in the ground with dead people in them.”

“No. I mean—when you thought you saw—”

“Forget about it, Draco. I've got a concussion. I get confused easily.”

He was quiet for a minute and then spoke again. “Are we going home now?”

I didn't want to think about the cemetery. What I needed what a good solid meeting with some flesh and blood. A quivering mass of flesh that avoided me this morning.

“No. We're going to pay a late visit to a
duovir.
Let's go see what Grattius is hiding.”

The thought of scaring the hell out of him cheered our footsteps back to town.

CHAPTER TWENTY

It was a long walk to Grattius's house. I used the time to lecture Draco on the evils of bad women. I told him about Dionysia and my misspent youth. I told him about how desirable she was, and how she seduced me. I told him about how she could use her body in ways that—and then I realized we were in another conversation. So I told him how ugly it got. I made some of it up.

When we finally got to Grattius's door, I told Draco to bang on it. His massive fist hammered the wood five times before a slave opened it a crack, a bleary eye peering through the darkness.

“What do you want? Don't come any closer, or we'll—”

“Take us off the guest list? Go get Grattius. Tell him it's Arcturus, and it's about Faro, and he'd better get his fat ass out of bed.”

The eye withdrew with a terrified look. I jammed my foot in the door and nodded to Draco. He shoved against the oak, and whoever was holding it on the other side fell down. I extended a hand to the two slaves who'd been bracing it and were now on the floor.

“Sorry.” I turned to the eye, which belonged to a middle-aged man I'd seen on my first visit. He was shaking. “Where is he?”

The slave was loyal, but his eyes betrayed him and darted down a corridor on the right.

“Let's go, Draco.”

Draco brought up the rear, keeping an eye on the slaves, who were both armed. Vibia wandered out of a room behind us, clutching a long robe. She looked disappointed when she realized Draco wasn't there to give her a good time. When we told her what we wanted, she turned around and went back to her own bedroom. So much for wifely devotion.

The room was dark and full of raspy sawing. Draco stood by the door, to make sure no one got too courageous. Grattius was lying on his back, his mouth open, an obscene noise erupting from his nose like a lava flow. I leaned in close and made it loud.

“Grattius! Get the hell up!”

The eruption choked itself and sputtered ash into the air. He did a sit-up, his jellied belly heaving with fear. “Wha—what—who—”

“Open the door wider, Draco, and let some light in.”

I took out my little lamp and lit it again. Sat it on a table beside his bed, and sat myself on the corner of the mattress.

“Wake up and talk. This isn't a social call.”

He scooted back in bed and braced himself against the wall, covering up with a purple blanket. “How—how dare you—”

“Quit with the leaderly noises, Grattius. You're one step away from court, prison, and maybe slavery. Rome doesn't like it when her mines are trifled with. She likes to be awake and paid off when she's getting screwed.”

His eyes darted, landing on Draco. They bounced off Draco's chin and took in the stubble on my own. Then they narrowed and started to think.

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

I was tired. I didn't want to dance with Grattius. He'd step on my feet.

“Look, you stupid bastard. All I have to do is tell the governor about the silver mine that wasn't supposed to be a silver mine, that wasn't even supposed to be open—the one you've been bragging about—and it's over. Your house, your wife, your slaves—all gone. Like that.”

I snapped my fingers under his nose, and he jerked his head back. He swallowed and thought it over. It took him about five seconds. Then he whined.

“I—I didn't kill Faro. You can't pin it on me. I didn't know anything about it.”

“I believe you. What do you know?”

His breath was coming out in hysterical little gulps. “I—I knew it was silver. And I paid Faro. To keep—keep talking about the ghost.”

“How did you pay him?”

“The—the baths. Left money in a cubicle.”

“Your money?”

He nodded. “I got—got paid back. Same way. Through the baths. They—they told me what to do—left instructions.”

“Who's in the syndicate?”

“Don't—don't know. A man—not from town. I meet him sometimes near Iscalis.”

“Who else?”

He shook his head. “I—don't—know. Someone—someone from town. I—I know that much. Someone. Not me.” He raised his piggish, bloodshot eyes to mine. “I'm not taking the blame. I'm not taking the blame!” His voice was a shrill whistle of hysteria.

I grabbed his wrist. “Talk, Grattius, and I'll see you don't lose everything. Talk.”

His voice quavered. “I told you! I—I just followed orders. I don't know!”

I stared at him for a few seconds while his tongue came out from behind his teeth and he opened his mouth to gasp like a beached tunny. Maybe a change in direction.

“Did you curse Aufidio? The farmer's son? Did you? Answer me, goddamn it.”

He shrank against the wall. The pallor of his skin was frightening. I slapped him lightly on the face.

“Grattius—tell me. Did you pay Bibax to curse Aufidio?”

The covers knotted in his hands, and he held them up to his mouth, exposing his white, bony knees, swimming in a sea of flesh.

I slapped him harder, and he gulped air. Let the blanket down a little.

“Did you curse Aufidio?”

He looked at me, and then Draco, and back to me, and all around the room. Finally, he came back to my face and held my eyes and nodded. Slowly.

I said it softly: “Was it an order?”

He nodded again. I took a deep breath. That made it simpler—and more complex.

“Grattius—listen to me. Have you been blackmailed over this? Has anyone threatened you?”

His wispy eyebrows huddled together for comfort, and he lowered the blanket again. “N-no. No one.”

“Are you sure? You're telling me the truth?”

“Yes—yes, of course.”