by Assaph Mehr
“We sat at a table to one side, and Caeso did not talk. Just told me to wait and watch. After a while a hidden lyre player started, playing something atrocious and discordant. Some red light shone through the smoke, and in walked this short bald man, wearing strange robes and kohl around his eyes. He talked about eternal life, about riches and power, about upsetting the natural order and taking what was rightfully theirs.
“Frankly I thought he was a nut case, and a fake. He tried to pass himself as a Mitzrani, but to me it was obvious he was not. None who believe in our old ways would ever talk like that. Caeso was mesmerised, however, drinking in his every word. He kept talking about passing tests of loyalty, and how only the worthy will be elevated, become privy to this power when they finally attain it. Eventually I could not take it any more, and left. Caeso wanted to stay, and we argued, and eventually I walked home by myself.
“After that I cooled things with him, or at least I tried to. He was still obsessed with me, only now I could see it for what it was, an obsession. He would not apologise for letting me walk back at night by myself, only trying to persuade me to come there again, to see the ‘bright future’ as he called it. I tried to shake him off, I wanted none of that.
“Luckily his father put him on that ship soon after, and we left Egretia to Hellica.”
I looked down at the table. The tracery was faint, pulsating slowly and calmly. She was telling me the truth.
“And who was that man? Do you know his name or anything about him?”
“I don’t know much more about him. I only saw him that once, and refused to go there again. Caeso later told me his name was Zymaxis.”
* * *
I walked home slowly, deep in thought. Mahatixa had told me all she knew, of that I could be certain. After I finished questioning her, I felt uncharacteristically guilty of mistreating her, so had offered to help carry Harkhuf back to their lodging. Never leave a pretty woman spitting at your back, as my father used to say.
At first she refused and wanted nothing more to do with me, and in an effort to patch things up I told her I believed her tale about Zymaxis, hinting without revealing the mystery of Caeso’s death. I assured her that I would be going after him. That, and a generous pay for the interview, seemed to mellow her opinion of me a little, though I wish I could believe my own words with the same confidence.
I offered her again to help carry Harkhuf, but Mahatixa gave him a disgusted look, kicked the chair from under him, and exclaimed “let the big ox sleep here on the floor! He deserves whatever happens to him, such a lousy guard he turned out.” She emphasised this with an extra kick to his thigh.
I still ended up walking her to her troupe’s lodging. I dragged the heavy frame of Harkhuf after her, and disgusted as she was with him, she came back to help me. These troupes stick together like family, knowing full well no one else will. The shared exertion mellowed her attitudes towards me even more, and I managed to part with her without getting spit upon.
As I walked back from the inn I considered all the questions this day had raised. Who was the mysterious Zymaxis? Were his powers real, or was Mahatixa’s assessment that he was a fake correct? If he was responsible for the necromantic spell that killed Caeso, how did he manage to avoid detection by the magisters of the Collegium Incantatorum? What should I do about confronting him? To what extent was Drusus involved or innocent of this matter?
I would have to tread carefully. I could cast my cantrips in a stinking tavern on a foreign woman of low standing, but I could never do so to someone of Drusus’ standing, or even Porcius and Lutatius. If any of them were involved, it would require an official court, something Corpio was particularly keen to avoid. And as for Zymaxis, I would have to ascertain his identity and status. If he was indeed performing necromancy inside the boundaries of our city, he might have very powerful patrons.
Chapter VI
I slept badly that night, plagued by dreams of the body in the well again. I gave up on sleep before dawn and decided to see if I could still catch the night crowd of Egretia as they disperse to their homes, before the day people take over the city. I dressed and armed myself, raided the kitchen for some unappetising cold leftovers of cod in coriander and caraway sauce, and left before first light.
I walked up the maze of alleys leading from my house to the Vicus Petrosa at the top of the Meridionali and continued briskly along that main road to the Forum Egretium. Near the Baths of Mauritius the road angles down the hill towards the forum, the living heart of our city, and offers a spectacular view of the open space ringed by impressive public buildings. Despite the hour there was plenty of traffic through the streets — straggling wagons hurrying to get back out of the city before the daylight curfew, slaves starting their day before their masters, vigiles doing the last rounds.
I crossed the forum and headed up the Vicus Caprificus, and turned left at the Via Caeca. To continue right was the Septentrionali, where Corpio and many other rich and powerful had their city mansions. I was heading towards the Clivi Inferior, the lower slopes of Mons Vergu. It is a respectable quarter of smaller houses and low tenement buildings. An area populated not by the upper crust, yet by people still rich enough to own a good house close to the cliffs and fresh sea breezes.
The Dented Skull was located somewhere near the sea cliffs, and not far from the Porta Rupis. At least that was the description I got from Mahatixa. Wandering through the winding streets and asking around, I eventually managed to locate the dented legionary helmet hanging by its top loop over a door in a side alley off a round public square. It was well after sun-up by then, though still at a time when taverns are rarely busy.
