Furies (25 page)

Aculeo pushed himself away from the table, dizzy with drink and exhaustion. Well worth looking into at least.

The deme of
Berenike was built into a low sloping crest overlooking the Port of the Lake, the main mercantile port for shipments from the chora in Upper Egypt. Silty grey waves sloshed against the square-sailed ships anchored at the dock, the twilight echoing with the mournful lowing of the cattle in the stockyards and the shouts and curses of the merchant sailors as they loaded and unloaded their cargoes, rushing to finish as darkness fell. Sacks of grain from Upper Egypt, the fertile Nile Valley, were stored in granaries, waiting to be stacked onto barges to be transported to the main harbour in the morning and thence to the Roman Empire to feed its insatiable hunger.
On Rome’s requirements alone fortunes could be made.

Or lost.

And there, he thought, eyeing the dark, derelict building across the street, stood Posidippus of Cos’ warehouse. A dog’s bark echoed through the empty streets. The lock on the door, a simple row of grooves above the bolt, snapped readily under the blade of his knife. Inside, the building was as it had appeared from the outside – abandoned.

There were basic living quarters inside the front entrance. A chair lay tipped over on the floor. A bowl of apricots on the table had gone rotten, the fruit flesh now brown and sickly sweet, the air dotted with fruit flies. Something dark and sticky had spilled across the desk and dripped onto the floor. Aculeo smelled it warily – it was just wine. There was a skittering sound in the corner that disappeared into the darkness.

A table in the corner was covered with scrolls and scraps of papyrus. He scanned through a few of them. Business documents, legal papers, purchase agreements, inventories of ships’ cargoes. Another set of scrolls sat tucked on a shelf above the desk, coated in a thick layer of dust. He unfurled a few of them – accounting ledgers. He tucked what he could into his satchel.

The warehouse area itself was cavernous. Judging by what little he could see in the torchlight, it looked well picked over. All that remained were a few amphorae of rancid olive oil, some rusted swords, moth-eaten bolts of cloth, an amphora of wine turned to vinegar and a handful of broken Egyptian statues of Anubis, Isis and sphinxes of assorted sizes – either counterfeit or stolen from some Upper Egyptian temple he guessed. Rats, startled by the sound of his footsteps, scrabbled deeper into the darkness, their yellow eyes glinting from the shadows as they watched him.

Aculeo was about to leave when he felt the wooden floorboards give beneath his feet. He knelt down and tapped the floor. It sounded solid enough … except for one spot. He wedged the torch into a sconce then took up one of the rusted swords, sliding the blade between two of the floorboards and carefully prying one up. He held the torch over the area. Empty – whatever had been hidden there was gone now. He reached in and felt around – his hand brushed over something dry and papery. He shone the torch over it – a dried flower with large, dull red petals. The same sort he’d found in Neaera’s little flat and Myrrhine’s room – petals from the opium flower.

For whatever reason, the Cosian had left this place in a hurry before falling off the edge of the world, Aculeo mused as he headed back. Much like Neaera. And Petras. And what of Myrrhine who started her evening at an exclusive symposium and ended it dumped in a canal with her throat slashed? And the damned river slave in the Sarapeion.

No matter how many more cups of wine he drank that night, the puzzle never seemed to clear beyond a great, amorphous muddle.

Philomena walked along the paved street, through the crowds, a group of men spilling out of the kapeleions followed her a ways, calling to her. “Hai hai, over here love,” one of the men cried. “I’ve got something for you.”

“Too small by far to see in this dim light I’m afraid,” she replied. The man’s friends all laughed.

“Well, on a highway that’s been driven as much as the Street of the Soma, even a chariot might look small,” the man said.

“So it might seem to a man used to pulling his own little wagon. Maybe you should stick with that and keep off the roads tonight.”

The man split off from his friends, put his hand around her waist and pulled her close. “Such a mouth on you,” he said, kissing her roughly on the cheek.

Philomena pushed the man away, giggling. “Don’t be brash. I don’t even know your name.”

“Cleobis. Want some company?”

“Buy me a drink, then we’ll see.”

They sat in a local tavern, drank a few jars of beer, eating bread and opson as the music played around them, flutes, jangling tambourines and pounding drums, laughing with the crowd over the bawdy songs they all sang. Cleobis’ hands were all over her. She felt she was getting drunk but stayed clear headed enough to remember her business. They settled quickly on a price.

“Where to then, darling?” he asked.

“The Western Walls near the monuments. The neighbours are quiet there – they never make a peep.”

“I should hope not,” he said, spitting on the ground to ward off any evil spirits that might be lurking about. They walked along the dark street, weaving and laughing, holding each other up as they walked, singing what lines they could remember from the songs they’d heard that night. Shadows followed, a whisper on the street, flitting through the alleyways. Cleobis pulled her close to him, planting a sloppy kiss on the neck. Philomena squawked and slapped his hands away.

