Furies

by D. L. Johnstone

  “Oh, and you knew him quite well, did you?” Epiphaneus snapped.

  Sostra blushed. “No, I’d never met him, but from all I’d heard …”

  “That’s the problem with an empty head, Sostra. It’s like a hole in the ground - all sorts of refuse may gather in it when you’re not careful.”

  “Never mind then,” Sostra muttered. They’d come to an unshaded section of the street. It was so blazingly hot out now, the white paving stones glaring and brilliant beneath the noonday sun, it was giving Sostra a blistering headache. It was either that or the conversation.

  “Besides, even if he was wicked, what of it?” Epiphaneus said. “If a man be wicked, it’s Nature which compels him to be so. The liberty which a virtuous life may afford other men mightn’t be available to him.”

  “Yes, yes, as you say,” Sostra said, exasperated. “Ah! Here we are.” He disengaged his arm from the other man’s and looked about at the great stacks of scrolls on the thick plank tables like a child at a sweetshop.

  Epiphaneus, however, appeared almost disappointed. “Do you know if there are any libraries in Phaleron?” he asked gloomily.

  “What?” asked Sostra. “Oh, I don’t know. Why should we care about Phaleron?”

  “No reason, really,” the elderly sophist said as he lovingly stroked the vellum cases stacked on the table.

  “Ah, look here,” Sostra cried, holding up one of the cases in triumph. “A copy of Aristotle’s Politics! Oh, it’s in splendid condition! I’ll wager it’s worth a fortune.”

  “I despise Aristotle!”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Why do you say that? Did you know that …”

  “Never mind then. Look, here’s some Straton. I don’t think we have this one. The Chief Librarian will be delighted!”

  “The Chief Librarian can sit on the fucking lighthouse for all I care!”

  Sostra looked at the other sophist with alarm. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

  Epiphaneus sighed, closing his eyes. “My head. It’s the poor light in here – let’s go.”

  “But we just arrived! No, there are hundreds more scrolls to read. Just sit down and relax. I won’t be long.”

  Epiphaneus grudgingly sat down. “Gah, I’m sweating,” he grumbled. “It’s too damned hot in here. There’s no air - I can hardly breathe.”

  “Oh, this is interesting,” Sostra said, and passed a set of scrolls to Epiphaneus, who barely glanced at it before setting it aside.

  “I’ve got pains in my chest, Sostra. I need to get out of here and find a physician, I …”

  Sostra held up a scroll in delight. “Well, well, just look at this! You know I was looking for this a few months back, but the librarians told me our only copy had been lost some time ago.”

  “Justifiably burned more likely,” Epiphaneus said. “Just look who it’s written by.”

  Sostra laughed. “Oh, that’s terrible – listen to you.” He waddled off towards another stack of scrolls. Driven more by boredom than curiosity, Epiphaneus reluctantly unrolled the scroll and began to read. His eyed widened. What in the Muses’ divine names? The pains in his chest had suddenly vanished.

  “Hah, look at this one!” Sostra proclaimed.

  “Shut up you fat fool, I’m trying to read!”

  The other sophist gave him a hurt look. “Alright then, fine.” Honestly, Sostra thought, some people can be so hurtful.

  Idaia felt terribly restless. Neither she nor Tyche had wanted to walk in the Agora with Calisto and Aculeo at all – the attack the day prior had been terrifying – but Calisto had insisted that they should not change their routine, and the girls could hardly disobey. She glanced over at a filthy beggar boy, sitting on the walkway beside the puppet theatre, begging bowl in his lap. He was no more than five years old, with a withered left leg and the swollen, round belly of the truly hungry.

  The child looked up at Idaia and smiled. “Are you a princess?” he asked, his eyes shining.

  “No,” she said.

  “You look just like a princess, you’re so pretty.”

  “I know. Are you a slave?”

  “No.”

  “I wouldn’t have you for a slave, you’re far too dirty. Where are your parents?”

  “I don’t have any. Are those your parents?” he asked, pointing to Calisto and Aculeo, who were deep in conversation beside her.

