Furies (24 page)

The little dog which had climbed into Gurculio’s lap began to yap, startled by the noise. “Hush, Felix, hush,” the Roman cooed, stroking its ears. “Did you know my grandfather was born into slavery? And yet he died a free and wealthy man.”

“You had family? I’d always assumed you’d been squeezed out of a pig’s ass one cursed morning.”

The moneylender’s eyes flashed with irritation. “Watch your tongue, ceveo.”

“Call me that again and you’ll join your ancestors soon enough,” Aculeo growled.

Gurculio ignored him. “My grandfather always said to make sure you cover your own ass, because nobody will do it for you. Especially now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

In the stadium below, the retiarius raised his trident over his head as he swung his net, getting ready to cast it. The murmillone stumbled backwards to stay out of reach, then tripped over his own feet and fell in the dust. His helmet slid forward, covering his eyes as the net sailed over his head. The crowd cheered – this contest was even funnier than the dwarfs! The murmillone scuttled away like a crab, struggling to right his helmet.

“I heard you were sniffing about after Calisto. Even went to her villa the other day,” Gurculio said, looking sideways at Aculeo with his tiny, pebble-like eyes. “Why?”

“What business is it of yours who I visit?” Aculeo demanded, though in truth he was caught off guard. How could he have known?

The retiarius, picking up on the crowd’s mood, decided to draw things out and have some fun with his opponent. He slammed his trident hard into the murmillone’s shield, piercing the thick wooden plank, then tore it from the man’s shaking hands. The murmillone wheeled backwards in a panic as the retiarius kicked the shield off his trident and advanced.

“Calisto’s not just some Tannery toe-toucher.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“You might well know it, but you clearly don’t understand its significance,” Gurculio said, then shoved a piece of black winecake in his mouth. “She’s a companion to men of wealth, power, influence. You’re none of those things. Not anymore. Understand me? That means when men of any import shit upon your noble-born head, you’re to thank them and tell them that it smells of myrrh.”

“Fuck you, moneylender,” Aculeo spat, barely managing to hold his temper.

“Hold up, I’m not through with you yet,” Gurculio said.

“I’m not going to sit here listening to whatever shit dribbles out of your lips.”

“You’re well out of your depth on this one. Do you even know who her fucking patron is?”

“I couldn’t care less,” Aculeo said.

“I trust you know who Lucius Albius Ralla is.”

Ralla? Aculeo thought in surprise. Calisto belongs to Ralla? The thought of him lying in her bed, touching her, fucking her … Enough, he thought, trying not to expose himself. It’s hardly my concern. “What of it?”

“Ralla’s not a man to cross. He’s not likely to be all that appreciative of someone like you showing an interest in his rightful property. Now do you understand?”

“I’ll bear it in mind.”

“You’ll need to do a lot more than that if you want to keep that empty head atop your shoulders!” Gurculio snapped.

“If this is the only reason you summoned me…” Aculeo said, rising from his seat.

“Don’t be in such a hurry. I’ve a proposition for you. You remember Posidippus of Cos, I trust?”

Aculeo was caught off guard a second time. He knew the Cosian slightly, a low-level grain merchant who operated well outside the usual channels. He’d never trusted the man personally, though he recalled Corvinus had mentioned him as someone who got things done. “I know of him,” he said cautiously. “Why?”

The retiarius caught his net on the fish-shaped crest on the murmillone’s helmet and pulled. The other man cried out and fell to his knees, dropping his sword in the sand. The crowd roared and stomped their feet against the walls of the amphitheatre.

“He disappeared two weeks ago,” Gurculio said, “and no one knows where he is. Not his business associates, not his friends, not his family. I need to find him.”

“What do you expect me to do? I barely know the man,” Aculeo said.

“He used to work with your old patron, Corvinus, didn’t he?”

“And Corvinus died months ago. Any connection I would have had to Posidippus died with him.”

Gurculio raised an eyebrow. “Don’t devalue your connections. It’s the only thing you have left in your favour. There’s a price on Posidippus’ head. One thousand sesterces if you find him for me.”

The offer represented a small fortune, at least in terms of Aculeo’s current circumstances, and Gurculio surely knew it. But it made no sense – why offer such a price for a middling merchant like Posidippus of Cos?” And what will you do with him once you find him?” Aculeo asked. “Sell him to the fullery? Or just murder him like you did with Trogus?”

“Don’t be such a spineless cunt,” Gurculio said irritably, fanning himself as the sweat filled the crevices between his fleshy chins. “I never murdered anyone. Besides, I already settled matters with Trogus. He’s a free man now.”

The retiarius advanced on his fallen opponent. The crowd stood on their feet, swept up in blood lust, screaming for gore. The murmillone fumbled in the sand for his weapon.

Aculeo looked at the moneylender in surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“My business is my own. Yours is to do what I tell you, which right now is to find Posidippus. Understand?”

The man’s arrogance was astounding. “Find him yourself, moneylender. I’ve better things to do.”

“Wait,” Gurculio said, pointing into the stadium, “you should really watch this first.”

“So I can witness a man getting slaughtered like a staked goat?”

“He’s found his sword at least.”

Aculeo glanced down into the stadium in spite of himself and saw the poor murmillone had indeed managed to find his sword. He held it trembling before him, for it seemed to weighed heavy in his hands. The retiarius made a side-to-side dodging move as though wary of approaching a dangerous beast, making the crowd laugh. As he did so, the retiarius tripped over his own feet and stumbled. The murmillone took a reluctant check swing with his sword, catching his opponent’s right calf.

