The Curse-Maker

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

We were about an hour overdue. I leaned against the cushions. The litter swayed to the steady footfalls of the bearers, but I wasn’t in the mood for a lullaby. I’d come close to killing a man. I was hungry for food, still hungry for blood. Always hungry for my wife. I watched Gwyna as she gazed out at the soft rain.

She was wrapped in a shiny golden tunic that glittered when she moved. A twilight-colored mantle draped her shoulders. She wasn’t hiding anything in that outfit.

While Philo’s pretty serving girl escorted us to the triclinium, I put on my party face. I was even more of an outsider tonight. Maybe it was the excitement of wanting to kill and knowing I could. Maybe I was always like this.

My stomach felt as flat and empty as the grapes in a winepress. Rich pork odor-maybe suckling pig-tinged with a hint of fig teased my nostrils, and peas-with bacon and caraway-stewed chestnuts and lentils-honey cakes. A real goddamn dinner in Aquae Sulis.

The room was warm-but not too much. The furniture was good-but not too expensive. Nothing in excess-unless it was the fat old dowager stuffed into a stola that was too tight twenty-five years ago.

Philo rose with an easy grace. Libations had been poured; some of the guests were already on the road to Olympus. Even the large goblet on Philo’s table was almost empty. The good doctor was still drowning his sorrows by drinking in my wife. I smiled and bowed and stood in front of her.

“Arcturus. Gwyna. Thank you for sending back the message. I understand you were detained?” The always smooth delivery was for the guests: His eyes were worried.

“An unexpected visitor.”

He looked his age tonight. Anxiety dug out the fine lines around his eyes and mouth. He absentmindedly reached a hand to brush Gwyna’s arm and spoke in an undertone. “Are you-are you both-all right?”

I grinned again and gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. “Never better-but hungry.”

He dropped his hand from her elbow, and I let the wry expression he threw me bounce off my teeth. Message understood. “Of course. I’m sorry-let me introduce you to the guests. You know Octavio and Prunella-”

The balneator nodded and looked away, a scowl compressing his face into that of an ill-tempered dwarf. Animosity all aimed at me. Prunella was busy figuring out how Gwyna was keeping her tunic up-and wondering if she could get away with wearing a copy. She couldn’t. She’d been swapping intimate secrets with the wine jug again.

“-and of course Sulpicia and Vitellius.”

The smile that Gwyna turned toward Sulpicia held a certain self-conscious sense of triumph. Sulpicia’s face froze, her mouth wavering between a teeth-clenching grimace and a snarl. Vitellius dropped his spoon, which he’d been idiotically tapping on the palm of his hand. His mouth was open. The round was Gwyna’s.

“And may I present Marcus Tiberius Simio-and his charming wife, Regilla. Julius Alpinius Classicianus Favonianus-and his wife, Gwyna. Simio and Regilla are traveling through, on their way to Londinium.”

The hairy little man with red-rimmed eyes didn’t give a rat’s ass who I was. He went back to looking toward the kitchen. His wife was the sort of vacuuosly pretty woman you usually run into at dinner parties. About twenty years younger than her husband. The only thing that interested him was dinner. She stared at me, her eyes as round as the cheap white glass on her ears.

Philo cleared his throat. “Simio is a friend of an old client of mine. He thought he’d look me up, after all these years.”

Freeloaders. Explained his sudden lack of taste in guests.

“Finally”-he was guiding me by the arm back to the middle of the couches-“I don’t believe you’ve met Crassa. Related to the Vespasiani. Distantly,” he added under his breath.

Crassa smiled graciously at Gwyna. She was covered in ancient baubles, and the diadem on her wig was crooked. She turned her attention to me, unrolling me like a scroll. I suddenly remembered the time my Aunt Pervinca slapped my hands for stealing food from the kitchen.

“Arcturus, Gwyna-you’re here. In the place of honor.”

The couch was plush. I tried not to sink. Philo had the taste-and self-control-not to seat himself next to Gwyna. Or maybe that punch was a little harder than I thought. Crassa was next to her, and they were already deep in conversation.

The host placed himself on the next couch, with Octavio beside him. Prunella was calling the wine boy for more. To her right was Vitellius, who also noticed the wine boy but wasn’t drinking.