  “My parents were killed when I was little,” she said. “Where do you live?” The boy nodded towards a dreary little corner behind the back doorway of a building. Idaia considered him for a moment. “Are you hungry?” The boy said nothing, just nodded.

  “Come Idaia,” Calisto said, taking the girl’s hand.

  “Can we get this boy some food first? He’s terribly hungry,” Idaia said.

  “Poor thing,” Calisto said, smiling down at the child. “How long since you last ate?” He stared up at her, speechless, flies buzzing about his dirty mop of chestnut curls.

  “Please don’t encourage him, mistress,” a portly man standing next to her said gruffly.

  “Don’t encourage him to what? To eat perhaps?” Calisto said sharply. “Maybe you should be encouraged to skip a meal or two yourself. He could use it far more than you.”

  “I earn my bread at least, mistress,” the man said, taken aback.

  “He’s a child, fool.” The man turned away, muttering under his breath. Calisto smiled at the boy and dropped some coins in his bowl. A half dozen other ragged children swarmed her from nowhere, tugging at her robes and crying out how hungry they were. Aculeo threw a few coppers into the street and the children ran after them, the coins ringing along the paving stones, glinting in the sun.

  They walked back into the main market area. People were walking with leashed baboons, child acrobats leapt and tumbled through the air, Andalusian dancing girls, flute players, snake eaters, actors and storytellers moved amongst them. The smells of the Agora, an exotic fusion of rich spices from Arabia, fragrant unguents, fresh flowers, and, overriding it all, the ripe smell of humanity all around them, were almost overwhelming.

  Aculeo watched Calisto out of the corner of his eye as she weaved her way through the crowds, the girls close on her heels, matching her every step. Others were watching her as well, he noticed, unusual as it was to see women, other than slaves and fishwives, walking through the marketplace. Although Calisto had modestly veiled her head, her grace was obvious in the way she carried herself, in every step she took. Idaia and Tyche ran past her then, chasing one another in amongst the vendors’ stalls.

  “Tyche seems well settled into your household,” Aculeo said.

  “She’s a lovely girl,” Calisto said with a smile. “Idaia adores her.”

  They passed some farmers’ stalls, pens of chickens, white lambs, goats and pigs. “Suitable for food or sacrifice!” proclaimed the vendors. They came upon a cart laden with fresh garlands, their lush perfume filling the air. Aculeo bought a garland of white hyacinths and presented it to Calisto.

  “It’s lovely,” she said. She drew her veil back, her thick, black hair gleaming in the sun, her long neck pale as milk. The necklace she wore, an elegant gold filigree encrusted with dozens of sparkling jewels, was as fine as anything Titiana had ever worn – worth many times more than all Aculeo’s remaining possessions combined. A gift from Ralla perhaps? he thought, with a stab of jealousy. It doesn’t matter, she’s here with me now. He placed the garland on her head like a crown, touching the skin on the back of her neck, soft and cool. She smiled and leaned forward to kiss him.

  There was a sharp squealing sound behind them, cutting through the air, startling them both. They turned around and saw that one of the pigs at the drovers’ stalls had fallen amongst its brethren, which had savagely responded by slashing at its belly with their razor-sharp tusks. The smell of blood was in the air, and the drover had to beat the other pigs off the injured one with a heavy stick.

  “Foul creatures,” Aculeo said. “They’d e
at anything, even their own.”

  “Perhaps we could rest for a while,” Calisto said, unsettled.

  The four of them sat at a table beneath a shade tent next to the stall of a wine merchant, who served them a quick meal of sweet wine and bread dipped in herbed oil and opson. They watched the people walking through the Agora, Romans, Greeks and fellahin, merchants from China to the Indus to Persia, red-bearded Gauls, a colourful, bustling sea.

  “I’ve something to tell you,” Aculeo said gently. “About Neaera.”

  “Oh?” she said. “What is it?”

  Aculeo lay the cameo necklace out on the table. Calisto stared at the tiny portrait, the finely carved ivory face against an indigo background, blinked rapidly, saying nothing. “I hesitated saying anything of this to you until now.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “It was given to a porne by Apollonios.”

