Murder In-Absentia

by Assaph Mehr

  When I finally made my way down to the waterline of the bay, I turned left to the east, instead of right towards the Forum and the direction from which we came in the morning. This way would lead me to the mouth of the bay, and the small island of the Pharos lighthouse. The view and the clear air, I hoped, would bring me clear ideas as well.

  I walked on the promenade that runs along the inner shore of the Septentrionali. The sea traffic on this side of the bay mostly revolves around private jetties and moorings. Most commercial wharves are on the south side, on the Campus Civicus and along the base of the Meridionali where the great markets are. I walked past private yachts, ranging from small, fast sailing boats to gargantuan pleasure barges powered by tiers of rowing slaves.

  The alleys going up the hill disappeared between the blank walls of the mansions of the rich, with the occasional fig-tree-lined avenue offering public open spaces and routes back to the Vicus Caprificus that runs along the ridge of the hill.

  Interviewing Typheus and the steward at Corpio’s invitation did not provide me with further details. They both corroborated Corpio’s account of the events, confirmed that Caeso’s friends Porcius and Lutatius had not been as close with Caeso as Drusus, though they visited him recently nonetheless. Neither Typheus nor the steward had any insight into Caeso’s activities with his friends. He did not seem to have confided in them, which was not unusual, and kept his activities outside of the house to himself. Being a student at the Collegium Mercatorum and still a young man, he was not accompanied on a regular basis by any slaves.

  After the interviews I searched Caeso’s rooms. I turned over his bed, went through his chest of clothes, looked under his bed, tapped the walls for hidden compartments, gone over the desk at his small study, read all the tags of the scrolls in the pigeon holes of his library and opened a few randomly to check their veracity, tore into his mattress, tapped his table again for secret compartments.

  Nothing.

  Not even a hidden cache of pornographic poetry one would expect from a youth of his age.

  I asked the steward where else could Caeso have hidden prized possessions around the house. Under instruction from Corpio to assist me in any way possible and to the accompaniment of his trusted aid Typheus, we three went over the whole mansion in as much detail as the time allowed. We asked questions of those in the household who might have seen Caeso about, making it appear like a simple inquiry. We tried to look nonchalant as we poked around in unusual out of the way places where Caeso might have stashed private possessions, but I had no doubt that gossip would circulate that night amongst the slaves about the stranger who even shined a lamp down into the latrines.

  And still, nothing.

  * * *

  I reached the tip in the Septentrionali, where the Bay of Egretia opens to the Mare Saepiae. As I walked around the bend, the Pons Ignis came into my view — the viaduct bridge that leads to Insula Laridae, the tiny island on which the Pharos stands. Going further north around the tip was not possible beyond this point; the northern side of the Septentrionali, the side facing the open sea, was all sheer cliffs. The mansions of the rich at the top enjoyed both spectacular views and natural protection from intrusion, at least from that side.

  The massive blocks of stone that make the five arches of the bridge had been laid centuries ago. When our nomadic people finally decided to settle around the bay, they established a fishing village at its innermost point. As trade grew, so did the village. The erection of the Pharos is considered one of the three marking points in the establishment of our great city.

  I crossed the Pons Ignis and climbed laboriously on the steep path up the hill to the foot of the Pharos. Both the location and the features of the hill made it the ideal place for a lighthouse. Our people had maintained a bonfire there for ages, well before the lighthouse. As our port grew, so did our knowledge. It was the incantator Iunius Brutus who summoned forth the Pharos over four hundred years ago, and announced to the world the rising of our city and our collegia. He used his mastery of the six elements to raise up a square pediment upon which stood a slender tower of solid marble, and bind a permanent flame at its head. His skill was so refined, that on the spire of stone he erected were scenes in bas-relief spiralling up to the top depicting some of the important events in our city. From our humble beginnings as nomads, our victories over the Volsci and Gabii who inhabited this region before us, the original Curia of the Senate, Curtius’ famous sacrifice in the forum, the eruption of Vergu that nearly destroyed the city, and of course the image of himself raising the self-same spire itself at the top.

