“What are you going to do?” Sulpicia asked, fascinated.
“If I pour this brew into her mouth, chances are, most of it will wind up pouring down her breasts, which does us no good at all. It needs to get into her belly, and without going into her lungs and drowning her.” Terse, cold, professional tone. “I’ll put the reed down her throat, aim for the gullet, and pour it in. Unconscious, she shouldn’t have a gag reflex.”
“She’s a whore,” one of the two men left in the room pointed out darkly. “If she’s apt to gag, I doubt she makes much coin.”
Sulpicia glared at him, feeling oddly protective of the limp, mostly naked girl—an odd reaction, she realized, when just a few minutes ago, she’d thought Alexander had fucked the girl just hours after giving her bliss. “I don’t think the comments are necessary,” she informed the man crisply.
“Might not be necessary, domina, but doesn’t make them less true.” That, from the other man, with a roll of his eyes.
“Peace, Spurius,” Alexander said wearily, as one of the others entered the room once more, reed and funnel in hand. And Sulpicia winced, watching the woman’s body quiver, even unconsciously, as the warm tisane was poured down her throat. “Keep her up!” Ianthe said sharply. “She must keep it down, or else I’ll just be guessing at how much has stayed in her body. And what I’m giving her is just as surely deadly if it’s not kept in strict balance with what she’s already had.”
The woman’s body convulsed, and her eyes opened. Rolled. She retched, and some of the fluids came out her nose, at which point Ianthe had the men roll her to her side, so she wouldn’t inhale bile and the tisane and everything else. Another convulsion, and Sulpicia felt Alexander tense. “Is she—?”
“Breathing,” Ianthe said after a moment. “It’s in the gods’ hands now. Perhaps they’ll show her a little mercy tonight.” She put a blanket over the girl once more, and measured out another draught, this one larger, handing it to Alexander. “Drink it all,” she told him, evenly.
“What is it?” Sulpicia asked warily.
“Mandrake root,” the priestess of Hecate replied calmly, and Alexander almost dropped the cup.
“Mandrake? That’s poison—“ one of the men objected.
“As I said, it’s almost as powerful as the toxin already moving through them, but it counters the aconite. Drink, if you would like your heart and your bowels to function again as they should.”
Alexander exhaled, and then drank the whole cup in one go, turning his head to spit at the flavor when done. “Via,” he said, slipping back down onto the bed.
“I’m here.” Sulpicia kept her fingers locked in his.
“You said . . . Rullus and Livia. . . were the ones saying. . . what a pity it would be. . . if I died?”
“They did say that,” she replied, stroking his hair again. “But there’s no proof right now that either of them were behind this.”
“If they were, I will see them dead.” No inflection in his voice.
“You can’t execute a sitting consul. They’re immune from prosecution, among other things.” She stroked his back, this time letting the cloth fall away. No additional tingling in her fingers. I must have gotten most of the poison off of him. “Rullus is quite safe for the rest of his term.”
“Then I’ll have his fucking reputation. I’ll have you . . . write epigrams . . . about his preference . . . for being shit on . . . by pretty girls. And who says . . . anything about . . . prosecution, anyway?”
The words weren’t as labored, but he did sound deeply sleepy now. Sulpicia gave Ianthe a concerned look. “Should we let him sleep?”
“Keep him awake. Talk to him. The longer we can keep him alert, the better I’ll feel,” the priestess admitted, from where she was looking after Jocasta on the floor.
So through the night, Sulpicia kept Alexander awake. Forced his mind to stay active. Watched as his men helped him to the lavatory, so he could evacuate his bowels—several times. By dawn, he was weak as a day-old kitten, but alive, and Ianthe declared that he might sleep now.
Sulpicia leaned down and kissed him. “I have to go,” she whispered. “I should have been back at my father’s house hours ago—“
“Stay.” His hand wouldn’t unlock from hers.
“He doesn’t know all the things I’ve been doing for you and my uncle—“
“Spurius, go to the house of Corvinus and tell him to make excuses for his niece to her father. She fell ill last night at his house, and will be home when she’s feeling up to it. Or some such.” Alexander looked up at Sulpicia. “Stay. Please.”
