Furies (42 page)

Idaia crouched behind the shrine, her heart pounding in her chest, her breath fast and painful in her throat until she couldn’t bear it any longer. She peeked out from behind the shrine and watched as Calisto stood to face the men, her face pale, her expression a mixture of anger and fear. “Osti,” the child whispered.

One of the men called something in a foreign tongue to the others, who laughed. They approached Calisto then, one from the front, two from the side. The fourth man, the harelip, hung back, watching.

The man in front grabbed Calisto’s arm, pulled her in close against him, kissed her on the neck. She screamed, tried to push him away. He slapped her hard across the face then grabbed the front of her chiton, tore it open, baring her small, pale breasts, her necklace breaking, the jewels spilling on the broken street.

Calisto reached into her belt as the man approached, found her small knife, the blade flashing in the sun as she swung it and sliced the man’s face open. He squealed in pain, stumbling backwards, hand pressed to his bleeding face. Two of the other men stepped back warily. Geta stepped in and grabbed Calisto’s knife hand at the wrist, twisting her arm around until she dropped the knife. One of the other men picked it up, moved forwards as the harelip held her fast, pulling her by the hair to make her stand upright, her throat and chest exposed.

Idaia smothered a scream.

“Hoi, let her go!” The attackers looked up in surprise. Half a dozen Roman soldiers dressed in bright red capes had appeared, Tyche right behind them. The harelip shoved Calisto to the ground and the men all scattered, the soldiers chasing them into the marketplace.

Idaia ran from her hiding spot towards Calisto, sobbing in relief. Calisto sat up, her arms across her chest to cover her nakedness. Tyche helped her to stand. The litter arrived then. “Are you alright, Mistress?” one of the soldiers asked.

“I’m fine,” Calisto said, trying to regain her composure. As he helped her to stand, though, she wavered, putting her hand against the side of the litter to catch herself. Her arm and hand were wet with blood.

“You’re hurt!” Idaia cried.

Calisto glanced at her arm and shook her head, her face pale as paste. “It’s not my blood.”

“Tyche says…” Idaia began, but Tyche shook her head. “I mean…”

“What?” Calisto said, looking at the girl.

“Nothing,” Tyche said. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

Calisto stroked the girl’s cheek thoughtfully then climbed into the litter. The girls followed her. Calisto pulled the curtain across the window, then bowed her head. They could see her shoulders were trembling. It sounded like she was crying.

Idaia and Tyche looked at one another but neither of them said a word.

“There are too many ships,” Pesach announced.

Aculeo had tried in vain to ignore his interminable guests. Having settled rather comfortably into Aculeo’s modest lodgings – a little too comfortably, Xanthias had mentioned on more than one occasion – and continuously emptying the pantry in record time, Pesach and Gellius had since taken to entertaining themselves by nosing about in Aculeo’s private papers, including those in the chest of company documents Aculeo had inherited following Corvinus’ suicide.

“What do you mean?” Aculeo said wearily.

“I mean as I say – there are too many ships. How much grain is shipped to Rome each year?” Pesach asked.

“How should I know?”

Gellius snorted. “Far be it from Aculeo to trouble himself with such minor details as the lifeblood of his belated company.”

“Allow me to educate you then,” Pesach said. “Fifteen million modii of grain are shipped to Rome each and every year. Two million for the annona that the government annually grants its citizens, the remainder sold to private hands.”

“Fascinating,” Aculeo said, stifling a yawn.

“Now, each ship can hold perhaps five thousand modii at most. So fifteen million divided by five thousand, that’s three thousand grain ships to Rome per year thereabouts. Yet look here. According to Corvinus’ records, the company chartered ships to carry three million modii last year just for the annona. That’s half again what Rome even grants in toto.”

Aculeo laid his head on the table and closed his eyes. The left side of his head had begun to throb – this sort of detail always made him ill. “The records must be wrong. The balance probably includes what was shipped to private merchants as well.”

“It’s little wonder he lost his fortune, he doesn’t pay attention to the details,” Gellius said.

“Anyway, it was a large enterprise,” said Aculeo. “It’s not so difficult to believe we shipped that much grain.”

“Was it large?” Pesach asked, the corners of his mouth lifted in a mocking smile.

“Yes. What are you smirking about? Are you trying to make a specific point, Pesach?”

Pesach shrugged. “All I know is, there’s not enough grain in the world to account for what’s claimed in Corvinus’ company records. The trouble is, we only have a partial record here.”

“You kept no papers of your own?” asked Gellius.

“Corvinus held them all.”

“Of course he did.”

“And this was all you got from Corvinus’ estate?” Pesach asked.

