Nox Dormienda

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Like home,” he’d said. Like home. Only one place in Londinium qualified as like home-The Temple of Isis. I’d look for Stricta there. Lupo wouldn’t tell anyone else. Caelius could torture him if he wanted, but I doubted that he’d try. Lupo might forget himself again and pay Caelius what he deserved.

Galla’s face hovered before my eyes for a few seconds, until what it was this morning faded in on top. Fatal memory. Two men, a soldier and another. A cart. A pig squeal. That proved the mithraeum set-up was planned. It was pig blood on the altar, and the cart was for hauling Maecenas’ body.

But why would Caelius kill Maecenas? Was it the silver mine Lucullus mentioned, or some other dirty business? Why the mithraeum? Too many questions, and none of them came close to helping me forget what I kept seeing. I walked southeast in a hurry. The Iseum was near the big bridge across the river, where Bilicho had woken up to a headache.

She was a gentle goddess in an ungentle world. I’d seen one of the big processions in Rome, the priests with the shaved heads and the spotless white robes, the sistra, the buckets full of the sacred Nile water, the palms, the lanterns, the gold breast full of milk. Isis was a suffering goddess. She understood what pain was like, and knew all about death, and didn’t care for it much. She made Egypt the grain center of Rome, because her tears flooded the banks of the Nile every year. And she’d saved her husband, Osiris, and brought him back from the underworld. I guess she promised to do that for her followers, too. She was like Demeter at Eleusis, but not as exclusive. She helped those who needed help, so she helped everybody.

We wanted our gods to be kind-unless we wanted them to be cruel to someone else. We were Romans, after all: god was always on our side. But Isis took in the lame, the blind, the sick and the dying. She offered them hope, if not healing. I liked her. And since I didn’t really believe in much-I’d seen too many gods toppled in my life-liking was as close to worshipping as I ever came. I paid my taxes, and made the public gestures. But I still felt more at home in a grove of trees than a stone temple.

In a few days I’d be in that suffocating dirt hole where Mithras would reveal himself. Another of the savior gods. Promising life after death was fashionable among deities. I didn’t mind going through the motions if it helped me solve this murder. These murders.

Stricta could hide in the Iseum. They’d give her sanctuary. Not even Caelius could walk into the temple and do what he pleased. Hell, not even Agricola would do that, at least without his guards. Those Egyptian priests were a burly bunch, and Caelius was a coward without his bully stick.

I made my legs walk faster. I didn’t want to think about Caelius. I liked problems I could solve. The law didn’t recognize Caelius as a murderer. I couldn’t help that. Couldn’t help Galla now. I could only chase shadows, hunt whispers, pump procurators for rumors, as impotent as the Emperor without his Empire. Goddamn it. Goddamn Caelius. Goddamn Maecenas. Goddamn me.

The temple loomed up in front, a modest affair. I was glad to see it. Concentrate. I swallowed, stopped breathing so hard, stopped shaking so much. Must be a festival today-I could hear women ululating from within, a kind of ecstatic but painful moan. A cloud of incense curled out into the brisk air, swelled and grew thin, then dispersed to the sky. I walked up the rough stone steps, pretending to admire the carving on the columns. The outer door was open, the middle door was shut. The members, the initiated ones, were behind the middle door, or maybe the door after that, in front of the holy of holies, chanting the pain of life.

The temple was more Roman than Egyptian, and the man in white who came to greet me looked like he was from Hispania, but he spoke Greek. I stood in a wide, hospitable chamber, rugs on the floor, a small niche with a marble statue of Isis wearing the moon’s crescent, a clean wooden roof above me, with two doors leading out, one directly in front, the middle door, and one to my right. It was probably like a labyrinth inside. You had to be initiated to know how to get in or get out.

Unlike Roman temples, it wasn’t all facing front, it wasn’t a big long room with steps and inner chambers and columns everywhere, and it didn’t have a gloriously large front altar. But it was still built east to west, and the columns it did have were Roman style, Roman marble, though the temple itself was painted brick and wood. A hybrid, like most things in Britannia.

The smoke was unfolding from a small altar in this room, a public one for non-initiates to leave offerings or pay their respects. The incense was high-quality frankincense.

