Furies (44 page)

“I suppose you heard about Gurculio’s passing,” Sostra said as they walked along the street.

“The moneylender?” the other sophist demanded, tightening his grip on the other man’s arm, wary all of a sudden. “Why? What have you heard?”

“Well, very little actually,” Sostra said. “Only that he was murdered after his symposium. What do you think happened to him?”

“Why are you asking me?”

Sostra gave the other man a puzzled look. “I was merely making conversation. It’s natural to be curious about such things, is it not?”

“No, it’s not. And it’s no business of mine or yours.”

“I suppose. Still, it’s hardly a surprise. He was such a loathsome fellow.”

“Oh, and you knew him quite well, did you?” Epiphaneus snapped.

Sostra blushed. “No, I’d never met him, but from all I’d heard …”

“That’s the problem with an empty head, Sostra. It’s like a hole in the ground - all sorts of refuse may gather in it when you’re not careful.”

“Never mind then,” Sostra muttered. They’d come to an unshaded section of the street. It was so blazingly hot out now, the white paving stones glaring and brilliant beneath the noonday sun, it was giving Sostra a blistering headache. It was either that or the conversation.

“Besides, even if he was wicked, what of it?” Epiphaneus said. “If a man be wicked, it’s Nature which compels him to be so. The liberty which a virtuous life may afford other men mightn’t be available to him.”

“Yes, yes, as you say,” Sostra said, exasperated. “Ah! Here we are.” He disengaged his arm from the other man’s and looked about at the great stacks of scrolls on the thick plank tables like a child at a sweetshop.

Epiphaneus, however, appeared almost disappointed. “Do you know if there are any libraries in Phaleron?” he asked gloomily.

“What?” asked Sostra. “Oh, I don’t know. Why should we care about Phaleron?”

“No reason, really,” the elderly sophist said as he lovingly stroked the vellum cases stacked on the table.

“Ah, look here,” Sostra cried, holding up one of the cases in triumph. “A copy of Aristotle’s Politics! Oh, it’s in splendid condition! I’ll wager it’s worth a fortune.”

“I despise Aristotle!”

“That’s absurd.”

“Why do you say that? Did you know that …”

“Never mind then. Look, here’s some Straton. I don’t think we have this one. The Chief Librarian will be delighted!”

“The Chief Librarian can sit on the fucking lighthouse for all I care!”

Sostra looked at the other sophist with alarm. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Epiphaneus sighed, closing his eyes. “My head. It’s the poor light in here – let’s go.”

“But we just arrived! No, there are hundreds more scrolls to read. Just sit down and relax. I won’t be long.”

Epiphaneus grudgingly sat down. “Gah, I’m sweating,” he grumbled. “It’s too damned hot in here. There’s no air - I can hardly breathe.”

“Oh, this is interesting,” Sostra said, and passed a set of scrolls to Epiphaneus, who barely glanced at it before setting it aside.

“I’ve got pains in my chest, Sostra. I need to get out of here and find a physician, I …”

Sostra held up a scroll in delight. “Well, well, just look at this! You know I was looking for this a few months back, but the librarians told me our only copy had been lost some time ago.”

“Justifiably burned more likely,” Epiphaneus said. “Just look who it’s written by.”

Sostra laughed. “Oh, that’s terrible – listen to you.” He waddled off towards another stack of scrolls. Driven more by boredom than curiosity, Epiphaneus reluctantly unrolled the scroll and began to read. His eyed widened. What in the Muses’ divine names?  The pains in his chest had suddenly vanished.

“Hah, look at this one!” Sostra proclaimed.

“Shut up you fat fool, I’m trying to read!”

The other sophist gave him a hurt look. “Alright then, fine.” Honestly, Sostra thought, some people can be so hurtful.

Idaia felt terribly restless. Neither she nor Tyche had wanted to walk in the Agora with Calisto and Aculeo at all – the attack the day prior had been terrifying – but Calisto had insisted that they should not change their routine, and the girls could hardly disobey. She glanced over at a filthy beggar boy, sitting on the walkway beside the puppet theatre, begging bowl in his lap. He was no more than five years old, with a withered left leg and the swollen, round belly of the truly hungry.

The child looked up at Idaia and smiled. “Are you a princess?” he asked, his eyes shining.

“No,” she said.

“You look just like a princess, you’re so pretty.”

“I know. Are you a slave?”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t have you for a slave, you’re far too dirty. Where are your parents?”

“I don’t have any. Are those your parents?” he asked, pointing to Calisto and Aculeo, who were deep in conversation beside her.

“My parents were killed when I was little,” she said. “Where do you live?” The boy nodded towards a dreary little corner behind the back doorway of a building. Idaia considered him for a moment. “Are you hungry?” The boy said nothing, just nodded.

“Come Idaia,” Calisto said, taking the girl’s hand.

“Can we get this boy some food first? He’s terribly hungry,” Idaia said.

“Poor thing,” Calisto said, smiling down at the child. “How long since you last ate?” He stared up at her, speechless, flies buzzing about his dirty mop of chestnut curls.

