“He’s going to jump!” Gellius cried. The three men raced forward to grab Iovinus before he could escape through the window to the alley below. But he only turned about slowly with a shuddery creak. By the dim light of morning they could see the way Iovinus’ eyes and tongue bulged from his bloated purple face and the rope that led from the rafters knotted about his broken neck.
“Hephaestus’ crooked cock,” Trogus growled as they lay Iovinus’ corpse out on the thin straw mattress. Trogus started coughing again, long, painful hacks that seemed to shred his lungs.
The tavern-keeper, a fat little Illyrian, kept running his stubby fingertips back through his thin, greasy hair. “This is bad luck, very, very bad luck,” he muttered almost to himself. “Why did he have to kill himself in my tavern of all places?”
“Where are his belongings?” Aculeo asked.
“What belongings?”
“He was carrying a satchel when I saw him at the Hippodrome. Where is it?”
“How should I know?”
“You must have stolen it,” Bitucus said.
“I never did such a thing!” the Illyrian cried. “I’m a man of the very greatest virtue!”
“He searched the room when your man went out yesterday,” the thrattia said helpfully. “He didn’t find anything worth stealing though, just a few wax tablets.”
“Filthy whore! I did nothing of the sort!”
“He lies,” she said indifferently.
The tavern-keeper cuffed the back of her head. “Stupid cunt!”
“Illyrian assfuck!” she cried, then pounced on the man, knocking him to the floor, striking him about the face with a flurry of fists. Skinny and raw-boned, she likely would have beaten the man to death if the others hadn’t pulled her off of him.
“Enough!” Aculeo said. “Where are the tablets now?”
“I don’t know,” the tavern-keeper wheedled. “I swear! I noticed them only by accident when I came to clean his room, a service we gladly provide all out guests. I never touched them though, my most sacred oath!”
“For what that’s worth. What was written on them?”
“I have no …”
“Some numbers and such, he told me,” the thrattia said. “He wouldn’t know anything else. He can’t read.” The tavern-keeper fell into a sulk, not daring to say another word.
Aculeo reluctantly searched Iovinus’ corpse – hardly a pleasant task. He found a few sesterces in the coin purse and a small, round silver box tucked in a small pocket behind the belt. The box lid was engraved with a mythological scene, Perseus perhaps, and inlaid with mother-of-pearl – fine work, rather expensive looking. Aculeo flipped open the lid. There were three small waxy spheres within, each the size of his thumb tip and coated with tiny black seeds, glistening with an oily residue. He smelled them – incense. An odd thing for a man to carry about.
They made their way into the narrow hallway to get what passed for fresh air in the foul little tavern.
“Such a tragedy to lose a dear friend,” the tavern-keeper said, breaking the silence. “My deepest condolences. If you gentlemen like, for a modest fee I would be pleased arrange his funerary services.”
“What – so you can pocket our money while you toss him in a ditch outside the western gates?” Trogus growled, then started coughing again.
“If you’re that lucky,” the thrattia said with a bitter laugh. “A man tastes much like pork if he’s prepared right. Or so they say.”
“An outrageous lie!” the tavern-keeper howled, raising a hand to strike her again, only to drop it when she shot him a look, daring him to try. Aculeo glanced down at the smoking brazier below, the sizzling chunks of meat being tended to by a slave. He and Gellius glanced uncomfortably at one another as they recalled their meal at the Little Eagle the other day.
“What now?” Bitucus asked.
“Now nothing,” Trogus said after his coughing fit ended. “Whatever Iovinus was up to is lost with the man himself.”
“But what about…?” Gellius whined.
“Enough! Any dreams of recovering our stolen fortunes are just that! Foolish dreams for halfwit children. Think about it, Gellius! If Iovinus had stolen our fucking fortunes, why would he have returned to the city only to take his sad excuse of a life in a shithole like this?”
“Shithole?” the tavern-keeper protested. “I’ll have you know …”
“Oh shut the fuck up!”
“We should take his body to the Necropolis,” Gellius said at last.
“A noble thought. And who’ll pay for his funeral?” Aculeo said.
“Who d’you think?” Trogus said.
