Furies (21 page)

They passed a group of young sophists sitting in the shade of the plane tree, listening to an older man speak about the nature of virtue. Zeanthes smiled. “It’s such a great gift and honour to be part of this vast pool of knowledge and diversity of thought with the world’s greatest works and most learned men at your disposal. I feel that we are on the cusp of reaching another plane of reality, a breakthrough in human understanding.”

The man was pleasant enough but his voice droned on and on and Aculeo’s hangover afforded him little patience. “I should probably go now. My apologies, but I’ve a number of things I need to attend to.”

“Forgive me, I get carried away. I have so enjoyed talking with you, Aculeo. I hope we have occasion to talk again.”

“I look forward to it. A pleasure to have met you.”

The sophist put his hand on Aculeo’s arm, holding him back for a moment. “If I might say, these murders must be very distressing for you. It’s sometimes challenging to understand the will of the gods.”

“What are you talking about?
”

“The gods affect our every move. They occupy every common and private space in our lives.
As in Plato’s cave, we mortals can only grasp at the shadows of reality.
”

“Whatever gods might have willed such things to happen are of no consequence to me,” Aculeo said stiffly.

“You challenge the Fates themselves when you speak that way,” Zeanthes replied. Other sophists were watching them now, drawn to the harsh tone of the discussion. “I imagine you must blame yourself for the recent events.”

“Why should I blame myself?”

“You shouldn’t, of course, yet we can’t always choose the things we feel. Your friend Iovinus was murdered, and you assigned yourself the task of finding his murderer.”

“With all due respect, sir, you’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Come, come. The lovely Neaera is still missing while Myrrhine lies dead, her young life cut short,” Zeanthes said. “If you truly think the will of the gods has so little bearing, then who else could you blame for this turn of events but yourself? You weren’t forced to do this task, you chose it. Therefore you must also bear the blame for the destination, knowing now that if you had succeeded, you could even have helped Myrrhine escape a dreadful fate. Whoever has murdered these people may not be finished. Yet you are no closer to stopping them, are you?”

Aculeo stared at the other man. He felt like he’d just been kicked in the stomach. “I … I don’t …” he said, his voice rough and weak amidst the sweet songs of the birds in the gardens that surrounded them.

The sophist put a hand on the other man’s arm, his eyes filled with a soft inner peace. “The will of the gods is real, dear Aculeo, as real as you and I standing here right now, and it cannot be ignored however much you try
.”

Aculeo approached
the entrance
to t
he
Magistrates’ offices i
n the outskirts of the Palace Quarter. Statues of Isis and Apollo stood overlooking the square of the Court of Justice, their impassive faces dappled with light and shadow from the morning sunlight falling through the leaves of the acacias and sweet sycamore.
A slave had appeared at Aculeo’s door at the crack of dawn bearing a message from Capito summoning him to his offices. And while Aculeo half considered sending a reply to the Magistrate as to where he could stick his summons he decided to accompany the slave instead.

He was escorted into the inner chambers of the Magistrate’s luxurious chambers where he saw Capito already hard at work with his scribe, dictating something about land transfers and owed tariffs while the slave scratched the words out on a tablet. The Magistrate spotted Aculeo out of the corner of his eye. “Aculeo,” he said. “Please have a seat.”

“I’d rather you just got to the point,” Aculeo said irritably. “What is it you want, Capito?”

“I thought you’d be interested in helping me question a certain Athenian.”

“Not particularly, I’ve …” Aculeo paused a moment. “What Athenian?”

“Cleon of Athens,” Capito said with a smile. “You recall the name, I trust. The purported witness to the slave’s murder at the Sarapeion.”

Aculeo considered him for a moment. The river slave – he’d almost forgotten about her. “I’d be pleased to join you.”

“I thought you might be,” Capito said, dismissing the scribe with a wave of his hand. “What of your murdered hetaira? Any news?”

“Not really,” Aculeo said.

“Well, let’s worry about that later, shall we? Come on. The day’s half over already.”

The crisp, even lines of the Harbor of Eleusis wrapped around a desolate stretch of beach along the eastern edge of the Egyptian Sea before tapering off into a rocky shore and a golden-brown, grassy ridge that extended far into the distance. In high season,
Eleusis
was renowned as an exclusive retreat for wealthy citizens and tourists who enjoyed its warm shallow waters, health spas, countless kapeleions, readily available male and female companions, and the infamously debauched festivities that took place along its sandy shores.

The Sanatorium of Asclepius By the Sea itself had a somewhat less refined appearance than its name implied, for it was little more than a collection of rundown waterfront shacks built along a bleak stretch of the shore. Yet it was to this desolate spot that Cleon of Athens, the only witness to the river slave’s murder, had decamped, according to the information provided by the remorseful acolyte Leto. The supplicant had returned to the Sarapeion again the prior evening, still seeking to be healed, and Leto, true to his word, had sent word to the office of the Magistrate Capito.