  At the very top, on a capital styled with acanthus leaves, Iunius Brutus had crafted a white marble statue of a magnificent egret, with the plume of feathers on its head looking almost too delicate to be made of stone, and in its beak held the eternal flame. In the four hundred years since, despite wars and natural disasters, this flame has never gone out. It was said the he was rooted to the spot for seven days and seven nights as he chanted and directed the mystical energies that brought forth the Pharos, and that when the ritual was complete and finally he moved, a thin layer of marble dust covered him.

  I climbed the pediment at the base of the towering structure. The square podium of the Pharos was about thirty feet high, with stairs running along its side to a wide platform on which people could stand and watch ships on the horizon. The spire jutting out in its centre was a solid block of hard marble a hundred feet high, and none but the terminally insane would attempt to scale it and reach the fire of the egret at the top.

  I searched along the depicted scenes, until I located the mythical scene depicting Servilius Ahala striking down Athanasios the necromancer. What inspiration could this ancient hero give me now?

  I sat down with my feet dangling and my face to the open sea. I gazed out and could see sail-ships and rowboats, fishermen and pleasure craft. The sun was at my left, the water dazzling, and a light breeze pushing a few wispy white clouds high above.

  A perfect day, and yet my mind was occupied with dark thoughts. I was contemplating approaching Drusus first as the most promising lead, but I wanted to think before I did. The problem I was facing was that this assignment was much stranger than what I was used to. Not only that, it was much stranger than anyone I know of would have dealt with. The subject of necromancy does not come up often. Even to bring the topic up would cause most people to dismiss me as crazy at best, or report me to the rhones of the Collegium Incantatorum as a dangerous lunatic at worst.

  This was definitely not my usual line of business. Purloined jewellery, missing persons, cheating spouses are what paid for my bread and fish sauce. The occasional debunking of charlatans, confirmation of ancient scrolls, and even, rarely, a real magical ring are what would one day fill my memoirs. But necromancy? Definitely out of my way. If I should live to see the end of this, it would make the shining pinnacle of light in my memoirs. Who knows, perhaps I could even sell them!

  A big if, considering surviving anything to do with necromancy was no mean feat.

  I needed some insight, a few discreet buttons I could test when talking to witnesses. A way to delicately broach the subject of Caeso’s mysterious death, test and see reactions before bringing the authorities breathing hard down my neck for dealing with forbidden arts. I needed a refresher on necromancy, a review of the current schemers, any recent events that might involve illegal sorcery and trading in contraband.

  In short, I needed to meet with Araxus.

  Araxus the Mad, as he was known.

  Chapter III

  Last I heard, Araxus was living in the slums out on the Campus Civicus amongst the disowned slaves, the lost foreigners, the mad and destitute and other nonentities. Since this was directly on the opposite side of the bay from me, my options were to swim, walk the long way around the bay, or try and catch a ride across the bay with a hire boat.

  I crossed the Pons Ignis back to the mainland, and walked along the promenade, scanning for passing
ships. This being the more affluent side, a few enterprising people were always lurking nearby to carry the rich to destinations around the harbour. Wearing a respectable toga I had no trouble in hailing one to me. I chose a one captained by a man that did not look like he might slit my throat and dump my body in the bay, and haggled him to the price of two bronze sestertii. More for the practice than the money, as the cost would be added to Corpio’s bill.

  My seaman had four slaves to row us towards the Campus Civicus. We zipped past larger ships, making our way across the bustling harbour traffic. His rowboat had space for several people and the crew were used to heavier loads — rich people rarely travel without a retinue. We aimed at the public wharves, busy at this time with ships loading and unloading goods of all kinds. Egretian wines from vineyards on the rich volcanic soil on the other side of Vergu are well known around the Mare Saepiae; from the Kebros archipelago we imported the fish and squid sauce our people loved so much, shipped in large carinate clay vessels, stamped with seals of quality ranging from the exquisite to rotgut; grains, livestock, fresh catch, bales of cloth, messengers carrying official dispatches, and even navy ships transporting soldiers and patrolling our shores. Our harbour was the pumping heart of our empire and on a clear spring day such as this my driver had his hands full in guiding the small boat amidst all the traffic.

