by Peake, R. W.
“Fine,” I snapped.
His hand was a blur of motion as he whipped the sheet away from the girl, who gave a frightened shriek, trying to cover herself with her hands. I will not deny that given the opportunity, I got an eyeful, and her figure matched the face in perfect harmony. It was immediately clear why the fat merchant had this girl as a bedmate. I searched about for a gown to give to the girl, except that I did not move particularly quickly. Finding what looked like a woman’s garment in a cupboard, I pulled it out, throwing it to her and telling her to put it on. She had not spoken a word, but she clearly understood what I wanted, since she put the gown on. It swallowed her up, clearly much larger than her frame required. The meaning of that hit us all immediately, and we began laughing.
“It seems that our merchant here is having someone keep the bed warm while the wife is away somewhere.” Balbus poked the fat man with the tip of his sword, whose eyes were rolling about in obvious fear, sweat pouring down his body despite the coolness of the evening.
Deukalos tried to speak, but his words were muffled by the gag, though none of us were interested in hearing whatever excuse he had for this young bedmate. There was a commotion down the hallway, so to be safe I signaled Gaius to stand off to the side while I turned to face the door.
“All clear?”
I recognized Scribonius’ voice, and I replied that it was safe for him to come in. He entered the room, a long livid scratch down one side of his face.
“Run into a cat?” I teased, but he was not amused.
“Something like that,” he replied grimly before telling me that the slaves’ quarters were secure.
“And?”
He shook his head. “No Iras.”
I had not really been expecting to find her, but it was still disappointing nonetheless and I cursed bitterly.
“Uncle?”
I turned, about to bite Gaius’ head off for calling out a name, even if it was not my given name, but he gave me a warning look as he approached.
Leaning close, he whispered into my ear, “I think that Iras is right here.”
It turned out that Gaius was right. Not surprisingly, he only had eyes for the girl, meaning that he was watching her when her name was mentioned. He said that her eyes widened as she shot a glance at the fat merchant, a look that Gaius naturally followed, to see the merchant staring at her, shaking his head in a clear warning. This was confirmed a moment later by the merchant himself, albeit with the gentle persuasion of again having the tip of a sword placed in a very sensitive area of the male body. That mystery solved, we wrapped the merchant in the sheet, tying the ends into a knot to make a makeshift sack, then between Scribonius, Balbus, and Gaius, they managed to half-drag, half-carry the bulky object, after being rendered unconscious, of course, down the hallway and out into the yard. I had the girl by the arm, trying to concentrate on the job and not the sweet scent of her young body, which was a challenge. I also became aware that she seemed to walk more slowly than need be, so that I naturally bumped against her. It might have been my imagination, but I was fairly sure that she was trying to press her body against me, and it seemed to take a long time to navigate our way out of the house. We returned to the yard, Deukalos’ inert form now lying in a lump on the dirt, the others panting for breath from the exertion of carrying him just the short distance out of the house.
“There’s no way we're going to be able to carry this piece of cac all the way to that farm,” Balbus said.
I looked about, seeing nothing useful, knowing the wagon was too large and bulky, and would take too long to hitch it up, not to mention the noise created in doing so. Turning to Gaius, I told him to go to the stable to look for a cart that was able to carry the fat man. Returning my attention to Iras, she seemed eerily calm as she looked up at me. To my astonishment, I could see her smiling up at me in the gloom, then felt the press of her body, which was not my imagination. The others noticed this as well, and I heard Balbus chuckle.
“It looks like Miriam has some competition.” Scribonius seemed as amused as Balbus, but the mention of Miriam’s name was like a dash of cold water, and I pushed her away from me with a shake of my head.
Immediately, her demeanor changed and I felt her arm go rigid in my hand, the hatred in her glare clear even in the darkness of the night as she spat on the ground, making her contempt plain, still without speaking a word.
“Seems we've just seen the true Iras,” Scribonius commented wryly.