I said in Greek: “Greetings, friend, and son of Isis. I come in peace.”

The bald man nodded, and raised an eyebrow. Most of his believers wouldn’t speak Greek. To maintain purity, he’d open with that language, and then quickly switch to Latin. But Stricta would speak Greek, and I was, too. His sunken eyes, fathomless, roamed my face. He was a big man for his height and well-muscled. He could’ve been an infantryman or a eunuch. I didn’t plan to ask him which.

“You wish to make an offering to the goddess?” he asked courteously.

I pulled out my pouch again, and took out my second-to-the-last denarius. “Alas, my troubles have overflowed this day like the waters of the Nile-I did not have time to purchase an offering, and hope that The Mother of Us All will be content with a base gift.”

The wails built into a crescendo, and the door on the right opened. A procession of women with cloaks covering their heads emerged from an inner room, now moaning softly. The one in front carried a small, crude wooden statue of Isis with cow’s horns suckling Horus. She opened the back door, and the others-about twenty in all-followed.

The priest interposed himself between me and the view, and deftly plucked the denarius from my palm. “Your gift is a generous one,” he said in an undertone. “The goddess shines love upon all of her children, but this day is her son’s birthday, and she looks with especial favor upon those who pay him tribute.”

Horus’ birthday. Stricta must have been planning her escape for sometime, since she had the drugs ready. Or maybe she was going to take them herself, and Caelius’ crime changed her mind. Horus’ birthday. That explained the moaning, at least.

I bowed my head, and took hold of the priest’s white sleeve. It wasn’t as immaculate as the one I saw in Rome, but neither was I.

“Childbirth is painful for women. Many die.”

He looked at me warily, and pried my fingers from his cuff. “Yes, but Isis will bring them eternal life.”

“The Goddess With Many Names will protect all who are in pain, I know. But there are some within who may need a doctor.”

This time he took hold of my wrist. His grip was not gentle. “Who are you? You speak Greek, but are not Greek and not of this temple.”

“I am a healer. The doctor whom even Isis may need.”

His grip tightened, and his breath felt hot on my face. “You answer questions with riddles. What do you want?”

I flung my arm suddenly, and took him off-guard. He reached inside his robe, and held something there, ready. I smiled.

“No, brother, you don’t understand. I am a friend. I am a iatros. My name is Arcturus. I have a message for one within, who today has given birth to both grief and freedom. When she is ready, when she is able, I need her help. She can save lives. She can punish the evil. Send word when she can talk.”

His eyes bored into mine, intense, emotionless. Not a flicker. But he dropped his hand back to his side, and opened his palm to look at the denarius. Then, without a word, and without a backward glance, he turned around and walked through the rear door, the hem of his white robe grey and dirty, dragging in the dust.

The third woman in the procession had been in a green cloak.

* * * * *

Keep busy. Keep walking. Stricta was safe, for now. Caelius would look for her himself-he wouldn’t want the involvement of a fugitivarius, even if he could find one, unemployed and waiting for him, in Londinium. The priests would give her sanctuary, hide her well. But she couldn’t stay there indefinitely. Another problem; maybe one I could solve.

Where was I going? I watched my feet step, toe to heel, one after another, like a captive led in a triumph. The sun was going away again, the clouds were coming, and I didn’t know what to do. The squish of icy mud played harmony to my breath-in, out, in, out. This morning I made a plan. This morning seemed too long ago for memory.

I was heading east again, toward the river and some warehouses. Mollius lived there. Maybe I could find him. He could tell me what the story was with the vigiles, if they knew anything yet. Maybe he could tell me if I knew anything.

I turned right at the next corner. There were a couple of ships at the dock, unloading grain, wine, garum. Food for the army. The sailors were loud-sailors were always loud. Romans didn’t like the sea, too much. Maybe being out there, on the wine-dark waves, they got a little drunk on loneliness. They yelled so they could hear themselves breathing. I skirted around the men in dirty tunics, yesterday’s dinner rubbed on their fronts, grunting as they unloaded barrels and amphorae.

Mollius’ insula was on this street somewhere. At least he lived on the first floor, above a baker, and with running water. The top three stories had no such luck. I spotted the building, a mud and timber affair badly in need of another whitewash.

