by Assaph Mehr
“Perhaps,” he said, and when I gave him an unimpressed look he continued, “I hear a lot of things, mostly rubbish and superstitious gossip. I no longer move in the official circles of power as you can well imagine. However other channels circulate their own stories, and ring true more than others. What brings you back to those subjects? Why turn your gaze on something you walked away from?”
“I did not turn my back on it as you very well know! I had no choice in the matter. I turned my back on you after… Well, let us not go there. This would have been recent. A cabal most likely. With activities carried in darkness, and nothing to alert the authorities. Those are my guesses, I know not for certain.”
His right eye wandered to look at the passing slave girl, and his black left eye gazed into me. When the girl got out of earshot, his mad eyes switched back. “Whatever you are after, it cannot end well. Walk away now. Leave these accursed dealings to those who seek them, before you join me and mine.”
“I thank you for this advice,” I said coolly, “but I have a better record of keeping my affairs in order than you. Now, can you tell me anything of use?”
“Do you know what your supposed cabal was attempting to do?”
I gazed at him for a long moment. “The Rite of Pelegrinus.”
He choked. His right eye looked at me with incredulity, and his left was roving madly, trying to see all directions at once and even turning back into his skull, exposing a yellow orb shot with red veins. “No one — no one! — is that stupid. Any matris futuor apprentice of an incantator will have had this drilled into their brain, and the rhones of the Council at the Collegium Incantatorum will disabuse anyone who even dreams of starting down that road, like a centurion a green recruit missing his mommy!”
“And yet someone did. He failed of course, but I saw the stigmas and even held the heart of ruby in my hand.”
“Who was he?”
“The son of a merchant. He shall remain nameless.”
Araxus sipped his wine, lost in thought. He chewed on the tip of his unkempt beard. I flagged the passing slave girl, gave her a sestertius and asked her for stuffed pastries, feeling the rancid wine churning in my stomach. Araxus continued to stare into space, mumbling occasionally to himself. The girl returned, and left two pastries on a plate in front of us. It was surprisingly good for an establishment of this kind, a sturdy dough filled with chopped herbs and garlic and some slivers of meat of unidentified origins. Drizzled with fish sauce, to complete the flavour.
Araxus wolfed down his pastry. “Tell me what you remember of the rite”, I asked.
“A nasty business. We don’t know much, as the whole terminalis branch of the magia vita has been outlawed for centuries, and never properly studied. The heart of ruby is a definite sign, nothing else quite like it. Requires a cabal, certainly. From the one scroll about it I have read, all those many years ago at college, it will involve long preparations. Chants, consecrations, potions, ceremonies. I still cannot believe one would be able to hide such a thing. I don’t know for certain what the ceremony entails, at least it was never in the accessible parts of the library. What I read was a treatise of the effects and signs. There might be more detailed references to the requirements, the ingredients and formulae hidden somewhere in the locked rooms. I don’t imagine you could get access again?…”
“Not a chance.” I replied. “My client would not have access or enough influence to get it, and anyway prefers to bury the matter discreetly and without any undue attention from the incantatores. Now, if I were to ask around and look for cabal members, do you know of any signs I should watch out for?”
“From memory, such rites involve many stigmas. It would depend largely on how the ceremony was completed, though I would hazard that other members might also require tattoos of power to channel the energies. Smaller than those of the chosen one of course. All these stigmas require preparations and special inks. I could ask around…” Araxus began with a suggestive tone.
“You do that, but quietly. No names or details, listen more than you talk. And tell me as soon as anything even remotely relevant turns up.” I got up and left a few coins on the table. Araxus will need them if he was to go around, and Corpio would hardly notice them on the expense account.
On the way back home after leaving Araxus, I stopped at the Baths of Sestropius just next to the Pons Orientalem. I paid extra and hired a slave to scrub and massage me after a long dip in the cold and hot plunges. I needed to get the smell and memory of Araxus and this day off me.
