Furies (37 page)

“But how could that be?”

“It is proposed in quite elegant treatises,” Zeanthes said. “There’s another explanation of course. That our perception of reality is imperfect. That the purity of the Divine cannot be grasped here in this world, but only in the heavens. That the heavens are not a cold universe of mathematics, measurements and Pythagorean formulae wherein planetary spheres shuffle about the skies in musical harmony, but are instead the thrones of the Gods, from which they watch our goings on. Why else might the universe have been created at all, if not for the Gods’ divine pleasure?”

“If you call what they do pleasure, I suppose.”

“Such are the reasons the Ptolemies first commissioned the Library, and why the Caesars continue to patronize so many great minds at the Museion. With knowledge comes power, especially if it is unique and self-owned knowledge. Now, how does all this relate to the questions that you seek to unravel? Let’s explore the questions surrounding the murders.”

“What, here?” Aculeo asked, looking around the crowded observatory.

“Why not?” the sophist said. “What do we know? A slave is murdered in the Sarapeion. Her killer seems obvious at first, like the ship on the horizon. A recluse was seen in the temple, his act of murder witnessed. And if he murdered that girl, he must have murdered Myrrhine and Petras as well, for their murders appear connected by design if not by time or circumstance. What could be clearer?

“Yet your former associate, Iovinus, was also murdered, the tablets he carried were stolen, his lover gone missing, and though we know not Neaera’s fate, the coincidence makes one fear that she too may have suffered some terrible end.

“What else do we know? Some of the murder victims were hung, all were stabbed, some several times, tortured perhaps, while the slave in the Sarapeion was struck across the head. One girl was murdered three months ago. The others only in the past few weeks. And then there are the pomegranate seeds, of course. So we must accept there are differences – correct? The question is … why? What differed between them? Why were some of the victims hanged, tortured and butchered and others not?”

“Apollonios had less time in the Sarapeion with the river slave,” Aculeo said. “The witness Cleon interrupted him. He altered his method, but not the result.”

“But why were they murdered in the first place? And what of the three-month gap? Is there even a gap? Were there in fact other girls murdered during that time period? Or before? Or since? You only just discovered Petras, after all. How many others might there be?”

“I don’t know,” Aculeo allowed, feeling a sickening sense of despair at the thought.

“There’s something different about the girls, the situation, or else the killer.”

“Could there have been two killers?”

“A possibility,” Zeanthes mused. “The way you describe this Apollonios, I find it difficult to understand how he could have committed any of these murders other than that of the slave.”

“He’s a lunatic. He scalded one of the men with boiling water when we tried to take him. It was like trapping a rabid beast.”

“That’s the point of my argument. Why would any sensible woman have gone with a man who is clearly mad? Yet we must presume that he was successful not only once, but over and over again, and in almost complete secrecy? And then there’s Gurculio’s murder.”

“That’s a different matter. The brothel-keeper Panthea did that.”

“You base that on guesswork or some specific knowledge?”

“I heard them arguing at the symposium. I was attacked by her slave that night and her brothel was cleared out the next day.”

“A false deduction,” Zeanthes said. “You cannot assume Gurculio’s murder is not connected to the murders of these women. Especially given that he had his manhood stripped from him at the end, did he not? Which implies it is part of the pattern. And if it is connected, where then does your recluse fit? He was in prison when Gurculio was murdered.”

“You talk about it like it was some geometry problem you’re trying to unravel,” Aculeo said irritably.

“It is like that, yes, and why not?” Zeanthes said, holding Aculeo’s gaze with his own placid eyes. “The murders follow a pattern designed by the killer, or killers, choosing the victims, the time, the place, the means of their murder. He would have needed to have access to them, gaining their trust, their cooperation at least for the time it took him to take control of them. And after killing them, he needed to be able to escape unnoticed. Can you picture Apollonios doing all this?”

Aculeo stared back at him for a moment, then glanced back towards the city, towards Olympia. He thought for a moment that he could just make out the pink walls of Calisto’s villa. “Not on his own, no. What do you know of Albius Ralla?”

“Ralla? Why do you ask?”

“He was Myrrhine’s patron. They were together at Gurculio’s symposium the night she was murdered. He was also Neaera’s patron which links him to both Iovinus’ and Neaera’s fates. Posidippus of Cos also owed him money before he disappeared.”

“Is your concern simply about Ralla, or about his relationship with Calisto?” the sophist asked gently.

“What if he’s behind the murders? What if he used Apollonios as his instrument?”

“Even if you truly thought such a man as Albius Ralla is capable of such a thing, why would he rely on such an unreliable instrument?” Zeanthes asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”

Zeanthes put a hand on his shoulder and they gazed at the waves crashing down below. “So much death, so much tragedy,” he said. “And you are left with your own sense of culpability, trapped in this madness, incapable of stopping it, incapable of helping anyone in fact.” Aculeo didn’t answer. He couldn’t have spoken, even if he wanted to. “Everyone plays a role in these things, you know. None of us are innocent.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you know my meaning. The real question you need to ask yourself is, are you a hero, a villain, or simply part of the chorus? Whatever your answer, be careful, my friend. Ralla is no fool, and he’s not a good man to have as an enemy.”

