The Curse-Maker (3 page)

“I'll be feeling that welcome all the way back to Londinium.”

His white teeth gleamed beneath the bushy black beard. Sometimes I thought Saturninus was part bear. Sometimes I thought he was a bear.

“You should be happy to get back home.” The elbow in my ribs emphasized what he meant. He recognized the look on my face. “What's wrong? Trouble?”

“Nothing serious. I just need to get home.”

“Is your wife—”

“She's fine.”

He stared at me, chewing his mustache. Respectful, but with the acknowledgment that I wasn't fully Roman.

“Have all the scouts returned?”

He nodded. “No enemy movement anywhere. Everything's nice and quiet. The general's giving orders to the fleet to sail all the way around Britannia.”

“How is the general?”

“He's all right, Arcturus. Knows he's on the way out. Hell, we thought he was out last winter, and he might have been, if it hadn't been for you. He hasn't forgotten.”

“Neither have I.”

He knew what I meant and reached a paw out to pat my shoulder. “He's in there now, with that scribe takin' down everything about the battle. It's for his son-in-law, Tacitus, fancies himself a historian.”

I didn't much fancy Tacitus. Always creeping around, perpetual gloom hanging over his stooped shoulders like an undertaker at the Colosseum gates. I couldn't help it if his wife tried to seduce me.

“The Battle of Mons Graupius. Not much of a mountain.”

“But a hell of a battle. Memorably fought on the day of Jupiter Stator, the
Nones
of September—”

“You mean the
Nones
of Germanicus, don't you?”

Saturninus's snort would have done credit to a three-ton bull. “That little jerk-off Domitian wouldn't know what to do with a German if one pulled off his baby pants and tugged on his—”

“Arcturus!”

It was Agricola, calling me inside, but too late to prevent Saturninus from announcing to all and sundry what a German would find upon pulling down Domitian's underwear. Someday that mouth of his would get him in serious trouble.

Soldiers scurried about with various orders. A small man with a pointed chin that matched his stylus was taking down notes in a minuscule hand. Whenever Agricola grunted, he hurriedly scrawled away. He looked like he'd be a friend of Tacitus.

“There you are. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

“Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. Saturninus was filling me in.”

“On what, I wonder? So long as he wasn't filling you up.”

The scribe scribbled furiously over that one.

“The scouts, the fleet. Your memorialization.”

I nodded at the scribe, who was still gazing at Agricola with the ardor of a bitch in heat.

The general glanced down. “Oh, yes. My son-in-law.”

When the brown eyes met mine, they were softer. “We're building a large fort south of here—by that river we passed, with the grazing land. Haven't named it yet. It will have a good-sized hospital, Arcturus.”

The tent flap opened with an abrupt slap, and in walked a man I wished I could kick in the face. He was striding toward Agricola and stopped when he saw me. The governor raised his eyebrows and, after glancing my way, turned to Quatio.

“What is it? Aren't the horses ready?”

Gnaeus Quatio was a bully, a braggart, and an all-around asshole. He'd crawled into favor with the governor because he risked his life to bring back the body of Aulus Atticus, a young idiot who ignored orders, lashed his horse, and rode straight into the enemy spears.

“All except one, your governorship. A gray mare has gone missing, and that thick-skulled British idiot of a hostler won't tell me where she is.” He fingered a leather crop in his hand. “Not even after he tasted this.”

I was going to owe Ranor more than the
denarius
I'd slipped him. I took a step toward Quatio.

“You still beating up Brits as a pastime, Quatio? They're on your side, or are you too ‘thick-skulled' to remember it?”

His face got even uglier—a trick I hadn't thought possible—and his fingers grasped the bully stick as if it were my throat. “Mind your own business—
medicus.
I'm here to see the governor.”

Agricola interjected. “You are seeing him, Quatio. Find the other horse. Bring the hostler to me, if necessary.”

I cleared my throat. “That won't be necessary, Governor.”

Agricola turned to me, his eyes narrowed. He didn't like surprises. “What do you mean?”

“The gray mare he's talking about is Nimbus. My horse. I have her by the south gate.”