The tavern itself was situated on the ground floor of a four-storey insula, with a different entry than the common areas and the upper floors. I went inside, sat at a table near the wall and ordered a breakfast of bread and eggs from a sleepy looking girl. I looked around the place. Two drunk patrons, snoring in a corner. A tired whore, getting ready to leave. A middle-aged couple, finishing their lovers’ tryst. As my eyes adjusted to the dark interior, I saw more of the decor. This was a respectable neighbourhood. Successful merchants, retired generals, quaestors and clerks of the various colleges. People with a good income and a decent lifestyle, believers in old ways and values. And yet the place was decorated like a dock-side tavern, dimly lit, crude images of on the walls, rough long tables. However as I looked closer I saw the images on the walls were crude in subject but not in execution. The tables were rough, but the benches padded. The place was masquerading as low-brow haunt, in order to give some illicit excitement to the otherwise drab surrounds.
I also noted the doorway in the back, and a glimpse of stairwells going up and down.
The girl returned a few minutes later with my fare and a cup of well-watered wine. She was blond, barely eighteen, a slim figure in a low cut tunic that barely covered her buttocks and must have helped distract paying customers. I put my arm around her waist and drew her to me. “Tell me honey, do they have back rooms around here?”
She looked me up and down. I was just barely old enough to be her father, but she was probably used to amorous advances of men old enough to be her grandfathers. It did not take her long to evaluate me. I have a classic Egretian look, with the bumpy nose and curly dark hair. Clean shaven, of average height and medium build. Nondescript. I try to keep myself fit. I have been called handsome by my mother, though few others.
The decent tunic I was wearing and the jingling of my purse must have had more effect than my looks. She glanced quickly around, and, satisfied that none of the other customers would notice her absence, said “Sure, why not. Come.”
I went with her towards the back. Once past the doors to the kitchens, I turned to the stairs leading down. She pulled my arm, saying “No, my room is upstairs,” and started on the way up.
“I have heard some tales of fantastic deeds done in basements of taverns around here. I was hoping you would show me.” I winked at her.
“The room downstairs is strictly for private functions. Mine is upstairs.”
“Are the ‘functions’ as wild as the stories go?”
“Some, yes,” she answered, “but last night’s orgy has finished already.”
The upper floor consisted of a short, dark hall with small cubicles opening from it, sheets of cloths hanging over the doorways for privacy. Her sleeping cubicle was cramped, most of the space taken up with her bed. A tiny shuttered window high up on the wall let in some light and air, and a little picture done on a wooden slate was the only decoration. Her cot was simple, and a chest of clothes acted as a table as well. She turned to me, pushed the sleeveless tunic off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor, standing completely naked in front of me. Slim of figure, fair of skin, small breasts with pink nipples, her body was unspoiled by the ravages of time, yet her eyes looked old beyond her years. “Two denarii, and anything kinky will cost you extra,” she said, as if in emphasis of that last point.
When we were done we lay side by side, heaving and sweating. After a while, she turned on her side, facing me. “If you’re interested in the orgies, there will be a young boys’ orgy tomorrow night, if that is your thing.” She traced the scars on my chest with her forefinger. “And if not, I am sure I could find the time for you…”
“And tonight? What kind of party goes on tonight?”
Her face darkened. “Not tonight. The nights before the Nones of the months are reserved. I do not like the people that come.”
I put my arm around her shoulders. “What do they do that is so bad?”
“Nothing sexual, if that is what you mean. They hold meetings in a darkened room and their leader, that horrible little man, leads them in frenzied chanting. He pays my master well enough, so my master doesn’t lose on food and wine. But I do not like them, not at all.”
Before I could ask any further questions we heard a shout from downstairs, “Didia! Didia where are you? Come here and finish your cleaning!”
The girl, Didia, jumped out of bed and started to dress hurriedly. “My dominus! I must go down. Please stay here a minute and do not tell him. Instead of giving him his commission I can put it towards buying my freedom.”
She hurried out. I got up, dressed, and left three silver denarii on her little chest. I picked up a strand of her blond hair from the bed, and rolled it safely in my kerchief.
I went down the stairs softly. When I reached the ground floor I looked about, heard the noises in the kitchen and the tables at the front. I continued quietly down the stairs to the cellar.
The room under the tavern was dark, and only a single candle left sputtering in a corner. From what I could see, it had no windows or other exits. A few couches and small tables were arranged haphazardly around, cheap pillows strewn about. There was a low dais in one corner away from the door. Sconces on the walls held extinguished lamps. Little alcoves with draperies offered intimate seclusion from the main room. The frescoes on the walls depicted various scenes of debauchery, from lesbian orgies to fauns raping nymphs. The place smelled of spilled wine, smoke, sweat, and semen.
I heard stamping feet upstairs and ducked from the small landing into the room. There was not enough light to search properly, and if I ventured inside I would risk bumping into the furniture. I bent down and gathered some dust from the floor, adding it to the kerchief.
I waited patiently for a minute more, then climbed upstairs when I could not hear anyone walking around. I sneaked past the kitchen and into the main room. Didia was busy cleaning the tables, but I could see no one else. I winked at her as I walked out.