  We reached the Campus Civicus and moored at one of the public wharves. I got off, and the boat quickly pushed back out to scan for customers from the water, rather than remain in berth and pay the harbour master his fees.

  I walked past the great silos and warehouses, the basilicae with merchant offices, avoiding the constant traffic of slaves and wagons carrying loads, or yelling foremen and hurrying clerks. An ox-drawn cart was blocking my way, delivering farm chickens to the market. I went behind, and stepped in a steaming turd left on the pavement by one of the oxen. “Merda! Fellator asini!” I called after the driver. He turned round and gave me an evil eye, raising his whip. I hastened around the corner. Discretion and all that — it really wasn’t the time to hang about.

  I walked behind the busy port and towards the Circus Magnus. In all the cities I have been to, the areas of public entertainment are always bordered by the establishments catering for the common patron — taverns to get them drunk first, and then brothels and gambling houses to relieve them of their money in their inebriation. I stopped at a few, and got myself well-watered drinks of cheap wine; I took time to chat with the whores standing in doorways advertising their wares and special tricks in the most obvious of ways; I distributed a few copper quadrans to street urchins. Eventually I found those who have seen a mad hermit with the features of Araxus. I followed their leads to the refuse heaps outside of the Campus Civicus.

  * * *

  Araxus and I had been friends in our youth. We started at the Collegium Incantatorum together, embarking down a promising path of a life steeped in magic and adventure. But then Fortuna dealt me the first of many blows.

  My father’s business collapsed. He was a trader of antiques, fine arts, exotic jewellery — and the occasional enchanted item. His business was strong enough to keep us well supplied, if not carry us into riches. He had agents scouring remote kingdoms, and was a fixture at auctions, always ignoring the slaves and furniture and browsing for the unique items of interest. He kept a warehouse to store curiosities of all flavours and for all tastes. His patrons knew him, and trusted his reputation in acquiring oddments.

  I did not follow him into his business. Instead I was the first of my family to attend the Collegium Incantatorum. My parents were so proud the day I passed the entry exams; my father went around buying drinks and declaring to anyone who would listen that one day his boy will make it to the Curia of Senate.

  His fall was sudden and swift. Brought on by natural disasters, and then aided by his rivals who kicked him further on his way down. Within a month he had lost shipments and caravans, his bankers refused to extend his loans, and irate creditors were knocking on our door day and night.

  In the end my father could bear it no more, and took his life with his sword. My mother never recovered, and spent her remaining short years crying herself to sleep every night.

  My family’s fortune gone, I could no longer continue my studies at the Collegium. I was lucky to keep our house, though I had to sell almost everything except Dascha.

  Throughout this, Araxus was my unbending support. I had many times escaped the pressures of my own home to his. After I finally left the Collegium, he tried to keep me abreast of his learning, sneaking me an occasional scroll. When all others had turned their back on me, he was my one true friend.

  I rebuilt my life, or rather built a new life. I tried the legions briefly, but quickly realised that soldiering was not for me. By chance I ran a few errands for the firm of Gordius et Falconius, and found that while I had neither the training to be an incantator nor the money for a merchant business, I had the nose for both. I had learnt much from these esteemed men, and then forged my own path as a fox; though often a ferret would have been a more accurate name. I even managed to find love.

  And then Araxus had his accident. His mind was gone, and no one could restore it. I still am not sure of what he was trying, when he blew up his rooms and half a wing of his father’s house.

  I never forgot his kindness to me, though, and strove to repay in kind now that the tables were turned. I did my best, at first to find a cure, and later to keep him from harming himself.