Quatio looked happier than I'd ever seen him. “Deserting, are you, like the rest of those mutinous—”

“Enough!” Agricola seldom needed to raise his voice. The scribe crouched with his mouth agape, and the other officers and men stared at us, afraid to move.

“Leave us, Quatio.” The general said it without taking his eyes off my face. I stared back at him. First time in months I was able to.

Quatio turned bright red. He mumbled as he headed out the tent, the words “son” and “killer” reaching our ears.

“Quatio!”

Jove hurling a thunderbolt. My hair stood on end.

“Come here. Now.”

Quatio crawled back to the governor, his dark head hung low. Even his whip shrank.

“You're demoted. Return to your
contubernium
and send me the next officer. If you can't hold your tongue, and repeat idle gossip—especially in my presence!—you're not worthy of command.”

Quatio backed his way toward the exit, in a gratifying, crablike shuffle. The scribe was still slack-jawed, drool starting to form at the corner of his mouth. When the flap finally closed with a thwack on Quatio's face, I realized I was a little slack-jawed, too.

Agricola glanced toward the scribe. “Write it down! That's part of being a general.” Then he turned to me. “Come, Arcturus. Let's go outside.”

We surveyed the busy camp, the men removing the pickets and temporary fortifications in the distance. He stood with his hands on his hips and took a deep breath.

“Nice country.” He said it conversationally. He never liked good-byes.

I agreed. “Beautiful.”

He looked at me sideways. “Trouble at home?”

I shook my head, wondering how much to tell him. The man—my patron, my friend—carried too many burdens already.

“Some. Mostly with me.”

He pulled on his lower lip, turned back toward the view, and waited.

I ventured a question. “How are your wounds?”

He'd taken some superficial cuts early in the battle. They were healing well, beyond the point of worry. Or I wouldn't be able to go.

“Keeping them clean, as you always tell me. The mallow poultice helped.”

“Good. Governor—Agricola—I—”

He turned to me suddenly. I was surprised to see the moisture in his eyes. “Don't say anything, Arcturus.”

He cleared his throat and faced the camp again. “I would, of course, like you to come to Rome with me. If half of what I hear about Domitian is true, I'll need someone who can prepare a good antidote.”

It was my turn to react. “Do you really think—”

“No, no. I'll be fine. I think I've reached a good middle point. Too popular to kill, not popular enough to damn the popularity.”

He eyed me again. “Avitus has been watching Lucullus. I don't think he'll replace me as governor.” He reached out a gnarled hand and gently, for an old soldier, laid it on my shoulder. “Thanks to you.”

I shook my head. This was harder than I expected. “General, if you need me—”

“Then I will call you. Have no doubt about that.”

He let his hand drop easily to his side, and pointed over the hills. “This is the farthest north any Roman or Greek has gone, Arcturus. I've achieved what I wanted. I'll die a happy man, all in all.”

I caught the catch in his voice. He kept his focus on the landscape.

“I expect I'll have a grandson soon, and there'll be plenty to do in Rome.”

He turned to me again.

“My friend, it's time for you to get on with your life. I knew I couldn't keep you forever. I knew the army couldn't, either. You feel things too much, Arcturus, it's the native in you. I'm thankful for the years … you've saved me, my work, too many times to count.”

I looked down at the strong, scarred hand that grasped my arm, and I took it in my own hand and brought it to my lips.

He cleared his throat again and put his hands behind his back. “So I want you to take your wife to Aquae Sulis.”

That shocked me out of sentiment. “What? Why? Aquae Sulis is a—”

“Beautiful resort town, with some excellent healing baths. I purchased a small villa there, back when I took Domitia every winter. I'm sending word ahead that you're to make yourself at home for as long as you like.”

For as many years as I'd known the governor, he'd taken his wife to spas and resorts, small villages with any medical or even magical repute, hoping she'd become pregnant with a boy. Finally, after Gnaeus was born, they'd stayed in Londinium for the winter. I'd forgotten he credited Aquae Sulis with the conception.