A couple of grifters lounged against the wall. They must not be too good at grifting or they’d be at the gladiator show with everyone else. They looked at me, too bored to make a pitch, or maybe they didn’t like my size. One took out a couple of dice from a pouch with patches on it, and they both crouched in the mud, tossing the dice, half-heartedly asking a god for benediction.

I walked past the shops, past the small bakery stall and felt the heat from its oven. A woman was haggling over a price inside, the baker was ignoring her. I walked in through the doorway, into a run-down courtyard with a small well lacking a cover. The wail of a baby startled me, and sparked a couple of others to wail back, like the howls of hungry wolves. The walls were as thin as a debtor’s excuses. I could hear sobbing in one, a man shouting in another. The first baby abruptly stopped, and the others followed. Maybe its mother shoved a dirty rag into its mouth. It was that kind of place.

I climbed the stair, and tried not to make the wood scream too much while I clutched the wobbly banister. I hoped Mollius was in. Third door on the right. No sound from his neighbors. The Esquiline of insula floors, I guess. The door was spindly, and shook dramatically when I knocked. I knocked again. A head covered in a grey rag, looking like it wiped dishes, from two doors down on the left, poked out, saw me, and poked back in again. I tried one more time, and gave up. The winter daylight hours were running by me, and I needed to get home to Bilicho, get word to Agricola. Figure out when and how to tackle Caelius.

I made it down the stairway again, and my stomach growled. I didn’t feel like eating, but it was empty and cold, and the least I could do for it was buy it something to gnaw on. One of the stalls on the ground floor was a small tavern. The grifters were gone, dice and all, when I came out into the bankside air.

The sailors were singing, now, something rough and rude about girls with tits like wine jars. I turned right, and three shops down was the tavern. Mollius was sitting on a low stool, a large cup as close to his hand as an overprotective bodyguard.

Mollius drank too much. That’s one reason he lived here, even though he made a decent living as a vigil. The second reason was that he also gambled too much. And maybe he did both because he’d been hurt in the army, and the ache of the mangled leg never went away.

Instead of mustering him out, someone-I forget who-recommended him for the vigiles company that Agricola formed. I seconded the nomination, to the governor himself. It kept him in wine and winnings, and occasionally, women. It also kept him drunk and poor, and living in a shithole. Mollius didn’t seem to notice, or care. And still he was cleaner than Meditor.

I squeezed in beside him, and he looked at me without recognition, his eyes rheumy. A large-bodied, blue-black fly buzzed heavily around us, finally landing on a half-eaten plate of fried pork bellies and cabbage. I watched it rub its legs together. Even it wanted to wash before it ate what was on the plate.

“Mollius. I’ve been looking for you.”

He squinted hard. “Ah-Arcturus. Glad to see you. Thought you’d be comin’ t’see me. Din’t recognize you. Been awhile.”

I’d seen him drunker. He grasped the cup lovingly, and swigged a shot of beer, dark with malt. Maybe the drink kept the smell of the food from getting to him. A woman with straggly grey hair chained up but trying to escape came over with intention. I was occupying one of the few stools in the place. I checked my pouch. Only one denarius left. A glint of gold caught my eye, and I remembered I hadn’t taken out that bit of pin I found in Maecenas’ room. Just like this case. Every time I thought about going straight ahead, something shoved me sideways. I pushed it back down in the seam, and extracted the coin.

“How much for a beer and some bread?”

“Two asses for the bread, three for the beer.” She leered at me a little. “I ain’t seen you ‘round here before.”

“Just visiting. Change for a denarius?”

She got a little red in the face. “Do I look like a bank?”

Mollius was watching me in amusement. He started to shake a little, but it was only suppressed laughter. He fumbled around in his blood-brown cloak, and pulled out a pouch. He counted out five asses, and the woman, glaring at me, scooped them up like a pelican gulping a sea bass.

“My treat, Arcturus. You’re in the wrong neighborhood. Now-what was I going to tell you?” He was trying to speak more clearly, and he seemed to shake off some of the stupor.

“I came to you about a murder.”

He eyes wrinkled up at me from beneath a ginger-haired eyebrow. “You kill somebody?”