My eyes met Sulpicia’s. All offers were still open. I grinned at her. Must be the hair oil Gwyna put on me. She was finally forced to turn toward Regilla, who kept plucking her arm. Regilla’s husband was waiting for the food to come out as if it might escape.

Gwyna craned her head to whisper to me. “Is that cow still trying to seduce you with her eyes?”

“I hope you mean Sulpicia.”

She shook with repressed laughter, giving my leg a vicious pinch. I leaned forward to breathe in her ear. “You can’t see where you’re pinching, so be careful.”

“You be careful with Sulpicia, or I’ll know exactly where to pinch.”

The wine boy came by with wet towels for our hands and finally poured the drinks. I looked up to find Philo watching me. “Do you like the wine, Arcturus?” he said softly.

“Thurine, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Last of the vintage.”

There was something melancholy about Philo tonight, something out of reach. And I wondered. I wondered who Philo really was. He stood up to make the traditional speech, his eyes still haunted.

“Friends and guests. Welcome to my home. What is mine is yours.”

Sorry I can’t say the same, old boy. I took another sip of Thurine.

“Relax-enjoy the food and the company. As our Horace said, ‘Carpe diem.’ So please-carpe vinum.”

Everyone clapped their right hands at his wit, and he sat down amid the applause. His face was red. He was certainly following his own advice.

Three slaves came out of the kitchen bearing simple black platters of lentils and chestnuts. My mouth was too full and my stomach too empty to think any more about Philo or anything else.

The suckling pig was tender and exquisitely cooked. When we were finished with the honeyed millet cakes, I wiped my hands for the third time on my new napkin, unrooted a piece of meat with my tongue, and finally gave my attention to the party. I felt someone staring at me. Gwyna was talking to Crassa and fortunately couldn’t see that Sulpicia was using more than her eyes.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

Vitellius was nearly asleep. I lowered my voice. “You managed to pry him away from the bath boy? What’s wrong, is Drusius not-”

The almond eyes narrowed into slits. “Kindly keep your mouth shut.”

I feigned surprise. “But I have a question for your boyfriend-Vitellius-hey, Vitellius!”

He looked around, taking a few minutes to find me. “Oh-hello, Arcturus.”

“Hello. I wanted to ask you something.”

“Me? You wanted to ask me something?”

There was an echo in the room, and I was looking at it. “Yes. How long have you known Titus Ulpius Sestius?”

His expression got a little less bored and a lot less stupid. “Let me see-about two years or so. Why do you ask?”

“Because he claims you’re the one who gave him some information. Information that-well, let’s say it helped make him the man he is today.”

Sulpicia’s skin was now a pale shade of green. She whispered something to him through her teeth. When he looked back up at me, he wasn’t alone. Octavio was staring at me, his face twisted with hate. God, I was good at parties.

Crassa’s voice trailed off. One of those unexpected silences stood in the middle of the room and screamed. I took a drink. “Sad thing-about his aunt dying. Especially since she came out here for a cure.”

Prunella hiccupped. “Lo’s of people come here f’r a cure-an’ they never leave.”

She started laughing, out of control, and Octavio shook her. Regilla never met a pause she liked. Her chatter helped cover for Prunella.

“You never know, do you? You just never know. Why, we met a soldier who told us the governor himself lost his only son. So sad, don’t you think? I mean, his wife’s not getting any younger.” She giggled and held her hands up to her face-“well, none of us are-and I’m sure she won’t be able to have any more children, and the soldier told me it was just a cold, and it just took him like that.”

She snapped her fingers and then lowered her voice. Gwyna put a hand on my leg I could barely feel.

“The soldier said it was the doctor’s fault. The governor has some expensive doctor, you know, they all do, and he said that doctor just let the little boy die, same as if he upped and killed him. I always say, you can never…”

Gwyna made a noise in the back of her throat. Philo reacted first. He almost shouted.

“Doctors-are human-why people-why they want to talk, to gossip…” He shook his head in disgust.

The eyes changed direction, from Regilla-and me-back to him. My stomach was desperately hanging on to the food while the rest of me wanted to throw it back up. Somebody, somewhere-maybe Quatio-maybe someone just like him. I took another drink.