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Someone else must have taken the rest, then. Or destroyed them. Perhaps Gellius and I can find more information in the public records office, or at the Emporium.” Pesach sighed and scratched his armpit, then his eyes fell across the scorched tablets that Aculeo had found in Gurculio’s house now sitting in the corner of his tiny kitchen. He picked them up curiously. “What about Flavianus’ tablets? Any idea what was on them?”

“Not a clue.”

“Who is Flavianus exactly?” asked Gellius.

Aculeo shrugged. “Marcellus Flavianus is the only one I can think of. An associate of Corvinus’. I met him once years ago when he visited from Rome. I really know nothing about him though.”

“Hm, well, whatever was on his tablets must have been important somehow. Jupiter himself knows enough people died for them,” Pesach said, emptying the last amphora of wine into his cup.

Aculeo and Zeanthes found a quiet tavern near the crossroads just before dusk. The Palace District lay to the north, a majestic tapestry wrapped around the Great Harbour, bathed in the cool Etesian winds off the bay.

“This is quite lovely,” Zeanthes said. He considered Aculeo for a moment. “You seem distracted though. Is everything alright?”

“An unrelated matter,” Aculeo said with a rueful smile. “Apologies.”

“Of course. It’s such a pleasant surprise you called on me. I take it you have some news about the murders?”

Aculeo explained the events of the past few days – the discovery of Neaera’s necklace, Apollonios’ death in the prison and his own growing suspicion that Ralla himself was involved in Neaera’s disappearance as well as the murders of Myrrhine and Petras.

“A disturbing conundrum,” Zeanthes said solemnly, taking a sip of the cool black wine. “How certain are you of Ralla’s involvement?”

“As certain as I can be without proof.”

“Then we’ll simply need to find our proof.”

“Is that all?” Aculeo said with a bitter laugh.

“Trying took Troy, as they say. It’s like Theseus and the ball of string. You have to follow it to find your way out of the labyrinth.” Zeanthes signalled to the server to bring them more wine. “Tell me more about Petras. You seem to think her death is connected to this somehow?”

“Yes,” Aculeo said. “She wore the same bracelet of yellow twine about her wrist as the others.”

“Yellow twine?”

“Yes. It’s worn by some worshippers of Sarapis.”

“Did all the victims wear such a bracelet?” Zeanthes asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“First tell me what else you know about Petras’ murder.”

Aculeo shrugged. “I’ve little else to share. I know who paid for her embalming, the name at least, but little else.”

“What’s the name?”

“Sabazius.”

“Sabazius?” Zeanthes smiled, swirling the wine around in his cup before he sipped. “Someone’s playing a game, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sabazius is another name for Dionysos.”

“The wine god?”

“Oh, he is far more than that, I assure you. And what’s more, pomegranates also play a key role in his story. So,” Zeanthes said, pushing his chair away from the table and taking a torch from its bracket on the tavern wall. “Let’s make a visit to the underworld.”

Aculeo followed the sophist along a narrow back alley towards a small, windowless mud-brick building with an unmarked door. “In here I believe,” Zeanthes said. He opened the door and led him into the dark passageway within. A set of steps carved in the soft limestone led downwards. Zeanthes headed down the stairs, his footsteps echoing off the uneven rock walls, the torchlight flickering, the air stale and thin. Aculeo reluctantly followed.

The steps ended in another passageway, which led to a great cavern. Magnificent stone arches towered overhead, stretching endlessly into the dark void beyond like still and glittering waves in a cold, dead sea, linked to the towering columns rising out of the depths of the water down below. A maze of catacombs ran beneath the city to store autumn floodwater from the Nile and supply the city’s residents through the year. Pipes fed from the cisterns to the many public fountains and pumps across the city, as well as to the palace and a select number of wealthier citizens’ homes.

“A city beneath the city,” Zeanthes said.

“Why have we come down to the cisterns?” Aculeo asked.

“Because this represents the katabasis – the descent into the underworld. The liminal boundaries where Dionysos is Lord,” Zeanthes said, his torchlight dancing off the water, dappling across the cavernous, echoing walls. “Dionysos is a son of Zeus. His mother was Semele, a sea nymph. Zeus came unto her in human form, but after he laid with her she realized he was the great god himself and begged him to show himself as he truly was. After much initial resistance, he finally relented, allowing her to see him in his true god form. His brilliance was too much for her, of course, and she immediately turned to ash. The babe Dionysos was rescued from the cinders of her womb, born with horns and crowned with serpents. Hera was enraged when she learned of her husband’s infidelity and ordered the Titans to murder the child. They tore him apart, then boiled the pieces and devoured most of him before Zeus destroyed them with a thunderbolt.