The sanatorium’s outer wall had a sun-bleached fresco of Poseidon and Hapi, father of all Egyptian gods, surrounded by faded seahorses, octopi, silvery fish and garish seashells. A damp breeze gusted off the sea, skittering sand and debris across the mosaic floor, patterned in pale blue tiles like curling waves. A slave busied himself sweeping the floor with such resigned demeanour it seemed he might have occupied himself with little else all day. He said not a word when Capito asked for Cleon, but silently led the two Romans through a garden gone to seed, past algaic fishponds and trickling waterfalls to one of the little bone-white mud-brick cottages. The waves crashed ceaselessly against the craggy grey rocks that lined the beachfront. A flock of dirty white seabirds wheeled overhead, their wingtips catching the brisk, briny-smelling wind as they glided further down the shore.

They came around a waist-high garden wall, drooping with ragged, sun-scorched rhododendrons, and there on a little patio balcony overlooking the sea sat a grossly overweight young man, busily shovelling food into his fleshy face. Before him was a banquet of eggs, winecake, bread, roast chicken, fruits and cheeses. Aculeo guessed that what the sanctuary lacked in guests, this single occupant made up for in sheer quantity of food devoured.

“Are you Cleon?” Capito asked.

“Ah, at last,” Cleon groaned, dropping his half-eaten chicken leg on his plate with a damp thud. “I had another dreadful sleep last night. For all the money I’m paying to stay at this fleapit I would think at least I’d get some decent rest.”

“You’re feeling better I hope?” Aculeo asked. “Recovering from your injuries?”

“Oh I suppose, still a little tender of course, but still, praise Sarapis,” Cleon said, quaffing a long swallow of wine.

“I’ve had more than my fill of Sarapis, thanks,” Aculeo said, taking a seat at the table and, to Cleon’s astonishment, helping himself to some wine.

“I understand you were at the Sarapeion a week ago where you witnessed a murder,” Capito said, taking the seat next to Aculeo.

Cleon almost choked on his food. “I’m sorry, who, ah, who did you say were again?” he asked, still gasping.

“Magistrate Marcus Aquillius Capito. And my associate Tarquitius Aculeo.”

“Oh?” Cleon said warily, wiping his mouth with the back of his greasy hand. “A Magistrate you say?”

“Indeed. I deal with any capital crimes committed in Alexandria.”

“Capital crimes?” Cleon said, sweat trickling down his fleshy, troubled face. “But what do you want of me?”

“We just need to ask you a few answers and we’ll be on our way,” Aculeo said.

“Well, I, uh, I’d be happy to help you normally, of course,” the florid young man stammered, “but in fact I’m rather busy right now. Perhaps another day, next week even?”

“It will only take a few minutes,” said Capito. “Tell us about the slave’s murder.”

“I’m still trying to forget it,” Cleon said, mopping his profusely sweating brow as he stuffed some cake in his mouth, washing it down with a hurried swallow of wine, half of which spilled down his chin, staining his tunic.

“You have the rest of your life to do that,” Aculeo said. “Think about it for just a few more minutes first.”

“Please, I came here to be healed, instead I must bear witness to some horrible murder,” the young man said, his eyes welling up, his mouth full, his voice quavering. “I simply want to be left alone.”

“When did you arrive in the city?” Capito asked.

“Just last week. The same day as the cursed murder.”

“Attend any symposia while you’ve been here?” Aculeo asked. Capito gave him a puzzled glance.

“What? No. Why do you ask?”

He seemed an unlikely killer, Aculeo mused. Still …. “Tell us exactly what you saw that night in the Sarapeion.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, really,” Cleon said. “I’d just finished my prayers to Sarapis as the priest instructed me and entered the sanctuary to rest and receive my visions when I noticed someone skulking about in the shadows. I came closer and saw it was a man in the midst of assaulting that poor woman, before my very eyes. I called on him to stop, but then he turned on me! It’s a wonder I wasn’t slain myself.”

“This man attacked you?” Capito asked.

“More demon than man. He threw me to the ground as he made his escape,” Cleon said, his voice catching with emotion. He held up for examination a plump elbow, which had a small yellowish bruise on the tip and a smaller scrape along the side. “There was a great deal of blood. It was quite dreadful.”

“What did the killer look like?” asked Aculeo.

“He was a brute of a man. Broad shouldered, powerful. A lunatic’s face.”

“Describe his face,” said Capito.

“I don’t know. Filthy, for one thing, rotten teeth, his hair and beard unkempt, matted. And a nasty scar running down the length of it.”

“A scar?” Capito said sharply.