The Curse-Maker (27 page)

He stared into the damp walls. Nothing else seemed to be coming. I didn't have a lot of time, but maybe the old man needed to talk. If I didn't have time for that, I wasn't much of a doctor. Or a man.

“You were married?”

I asked it softly. I could almost see him thirty-odd years ago. Never good-looking, but love can make the ugliest man seem like Adonis. The sounds of coughing from outside finally stopped, but Buteo didn't come in.

“A long time ago. More than thirty years ago. When I lived in Hispania. She was beautiful—like yours. Blond, slim. Greek, she was.”

“What happened?”

Darkness passed in front of his face. It settled in the crevices and was comfortable there.

“She—she died. A god—a god took her away from me. She died. Before she could give me children.”

Common enough tragedy. I knew how lucky I'd been that Gwyna—it didn't bear thinking about. Most people blamed the gods. Natta's pain focused on one. Maybe that made it easier. I doubted it.

“I'm sorry.”

Either my sympathy or Buteo's heavy footsteps in the doorway shook him back to the present. He turned to Buteo. His voice was sharp. “Have you seen Philo?”

“No. He is busy.”

“You must, Buteo. You must get some medicine for the cough.”

Buteo had heard this before. “I will keep trying, Natta. He is a busy man.”

I cleared my throat. “As you know, I am a doctor, and if you wish—”

The
gemmarius
smiled at me, while Buteo lowered his brows into a frown.

“It is not necessary, my friend. You are here for other things. Buteo will see Philo. His cough comes and goes, like the rain in October. Now, what would you like? I have an onyx cameo—or this green glass from Egypt—”

I tried not to act like I'd been given the professional brush-off, and I tried not to let it make me hate Philo. I kept reminding myself he'd been good to us. Friends weren't so easy to come by that I could afford to throw one away.

The ring I chose came with a necklace. A pale green glass Natta said came from Egypt, supposedly with special properties of protection. They were set in gold. Gwyna would like them. Besides, we needed all the protection we could find. I left the
gemmarius
and Buteo outside, the younger man watching me walk down the hill, Natta leaning on him for support.

The smell of rain made the crowd swarm like ants before a storm. I wandered among the curse-writers, some hawking their wares with extra-loud voices, some ignoring the passers-by while scrawling a name on a piece of lead. I was looking for one in particular.

He knew me when he saw me. He told the fat woman in front of his tent that he was closed.

“What do you mean—you just told me—”

“Sorry, lady. Rain.”

She threw her purple mantle around her ample shoulders and marched off in a huff to his nearest competitor. I leaned on the counter and smiled.

“Remember me?”

The rat eyes darted, looking for the nearest hole. He couldn't find one and turned around, determined to outrun me. I reached across the rotten wood and grabbed his filthy tunic. It started to rip.

“Unless you like to run naked in thunderstorms, you should talk to me. I won't bite.”

His shoulders shook. “I tol' you the first time. I ain't got no bad lead. That other one—down there. You talk to him.”

“No. I want you. And I'm willing to pay.”

His eyes made little slits of suspicion. “You're willin' to pay—for what?”

“For you answering one question.”

His pink tongue slid out between his lips. “Yeah? How much? An' what kind of question?”

“Five
sestertii,
and no one will know the answer you give. Except us.”

I kept a tight hold of his wrist and dug out my pouch. I laid it on the board in front of us. There was obviously more than five
sestertii
in it.

He weighed his greed against his fear, but the scale was rigged. His shoulders hunched over and he leaned on the board. “What's the question?”

“Somebody's dumping cheap—maybe even free—lead in Aquae Sulis. Who is it?”

The eyes got big and round again, and his voice climbed to a piercing whine. “I don't know nothin'! I tell you my—”

“Keep your voice down. Tell me what you do know.”

He quieted and looked at the pouch. He said flatly: “It'll cost you more than five
sestertii.
”

“Make it a
denarius.
”

He tried to see through the leather, but the pouch wasn't giving up my secrets. Finally, he nodded. “All right. Here's what I know—but you didn't hear it from me! My lead's good! My lead—”

“I know all about your lead. Talk.”