He stared straight ahead. “She's young, Arcturus. Go make some sons with her.”

I swallowed hard. “And you—”

He chuckled. “I'll take my time coming back to Londinium, and take my time composing the perfect report to Domitian. He'll probably recall me sometime in midwinter, hoping my ship will capsize and spare him the annoyance of having to deal with me. You'll beat me home, no doubt. Just pick up your wife, settle your house, and go straight on to Aquae Sulis.”

“But what if—”

He turned to look at me, and this time grabbed me by both shoulders, hard.

“No what-ifs. If I need you from Rome, I will get word to you. You've got a family now. As I'm still governor, consider this an order. Go to Aquae Sulis. Take some time to take care of yourself and what you have. We don't know who the emperor will be sending to this little green isle, but whoever it is, it won't be easy for you. So please—do as I say.”

I stared into the wrinkled face. The eyes were human again but would soon go back to metal. They had to. Pain makes us more mortal, even with scars of iron.

Sometimes speech is the most awkward form of communication. I embraced him like a father. Then I turned toward the south, and never once looked back.

CHAPTER THREE

Ninth hour of day, and Londinium. Home.

I took Nimbus to the stables and thanked her for the ten-day journey, patting her down myself. She gave me a stern look, tucking her nose under my arm before shoving me with her head. She knew how scared I was.

The door was imposing. I took a deep breath, put in the key. Half expected Brutius to come running and fling it open. No one heard me.

A chill ran up my arm and down my neck. It was quiet, too quiet, with a thick layer of dust on the hall floor. I threw open the door to my examination room. Nothing disturbed, but again, dust.

I backed out, walking straight into the
triclinium.
Gwyna should be sitting in front of a brazier, knitting or carding wool or something, Hefin should be quietly reading Greek, and one of the dogs should be lying at their feet.

No one was there. My breath was coming fast and shallow. What about the slaves—Coir was supposed to be cleaning the house, Brutius minding the animals, Venutius cooking, and Draco standing near by, looking strong. Where the hell was everyone?

I sniffed, and caught a whiff of sauce. Venutius. I rounded the corner of the
triclinium
into the kitchen and ran smack into my cook.

He somehow managed to perform a leap and a twist in midair, which prevented the honeyed coriander sauce from spilling on the floor. He set it down carefully on the counter and allowed himself a gracious smile in my direction.

“Welcome home,
Dominus.
Dinner will be served in approximately fifteen minutes.”

“Where is everyone? Where's my wife? Hefin? The other servants?”

A guarded look crept into Venutius's aristocratic face. “The mistress—I'm not sure. I expect in her bedroom. Her brother—the young master—is with
Dominus
Bilicho.”

“Bilicho? Why? And why is Gwyna in her room? She's not ill—”

He shook his head. “No—no, I don't think so.”

I grabbed Venutius by the shoulder, and he gave me a distasteful look.

“What do you mean you don't think so? What's wrong with her?”

He lowered his head. “I don't like to speculate, sir. For the last six weeks, she hasn't taken supper in the dining room. She won't direct the servants and has stopped telling me what to buy. Master Bilicho came over, saw the state of things, and took the little boy back with him. His woman has come by to check on the mistress. I usually see her in the morning, and if I don't, I leave the food out. Sometimes I find her in the middle of the night, in the bath chambers, or roaming the house.”

My mouth was dry, and I needed to sit down. “Anything else I should know, Venutius?”

He thought for a moment, considering.

“Yes, there is,
Dominus.
Brutius has been staying outside with the animals most of the day and night, because of Coir. She's impossible, sir. Since the mistress started to—since she stopped giving orders, Coir has refused to clean the house, or do any work at all. Draco is very unhappy—he's lost weight. She seems to have him and everybody else—even the mistress, if you pardon me, sir—under her thumb. I've kept up the food accounts, and make meals at the regular times, whether I'm told to or no. But not her, sir. That's why the house is in the state it's in.”

The edge of the kitchen counter steadied me. My legs were too strong to buckle, but I felt like I was going to vomit. Venutius put down the sauce and poured me some wine.