  She closed her eyes. “It really was him that murdered Neaera then?” she asked, her voice weak and trembling.

  “I thought so at first, but no, I don’t think he did. I’m not even sure she’s dead.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Apollonios was deranged, no question of that, but I’m not sure he killed anyone. He claimed he’d found the cameo in the hands of the slave found murdered in the Sarapeion. Neaera was likely abducted. The slave stole her necklace before she escaped.”

  “Escaped? From where?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “You think it’s possible Neaera’s still alive somewhere?”

  “There’s still hope. But there’s another thing I’m afraid. It’s about Petras.”

  “Neaera’s cousin? What of her?”

  “We discovered her body as well,” Aculeo said.

  Calisto’s eyes filled with sudden dread. “What?”

  “Her body was sent to the Necropolis to be embalmed three months ago.”

  “You found her … in the Necropolis?”

  “Yes. She’d been murdered in much the same way as Myrrhine.”

  “Oh!”

  “I’m sorry. We think they may have been sacrificed as part of a Dionysian ritual.”

  “What do you mean ‘we think’? Who else thinks this?”

  “Zeanthes,” Aculeo said.

  “Zeanthes?” Calisto’s hands trembled as they held the cup, her face pale – she looked like she might faint any moment. “I don’t understand. Why would anyone do such a thing?”

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yes,” she said, unconvincingly.

  “I’m sorry, I know it’s a great deal to bear all at once.”

  “It’s not just that.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Some men tried to murder us in the Agora yesterday,” Idaia announced. Tyche shot her a warning look.

  “They what?” Aculeo demanded.

  “It was just some thieves,” Calisto said. “We’re fine.”

  “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “Some men, sailors I think, they jostled the litter, tried to steal my necklace. There were some soldiers nearby who chased them away. We’re alright, really.”

  “They tore Calisto’s dress,” Idaia said. “She cut one of them with a knife. I hid behind a shrine, I was so scared!”

  “Idaia, shush!” Tyche said sharply.

  “You stabbed one of them?” Aculeo said in astonishment.

  “The child exaggerates,” Calisto said dismissively. “I was afraid you’d react this way.”

  “I thought they were going to kill us!” Idaia said.

  “But who were they? You said they were sailors?” he asked.

  “I think so,” Calisto said. “I didn’t understand their language.”

  “How many of them were there?”

  “I’m not certain. Not many.”

  “They were six at least,” Idaia said. “One of them had a twisted lip.”

  Aculeo looked at her in surprise. “Like this?” he asked, running his finger down across his upper lip. The child nodded. He glanced at Tyche. “Was it the slave Geta?”

  Tyche bowed her head, making an almost imperceptible nod. The poor girl was terrified. Aculeo smiled grimly and squeezed their hands. “You need to be more careful. Keep out of the Agora for a while, yes?”

  “How is it you know the man?” Calisto asked.

  “He’s one of Panthea’s slaves. Don’t worry. Just promise me you’ll not leave your villa on your own for a while.”

  “So we should hide away like bees in a hive?”

  More like moths caught in Cob’s web, Aculeo thought. He forced a smile. “What’s wrong with being bees? Especially when you live in such a pretty hive?”

  “I don’t understand what’s happening,” Calisto said hollowly.

  Aculeo leaned closer to her, took her soft chin between his fingers, tipped her face towards his and kissed her on the lips. She resisted at first, then kissed him back. Idaia giggled. “Let’s enjoy this moment at least,” he said.

  They noticed an old man approaching them tapping his walking stick along the paving stones, a young slave at his elbow guiding him through the crowds. The man’s robes were tattered, his eyes clouded white, but he gave a broad smile when he stopped next to them.

  “Welcome in peace, in peace in peace,” the old man said in a singsong voice. “A beautiful lady, a handsome gentleman, and two lovely little flowers, my boy tells me. How are you all this fine day?”

  “We’re well, and you?” Calisto said graciously, wiping away her tears, recovering her composure.