I do not know why, but it made me feel better seeing her act this way. Perhaps it was because I knew that I was going to kill her in the near future.
Gaius returned with a pushcart just big enough to fit the merchant, who was still unconscious, and he was hauled into the bed, the wood of the cart creaking in protest at the weight. Iras was bound and gagged, still spitting defiance and hatred. At first, she refused to accept the gag, until I pressed a dagger to her throat. She was thrown into a sack, with room to spare, Gaius charged with carrying her. Scribonius gave a low whistle, whereupon Vellusius and Herennius came trotting from the slaves’ quarters where they had been guarding the occupants. I grabbed Vellusius by the arm, giving him an inquiring glance, which he understood immediately.
To my relief, he shook his head. “They’re all alive,” he said. “A couple were a little roughed up, but the bruises will heal.” He grinned. “Now, how they manage to untie themselves is another matter, but I don’t think they’ll starve to death.”
With that off my mind, we opened the gate and, pushing the cart, our party left the villa, headed for the city gate and the farmhouse. The next obstacle was getting past the city guard, but I had enough gold denarii in my purse to make that no problem at all, and we passed easily out of the city. While we walked along, I felt a tug on my arm, turning to see Balbus, his expression grim, made more so by the pale light.
“Titus, there’s something you should know,” he said before pressing something into my hand.
I felt the cool metal of a round disc in my palm, and while it was too dark to examine closely, I knew what it was immediately. What Balbus had pressed into my hand was the metal token that a retiring Legionary is given, inscribed with his name and the identity of the Legion from which he retired, usually worn by men on a leather thong around the neck. There is one dangling from my own neck as I dictate this, and that night, I felt a creeping dread when I asked Balbus where he had gotten it, despite already knowing the answer.
“From around the neck of the guard that you killed,” he confirmed, my heart sinking.
“What Legion?” I asked.
“3rd Gallica,” he said flatly.
He was a man who had retired just a few months before. I swallowed hard, debating whether to ask the next logical question.
Finally, I could not stop myself. “Did we know him?”
I saw his head nod, giving the name of a man from the ranks, well known as a good fighter but heavy drinker, one of those men who had spent most of his bonus money on debauching, meaning he had to work because of his fondness for Bacchus. I closed my eyes, saying a brief prayer for the man, mentally chalking another debt up to Cleopatra, whom I blamed for all that we were doing this night. We passed the rest of the way in silence, reaching the farmhouse a short while later. It was obviously derelict, weeds growing up in the yard and all around the buildings. One of the others pushed the door open, the leather hinges cracking with the movement, whereupon the door fell away with a loud thump that startled all of us, causing some nervous laughter. Balbus and Vellusius produced a couple of lamps that they had taken from the merchant’s house, and in a moment the inside of the house was illuminated, revealing a dusty, dirty single room that was not dissimilar from the home where I had grown up, even if quite a bit smaller.
Vellusius, Herennius and Gaius came in grunting and groaning, dragging the sheet containing Deukalos. I directed them to open the sheet, then place the fat merchant on a chair that was next to a table. Like the cart, the numen of
the chair did not appreciate the sudden burden, squeaking in protest at the weight. For a moment, I thought it would collapse, but somehow it held up. While Deukalos was being strapped to the chair, Balbus rounded up some charcoal and wood to feed into the discarded brazier, which was soon heating up nicely. Balbus retrieved his tools, placing them on the grill of the brazier to heat up. With this happening, we took another chair, placing Iras on it, a short distance away from Deukalos, but where she could see what was about to happen to him. She came out of the bag the same way she had gone in, spitting hatred and bile, but when she saw what was about to take place, the fear in her eyes was plain to see, causing her to subside in her struggles. Once all was ready, Balbus, apparently determined to be the man who did the dirty work, walked over, slapping Deukalos, starting with gentle smacks across his fat cheeks, making his jowls quiver. When these had no effect, he increased the force, until the merchant’s head began to bob and he moaned his way back to consciousness. Finally lifting his head, he opened his eyes, blinking blearily as he looked around. It took a moment for his situation to become apparent to him, his breathing immediately increasing rapidly, and it was as if an invisible wellspring suddenly started from the top of his head, sweat quickly pouring down his fat, naked body, making it glisten like a roasting bird in the dancing light, which, I suppose, was appropriate, since his goose was plucked and cooked. I nodded to Balbus to begin the questioning.