“There, he’s had it,” someone cried and the crowd started chanting the words, laughing at the great sport. The retiarius looked down at his shallow wound in surprise, then simply stepped in and stabbed the other man in the midsection with his trident. The murmillone cried out
, a sound of agony woven tight with surrender as blood spilled from his wounds. The retiarius put his boot on the man’s chest and shoved him off, tearing his trident free. The murmillone stared down at the fresh gore of his guts spilling from his body and tried in vain to hold them in.

“Enough,” Aculeo said, turning to go, nauseated by the gory spectacle.

“Not quite,” Gurculio said. The retiarius grabbed the murmillone by the helmet and stripped it off, throwing it with an empty clatter to the blood-soaked sand. Aculeo looked at the mortally wounded man’s face.

“No,” he whispered. It was Trogus kneeling there in the sand, eyes glazed, pink foam bubbling from his lips. Aculeo glanced at Bitucus in disbelief. Bitucus’ cheeks were drained, his eyes wide with shock. If he knew, he wore the cloak of innocence well. The retiarius grabbed Trogus by the hair and arched his head back, placing a dagger to his pale throat. He gazed up into the stands to the Games’ Editor, blinking in the glaring afternoon sun. The crowd was mixed – some jabbed their thumbs towards their hearts in a call for death, others pinching thumbs and forefingers together to ask that the man be spared. The Editor glanced towards Gurculio, who paused a long moment.

“What are you waiting for?” Aculeo demanded. “Spare him! Spare him!”

Gurculio casually pointed his thumb towards his chest.

“No, damn you!” Aculeo cried, then leapt to his feet. “Spare him! Spare him!”

The Editor copied Gurculio’s gesture. The retiarius complied, slitting Trogus’ throat before letting him fall, his lifeblood spilling dark upon the sand, then turned and walked away.

Aculeo stared at Gurculio in horror. “You told me you’d freed him.”

“I did. He merely needed to make his way out of the stadium today,” Gurculio said calmly, leaning back in his seat, a smile spread across his fleshy face. “Sadly that didn’t happen.
I hope you learn from this, Ceveo. Now stop trying to fuck me around and find the Cosian, understand?” The Roman turned his attention back to the stadium as they dragged Trogus’ lifeless body away.

Viator and Vibius moved closer to them, looming over Aculeo, waiting for him to act.

“This isn’t over. I promise you,” Aculeo choked, then tore himself away, pushing his way past Bitucus and the other slaves.

“Aculeo,” Bitucus whispered, pleading. “I didn’t know, I swear …”

Aculeo shoved the man into the churning, sweating crowds. As he headed towards the steps, the flap of one of the privacy tents lifted and Tyche emerged, blinking in the sudden harsh daylight. She seemed to stagger and held out her hand against a post to catch herself. Her cheek was bright red as though she’d just been struck, her upper lip was puffy and bleeding, her peplos torn at the shoulder. A man emerged from the tent right after her, narrow-shouldered, weak-jawed, receding hairline, watery brown eyes.
Lucius Albius Ralla
. He gave a vague, satisfied smile and adjusted his toga as he moved towards Gurculio’s box to join the others. Tyche spotted Aculeo out of the corner of her eye and looked away, touching her bruised cheek with her fingertips. Ralla took the seat Aculeo has just vacated next to Gurculio, leaned over and whispered something to the moneylender, who roared in laughter.

Aculeo followed the gridwork of streets outside the city walls, the image of Trogus’ horrendous public spectacle execution like an indelible stain in his mind. He found his way into a tavern where a weathered wooden sign cut in the shape of a wagon wheel hung over the door, the sound of music and talk rising from behind the garden walls, the evening air thick with the smell of frying fish, spices and sharp tang of palm wine. He took a quiet table in the corner and ordered a pitcher of palm wine. He downed a cup, then another, barely tasting the unfiltered, pale yellow swill that passed his lips. I was unable to lift so much as a finger for him, he thought angrily. Or Gellius, wherever he is. Or Pesach. Not even Tyche.

Ah, Tyche – how her eyes burned into me when she’d saw me standing there, both of us powerless, filled with shame. It’s as Zeanthes said, I can bring only pain and misery to others of late. Even Titiana and Atellus have abandoned me. He splashed more wine into his cup.

And what of Ralla? Why didn’t Calisto tell me he was her patron too?  To protect him? More likely herself. Can I blame her? She’s terrified of the man. Ralla, who’d sat next to Gurculio at the Games, jesting with him after abusing poor Tyche. Aculeo poured himself another cup of wine, spilling a good portion of it on the table. What do they want with the Cosian? Could he be connected to this tangled mess somehow?

Any successful business required a vast network, not all of it so reputable. Least of all men like Posidippus of Cos, but Corvinus had always taken care of such matters. The Cosian was well enough known in the Agora – a feral little man, often seen accompanied by a ragged retinue about the marketplace, striking some deal or other. And the Cosian had spun his own web of contacts and lesser investors to form a loose partnership with Corvinus, giving him access to small, ready transport ships, opening the grain market into Assyria and beyond. Disreputable, perhaps, but he and his ilk had their place. He must have known Iovinus at least – could he be connected somehow to his murder? Could he have stolen the tablets as well?