“Come on, in here,” she said, pulling him into the darkness beneath the arch of a monument. She kissed him hard on the mouth, holding him close. There was a wind off the water, damp and cool in the night, sounds like whispers scratching against the stone. She felt goosebumps rise on her skin.

Cleobis pushed her up against the archway, kissing her on the mouth. He grabbed the backs of her knees and lifted them, stroking the soft, warm skin of her legs as they wrapped around him, squeezing. “Ah, wait,” he gasped.

“Wait for what? Come on then.”

“No, really, I have to take a piss, all that fucking beer.”

“Gah, such timing. Why not just keep your thing in your hand when you’re done and finish yourself off then.”

“Such a mouth on you,” Cleobis laughed. He stepped out from the archway, leaned against the stone structure, weaving and wobbling, holding himself up with one hand as he tried to relieve himself with the other but nothing seemed to flow.

“Whore,” the wind whispered.

“Wha’s that?” he said. “Ah, now, here we go.”

A blinding pain exploded in the back of his head. He stumbled forward, his face smashed against the stone, breaking his nose and chipping a tooth, then slumped to the ground. Another blow fell, then another. “Stop, stop, by the Gods, please stop!” Cleobis bellowed in pain, holding his hands over his head in protection.

The blows stopped at last. He had just managed to catch his breath when he heard a woman’s scream. Everything was going black. He shook his head, trying to stay conscious. He heard the woman scream again, but it was cut off this time. He staggered unsteadily to his feet and stepped into the shadows of the archway.

A dark figure crouched in the shadows over where Philomena lay, straddling her, a bracelet of yellow cord tied around his wrist. “You bitch,” gasped a demon’s voice. “You … fucking … whore!”

Cleobis fell on the figure, wrapped his arm around the other’s throat from behind, locked his arm with his free hand and squeezed as hard as he could. Philomena pulled her fibula from her torn chiton and stabbed it into her attacker’s neck. The man screamed in pain and fury, arching backwards with the fierce strength of a crazed animal, and swung his fist like a club back into Cleobis’ groin. A nauseating wave of pain washed over Cleobis as he fell to his knees. The man pushed away and scrambled off.

Philomena lay curled up on the ground, coughing and weeping. Cleobis squatted down beside her, managed to get her to sit up at last. “Hey, it’s alright, he’s gone. Shhh, don’t worry. You alright?” She nodded, trying to catch her breath. “Did you see his face?”

“Yes … I … I think I know him.”

Aculeo emptied his satchel out on the table, trying his best to ignore Xanthias’ mutterings about the great mess some people liked to make first thing in the morning before they’d even had a sip of wine or a bite of bread, still stinking of the streets from the previous night no less. He unrolled the accounting scrolls he’d gathered from Posidippus’ office and scanned through them.

Corvinus had rarely discussed his dealings with the Cosian. Aculeo had met the man on a few occasions, but hadn’t realized how tightly Posidippus had become involved in the company’s business over time. For the most part Aculeo had let himself to drift away from the day-to-day details of the company’s business. There were detailed entries in the Cosian’s documents on no less than eighteen ships in the company fleet in the year leading up to Corvinus’ suicide. According to the documents, Posidippus had worked closely with Iovinus to broker the supply for the annona from several middlemen, cobbling them together into shipments on half a dozen occasions. He appeared organized enough, for the earliest entries had been written methodically in a tight, cramped hand. More recent entries however, starting about six or seven months ago, seemed to have been written by an entirely different man. The handwriting more of a scrawl, the entries less frequent, the transactions themselves significantly less detailed. Posidippus had started buying from a middleman by the name of Goranus starting about six months ago. There were several entries for such transactions, totalling a significant amount of money over time, close to half a talent’s worth. Yet there was nothing in the records of him reselling the product. What had he done with it all? Stockpiled it? The warehouse was empty though. It made no sense.

A knock sounded on the door. Xanthias grumbled irritably as he went to answer.

One document indicated that the Cosian’s warehouse and another property known only by its title number had been offered as surety for a shipment on the tenth of Januarius, two weeks following the sinking of the second fleet, Aculeo thought. There was no record of any further inventory being bought or sold since November, five months ago. Another document noted that he’d been borrowing money from several sources, the only one called out by name being the negotiatore Shimon-Petrus.
There was no record of repayments made since the eighth of December. The entries grew even more erratic as time went on, until at last they stopped two months ago. What then? Aculeo wondered. Had Posidippus stopped keeping records? Or was there nothing left to record? Whatever happened, according to the documents he’d owed double the money he’d possessed just a year ago.
It was enough to make any man want to flee. And enough to make his lenders nervous, and perhaps in search of retribution.
Was Gurculio among them? Or just Shimon-Petrus? In the end, he was missing and Iovinus was murdered. It couldn’t be a coincidence.