She lay down beside him, ignoring the various men in the room. And stayed.
______________
Two hours later, Alexander’s eyes snapped open as one of his men tapped on the door. “My lord? We found someone at the house rented by Jocasta, and brought him here.”
Alexander managed to heave himself upright in bed, feeling weak and light-headed. . . and not at all hungry yet. Ianthe had dozed off by the hearth, Jocasta in a sort of makeshift bed of blankets and pillows at the priestess’ feet, on the floor. He could feel a warm arm slide off his chest, and looked down, realizing, She stayed. Sulpicia stayed. “Is whoever it is, safe?”
“Don’t think he’s much of a threat, dominus.” Dry tone, that. “Brought you some clean clothes, before we bring him up.”
Alexander looked at his soiled tunic on the floor and shuddered. I couldn’t possibly look commanding in something stained with oil and vomit. Thanking the gods for Spurius, Flavius, and the taverna owner, Titius, Alexander managed to find his feet as the door clicked open. Put one hand on the wall, and accepted the fresh tunic and toga, as well as assistance putting them on. By this point, Sulpicia and Ianthe had both awakened, and Alexander nodded at Jocasta on the floor. “Any change?”
“Still breathing,” Ianthe reported. “A smaller dose than you took. But she has a much smaller frame. And the gods weren’t looking out for her.”
“Not so,” Alexander said tightly. “Any of the rest of her customers would have left her there to die, I’m sure.” Feeling at least ninety percent more human for being clothed, he found a stool to sit down on and caught Sulpicia’s hand. “I don’t suppose you found clothing for my lady, too, Spurius?” Her dark blue inner tunic only came to her knee. Made of thin silk, it would have been damnably distracting under any other circumstances. A stola over it made the whole thing perfectly innocuous, of course.
A sour look from the frumentarius. “I’ll put it on my list of things to do, dominus,” the older man growled. “But first, the fish we caught?”
Alexander nodded, and then wished he hadn’t, as pain radiated through his head even as his agents propelled a young . . . man?. . . into the room.
No older than Alexander, he had the look of Cupid himself, for all that he wore the undyed, sleeveless tunic of a slave. A hint of gold to his skin, but with curling blond hair, clipped rigorously short in an attempt to make him look more masculine. Honey-amber eyes, long lashes, and an incongruously soft face—no whiskers at all. Little muscle to his long limbs, though he was above average height for a Roman man. And when he saw Jocasta on the floor, the young man immediately dropped to his knees, anguish plain in his face as he shook her shoulder gently. “Mistress! Mistress Jocasta!” An odd, flute-like voice completed the entire package, and Alexander blinked in surprise. He’s been castrated. Early in life, though he hasn’t developed breasts yet. Poor lad, he might yet. The boy looked up, staring at everyone in the room. “What—what have you done to her?”
“Watch your tongue, slave, or I’ll have it out of you,” Spurius snapped.
Alexander raised a hand, noting distantly how it still trembled. “Peace, Spurius. The young man is right to be concerned for his mistress.” He sighed, trying to lean forward. “What’s your name?”
“Ianos, my lord.” The slave stayed on his knees, but picked Jocasta up. Gathered her to him as if she were a precious, fragile thing.
And Alexander blinked. It’s . . . strange. We think we know people. But they pass through a door, and become someone else, out of our sight. “Ianos,” Alexander said, nodding. “Jocasta was poisoned by the same thing I was. An oil she rubbed on my back, that nearly killed her. And me.”
A flutter of expressions, all minute, and ending in a blank wall that shuttered even the young man’s eyes. He’s been trained not to show his feelings. Heavily trained. But Alexander took a stab at understanding, anyway, having read dislike in the first expression. “I was there for information,” he said mildly. “I’d already told her I wouldn’t be requiring any other services of her, but she informed me that her reputation would be damaged if I walked out after only ten minutes of conversation. She was insistent on the massage. I asked her how her sister was . . . and honestly, that’s almost all I remember, before crawling to the door to call for help.”
The slave’s eyes rose tentatively, only by degrees, but still stayed somewhere south of Alexander’s chin. “Can you help us understand what might have happened?” Alexander asked, as gently as he could.