It did not take much persuasion to get Deukalos to talk. Something I have noticed over the years is that very fat men do not seem to have much tolerance for pain or even discomfort, and I have often wondered why that is. Just the sight of the glowing red blade of one of Balbus’ implements got him babbling, but as he spoke Greek, which only Scribonius and I understood, making it so that we were also the ones who asked the questions, translating the answers for the others.
“I was approached by one of Cleopatra’s people,” he told us. “He offered me a small fortune if I would allow Iras to work in my stall.”
He looked over at the girl, who was glaring at him over her gag, her head tossing as she still tried to spit curses through the cloth.
I gave Vellusius a nod, who gave her a gentle cuff on the head, telling her, “Quiet, girl. You’ll get your chance to talk soon enough.”
I turned back to Deukalos, whose eyes were rolling in his head, his gaze constantly shifting from me to Balbus, who was continually stoking the brazier to keep his tools hot should they be needed. Blood trickled down the fat merchant’s lip and nose from where Balbus had slapped him a few times to loosen his tongue.
However, he was apparently unwilling to divulge everything, saying, “But I did not know what she was doing there, I swear it on all the gods! I thought Cleopatra had put her there to keep an eye on another merchant for some reason.”
I laughed at this, but it was not a pleasant one, shaking my head at this nonsense. “What would Cleopatra care about what some merchant in the market at Ephesus is doing? No, you did not become so obviously successful by being a fool, Deukalos. And I see that you’re not blind ... yet,” I added menacingly, gratified to see the ripples passing through his blubbery flesh at the threat. “No, all you had to do was watch her and know that she had made my man her target.”
He shook his head wildly, still not ready to give in all the way. “I swear I did not know!”
I motioned to Balbus, who looked at the merchant impassively for a moment, as if considering something, then he turned to pick up another tool, this one a straight thin rod with a wooden handle, with a wicked looking hook at the end that came to an obviously sharp point. It was glowing red, and it was easy to see the air around it shimmering with the heat when Balbus stepped toward the fat man in the chair. Deukalos lost control of his bladder at the sight, the smell of urine filling the air. The men surrounding him mocked his fear, cursing him in disgust at his weakness, while he began babbling incomprehensible words, a mixture of Greek, Latin, and a number of other dialects. Seeing that he was out of his mind with fear, I waved Balbus back, squatting next to Deukalos, waiting for him to regain his senses.
After a moment, I asked, “Are you ready to be completely honest now?”
“Yes! I will tell you whatever you want to hear! Please do not let him hurt me!”
“I don’t want to hear anything other than the truth,” I told him, patting his sweaty shoulder, causing him to give me a pathetically grateful look.
He swallowed several times, then began speaking again. “I knew that she was up to no good, and I suspected what she had been instructed to do, but I swear that I did not know it was you she was trying to poison!”
He had just given himself away, as I said in apparent puzzlement, “Who said that it was me she was trying to strike?”
I looked at Scribonius, who was regarding Deukalos with a raised eyebrow, instantly picking up the same thing I had and playing along.
“Do you remember hearing me say anything about me being her target?”
Scribonius shook his head. I turned back to look at the quivering mass of flesh before me, who closed his eyes and dropped his head.
Without looking up, he said dully, “I asked your slave who he belonged to the second time he showed up and he told me it was you.”
“And knowing that, and knowing what Iras here was up to, you chose not to warn me.”
All he could give was a helpless shrug. “And draw the wrath of Cleopatra by betraying her plans for you?” He looked up, giving a sad smile. “With all due respect, Primus Pilus, I think that Cleopatra makes a worse enemy than you.”