He licked his lips again and lowered his voice. “Every so often there's a pile left. Down by the other spring. Good lead, too. I ain't never seen nobody leave it—we don't ask no questions, know what I mean? Why muck up a good thing?”

“What happens to it?”

“Whaddya think happens to it? We take it! That's why we can make curses so cheap. Lead's got a price—it's mined by Rome, ain't it? They fix it all. But this lead—we don't ask no questions. It's good lead, too. Not too much tin in it, like some people's.”

“How long has this been going on?”

He shrugged. “I don' know. I guess two, three years tops. One reason there's so many of us. Easy start-up business, know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I get it. Not much overhead. When was the last shipment?”

He thought for a minute. “Probably about a month, month and a half ago. I missed my share. By the time I got down there it was gone.”

“Who told you about it?”

He looked around his stall, craning his head in both directions. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Bibax. That's worth your
denarius,
and maybe more, ain't it? Bibax always knew ahead of time.”

I looked at his thin face, animated by avarice. I let go of his wrist. He wouldn't run now.

“So where's my money? I told you—”

I opened the pouch and took out two
denarii.
“Here. You deserve a tip. But don't talk about lead so much around strangers. It might give people ideas.”

His eyes opened, and so did his mouth. I plonked the coins on the table and walked away.

Grattius and the mine. Faro and the mine. Now Bibax and the mine. Another web—and it stretched across the town.

*   *   *

Thunder drowned out the pounding on the door. I tried again. Sestius lived in a quiet town house, not too far from the baths. Convenient when you wanted to roll out of bed for a massage and some wine, and then roll back in it for a three-way poke.

Even the doorknob smelled like sex. Large and small pricks made of terra-cotta hung from strings in the entranceway, either as good luck or an advertisement. Or maybe a want ad.

I knocked again. Eventually feet answered on the other side, and it opened. The face was middle-aged and sullen, and beyond that I couldn't tell.

“Yes? What do you want?”

“Sestius. Is he at home?”

It looked at me again and squinted, and then a flash of lightning made it squeal, and it tried to shut the door on my foot.

“Julius Alpinius Classicianus Favonianus. I'm here on the governor's authority.”

My Roman name was long enough to frighten everyone but the bureaucrats. The face looked up to see if it could see rain. Maybe it hoped I'd melt.

I wedged my knee against the thick oak. “I said the governor's—”

The door flung open suddenly. The face belonged to a small man with sallow skin and an equally bilious expression. He was holding on to his stomach as if he were afraid it might run away. “Wait here. I'll announce you.”

I smiled nastily at him to prove how important I was. He clutched his midsection harder and scurried down a dark corridor to the right.

The foyer was covered with sea paintings and various naked sea nymphs, who had somehow lured five satyrs underwater without drowning them or diminishing their erections. A chair and table were new, expensive, and poorly made, the cheapest kind of the latest fashion. An empty pedestal stood against the wall, missing its god.

I was trying to figure out what one of the satyrs was doing to one of the nymphs when Stomach Ache walked back in. “This way. The master will be a few minutes.”

He showed me into an inner room, furnished with the same kind of material. Lots of reds and browns, with garish highlights to make the paintings look more “real.” There were gaps in the arrangement: empty display shelves, a missing dining couch. Sestius was running out of money. He would never run out of bad taste.

I sat on one of the couches and felt something hard. Reached underneath the cushion and pulled out a leather dildo. I decided to stand up. I walked around the circumference of the room a few times until I got bored. Then I got angry.

I headed down the corridor the servant came from. I figured the bedroom would be at the end; they usually were. And I figured the bastard would be in bed.

Stern portraits and busts sculpted in a severe style lined the passage, wrinkling noses at their wastrel heir. I reached the end of the hall and looked at the door. To knock or not to knock? I decided to kick it open.