“Don’t you fucking move,” a quavering voice said. Aculeo opened one eye a crack and saw a filthy, bearded face inches from his own, the man’s breath hot and fetid. He thought at first it must be some beggar who’d broken in to rob him. It took him a moment to recognize it was Gellius – the man looked wretched, his tunic torn and stained, his body odour enough to make a Carthaginian’s eyes water. The knife he pressed against Aculeo’s throat, however, left little doubt as to his intent.

“Alright,” Aculeo said, as calmly as he could. “I’m not moving. Where’ve you been, Gellius? We’ve been worried about you.”

“Fucking liar!” Gellius hissed, pressing the blade close enough against the flesh to nick the flesh.

“Gellius, put the damned knife down before you kill me.”

“That’s the point though, isn’t it?”

“I thought we were friends.”

“So did I, but that was before you betrayed us. Trogus was right – I never should have trusted you again. More fool me. But I wasn’t the one to pay for it, was I? He was!” Gellius’ eyes welled with tears, his voice tremulous. “You won’t get away with it though! Not this time!”

“I’m sorry about Trogus, but I swear I never betrayed anyone.”

“Liar!” Gellius cried. “Sorio said he saw you at the fucking Games sitting alongside your dear friend Gurculio, watching Trogus get cut down like a common slave! You were playing us all that time!” He gripped the knife in both hands and held it over his head, readying to plunge it into Aculeo’s neck.

“Wait! It wasn’t me that betrayed you, dammit, it was Bitucus!”

Gellius paused, an expression of doubt crossing his face as he lowered the knife an inch. “What are you talking about?”

“I went to the Little Eagle to find the two of you the night Trogus was taken. Bitucus was waiting there with the merchant Theopompus.”

“The Icarian?”

“Yes. They wanted me to tell them your whereabouts, even offered me coin. I told them to go fuck themselves. I’d never have betrayed you, Gellius. You or Trogus.”

“You’re … you’re lying. Bitucus would never do such a thing. We took him in, put a roof over his head when he had nothing.”

“He’d have sold his father’s bones for soup to be with his family again,” Aculeo said. “I was at the Games with Gurculio, I admit it, but I was forced to be there. He wanted me to witness Trogus’ murder.”

“But why?” Gellius asked, dumbfounded.

“Because he’s a sick bastard. Or was. Someone murdered him last week.”

“Wait. What? Gurculio’s dead?”

“Yes. Someone tortured him and hung him in his own villa before setting fire to it.”

“Oh,” Gellius said, sitting back on his heels, lowering the knife. “Oh.”

“Can I sit up without you stabbing me? Again?” Aculeo asked. He saw Xanthias watching from the doorway, eyebrows raised in puzzlement, and waved him off.

“What? Oh, yes, of course,” Gellius said, lowering the knife.

Aculeo sat up in the bed, tentatively dabbed at the nicks on his throat, twinging at the touch and sting of sweat. “You’ve really got to stop trying to murder me.”

“I’m sorry, Aculeo, truly. When Sorio mentioned he’d seen you at the Games, I thought for certain it was you who’d betrayed us.”

“It’s alright, I understand,” Aculeo said.

“Yes, I’m sure a number of people dream of murdering my Master,” Xanthias offered helpfully from outside the bedroom. “Why even I …”

“Enough, old goat,” Aculeo growled.

“It’s been so … so challenging of late,” said Gellius. “I thought I’d hit bottom already. Not as bad as Pesach perhaps, but still…”

Pesach, Aculeo recalled guiltily, I’d forgotten about him.

“But then to lose Trogus …” Gellius looked up at Aculeo, his eyes hollow with grief. “I truly loved him.”

“I know you did. He loved you too.”

“I miss him so.” Gellius buried his face in his hands, unable to utter another word.

“Stay here as long as you like. It’s better than living in the street.”

“Not by much,” Xanthias muttered.

“You would offer me refuge?” Gellius said in astonishment, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I racked my soul for days plotting my revenge against you.”

“You had good reason to, or thought you did,” Aculeo said.

“And yet the day I come to kill you,” Gellius said, “I learn you’re still the dearest of friends, still a man of virtue!”

Aculeo stepped reluctantly into the fullery’s taberna, eyes stinging from the ripe stench of the smoldering sulphur pits with little breeze to thin it. He walked through the stuffy little fauces and poked his head around the doorway to the atrium where he could see the slaves hard at work. And there was Pesach, carrying a yoke slung with two great slopping skins of aged urine. He looked even worse than he had before, just sticks and hide
, his face raw and red as a radish boiled too long in a pot. His left shoulder and arm were discoloured with a sprawling, yellowish-purple bruise, remnant of a beating no doubt. He felt sick at the sight.