“The girl’s sister wasn’t at their apartment,” Spurius put in.
Alexander looked at Ianos now. “Well, where is she? I can’t imagine she went far, with both of her legs paralyzed.” He caught the inhalation of shock from Sulpicia beside him.
Ianos swallowed. And then the words came out in a tumble. “The lady came six weeks ago, with her guards. Made me carry Mistress Viola to the lady’s house. Set her up as a seamstress for her, in her household. Made me stay there, too, until Mistress Jocasta came looking for her sister. The lady kept taking Mistress Jocasta aside for long conversations. Mistress Jocasta wasn’t stupid,” he added, cradling her to him still. “She kept asking if Mistress Viola really was comfortable. Really felt safe. But with her sister getting three meals a day, and me getting two, I think she felt she had to do whatever the lady asked.” He swallowed.
“And the lady’s name?” Alexander asked, quietly.
“Livia Drusilla,” Ianos muttered, looking at the ground. “Mistress Jocasta told me that she’d given her some sort of magic potion to make men very relaxed. So relaxed that maybe she wouldn’t have to let them fuck her so much.” His soft face tightened a little. “Relaxed enough that they’d tell her things that they wouldn’t normally say. She said she’d give everything they said under the potion to you, as well as to Lady Livia. Because she owed you. But . . . Lady Livia has her sister.” He glanced up. Made fleeting eye contact with Alexander, and then looked down again.
“It won’t hold up in court,” Spurius muttered. “Not unless we torture him.” And as he spoke, Ianos looked terrified, and clutched Jocasta to him all the more closely.
It was a quirk of Roman law, that testimony from a slave was only admissible if the slave had made the admission under torture. The law was a holdover from an earlier time, in which many slaves were the sons and daughters of the men of the household, fathered on their female slaves. As such, these slaves were assumed to have almost the same filial loyalty as the trueborn children of the house. Alexander snorted, feeling another spasm of pain sear through his head. “Who says that this will go to court, Spurius? I can’t make a case against Livia for attempting to murder me. She’ll make it all sound like she was just doing charitable work among the downtrodden, and that Jocasta misunderstood how much of the potion to give her customers.”
“If she told the girl to put the oil on your skin and rub it in by hand,” Ianthe said suddenly, “she undoubtedly intended the girl to die as well. That bottle was very potent. How much worse for the Julii, if Lord Alexander was found not just dead, but dead, with a dead prostitute beside him? And if he happened somehow to survive, for him to have to deal with the repercussions of the dead girl, too?”
Alexander’s eyes fell on the bottle on the table, beside Sulpicia’s writing kit. “I’d like to pour Livia’s wolfsbane oil right down her throat,” he said. Clear, cold words. Not a snarl, not a growl. “I’d like her to taste it all, right before it takes her to meet Pluto and Proserpina.”
Ianos looked down at Jocasta’s slack face. “Please . . . will Mistress Jocasta be all right?”
Ianthe stood from where she’d been sitting against the wall, and moved forward, putting a hand on his shoulder with surprising gentleness. “Her heart beats. She breathes. She may just need time for her body to recover. How were you able to leave Lady Livia’s house today, slave that you are?”
“I’m slave to Mistress Viola and Mistress Jocasta, and Mistress Viola asked me to check on her sister. That was enough for the other servants to let me leave,” he mumbled, and then looked up at Alexander, a flicker of profound hate suddenly passing through his eyes before he remembered to focus his gaze below Alexander’s chin. “Lady Livia did this to her.”
Alexander nodded, slowly. “Yes.”
“Mistress Jocasta’s the only person who’s ever treated me like a human being,” Ianos said, his soft voice becoming surprisingly cold now. “If you want Lady Livia dead, I can do it. I can put a knife in her heart. And I wouldn’t even care if her guards cut me down afterwards.”
“But I think Jocasta would,” Sulpicia said suddenly, with so much compassion and insight, that Alexander turned and looked at his lady, startled. “Wait until your mistress wakes up, Ianos. You can stay with her and tend her until she . . . either wakes, or passes. And that will give Lord Alexander time to decide what to do about Lady Livia.”