“And yet, here you are under my control,” I pointed out. “Does it seem that she has more power right now?”
“No,” he admitted, and despite myself, I felt a flash of sympathy for the man.
He had truly enmeshed himself in a scheme where he was almost guaranteed to draw the enmity of either or both parties. I shook the thought off, reminding myself that he could have simply turned down the offer, and thereby gone on to see another sunrise.
There was something that puzzled me though, so I asked Deukalos, “Why is Iras still with you? Was she part of the deal?”
A strange look passed over the man’s face that I could not immediately identify. However, his words clarified why he had the expression. It was guilt, both for what he did and did not do.
“I was supposed to get rid of her after she did what she had been sent to do.”
There was no mistaking what was meant; he was not to sell her, he was to kill her. I turned to see Iras’ reaction. It was not what I expected, assuming that she would have at least some gratitude to Deukalos for not following through, but her eyes blazed with hatred.
“I could not do it. Look at her! She is the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on.”
Iras was now trying to shout something through her gag, ignoring her earlier instruction to remain silent, but I did not bother stopping her, since it was almost time to remove the gag.
“She doesn’t seem particularly happy that you showed her such compassion. Maybe you’re too heavy to be on top of her,” Scribonius commented wryly, evoking laughs from everyone in the room, except Deukalos, of course.
“That was probably not a wise decision,” I admonished Deukalos. “You might have gotten away with it, but I suppose your greed for money and other things got the best of you.”
I indicated that I was finished with Deukalos. The gag was stuffed back in his mouth then he was dragged, chair and all, into a corner, with considerable effort, of course. Iras’ chair was brought to the spot where Deukalos’ had been, and I reached down to remove the gag.
Before I did, I asked Iras, “Are you going to try and do something silly like spitting on me?”
She refused to answer, just glaring at me, and I sighed, but took the gag out anyway, jumping aside just in time to miss the stream of spittle that flew from her mouth. I turned to Balbus, who was stepping forward to teach her some manners, stopping him. Instead,
I was the one whose hand swung backwards and with a fair amount of force, slapping her once, twice, three times across the face. I took care not to use my fist since that would have knocked her unconscious at the very least, if not worse. Nonetheless, blood spurted from her nose and began to trickle from her lip. After a moment, she began whimpering, her defiance gone at least temporarily, so I stopped my assault.
Now I saw a healthy dose of fear in her eyes as she looked up at me, but there was still defiance when I asked her, “Why are you willing to undergo such pain for someone who had given orders to throw you away like so much trash?”
She did not answer immediately, shaking her head before she began speaking rapidly. I swallowed my irritation, since she had chosen to speak in the Egyptian tongue, of which I knew a little from my time in Alexandria, and I saw that she was trying to convince me that she did not speak either Greek or Latin.
“That’s not going to work,” I said gently, in Greek. “We questioned Deukalos in Greek and you followed every word perfectly, so don’t play with me, girl.”
Iras tried to maintain the pretense for a moment, then slumped. She seemed to gather herself; when she looked up, the defiance and hatred had returned.
“Roman, you ask me why I am willing to undergo torture, knowing that I was to give my life? Because it is my duty and my honor to die for Pharaoh! She is Isis! She is a god! You and all Romans are worms under her feet!”
To emphasize the point, she spat again, except this time I was not quite so quick, some of her spittle landing on my feet. I lashed out, this time with a fist, but I was careful to strike her on her arms and legs. She screamed as I pummeled her for the space of several heartbeats before pausing for breath. Now she was sobbing in pain, and normally seeing a young and pretty girl in such distress would have troubled me, but my heart was hardened by her deeds and words. I had expected to hear that she was forced to do this, because of her status as a slave or because Cleopatra and her minions held something like her child and its fate over her head. To hear that she had apparently done this willingly, knowing that she was to die after her part was played, shook me. I was absorbed in these thoughts when she turned her head to look at Deukalos in open contempt.