“Go ahead and laugh, Mollius. Meditor’s on my ass. Set one of his men on me today. I’m investigating a murder for the governor, and you know what Meditor’s like.”

“I do, indeed. A rat in a hole is Meditor. But a rat is a smart animal.” He hunched over the counter closer to me, and gestured with his eyes for me to do the same. I shoved the plate-the fly was still feasting-out of the way and leaned in, my elbows on the scarred wood.

“The Maecenas murder, right?” he murmured. “He called us together late last night. Told us you were involved, you were covering up something.”

My face got tight. “The bastard. I’m involved, all right, but not like he’d like it. What’s he know?”

“I got off duty about an hour and a half ago. I was waiting for a friend of mine when Meditor came in, very excited. He called us back in, had one of the men run out to find the rest, and told us he had the murderer.”

“What? In custody?”

Mollius shook his head and leaned closer. The grey-haired woman flounced by and threw a plate of warm bread by me, and without taking her bloodshot eyes from my face, drew me a hemina of beer, and threw that at me, too.

“You really know how to make friends, Arcturus.” Mollius chuckled, and shook some more. “Nobody is in custody. But he had us track where Maecenas was staying, and somebody squawked about a fight that night, so he’s looking for a native named Rhodri. He thinks it’s all a plot of the Brits.”

Meditor was nothing if not predictable. “What’s he going to do?”

Mollius tore off a piece of the bread, and downed a gulp of the beer. “What do you think he’s going to do? Find him, arrest him, and kill the poor bastard. Meanwhile, we’re supposed to really put the screw to the natives. He’s trying to convince Agricola right now to chop down all the oak groves around Londinium. And he wants a curfew. Meditor doesn’t give a shit if he hounds the innocent, as long as he can hound somebody.”

I bit so hard on my lip that it hurt. “I don’t think Rhodri’s guilty. And making trouble for the Brits is cruel and stupid.”

“That’s Meditor.” He took another drink of the beer. “You mind?”

I shook my head. My stomach would wait for better things. “Agricola won’t do it. He’s trying to win them over, not punish them.” I don’t know whether I was attempting to convince myself or Mollius.

The vigil snorted. “He’ll do whatever is best for Rome. And that translates into whatever is best for him. And even if he doesn’t let Meditor go all the way, some of the men will. They’ve been itching to get at “the troublemakers” as they call them.”

He turned to look at me, his worn and tired face suddenly earnest. “Listen, Arcturus. I’m nothing. An old soldier. I’ve killed a lot of men, because I didn’t have a choice. I do now. But Meditor and his boys will harass every hut from here to the coast if they get a chance. If you know where that boy is, find him. And if you know he’s innocent, you’d best be prepared to have proof.”

“Thanks, Mollius.” I laid the denarius on the bar. “Keep the change.”

His mouth curved wryly. “I’ll just lose it on a bet.” His hand reluctantly caressed the coin before he picked it up. “Thanks.”

I leaned in close again. “Did Meditor say anything about a Marcus Caelius Prato?”

He wrinkled his brow for a minute, then shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard. Why? How’s he figure?”

“He’s the real owner of Lupo’s-the place where Maecenas was staying.”

His thick eyebrows arched in surprise. “Want me to find out about him for you?”

I looked my gratitude. “Very much.” I lowered my voice still further. “He murdered one of his slaves today. A prostitute. Beat her to death.”

A spasm of pain and disgust crossed Mollius’ worn face. He lowered his eyes, and groped for the cup. His head tilted back, and back again, as he drained it, and laid it with a thump on the bar. “Don’t consider it a favor. I’ll do what I can.”

The beer was starting to take him again. “Goddamn pietas, you know? Agricola kills the natives, the natives kill someone else, some prick kills a whore-all pietas.”

He stared at me, his eyes watery and blind. “It’s not just a Roman thing, y’know. Not just Virgil and Aeneas and all that literary, legendary crap. Everybody’s got a little pietas. It’s a fancy name for what it means to do what you think you have to do, for your country, your god, your wife, your kids, your miserable shitty little life, no matter who gets in the way and who it hurts. No, my friend-everybody’s got a little pietas.”

I left him on the stool, muttering to himself. The fly and I escaped together.