Aculeo glared at him. “And why should I do that?”
“What would you suggest we do instead? Dump him outside the city walls with the dead slaves and street scrapings for the jackals to dispose of?”
“Of course not,” Gellius said firmly. “Thief or not, Iovinus was still a Roman. He still deserves some semblance of virtue on his final journey.”
Aculeo glowered at the other men. “Fine!” he cried at last. Even in death Iovinus had found a way to cut his purse.
Rhakotis, a ragged sprawling district of the city built across the barren delta behind the shipyards in Epsilon, was the original fishing village around which Alexandria had been built three centuries ago. The native fellahin still comprised the majority of the quarter’s population. The clean, even gridlines and pristine colonnades of the city’s broad boulevards were replaced here by cart paths, heavily rutted, thick with weeds and clods of animal dung. The air hung with the sweet, pervasive smell of baking bread and fermenting barley from the little breweries that dotted the area. Bronze-skinned fellahin men and women sat cross-legged on reed mats in what shade there was, pots and cups, idols and other crafts laid out before them for sale. They met Aculeo with guarded stares as he followed the hired slave pushing the barrow with Iovinus’ shrouded corpse along the hot, dusty street – Romans coming to their part of town rarely meant anything good.
The Necropolis lay outside the Gates of the Moon where the Eunostos Canal branched from the Egyptian Sea. Aculeo followed the slave down the road that led from the gates to a row of simple houses on the edge of a marshy section of the canal. The houses there, made of plastered mud-brick with small pens out back for their animals, had been built on high ground well above the floodplain amidst a grove of palms.
“How much further is it?” Aculeo asked irritably.
“We’re almost there,” the slave replied, steering the barrow down a narrow laneway towards the fellahin buildings. He finally turned up a walkway towards a single-storied hovel with a small ivory carving of Isis framed by a few Egyptian pictograms set in a niche over the doorway. The slave slapped his open hand against the door a few times. The door opened with a creak a moment later and an old woman stuck her head through the crack, scowling at them.
“Greetings, Sekhet,” the slave said in Greek, bowing his head in deference.
“What d’you want?” she replied in the same language, her accent thick and guttural.
“We need to arrange funeral services,” Aculeo said.
“Hm.” The woman glanced down at the body and furrowed her brow. “Greek, fellahin or Jew?”
“Roman.”
The woman looked him boldly up and down with her sharp black eyes, her face brown and creased as a tattered old purse. “And who are you?”
“Tarquitius Aculeo,” he said, irritated by the crone’s presumptuous tone.
“Another of our humble city’s great Roman overlords? I should feel honoured,” she said, though her sour tone hardly matched her words. She nodded towards the body. “Cremation then. Ten sesterces.”
Aculeo almost laughed. “Ten sesterces? You’re joking.”
“Do it yourself then,” Sekhet said with a shrug. “There’s a clearing you could use down near the canal. Just gather a few sticks into a pyre, throw on a shovelful of pitch, he’ll be done in no time. I trust you don’t mind
his shade dogging your steps throughout eternity for the sake of a few pieces of silver.” She moved to close the door in his face.
“Wait,” Aculeo said, stopping the door with his foot. I hope you rot in hell, Iovinus, he thought, counting out the precious coins.
The crone quickly tucked them away, then stepped forward and lifted a corner of the old blanket to reveal Iovinus’ corpse, already beginning to stiffen in the barrow. She bent down and pinched Iovinus’ chin between her fingers, turning it slowly side to side, humming to herself. Aculeo turned away, feeling ill. Was there any clearer example of fellahin barbarism than their fascination with handling the dead?
“What do you think happened to him?” she finally asked.
“I know exactly what happened to him,” Aculeo said. “He hung himself.”
“Hm. And why would he do that?” Sekhet asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Remorse? Guilt? Cowardice? I’ve no idea, nor do I care – I’ve wasted enough time on him as it is. Not to mention money. Just deal with his remains, alright?”
The old woman narrowed her eyes at Aculeo then garbled something in her native tongue to someone inside the little house. A heavyset fellahin man came outside and helped the slave wheel Iovinus’ body back up the laneway to the dusty street. That’s it then, Aculeo thought, and turned to leave. He felt a tug on his sleeve.