Regilla gaped at Philo, the kind of fish you threw back. Flushed up to her mouse-brown eyebrows. “Oh … oh-you-you’re a doctor, aren’t you-I … I didn’t mean-”

“Your mouth outran the rest of you. Like always.” Simio still looked bored and even a trifle hungry. He scratched the thick hair on his hand. “Always happens.”

She covered her face with her napkin in embarrassment. Unfortunately, she’d forgotten there was pork sauce on it. Philo spoke again.

His voice was in a dream, his eyes unfocused. Sadness was there, too, a pain so sharp I could reach out and prick my finger on it. I recognized it. Guilt was an old friend of mine.

“You can’t save all of them, you know. Come to you with hope in their faces, wanting another day-even another hour. Unfinished business. It’s all unfinished.” He took a long draft of wine. Everybody knew there was more.

“What did Ovid write? ‘The wave, once gone, can never be called back-nor can the hour ever return.’ Something like that. But you want it back. You call it, cry for it, over and over again. What if I’d done something else-would she be alive? Could I have saved her? Could I?” He looked around, his face impassioned. Nobody answered. Nobody could.

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, in the end. You can’t. I know. I tried.” Philo was staring at something none of us could see. “And still-the guilt will grow in a man’s soul like weeds in a garden.” He jerked his wineglass up and drained it. His eyes landed on Gwyna and his voice bcame tender. “She looked like you. So very much like you.”

Everyone was holding their breath, wondering how the story would end. Except me. I knew the outcome. Philo’s guilt was an old habit, a way to warm his cheeks with tears when they felt the winter chill. Remorse and a jug of wine, an old doctor’s best friends. After a few years, even they weren’t real anymore. Oh, yes-I understood Philo now. I was watching what I could’ve become in another twenty years.

I looked down at my wife. Her eyes were full of tears. She murmured: “Who was she?”

He turned around to face her, cradling his wine cup against his chest. “Long time ago. In Hispania. I was a temple doctor-the Temple of Endovelicus. Native Aesculapius, but a-a god for fertility. Women spend the night at the temple trying to become pregnant.”

He stared into the cup and was still for so long that Simio was able to find another millet cake. I’d seen those temples-it didn’t matter what they called the god. Women, desperate for children, sometimes desperate for other things, came for help. The priest gave them a drug to eat-strychnos, maybe, or a mushroom. Then they’d see the god, and sometimes even feel him. It depended, often, on what the women looked like-and who was playing the god that night.

“They believed-believed that the god would come-make love to them-give them children.” He shook the wine around and suddenly shuddered. Then he drained it in a gulp, and his eyes, when he opened them, were sober again.

“She stayed at the temple. Became pregnant. And-and died in childbirth. I couldn’t-I couldn’t save her.”

He looked back at Regilla. She’d taken off the napkin, but not the scrape of fig on her chin. His voice came out as a harsh croak. “Don’t abuse my hospitality.”

He stood up abruptly and walked into another room. Gwyna and I both followed him. He was staring at a painting on the wall. A little too much veritas with his vino tonight.

He glanced up when we came in, his voice still sharp. “I’m all right. Go back to dinner.”

“Philo-that’s twice you’ve stepped in front of us.”

He averted his eyes. “Gossip is a terrible thing. Can hound you like the Furies.”

We watched his hand shake while he poured himself more wine. I owed him something.

“I want to tell you what happened tonight-why were were late.”

Little by little, he rebuilt his face. Shocked by the visit, angered by the threat to Gwyna. And afraid. Maybe because he should’ve known about the mine all along. Maybe because he had. Disappointment settled in and stayed around longer than anything else.

“It’s-it’s too bad, in a way. Truly. The temple-it could’ve helped people. More and more come each season, and a temple to Aesculapius…” He threw a final drink down his throat. “Well-no matter. Maybe we can find someone else.”

“Someone cleaner, I hope.”

“Of course-someone legal, too.”

Gwyna’s voice was gentle. “You own a lot of the property down there, don’t you?”

Not his evening for surprises. He set the wine jug down. His charm was reaching out to us-palpable-pleading.

“Yes-I do. It’s not common knowledge, though. I’ve purchased land from Octavio. My-my plan, as you know, was to build a temple and then turn it over to the city. The best way to do it is to get control of the property and build-we can’t really ‘buy’ the land, you know, because we’re a province of Rome, but it amounts to the same thing. Otherwise, nothing will ever get done. Too much bureaucracy.”