Chapter IV
I set out the next day to seek out more information, to cast a net and see what catch it might bring. The meeting with Araxus did not provide me with anything concrete, but may yet bear fruit in the future. However there were other sources I could tap that might prove fruitful.
I put on my toga again, my only toga, and started to visit all of my father’s old contacts. At least the honest ones, not those vultures who danced in glee at his downfall. I went from portico to basilica, tracking men I once knew. These were all men who traded in artwork — from marble statues and scrolls of poetry to Assyrican fine silks and Arbarican gold jewellery. They were men who understood the value of things beyond mere ordinary goods, and knew a lot about mysterious origins and exotic materials that might be used in illicit enchantments. Well, knew enough to make convincing stories for their buyers, who sometimes knew far more and sometimes far less. These were all well-respected citizens, owning offices and warehouses filled with exquisite items for the connoisseurs.
I shared many stuffed dates, honeyed almond cakes, sweet sesame biscuits, and far too many cups of watered wine. I asked non-specific questions, and got non-specific answers. The result was that the word was out that I was in the market for a certain kind of information, and was willing to pay handsomely. Now to wait, until greed got the better of discretion for those who were traders and hagglers at heart.
By afternoon I came back to my home, feet aching from walking, stomach aching from the sweets and head aching from the wine. I wriggled out of my toga in the atrium and went to bed in my loincloth, stopping only for a refreshing drink of cool water delivered by the mad faun’s engorged member.
I collapsed on my bed and slept the sleep of the drunk, tired from walking and from bad dreams the night before.
* * *
I woke up after sunset, which suited me fine. Time to do more canvassing, this time amongst people who wake up with the night.
Dascha prepared a dinner of farina porridge with bits of bacon, and some fried eggs and bread. Her cooking skills may not be much, but she knew what I would need without my asking. I ate the meal reclining on a couch in the square garden at the back of my house, with the ever present leering faun for company. It was done in bronze, and the paintwork was worn and chipped. I sold the rest of my father’s artwork collection though somehow I have grown sentimental about this one — or so I told myself rather than face the fact that no one would buy it.
I put on an old but still-decent tunic, strapped my dagger under the sleeve of my forearm, and put a money pouch with small coins on my belt, with the real pouch hidden deep within my tunic’s pockets.
I set out on foot from my house, heading south back above the ridge of the Meridionali and down the other side. All the establishments I planned to visit would be local, either in the Subvales, along the waterline and in the Campus Civicus. The Subvales, the far side of the Meridionali away from the water and facing inland, is mostly built up with tenements, housing the poor, foreigners and freemen — the Egretian stews. Along the shores of the bay are the great markets — the Forum Bovarium, Forum Frumentarium and Forum Piscarium — and in between them are the silos, warehouses and pens to hold the products that will be sold the next day. These areas become devoid of respectable citizens when the sun sets, and another crowd of dock workers and labourers takes over.
Considering the establishments I was planning to visit and the streets I will be walking well after dark
, I made my way as quickly as I could to a disreputable tavern called the Pickled Eel at the base of the hill, near the Porta Fulvia. I located the scrawled sign of an amphora with eels peeking out on the side of a narrow alley off an odd-shaped public square. I walked up the alley for a few paces and ducked into a low doorway. This being night my eyes were already accustomed to the dark, yet the perpetually dim-lighted interior still gave me pause. I walked in, looking at the back tables as I went, but could not see the person I was after.
I went to the bar at the back corner, bought a drink for myself and asked the proprietor, “Is Crassitius in tonight?”
“Busy at the back,” he said with a leer, “though I’d say he should be finished soon.”
I settled myself to wait at a free table.
I sipped my wine once, and decided to leave it. I had a long night ahead, and did not wish to start it off with a heartburn.
A few minutes later my friend Crassitius walked in from a back passage, buckling a belt. A short and plump girl followed him, and he patted her backside as she passed. I hailed him over.
“Felix! By Servilius’ shrivelled scrotum, if it isn’t Felix the Fox!” He clapped me on the shoulder.