“Come,” Sekhet said, pulling him into the doorway.
“What? Why?”
The woman didn’t bother to reply, she simply stepped back into the house. What an irritating old woman, he thought. He had half a mind to simply turn around and go, yet he found himself following her into the house all the same.
She led him down a narrow passageway to the back rooms. “Wait there,” she said, then disappeared into the back of the house.
There was only one place to wait, in a small, low-hung room, the only light leeching in from a small window cut near the ceiling. Mud-brick benches lined the walls, all three of which were fully occupied – by runny-nosed children, a feeble old man with white-cast eyes, a woman heavy with child, another holding a crying baby on her lap, a third with a hideous brown tumour sprouting over one eye. Most of them were fellahin, although there were a handful of Nubians and a couple of impoverished looking Greeks or Romans. Aculeo leaned against the wall. What am I doing here? he thought impatiently. I can’t believe I actually listened to her.
A few minutes later he heard a scream of agony from one of the back rooms. No one else seemed to notice. Aculeo hesitated a moment before finally walking over to investigate. A slave stood within a doorless chamber grinding medicines in a mortar, the walls behind him lined with wooden racks containing dozens of small glass vials and papyrus packets. The slave was paying no attention to the heart-wrenching wails from the adjacent room.
Sekhet stuck her head out from behind the door. “Panebkhonis!” she cried. The slave ducked behind a bench. Sekhet muttered something nasty-sounding in fellahin, then spotted Aculeo. “Roman. Come here,” she said. And though she was only a fellahin, and a woman at that, her tone left little room for debate.
A young man sat on a bench in the small room, gingerly holding his arm. His hand was puffy and purple, the fingers swollen and bruised beneath the nails.
“He broke his arm two weeks ago,” Sekhet said irritably. “Yet instead of paying a few asses to see a proper healer, he buys tonics from some low market rootcutter. He’ll be lucky if he even keeps it.”
The man groaned in agony, his face pale and slick with sweat. The woman gave him a piece of dark wood to chew on. “Mandrake bark,” she said. “It helps dull the pain and induce sleep before the procedure.”
“What procedure?” Aculeo asked. “What kind of games are you …?”
“Shhh. Come on,” she said, “wrap your arms around him, that’s it, under the shoulders. Hold him tighter, I’m sure you’re stronger than that. Tighter – good. And, now…” Sekhet twisted the patient’s forearm with surprising strength. The man gave an agonized screech of pain, then fainted in Aculeo’s arms. Aculeo held him for a moment before laying him awkwardly down on the bench.
“Alright,” Sekhet said, turning to mix some powder and water in a large bowl.
She dipped thick linen rags into the gypsum sludge and carefully wrapped them across the man’s forearm. “Don’t drop him – hold him still.”
“Are you a funerary attendant or a healer?” Aculeo asked.
“Depends on the patient.” Sekhet smoothed the white sludge of the cast with her hands, her knuckles swollen and distorted like knots of rope. Her patient was slowly returning to consciousness. She felt his forehead, greasy with sweat, looked into his groggy eyes and gave an encouraging smile. “See, that wasn’t so bad. Let’s stand you up. Come on now, don’t get all weak-kneed on me. There you are. Feeling better?”
“No,” the man mumbled.
“You will in time.” She handed him a small pouch. “Take a pinch of these herbs as a tea four times a day. It will clear the poisons from your body. And don’t stray too far from a chamber pot.”
“Don’t I need to be bled?” the man asked weakly.
The healer made a face. “Pah! Of course not, just shut up and listen for a moment. Eat only thin, hot soup and absolutely no wine.” She tapped her fingertips against the cast, saw that it was dry enough, then wrapped a clean cloth sling over the patient’s shoulder and under his arm. “Be careful with that, don’t let it get wet or I’ll break your other arm, understand? And I won’t be so gentle next time. Give an offering to Isis every day for the next four days and pray for your recovery.”
“What of Sarapis?”