* * *
From the Dented Skull I made my way back home. Unlike this morning I walked along the waterline, and bought a live chicken at the Forum Bovarium. I needed fresh blood, even though I was certain it would only tell me what I already knew. The earth of the floor of the house, hair from its denizens, blood of a sacrifice, wrapped in white cloth, thrown in the fire. Look at how it burns, and see if any residual magia was there to permeate the place.
I had the blood of a sacrifice (the chicken, soon to be dinner), dust from the floor (of the actual room), and a hair of a denizen (Didia, who lives above). Close enough. It would tell me what the lack of tingling on my skin and nose had already told me, that the room under the Dented Skull saw nothing more untoward then a little buggery.
So where did the Rite of Pelegrinus take place? And what did Zymaxis do in the Dented Skull, if not hold ceremonies with a cabal?
The stuff I do is small fry, things just above what any piddling charmer can do, not worthy of a decent incantator’s time. But a necromantic ceremony like the one performed on Caeso requires a lot of raw power to be channelled correctly, and would shine like a beacon for anyone with the true sight. It would cause ripples and echoes that will be felt far away and stay around for a long time.
And yet someone managed to pull just such a necromantic ceremony without raising an alarm. That an alarm would be raised I was certain, for our quaestors of the Collegium Incantatorum keep a close watch on dangerous activities. That I would hear of an alarm being raised I was also certain, for such a thing could not be kept a secret. The rumours would percolate through the city faster than bad fish sauce through an old lady.
I was planning on returning to the Dented Skull that night, to check the mysterious Zymaxis. Planning ahead is always prudent, so I stopped at the Pickled Eel on the way, and arranged with Crassitius to have the services of Borax again for the night.
By the time I got home it was almost midday. I was planning on catching up on sleep, but that was not to be. As I walked in, I was informed by Dascha that Quintus Sosius had sent me a message saying he might have some information for me. I turned about and left again.
Quintus Sosius was a trader specialising in rare manuscripts. One of my father’s fellow cronies, they competed in an amicable manner, almost as often combining resources to collaborate on specific deals. When my father’s business collapsed, he was one of those who were truly sorry to see it happen. He even tried to help me afterwards, and although appreciative I was not seeking the life of a merchant and struck out on my own.
His main offices were in the Basilica Antonia, as a measure of his success. He also owned scribe shops, producing copies of scrolls to be sold separately. He dealt with anything and everything, from ancient comedies by Aristophanes to the occult writing of the Assyricans, from verified original manuscripts to high quality copies made for discerning customers.
When I reached his offices I was shown in by his secretary with no delay. Sosius was a man in his sixties, still with impeccably styled white hair, of slight build and a small paunch, and green eyes as keen as you would ever see. He rose from his desk and greeted me warmly. “Spurius Vulpius! Come in, come in, have a seat! Wine?”
“Please, Quintus Sosius, no one calls me Spurius Vulpius these days. Just Felix will do.” Sosius clapped his hands once, and an obsequious servant rushed in with a silver tray carrying a pitcher of wine and a pitcher of cold water. “Well watered if you please,” I asked, remembering the breakfast I never got to eat.
“Please do not insult my Verguvian wine. This is from my private estate on the Erratus,” he said and continued to pour a generous amount of wine into our cups and only a splash of water. He handed me a cup and we sipped together. He was right to brag, the wine was excellent. I said so.
“Thank you, but I did not ask you here to discuss my wines. I have some news of that matter you asked me about. I received a letter from one of my agents in Hellica regarding an old library being offered for sale. This is an old collection which I always hoped to acquire one day. It seems like the master has finally passed away, and his children are more concerned with converting it to cash.
“This library, if my sources are correct, has a section with an interesting collection of manuscripts of the various branches of magia. Most are probably known here, some are completely foreign, and some — so I am told — have be
en banned. While I cannot confirm this with absolute certainty, the rumour is that it does contain a few ancient scrolls on the magia vita terminalis.
“Whether the information is correct or will prove germane to your investigation I cannot promise you. However I can offer you this. The sum being asked for the whole collection is a staggering ten talents of silver. It is not a sum I am willing to pay without close inspection of the contents, however the library is located in Ephemezica and I am loathe to travel there now. Instead I will give you a letter of introduction making you my agent. You can peruse the scrolls and find out their true worth, and of course find out any information you deem relevant to your case in the process. You will have the authority to bargain on my behalf, either for the whole collection or for part of it, for a price you see fit. I trust your judgement — your dear old father had raised you well. I could even pay you a modest commission. My agent there will be able to arrange for the actual payment and shipment if required. What say you?”
It did not take me long to decide, as I saw no downside. I planned on confronting Zymaxis tonight. If he was a true necromancer and responsible for Caeso’s death, I would have this matter resolved and free to undertake the errand. If I lived through confronting Zymaxis and solved the case, the travel away and extra income would be appreciated. However, if this line of investigation did not pan out for some reason, this library might still turn out to benefit my investigations if it would help me find elusive information about necromantic rites. And, of course, the commission would be welcome just as much.