“Please don’t encourage him, mistress,” a portly man standing next to her said gruffly.

“Don’t encourage him to what? To eat perhaps?” Calisto said sharply. “Maybe you should be encouraged to skip a meal or two yourself. He could use it far more than you.”

“I earn my bread at least, mistress,” the man said, taken aback.

“He’s a child, fool.” The man turned away, muttering under his breath. Calisto smiled at the boy and dropped some coins in his bowl. A half dozen other ragged children swarmed her from nowhere, tugging at her robes and crying out how hungry they were. Aculeo threw a few coppers into the street and the children ran after them, the coins ringing along the paving stones, glinting in the sun.

They walked back into the main market area. People were walking with leashed baboons, child acrobats leapt and tumbled through the air, Andalusian dancing girls, flute players, snake eaters, actors and storytellers moved amongst them. The smells of the Agora, an exotic fusion of rich spices from Arabia, fragrant unguents, fresh flowers, and, overriding it all, the ripe smell of humanity all around them, were almost overwhelming.

Aculeo watched Calisto out of the corner of his eye as she weaved her way through the crowds, the girls close on her heels, matching her every step. Others were watching her as well, he noticed, unusual as it was to see women, other than slaves and fishwives, walking through the marketplace. Although Calisto had modestly veiled her head, her grace was obvious in the way she carried herself, in every step she took. Idaia and Tyche ran past her then, chasing one another in amongst the vendors’ stalls.

“Tyche seems well settled into your household,” Aculeo said.

“She’s a lovely girl,” Calisto said with a smile. “Idaia adores her.”

They passed some farmers’ stalls, pens of chickens, white lambs, goats and pigs. “Suitable for food or sacrifice!” proclaimed the vendors. They came upon a cart laden with fresh garlands, their lush perfume filling the air. Aculeo bought a garland of white hyacinths and presented it to Calisto.

“It’s lovely,” she said. She drew her veil back, her thick, black hair gleaming in the sun, her long neck pale as milk. The necklace she wore, an elegant gold filigree encrusted with dozens of sparkling jewels, was as fine as anything Titiana had ever worn – worth many times more than all Aculeo’s remaining possessions combined. A gift from Ralla perhaps? he thought, with a stab of jealousy. It doesn’t matter, she’s here with me now. He placed the garland on her head like a crown, touching the skin on the back of her neck, soft and cool. She smiled and leaned forward to kiss him.

There was a sharp squealing sound behind them, cutting through the air, startling them both. They turned around and saw that one of the pigs at the drovers’ stalls had fallen amongst its brethren, which had savagely responded by slashing at its belly with their razor-sharp tusks. The smell of blood was in the air, and the drover had to beat the other pigs off the injured one with a heavy stick.

“Foul creatures,” Aculeo said. “They’d eat anything, even their own.”

“Perhaps we could rest for a while,” Calisto said, unsettled.

The four of them sat at a table beneath a shade tent next to the stall of a wine merchant, who served them a quick meal of sweet wine and bread dipped in herbed oil and opson. They watched the people walking through the Agora, Romans, Greeks and fellahin, merchants from China to the Indus to Persia, red-bearded Gauls, a colourful, bustling sea.

“I’ve something to tell you,” Aculeo said gently. “About Neaera.”

“Oh?” she said. “What is it?”

Aculeo lay the cameo necklace out on the table. Calisto stared at the tiny portrait, the finely carved ivory face against an indigo background, blinked rapidly, saying nothing. “I hesitated saying anything of this to you until now.”

“Where did you find it?”

“It was given to a porne by Apollonios.”

She closed her eyes. “It really was him that murdered Neaera then?” she asked, her voice weak and trembling.

“I thought so at first, but no, I don’t think he did. I’m not even sure she’s dead.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Apollonios was deranged, no question of that, but I’m not sure he killed anyone. He claimed he’d found the cameo in the hands of the slave found murdered in the Sarapeion. Neaera was likely abducted. The slave stole her necklace before she escaped.”

“Escaped? From where?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You think it’s possible Neaera’s still alive somewhere?”

“There’s still hope. But there’s another thing I’m afraid. It’s about Petras.”

“Neaera’s cousin? What of her?”

“We discovered her body as well,” Aculeo said.

Calisto’s eyes filled with sudden dread. “What?”

“Her body was sent to the Necropolis to be embalmed three months ago.”

“You found her … in the Necropolis?”

“Yes. She’d been murdered in much the same way as Myrrhine.”

“Oh!”

“I’m sorry. We think they may have been sacrificed as part of a Dionysian ritual.”

“What do you mean ‘we think’? Who else thinks this?”

“Zeanthes,” Aculeo said.

“Zeanthes?” Calisto’s hands trembled as they held the cup, her face pale – she looked like she might faint any moment. “I don’t understand. Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she said, unconvincingly.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s a great deal to bear all at once.”

“It’s not just that.”

“What is it then?”