  “Every day I can still feel the sun’s warmth on my face is a gift, Miss. Come now, give me a brass coin, I’ll spin you a golden tale.”

  “What sort of tale?”

  “Anything you like, Miss. What shall it be? A tale of love or a tale of war?”

  “One that has both,” Calisto said, gazing at Aculeo, who pressed a coin into the man’s outstretched hand.

  The blind poet smiled. “Of course – the finest sort.”

  Aculeo opened his eyes, still half asleep, listening to the sound of the children playing in the garden, squealing with laughter. He felt the feathery touch of Calisto running her fingertips along his face, his jaw, then tracing the ropey scar that stretched from beneath his ribs to the breadth of his chest in a knotted pink line. He pulled her close, his hand against the small of her back, her skin soft and smooth as silk. She kissed him, her warm, sweet breath against his neck.

  “Is it from a battle?” she asked, tracing her finger along the fibrous band, which wrapped around his right shoulder to his upper back.

  “I never fought in any battles,” he said with a smile.

  “What’s it from then?”

  He sighed. “I was seventeen, training to be an officer in the army. One of the other trainees caught me during sword practice when I wasn’t looking.”

  “You were a Roman officer?” Calisto said, surprised. “I had no idea.”

  “My father had a great deal of ambition for me. More than I had for myself. He thought some military experience would help advance my career. Anyway, this put an end to those dreams.

  “He died soon after, leaving me a small inheritance. I got involved in business with one of his old friends, a man named Corvinus who ran a grain export company. Corvinus became like a second father to me. With his guidance I was able to turn my inheritance into a fortune.” He paused, his expression darkened, brows knitted.

  “What happened?” Calisto asked.

  Aculeo shrugged. “I thought I knew once, but in truth I’m not entirely certain what happened anymore. Either way, what fortune I once had is long gone.”

  “Idaia told me you have a son,” Calisto said. She paused for a moment. “And a wife?”

  Aculeo lay his head back on his pillow. “Yes. She left me when I lost everything. They returned to Rome in Januarius. Titiana just remarried.” He turned his head away.

  She kissed him, held him tight. “You must h
ave truly loved her.”

  Aculeo said nothing in reply, just lay in her arms. He pulled back a bit so he could see her, threaded his fingers through her dark hair, combing it off her face, tracing down her forehead, around her closed eyes, around her cheekbones, touching the white scar that ran along the line of her chin to her jaw. “Where did you get this?”

  Calisto flinched and looked away, her eyes clouded. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I only …”

  “My husband sliced my face with a whip one night.”

  “Oh,” Aculeo gasped.

  “It was many years ago, and he was drunk. I left him that very night. I made my way to Alexandria. Then I met Ralla.”

  “And you became his hetaira?”

  “Yes.” They held one another close as they listened to the sound of the children playing in the garden.

  “I think we should leave,” he said.

  “Let’s stay here just a while longer.”

  Aculeo shook his head. “I meant we should leave Alexandria.”

  “But why?”

  “It isn’t safe.”

  “I have you here to protect me,” she said, kissing his chest.

  “It wasn’t a random attack on you in the Agora yesterday. Panthea’s slave Geta was behind your assault in the Agora. It was her men that attacked me at Ralla’s symposium and likely murdered Gurculio that same night.”

  Calisto pulled away from him, looked up at him in surprise. “Why should they have wanted to do these things?”

  “It has something to do with some tablets Iovinus had been carrying when he returned to Alexandria. Gurculio’s men almost murdered me over them.”

  “What tablets?” Calisto asked.

  “They belonged to a man named Marcellus Flavianus. It doesn’t matter anymore, we’ll never know what was on them. They were destroyed in the fire at Gurculio’s villa.”

  “Why would he attack us though?”

  “I wish I knew. It must be connected to the murders of Myrrhine, Iovinus and Petras somehow.”

  Calisto tucked her head against his neck. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Tell me something – who was Petras’ patron before she disappeared?”

  She paused a moment. “Petras was involved with a number of men.”