Nox Dormienda

CHAPTER TWO

I couldn’t work. I could barely think. Focus. Focus on Agricola. I called Bilicho.

“It’s about the governor. I’m not sure what exactly.”

He grunted. “Women who look like that-”

“What do you want them to look like? My Aunt Pervinca, the Gorgon? Follow her. Find out as much as you can about her.”

He looked startled. “Why? I thought you said this has to do with Agricola? What’s the mystery?”

“Something about a spy. For Domitian. A Vibius Maecenas, a Syrian. Supposed to marry that girl.” I blamed the tightness in my chest on too many partridge eggs.

He studied me as if I were some sort of new hemorrhoid salve. I could feel my face flush and get irritable.

“What is it?”

“You’re afraid to do it yourself.”

I rubbed my cheek, and gave him a sour look. He grinned in return.

“I haven’t seen you like this in years. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you like this.”

“Well, don’t stand there gawking at me. Tell Coir to go down to the market and ask around. Her native name is Gywna-Claudia Catussa to the Romans.” I caught his arched eyebrow. “And don’t look so damned pleased with yourself.”

He sucked his teeth for a moment, suppressing a smile, and then headed for the kitchen. I could hear him call for Coir. He’d better hurry if he was going to catch Gywna.

Gwyna. I didn’t want to think about her. What I needed was a fresh, cold slap in the face. My favorite old cloak was wadded up underneath a chair cushion, and I put it on and stepped into the atrium.

The air bit my face, and the thin sunlight did nothing to help. I looked around, and wondered what the hell I was doing. A loud purr interrupted me. Fera was watching the wood doves with dinner on her mind. I scooped her into my arms, her black body heavy with a thick fur coat.

I petted her for a while, before she got impatient and went looking for a rat, leaving me to deal with my own-the latest gift from the god of mischief. I stood up and frowned at a broken statue. The house was unfinished, like most things in my life. All right, Arcturus, where did that come from? I reminded myself not to talk to myself. Focus. Focus on the house.

I wandered up to the wall separating the courtyard from the street. It was covered in graffiti, but no one had scrawled over Postumus and his claim to have screwed ten girls on the very spot. His legend was still secure, and my atrium still wasn’t.

One of these years I’d finish the wing, and the house and gardens would be completely private, and I wouldn’t have to worry about waking up one night to the sound of Postumus grunting in the herb garden. One of these years. Right after Domitian made me Pontifex Maximus.

A loud clang from the kitchen startled me. Just Venutius, whistling and clanging and preparing more food, and I hoped to God it wasn’t more roasted eggs. I massaged the knot in my forehead.

My eyes landed on the Lararium huddled in the corner, shivering from neglect. If the protectors of the household decided to move out to plusher accommodations, I couldn’t blame them. I muttered a small, feeble prayer for forgiveness, and wiped the marble with my arm until the first level of grime was gone. The incense cup was full of ashes. When had I last made an offering? Why the hell did I avoid it? I forced the questions back down the hole they crawled out of. Focus. Focus on the Lares.

I brought some myrrh from the workroom and shoveled some charcoal from the hearth and carefully laid the incense on a red-orange ember. The sickly sweet smell started to waft upwards, and I stepped away, nearly gagging. Myrrh always had that effect on me, but that wasn’t the reason I didn’t come out here. I shoved that thought down the hole, too, and this time latched the cover. Time to turn the corner.

The chickens were scratching desultorily, but they weren’t sacred chickens and I didn’t believe in signs, anyway.

I played with Pyxis and her puppies and let them chew on me, which gave us all a little comfort. I closed the kennel gate, and walked back through the atrium.

The myrrh was still burning, a thin grey wisp spiraling into the heavy air. The hell with focusing. The hell with Agricola, the house, the Lares. I was shaken up inside like a small pair of dice in a too large cup-tossed by a drunk on a losing streak. Thirty-three years old, and still stupid. Trying to figure out just how stupid I was occupied the rest of my afternoon.

I was still trying to figure it out when I got hungry and came in to eat. Bilicho hadn’t returned, but Coir was back from the market. Venutius laid out a large bowl of surprisingly good leek soup, along with some coriander bread and hard cheese.

I motioned for Coir to sit with me. I’d seen statues less stiff, and she was avoiding my eyes. For a slave, she was giving a good imitation of a jealous woman.

“What did you find out?”

She kept her voice even.

“She’s a well-born lady. Her husband was on the council. Her father was, too, before he became crippled. No one expects him to live much longer.”

“Go on.”

“She’s to be married to some foreigner-some Easterner”, she said with distaste. “Some say there’s a man who won’t let it happen.”

“What man?”