“Marcus Crassitius” I smiled with a wince. “Still keeping fit, I see.”
He laughed. “Yes, indeed. In my business one can hardly avoid it. What has it been now, two years since I saw you last? You bastard used to come here more often. What’s the matter, suddenly too good for your old pals?”
We talked for a while, trading insults and news. When he ordered his third cup of wine and was beginning to reminisce about our short army tenure together, I thought we exchanged enough pleasantries.
“Do you still hold that stable of ex-gladiators? I need to hire one for tonight.”
His smile never wavered, but his eyes narrowed and all signs on inebriation vanished at the smell of business. “Yes, yes I do. I have some waiting nearby, as one never knows when a customer requires arms broken or ladies entertained. What are you after tonight?”
“Something large. Suitably intimidating, to avoid trouble.”
“I have just the thing. A huge Arbari, all red moustaches and rippling arms, trained as a cestus and decent with the gladius as well. For how long?”
“Just for the night.” We haggled just a bit, and agreed on the fees and insurance costs in case I returned damaged goods. Crassitius insisted he was giving me mates’ rates, but it still seemed a bit steep. Still, in order to claim my expenses from Corpio I needed to come back alive from this night.
Crassitius sent a slave boy to fetch the gladiator, whose name I learnt was Borax. He was not exaggerating. A hulking Arbari, bending his head under the low ceiling, complete with big dropping red moustaches done in plats and long red hair plaited as well. Wearing only leather breeches, a cloak and a permanent scowl, he was bare chested and covered in blue woad tattoos. He looked like he could lift a boar one handed, and probably fit one in his stomach in a single meal. The costs of feeding him must account for the significant sum of money I paid to hire him.
I set out with Borax on my trail to visit all the seedy establishments where Egretia’s night life takes place. As with my father’s respectable contacts, I wandered from one establishment to the next. I visited bars, gambling dens and whorehouses, tracking down people who often wished their whereabouts not to be publicly known. These were also men who specialised in moving items of value, though usually without their previous owner’s permission. I asked about rumours, oddments, trading in contraband and suspicious activity. I asked about rich youths out of place, and characters asking the wrong kind of questions.
Unlike the more respectable people of the morning, when I cast my lines at night I had to put more bait on the hooks. Good deeds are seldom their own reward with that crowd, so I also spread a few coins. I had to be careful, far more careful, for these people were both more and less discreet than the professional traders. More discreet, because they knew the value of contraband and secrets, and the dangers of dealing with them. Less discreet exactly because they knew full well the price attached. I needed it to be known that I was in the market for unsavoury information, and yet not expose my client.
And just like in the morning, I walked for mile after mile, talked endlessly about non-specific things and got non-specific answers. The food was worse though, and the wine wretched. At least the presence of Borax’s garlicky breath behind me had kept me safe.
I returned to my home in the small hours of the night. Not a fruitful day, but that is the inglorious nature of my business and I did not expect immediate returns. My nets cast, if any information about this unfortunate affair was available, in whatever social strata, it would make its way to me.
* * *
I woke up late on the following morning, and decided it was time to meet Gnaeus Drusus. I chose to forgo a formal toga, and instead wore my best tunic, the one in light blue and a golden trim of Hellican key design along the hem. I needed to balance my appearance and project a respectable yet approachable image to the young aristocratic friend of Caeso.
I made my way to the Forum Egretium through the perpetually busy streets near the harbour. I went to the Collegium Mercatorum, where Gnaeus Drusus filius would spend his days in apprenticeship to a master trader, learning anything from geography to accounting to foreign languages. There were the shop keepers, tavern keepers and small business holders — and then there were the privileged youths of the rich families, attending the Collegium Mercatorum and learning how to run trading empires.