Too much explanation. Wrapped up in honey so it was easy to swallow. I still wasn’t sure. About Philo, or anything else. He wasn’t exactly himself tonight. Or was he?

He was smiling at Gwyna. I wondered who he saw. His eyes drew downward to her necklace, and he held out a finger to touch it. “This is beautiful. Is it from Baetica?”

“It’s not from Hispania at all. It’s Egyptian. Ardur bought me a ring to match, see?”

She extended her hand and he took it in his own and admired it, while pretending to admire the ring. He was shaking again. I put my arm around my wife. “I think it’s time the host and the guests of honor attended the party, don’t you think?”

He bowed at me, a dash of sarcasm peppering the motion. “At once, Arcturus. Lead on.”

When we walked back into the dining room, the slaves were eating our leftovers, Sulpicia was studying her fingernails, and Crassa was lecturing Octavio. She’d taken it upon herself to rule in Philo’s absence. He’d have a hard time getting the crown back.

“Good for you, Philo, never let one mistake ruin a good dinner. As for you, young man”-I looked around, but she was addressing me-“I hope you’ve thanked him properly. Exposing himself like that to help you. Not that anyone should ever listen to what comes out of their mouths.” She gave a withering look in the direction of Simio and Regilla and pulled Gwyna back down on the couch.

Philo was still standing. “Why don’t we play a game? How about kottabos?” He looked down at Gwyna’s puzzled face. “A Greek game. We set up a target-something like this little saucer. Then we stand it up, and we aim the last bit of our wine at it-we throw our cups so the wine hits it, and it falls over. If you make it fall, you win a prize.”

“What kind of prize?” Simio was all business. He’d been fed, and his time was valuable.

Philo shrugged. “Raisins. Dates. Sometimes women offer kisses.” His eyes almost reluctantly fell on my wife, who was smiling at me. The throaty voice of experience answered the challenge.

“I’ll give one-to the first man who knocks it over.” What you’d have to knock over was left open to interpretation. From the look on her face she was betting on me. I guess there were no hard feelings between us. Much to Sulpicia’s regret.

Octavio nearly drooled on his tunic, but not over her offer. “Can we play for money?” His small eyes were darting back and forth, trying to figure the odds.

Philo shrugged again. “Why not?”

Crassa sat upright to announce that protocol was being deflowered under protest. “Philo-are you sure-”

“Quite, Crassa.”

While the slaves set the game up, I coaxed the conversation back to my own corner. “So, Octavio-I understand you’re a medical man.”

“Who told you?”

“I really don’t remem-”

“Never mind. Doesn’t matter.” He brooded over something other than a gambler’s luck. “I understood what Philo was talking about. Even with my own small experience. Makes me a more effective bathmaster. I have an instinct for when someone comes in who shouldn’t take a chance-and they always want to.”

Prunella was snoring, and she woke up with a start. “They wan’ what?”

He turned to her patiently. Whatever he was, he loved his wife. “A bath, dear. Even if they’re the kind of sick where it won’t be good for them.”

“Los’ of ’em like tha’. Put ’em out of their mis’ry, I say. Why let ’em suffer?”

“I agree, Prunella.” Philo the philosopher again, this time not so sloppy. “I’m thinking of the lepers I met in Hispania. Poor, poor people.”

Regilla forgot her embarrassment and shrieked. “Lepers? You met lepers?”

“A healing god turns away no one. Not even the hopeless. Because even they-especially they-have a right to peace.”

“The peace of death?”

I liked arguments-and there was something about the way he said “healing god.” I wasn’t sure if he was talking about Endovelicus or himself.

The eyes that met mine were moist and tender, full of a noble hurt. “For some, it’s the only kind they’ll know. We have a gift, Arcturus. A gift from the gods. And it is our duty-our absolute and final duty to-”

“Act like gods?”

I had a definite talent for quieting a room. Philo wriggled his goblet between his fingers. “We are gods to some people. When we save them. Sometimes the only way to save them, to help them-is to give them peace. Peace without suffering.”