We were both surprised by the tone of my voice.

“That they wouldn’t tell. A native. Someone in trouble, from the way they were talking. The lady spurned him, but he still loves her. She’s a fine one, all right. Giving herself Roman airs and such.”

“Did they say anything else useful?”

“Just that her family has money problems, like everybody else.” Her mouth was pinched. “She’s too proud for her own good.”

I chewed my lip until I noticed she was still there.

“Fetch Draco for me.”

She turned to go, then hesitated.

“Yes, Coir? What is it?”

“I was wondering-I was wondering-”

“Yes?”

“If you … if you’d need me later.”

We both knew what she meant. It would help her get over the jealousy tonight, but if she was getting too attached-and obviously she was-tomorrow would be worse. I always freed the girls eventually, but I’d just bought her. And she was too good in the examination room to get ruined by the bedroom.

I shook my head, and she left, her eyes lowered. I felt pretty noble about the sacrifice.

Draco interrupted me in the middle of self-congratulations. He was still eating a drumstick from the pheasant of this afternoon. Wiping his lips, he stuck it back in the fold of his tunic. “You wanted me, Dominus?”

As bodyguards go, he was bigger than most. I was lucky Agricola worried about my hands, because I could never have afforded him. I could barely afford his feed bill.

“Bilicho isn’t back yet. Stay awake, and guard the door tonight. Call me immediately when he returns.” It was already after the first hour of night. I was starting to worry about him. And not only about him.

Draco drew himself up to his full height, and threw out his formidable chest. Incredibly, it looked like he’d outgrown his tunic again. Soon I’d start believing in two-headed calves.

“Yes, Master. Should I arm myself? Is there any danger?”

“No, don’t arm yourself. Just keep your eyes open.” The literalness was lost on him. “Remember-the instant he comes home.”

Draco bowed, and left me alone with thoughts that were too loud and too shrill for company. I decided to go to sleep early. The sun had already left for a cold dip in the Styx, but his work day was getting longer again. Maybe the worst of winter was over. Maybe this was nothing serious. Maybe Domitian really would make me Pontifex Maximus. Coir walked in as soon as I stood up.

“Brutius already lit the furnace, sir. Your bedroom should be warm. Would you like him to prepare the caldarium?”

“No, not tonight. Take the lamp, will you, Coir?”

She followed me into the bedroom. The mattress was spread with a warm, green blanket. She stood by, her eyes focused on nothing, holding the lamp. The flame was casting a glow on her already ruddy skin. The hell with nobility. I could feel bad in the morning.

We were both drenched in sweat before I could sleep, and she must’ve left for her room as soon as I dozed off. All night long she’d been another woman. My dreams turned dark, and were running into familiar nightmare territory when the sight of Draco’s large, pock-marked nose inches above my face shocked me awake.

“Bilicho?”

“No, Master. But there is an official waiting for you in the examination room.”

I threw on a leather tunic and some trousers. Draco helped me into my outdoor boots. Bilicho should’ve been home by now. He was following Gwyna, and if she’d been telling the truth-what if she’d been attacked? What if he was hurt? What if they were both hurt?

I cinched my belt too hard and the pain helped me focus again. Bilicho was a professional. And the girl-I’d think about the girl later.

Draco was still trying to drape a cloak over me when I stepped into the hallway. From there, I could see a man in a muddied cloak, poised in front of the brazier, warming his hands. He looked up. I recognized Caecilius Avitus, one of Agricola’s best intelligence officers.

“There you are. Sorry to get you up, Favonianus.”

“What is it? Is Agricola all right?”

His black eyes roamed my face and Draco’s. “Yes, of course the governor’s all right. Something-something has happened, that’s all. I need your help.”

I studied Avitus for a few moments. His hair was grayer than I remembered, and I’d never noticed the scar on his right hand.

“Well, what is it? Is someone ill?”

Avitus stared at Draco and said nothing. I motioned for him to go, and he clomped out of sight with a worried look. The beneficarius turned toward me.

“This is a very delicate matter. Your absolute discretion and secrecy are required.”

“Of course.”

“Do not discuss this with anyone. Not even the governor.”

“I don’t think-”

“You will. It’s for his own protection.”

I’d heard one too many mysteries already. And his pompous manner gave me an itch.

“Stop speaking like a goddamn oracle and explain yourself. You know my record. I’ve handled touchy situations more than once.”

Avitus frowned and scraped his muddy boot on the floor. He didn’t want to be here, either. “That’s why I came to you. I need you as a doctor, and an-expert.”

“I’ll get my tools.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think they’ll do any good.”