What to do, indeed, Alexander thought, his head still burning, making it difficult to think. Having the slave do it would be fitting, but . . . what a possible waste if the guards kill him. He couldn’t be traced back to me, but. . . he can pass for either male or female. He’s used to controlling his face. A little training, and he might be a better resource than any of Sulpicia’s actors. But if he does it, then Jocasta’s sister is still in that house, and could be killed. Though that might just be . . . unfortunate collateral damage.
And against his heart, the amulet of Sekhmet winked out, and warmed to the same temperature as his skin, at last.
Chapter IX: Breath of the Desert
It had been late in the afternoon when the equites had left Alexandria, following a trail that would have gone cold, but for Eurydice’s hawks in the air. They knew that their quarry had yet to leave the Nile’s lush delta area, but had made good time, for all that the six men were ambling along on donkeys, and staying at the periphery of the green, farmed area. The equites had a local guide with them, in case they needed to talk to locals, who might not speak Latin; their guide called over to Tiberius, “They are being very cautious for the moment. Close to the river, more people will see them. And with the sun so close to setting, many animals in the river become more active, too.”
“What kind of animals?” Tiberius called back.
“Crocodiles, snakes, and hippopotami,” the man called back, a wide smile flashing across his olive-toned face. “At least, crossing through the farms at the very edge of the desert, all they need to worry about are lions and jackals. And snakes, too.”
“Crocodiles and hippopotami are worse than lions?” Tiberius asked, not entirely interested at the moment.
“Much worse,” their guide affirmed, laughing. “You Romans say, as brave as a lion. We say, as brave as a hippopotamus. At least a lion will only attack for good reason—you’ve startled it, you’re interfering with its hunt, you’ve come too close to its cubs. A hippo? Sometimes attacks a boat four times its length, for no other reason than that it’s in the water.” A grimace. “And wins.” The guide paused. “They’ll probably make for a river landing at some point, and try to take a barge further south. It’s faster by far.”
No more words for a while. Just watching the fields pass by to their left, and the desert pass by to the right. The fields were bare at the moment, though their canals still held a little water and mosquitoes buzzed constantly around them. Date palms clustered here and there, both near
the farmers’ huts, to provide shade and food, and also here, at the far edges of the fields, where the canals ran along the edge. A thin and rustling wall to break the desert winds.
That rustle was the only sound for the moment, besides the jingle of harnesses and armor. Tiberius’ horse, shield, and the light spear the cavalry favored were all borrowed from another equite attached to Eurydice’s Sixteenth, but his sword, pugio, and armor were his own. Sweating a little under the last rays of the sun, but then night’s chill, spreading across the desert with startling suddenness. “We need to make up time on them,” the lead equite called. “There’s a clear enough road, and enough moonlight. We can press on.”
“We also don’t want to overshoot their campsite in the dark,” Tiberius muttered under his breath. They’d lost the support of Eurydice’s hawk with sunset. If she’d managed to find a friendly owl, the bird had yet to land on anyone’s shoulder to let them know of its presence.
Night sounds joined the jingle of harness. Strange, hooting laughter from the darkness set them all on edge, but their guide identified it tersely, “Hyenas. Small ones. Peasants eat them—if they can catch the cowardly things.”
“I heard that if you get ahold of a male hyena,” a voice from Tiberius’ left, “and kill it, you can take the anus, and bind it into an amulet. Wear it on your upper arm, and you’ll be irresistible to women.”
“Manius, women already know you’re an asshole,” someone else called back. “That’s your whole problem. You don’t need to add to it.”
Rough guffaws of laughter. Tiberius wished he could join in, but even the heat in his body from exertion, the feeling of being part of something larger than himself, that he always got from working with other legionnaires, had failed to warm him for once.
Finally, they made camp for a few hours, mostly to let the horses rest. Caught what sleep they could, themselves. And before dawn, were back in the saddle, following the faint tracks in the hard-beaten road that they’d been tracing out for hours now. Stopping to talk to farmers hauling plows out into the fields to break up winter’s sleeping soil along the way—wary, suspicious eyes, regarding their Roman armor and faces. “Still ahead of us, but not by much,” the patrol’s leader, a man with the odd cognomen of Libo, announced after one such conversation. “Let’s pick up the pace.”
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