“Hm? Oh, him too if you like, why not? But Isis before all others,” Sekhet said as she sent him back outside and closed the door behind him and gave a deep sigh. “He waited too long to seek proper help, but sometimes all we can do is try and pray it’s enough. So,” she said, washing the sludge off her hands in a broad clay bowl. “Let’s talk about your friend’s passing.”
“He was hardly a friend,” Aculeo snapped. “He was a thief and a liar and he hung himself in the back room of a tavern. I’ve done more for him than he deserves bringing him here in the first place, much less paying for his damned cremation.”
“And who are you to him?” she asked.
“I was his employer. And a victim of his thievery.”
“Hmm,” Sekhet mused. “Were you aware he was severely beaten shortly before his death?”
He looked at her in surprise. “What?”
“You see, even in death he still has secrets left to tell you,” Sekhet said with a smile, then she opened the door and held it for him. “Wait outside a few minutes then we’ll deal with it.”
“I’ve waited long enough. If you have something to tell me then do it now.”
“My deepest apologies, but the almighty Roman overlord will just have to be tolerant until the humble fellahin healer has finished with her living patients,” Sekhet said.
Aculeo scowled – she truly was an annoying old woman. “Fine, I’ll wait a few minutes then,” he grumbled.
She reached up and took his chin between her fingertips, examining his face intently with her deep, dark eyes. Aculeo pulled away – her manner was unnerving. “You eat poorly, sleep hardly at all and drink far too much wine,” she said with a disapproving cluck of her tongue. “You need to realign your humours. One cup of cucumber juice three times per day. Water your wine one to four, no less. Eat no red meat, only fish, and try to get more sleep,” she said, then pushed him through the doorway.
The portly attendant grinding medicines in the room next door gave Sekhet a sheepish look. She scowled at him. “Panebkhounis, you’ve been chewing on lotus root again, haven’t you? Don’t lie to me, I can see the stains still on your lips. Now send in the next patient and stop being so lazy or I’ll have to beat you and I won’t even bother to treat you afterwards, I promise you.”
A warm, fragrant breeze swept along the dusty streets a
s Aculeo followed Sekhet through the outskirts at the western edge of Rhakotis, relieved at being out of that stuffy little house and into fresh air at last. Sekhet had taken forever seeing the rest of her patients – there seemed to be an endless supply – before she finally appeared and instructed him to accompany her. Once again, her tone had left little room for debate. She moved at a surprisingly brisk pace for an old woman, torch in hand, humming to herself as she followed a well-travelled path down a rugged slope toward the caves.
After several minutes walk the path came to an end at a craggy rock wall. An entranceway had been carved into the face of the wall. Sekhet passed through it without a second glance. Aculeo hesitated at the entrance a moment, peering within at a high vaulted ceiling overhanging a steep shadowed staircase leading down into the Necropolis. He glanced up at the open sky one last time before reluctantly following the healer down the steps into the realm of the Egyptian gods of old.
At the bottom of the staircase Sekhet hurried along a narrow passageway cut into the rock, leading off into the darkness. Something about confined spaces always disturbed Aculeo. The walls felt like they were ready to swallow him, steal his air, bury him alive. He felt his chest grow tight, his breathing rapid, shallow, his head spinning. He closed his eyes, forced himself to breathe slowly.
“What’s wrong with you?” Sekhet asked.
“Nothing,” Aculeo lied.
“Hurry up then,” she said snapped. “Praise Isis, it’s like walking with a hobbled mule.”
They walked through the interconnected tunnels for several minutes until at last they reached a large chamber, cool and still and smelling vaguely of death. Four doors had been hewn into the rough rock walls, a crescent moon carved in the pediments above each of them. A hole had been carved into the ceiling, through which a splash of sunlight spilled, though it had travelled from a very long way up. How deep into the ground have we gone, he wondered, cold sweat prickling his face and neck.
One of the doorways was partly open, dimly lit with torchlight. Sekhet walked towards it and threw open the door. A body draped in a linen shroud had been laid out on a stone funerary table. The table was carved in the form of two lions facing forward with the corpse’s head fitting into a basin between the lions’ tails, a drainage channel running down the centre and feeding into the basin. Sekhet set her torch in a wall sconce and pulled back the shroud.
Furies Page 7