  And then came that sordid affair with Helena, and I could never forgive him. I never saw him since.

  * * *

  The stench was incredible. Our great city has a sewage system, the underground cloaca that runs from the top of the highest neighbourhoods on the slopes of Vergu and throughout the two arms. The sewers are flushed with water from the Aqua Sextiae and carry the human refuse out to sea; usually excreta, though the occasional body is not unknown. Anything that cannot be carried by water has been dumped by slaves for centuries in the dales of the hills behind the Campus Civicus. Laws prohibiting the dumping of refuse in the streets had some effect, and taxes fuelling gangs of slaves to cart street trash to the city dump had more. From broken furniture to dead babies, if it was unwanted it ended up here.

  I coughed and held a linen kerchief to my face. I scanned the mounds of rubbish for moving figures, and saw a sad few walking about. I wandered around, looking for those that have made their habitat there, trying to see faces that were trying to hide from my gaze, examining profiles without getting too close to their owners.

  Eventually I saw his figure. Stooped and thin, a man my age who was once tall and slender, now walking leaning on a makeshift crutch, more a pole of rough wood. Hair hanging in ragged greasy stands all around his face, a scraggly beard, a dirty and torn tunic that might once have been fine. As I approached he lifted his head and stared at me, and I knew it was him.

  In his youth, Araxus was handsome. Slender, with a face like an old Hellican statue by Praxiteles — high cheekbones, a firm chin, long nose, wide forehead and rings of strawberry-blond hair neatly framing his visage. And in the midst of it all a pair of laughing eyes and a welcoming smile that made him adored by all.

  The face in front of me had lost all that charm. Gaunt, dirty, weather beaten, looking much older than his thirty four years. Unshaven and sickly. But his eyes, oh his eyes! These showed the sign of the curse he had brought upon himself more than anything else about him. His green right eye was looking at me, with animal-like cunning intelligence; his black left eye constantly wandered around, independent of the other, and when it looked at me I shivered.

  I approached slowly. I took the kerchief down from my face, hoping for a sign of recognition. “Araxus…” I began, and saw recognition hit as his right eye widened.

  “No! Do not look at me!” He started, turned and ambled away from me, fast despite his uneven gait and bent back.

  “Araxus I need to speak to you!” I hurried after him, t
rying not to slip on the rotting garbage. “Araxus! You owe me this!” But he kept running away.

  “Araxus! Do not make me say her name!” That stopped him as if hit by a mallet. He stood, with his back towards me, rocking gently. I stopped a few paces behind him. Slowly he turned. Both of his eyes focused into mine, and I felt a cold chill.

  “Some debts cannot be repaid,” he stated, “and some things cannot be forgotten. No matter how hard we try.”

  “That is true Araxus, the facts remain as they were, as do your past transgressions. But for whatever small and insufficient comfort, you now have the chance to repay a little of this back, before Dis claims you for all eternity.”

  We stared at each other a moment more, and then he sagged. His left eye finally resumed its incessant wandering and I felt my own body relax as its gaze was no longer transfixing my soul.

  * * *

  We walked back amongst the busy alleys of the entertainment quarter of the Campus Civicus. I wanted to talk to Araxus in quiet, so I found a tavern that wasn’t bustling with customers. I ordered us some wine and olives. The proprietor looked askance at Araxus, so I put a full silver denarius on the counter and ensured us a flow of cheap wine and a quiet corner table.

  I looked sidelong at Araxus. I hoped I was not wasting my time. By the looks of him he has not kept in touch with any of his old life, or much of any public life in Egretia for that matter. But then, the invisible people on the outskirts of our society often hear and know and realise far more than we give them credit.

  “After all these years, I still cannot forgive you,” I said, “and this doesn’t change anything. But right now I need some information.” A slave girl came to our table and set up two wooden cups before us, filling them with wine. I sipped mine and wished I hadn’t, it was so sour. When she walked away I resumed. “Have you heard anything of late to do with your old interests?”