I located the door-slave. Not a burly guardian, rather a scrawny-necked, balding little man with his nose up the air, who made it clear that even though he was a slave, he was still better than anyone not on his lists. I inquired after young master Drusus, and had to grease his palm with a full denarius to learn that he was indeed inside. Another silver denarius went to buy a promise that he will deliver a message to Drusus to meet me at a corner tavern.
On the way to my selected vantage point, I stopped at the fountain of Iuno Moneta that stands before the college and refreshed myself. I caught one of the running street urchins, gave him a quadrans and waved at the door-slave, who nodded slightly. A fall-back, in case the young master would be too busy for the likes of me; he would point him out to the boy, who would alert me discreetly.
I settled myself at a small table in a seat with a clear view of the Collegium, and made ready to wait.
I did not need to wait for long. Right around midday, the cadets and personnel of the Collegium started to pour out of the huge building with its impressive colonnade front. All were in a rush, keen for a break in their busy day. Eventually the door-slave whispered something in the ear of the boy I hired, who promptly ran to me and pointed to a young man walking alone. “This is the man you are waiting for, domine. The short one with the dark hair.”
I rose and approached Drusus as he came closer. “Gnaeus Drusus, allow me to introduce myself. I am Spurius Vulpius Felix, known as Felix the Fox. I would be most delighted if you would let me to treat you to some wine and refreshments.”
We sat and I waved for the slave girl to bring us good wine and a light lunch. The crowds normally around the Forum Egretium were of a better class than the ones I had seen last night, and consequently the vintage was significantly more palatable. The girl laid out a set of plates in front of us, with pickled quail eggs, tiny fish battered and fried whole, olives, bread, and bits of goat meat and carrots in a cumin sauce.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked as he popped a pickled egg in his mouth.
“I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Gnaeus Drusus, for I have the unpleasant task of informing you of the death of your friend Caeso Quinctius three nights ago.” He blanched. “He was found dead in his bed. His father, as you can imagine, is quite distraught.”
“What happened to him? He was well the week before when I saw him last.”
“We are not entirely certain.” That was not
a lie. “As a matter of course, his father the rhone asked me to look into his death, to ease his own conscience. You said Caeso appeared healthy, however I understand from Corpio that his health had been deteriorating of late?”
“Maybe not in peak form of late, though not about to keel over. But you’re right and his health had been deteriorating throughout the winter.”
“His father mentioned that you went with him to Kebros last autumn. Would you tell me all about it?” I asked.
“Last year he fell in love with a street mime, and was acting all forlorn, losing appetite and sleep, because of course he could not tell his father. So Quinctius Corpio had either guessed or completely misunderstood, and decided to send us both on voyage to get Caeso’s mind off the subject. We went on a trip to Kebros late in the shipping season. His father made all the arrangements with his brother on the island, and asked me to accompany Caeso to keep an eye on him and try to lift his spirits up.”
“Do you remember the girl’s name?”
“Who said it was a girl?” he leered. “But no, I do not. Never met her. To hear him moon about her was quite enough.”
“Did the trip cheer him up?”
“Well, at first he was dejected as you could expect. Like a brat whose favourite toy was taken, he kept pouting throughout the whole voyage. I tried to console him, pointing out that while there was no future with a street trash mime, he could still bed her — or any number of similar moechae — any time he wants. Why couldn’t he just make his father happy and marry a nice girl, and keep the mime as a mistress like the rest of us?”
“Having seen young people in love, I will assume that did not impress him.”
“Not in the least. Caeso wandered around the island listlessly. His uncle had even arranged for a suitable young girl of wedding age to be present during a few of the dinners, though he showed little interest. Not that I blame him, she was a bit of a shrew — too well educated to my tastes. Any which way, after a while on the island Caeso was improving. All that fresh air, walking, riding and sailing. Got a bit of appetite back. We took a few boat trips to the smaller islands. I got bored after a while and he continued alone. He started to come to dinners all aflush and excited, with a healthy appetite. He seemed to be back to his usual excitable self. He even made some advances on Aemilia — the girl I mentioned — but then we had to return to Egretia before the shipping closed for the winter.”