A huge round bed filled the room. On top of it was a man about twenty-five, flabby in the middle with a jiggly ass, sleeping heavily on a woman with enormous tits. He was using them as pillows. She was awake and still, staring at the ceiling, an expression of profound disinterest on her face. Until I walked in.

She prodded Sestius with her knee and tried to cover herself, though I wasn't sure there was anything in the room big enough. She hissed at him. “Sestius! Wake up! Wake up, goddamn you!”

Footsteps outside. More servants. I slammed the door behind me. The woman succeeded in rolling him off of her and onto his back. He was naked, and the reason for her ennui was obvious.

She swung her legs over the side of the mattress, clutching a small blanket. “Who are you?” She said it as if she didn't expect much.

“My name's Arcturus.”

The eyes got interested. “The one who found the dead guy?”

I wondered which one she meant. “Yeah. I've got some questions for your boyfriend.”

She looked bored again. “He's not my boyfriend.” She saw my raised eyebrows. “I mean, not regular. Once in a while—when he buys me something…”

She left it in the air as if I might make an offer.

“What does he buy you?”

“Dresses. Jewelry. He bought a cow for my father once. He's a cheesemaker.”

With a prizewinning milker for a daughter. “He still buying?”

She shrugged, and the blanket slipped. She let it dangle a little more than necessary before pulling it up again.

“Not so much. Shoes and perfume. Says there's no more money.”

“Did he say why?”

Her forehead wrinkled. “He said somethin'—somethin' in his sleep. Somethin' about a payment. Owes people.”

“Who?”

“I don't know. Don't ask. I just let him do what he wants, and he takes care of me.” She gave me a quick appraisal and a longer preview of the merchandise. “You got money?”

“Not enough for you, honey. And I'm not in the market to buy. No offense, of course.”

She shrugged again and this time stayed covered. “None taken. You mind if I get up and get dressed?”

“You mind if I walk to the other side and slap that bastard awake?”

She giggled and stuck her hand underneath the covers looking for something to wear. She pulled out a transparent sheath, then took it and herself to the corner of the room. I took myself to the other side of the bed, where Sestius was lying spread-eagled and snoring.

On a small table beside him was a jug. I looked inside. Still some wine left. The girl turned around to watch me.

It rained and spattered all over the pillows and into Sestius's open mouth. He started to choke and sat straight up. He wasn't used to the exercise.

I slapped him in the face. I was getting tired of slapping people. He rubbed his eyes, coughed some more, shook his head like a wet dog. Groped for a blanket or sheet and whimpered. The girl was laughing. I was still standing. I wasn't going to sit on the bed.

He stank. Rich food, rich wine, rich sex, night after night. It oozed from his pores like sweat. His eyes were as small, soft, and red-rimmed as the rest of him. “Wh-who're you? Whaddya want?”

“To talk to you. Your slave left me in the dining room too long.”

He pulled the brown blanket up to his chest. Even his breasts sagged. “Whaddya wanna talk to me for? I don' know you.”

I glanced over at the Farmer's Daughter. “Honey, why don't you go on outside? He'll need you again when we're through.”

She looked disappointed, and the bored expression came back. Her shoulders slumped underneath the tight tunic. “He needs something, but it ain't me. Be seein' you. 'Bye, Titus. Don't forget to send the cloth you promised.”

Panic over losing his pacifier. “Wait—Hortensia—”

She slammed the door on her way out.

He stared at it for a few seconds, then turned to me, fully awake. “Who the hell do you th—”

I slapped him again, a little harder. “Call me a friend of your aunt's.”

His pale flesh froze like a fat cut of meat on a slab of ice. “M-my aunt? W-what about my aunt?”

“Maybe you have more than one. I mean the one you had murdered.”

He stopped breathing for a few seconds, and I was worried that I'd accidentally killed the bastard. A few brisk thumps on the back and another light slap on the face brought him back. He started to cry.

“S-she was gonna die—I swear on Jupiter—she was gonna die anyway, and I—I didn't want her to suffer—”