The argument smelled bad. It carried the faint odor of delusion, with maybe a hint of rot. I rubbed my nose. I wasn’t against helping people. I could understand holding the sword, meeting the shades with Roman honor. I wasn’t even sure why I was arguing.

Octavio leaned forward. “No suffering. That’s what I say. If people want to die, let them. Give them the right-the control. Give them-”

“A little help?”

His chin jutted forward. “If that’s what they want, yes.”

I looked back at him and smiled. “I don’t mean to play Socrates. I only speak for myself, of course. But that’s a hell of a responsibility. Life and death. I try to pick only one, and even then I lose sometimes. Like Philo said. I’m not saying I couldn’t kill. I’m not even saying I couldn’t help someone who wanted to die. I’m just saying I wouldn’t want to make a living out of it.”

Another pause walked in and poured itself a drink. Sulpicia’s observation was as dry as her lips weren’t. “Well, for one thing it would be hell to collect your fee.”

It was one of those extra-riotous laughs, the kind when something unpleasant is finally over, and everyone’s relieved it hadn’t been worse. The game began, and Octavio calmed down and aimed at the target instead of me. He didn’t hit either of us.

Philo made the second toss and missed. His hands were still shaking.

My head hurt. I wanted to go home. Octavio-Philo-Grattius, Secundus-Papirius-Vitellius-Sestius. The list of tainted men, men with secrets to hide, seemed endless. Add Bibax to that list. Good old dead Bibax.

I sipped my wine. I could even add Arcturus. I enjoyed ripping that leg open tonight. If he ever threatened Gwyna again, I’d enjoy killing him. That’s your nasty little secret, Arcturus. Keep it buried. Keep it deep. I drank again and wondered if we were any closer to leaving Aquae Sulis.

Vitellius was taking his turn and splashed Crassa instead. While everyone fussed over the old lady, a slave with a worried look came to get Philo. The good doctor reappeared in the doorway, mouth grim. He crooked his finger at me. I excused myself while Sulpicia bumped into Simio to make him miss.

“What is it?”

“Papirius. Here to see you.”

I was tired of unexpected visitors. Philo and I walked to the front of the house. Papirius was wrapped in a thick mantle, his body spelling impatience. There were three other priests with him.

“Papirius.”

“Favonianus.”

“How’d you know I was here?”

“Philo told me you were coming to dinner.”

“And?”

He pinched his mouth. “We’ve had our differences, but you represent the governor. I’m here as a courtesy-to warn you.”

“Warn me? What do you mean, warn-”

“This is what I mean.”

He shoved a small leaf of thin bark at me-with writing on it. I knew what it was before I looked at it.

“It was found under the temple door. One of the priests brought it to me. I-I don’t have the authority to arrest you-”

“You’re goddamn right you don’t. This isn’t proof, Papirius-this is a setup. I was at the mines when Faro was killed. I’ve got four mercenaries who worked for the syndicate at my house right now-the legion will be picking them up tonight or early tomorrow morning. Or did you already know?”

His robes switched in a puff of night air like a cat’s tail. “I came here-purely as a favor-”

“You came because you can’t wait for me to get the hell out of town. But I’ve got news for you. I want out. Out of this foul little shithole you’ve made, you and Octavio and Grattius and your cozy little mining operation.”

His face stood out pinched and drained and white, shining dully in the dark.

“You’re all corrupt. All of you. You knew what was going on, free lead, free development-and you didn’t give a damn. But now it’s out of control. Murders, left and right. The legion involved.” Contempt bit into him and stuck, like ice on a wet palm. “Silver tarnishes so goddamn easily, doesn’t it?”

He took a step backward. Fear and guilt were everywhere tonight. Even in a priest’s robe.

“What-what are you going to do, Arcturus? This could be dangerous to you.” Philo kept his hand on my shoulder. It was heavy. I was staring at Papirius.

“I’m going to do what you asked me to do. What I’ve been doing all along. Find out who killed Bibax. And Faro. And Calpurnius. And others, too-people you didn’t even notice were gone.”

I crumpled up the note asking Faro to meet me at the cemetery and threw it at Papirius’s feet.

“Say a prayer to Sulis. Maybe she can clean up your fucking sty.”

Philo and I left him standing there, his mantle trailing in the dark wind and rain.