We took a roundabout way to the city. Not much was awake. We passed a combination inn and brothel, and got caught in the light from the ground floor. A scream-whether of joy, pain, anger, or just wine-made me jump. Avitus pulled me into the shadows, while a drunk wavered through the door. He looked like a tradesman. He stumbled, and fell against the wall, singing an obscene ditty.

“Galla’s hole is nice and fat,

‘Cause on a Legionnaire she sat.

For an as on me she’ll sit-

But I get the hole that’s full of shit!”

He was starting to scratch some graffiti on the wall, when a woman’s voice screamed again, and a chamber pot flew out the upper story window, barely missing him. Amid a subsequent stream of curses, Avitus tugged at my arm, and we crept up the muddy alley behind the brothel, heading northwest.

We threaded our way through the knot-like cluster of the marketplace. Apartments gave way to Roman houses, houses to British round huts, and soon any roofs at all were few and spread wide apart.

We finally arrived at the top of a low hill, and Avitus stopped. As far as I could guess, we were somewhere near the fort. Glancing to his left and right, the beneficarius walked three paces ahead and stomped on the earth three times. He stepped back, expectantly. A sliver of light from what had been solid ground suddenly pierced the night. I watched in awe as a hand pushed open a sod-covered door, and the earth yawned open, illuminated with the yellow-orange light of torches.

The sudden glare blinded me. Avitus whispered something, and when my vision cleared was beckoning me towards the door in the earth, holding a torch in his hand. I peered in, and saw rough steps carved out of rock and earth, leading downward.

“We must break a sacred rule tonight, and allow an uninitiated man into the temple. The reasons will be clear shortly. But pledge me, Favonianus, that you won’t speak of our god. To anyone.”

He was tense enough. “I swear by Dius Fidius. Now where the hell am I?”

He didn’t answer and started to climb. The steps were formed from compacted dirt mixed with rock, and were uneven and treacherous. The moist, black soil absorbed the dim light of Avitus’ torch. I barely made out the flicker of more lights at the bottom, some seven or eight steps lower.

When I managed to scramble down the dirt ladder-it was more ladder than staircase-I was in a man-made cave. Stone panels cut with strange carvings of animals and birds dug into the walls, and columns of rock braced a timber ceiling, helping to support the massive weight of earth above. A small group of men clustered around a marble statue in an apse. It was a finely carved portrait of a man in a Phrygian cap. He was slitting the throat of a bull. I was in a mithraeum.

Rumor was that Pompey brought it over from the East. Everyone knew it was popular with the Legions, but that was all they knew. Mithras liked his secrets, and Domitian didn’t like Mithras. The Emperor didn’t get along with other gods.

The figure on the right came into focus. Lit by the torches of two legionaries stood Bilicho, his hands tied with rope, his eyes blindfolded.

First relief, then surprise, then anger set in. Avitus knew Bilicho by sight. And he’d kept his mouth shut, hoping to cage a crumb or two of information while we stumbled over each other in the dark. The beneficarius would have to look elsewhere for a meal.

“Why are you holding my freedman here?”

He didn’t even have the grace to be embarrassed. “We found him outside, nosing around. And he won’t tell us why. Not yet.”

We stared at one another for about ten seconds, and then I smiled and turned to go.

“Good night, Avitus. Send him home when you’re done.”

He looked a little panicked. “We didn’t bring you here just to see him.”

I paused, a foot on their dirt ladder. I turned to look at him.

“Then quit scratching your balls and get to the goddamn point.”

One of the sentries looked shocked. It wasn’t the hour for military etiquette.

Avitus pinched his lips together and made a brusque movement with his head to follow him. After a few steps I stopped.

“Let him go, Avitus.”

He was striding ahead, but glared back at Bilicho and then me, and didn’t argue. “Undo his hands. But he’d better talk.”

One of the soldiers bent down and cut Bilicho’s binding with a dagger. He rubbed his chaffed wrists, and grimaced.

Avitus, impatient, motioned me forward. “Mind the pit,” he growled.

I glanced to the left. A deep hole, just the size for burial, was dug out of the raw dirt and filled with rocks. Only the quivering light of Avitus’ torch lit the small anteroom in front of us. I could barely make out a bigger-than-usual altar shape with something large and shapeless on top.

The lines scoring Avitus’ face deepened. “Tomorrow, the eighth day before the Kalends of Ianuarius, is the birthday of our god. I’m an initiate of the Sixth Level, and it’s my duty to prepare the temple. A few hours ago, I came in here to begin. This is what I found.”

He stood back, but shone the torch directly over the altar. There, trussed like a calf for sacrifice, was a fat, middle-aged man, his eyes rolled upward, a cloth tied around his mouth. His throat was slit in imitation of Mithras’ slaying of the bull.