Furies (47 page)

“Ask her about Neaera,” he said. Sekhet said a few words to the slave, but the girl shook her head. The healer reached her hand out gently, stroked her cheek, spoke to her again, her voice soft and soothing.

“What is it?” Capito asked.

The girl reluctantly opened her mouth. Sekhet peered inside her mouth, then nodded. “Someone stole her tongue.”

“Shit. At least she’s likely not a fool, then. Ask if there’s a cage somewhere.”

“What cage?”
Capito
said irritably.

Sekhet talked to the girl, who grunted in reply, then turned and ran into the brush. They followed her along a rough, broken path, winding and twisting through the thick underbrush, slipping on the slick wet mud, tripping over tangled tree roots, trying to keep up with the slave.

It stood in a clearing, a rough, empty wooden cage about the height of a man. The door hung agape. Two stout wooden posts had been pounded into the dirt inside the structure, links of rusted chains secured to them. Thunder crackled through the morning sky, the rain fell heavier now, the rainwater streaming down the slope of the cage’s dirt floor, the runoff tinged pink from the clay, like the stain of old blood. Aculeo felt his stomach turn at the sight. Sekhet spotted something at the edge of the clearing, bent down, brushed aside the debris and held it up to show Aculeo – it was a broken mask of a snarling panther.

They made their way back down the path to the farmhouse. The pigs grunted hungrily from their pen. The door of the farmhouse hung open on its leather hinges, like a mouth agape. There was no sign of Callixenes or his Molossian dog. “Ask her what happened to her master,” Aculeo said.

Sekhet spoke to the girl, who looked back at her, puzzled. Sekhet talked to her again, but the slave merely shook her head. Aculeo led the way into the house, taking care with every step, certain that the freedman would be waiting for them. The house was filthy, strewn with rubbish on the table and floor. No sign of Neaera or Callixenes. There was what passed for a bed in the corner of the shack, barely more than a wooden box with a jumble of tattered flea-bitten hides on it. Beneath the bed, three baskets. One was filled with potshards. Another held a stinking, filthy looking tunic. The third was filled with fine silk chitons – brightly coloured, beautifully embroidered – half a dozen at least, some of them stained with blood. A clump of long dark human hair was caught in a crack in the bed’s frame, a crusty scab of dried flesh holding the clump together – from whatever scalp it had been torn from.

He shuddered and pulled the bed away from the wall. There was a small, finely carved wooden chest with enamel inlay, tucked into the corner against the wall. The box was filled with jewellery, most of it cheap gilded terracotta, but there were some fine engraved ivory hair combs and a few silver fibula pins as well. And an earring, encrusted with pearls, lapis lazuli, and caked with red-brown blood about the filigree.

Sekhet patted his arm. “Look.” He turned his gaze to where she was pointing. Something had been scratched into the mud brick wall over the bed, barely visible in the dim light. Aculeo held the torch closer, squinting for a better look.

He caught his breath, then passed the lamp over more bricks, then the rest of the wall. More, more, a dozen more, all the same thing.

“One for each woman brought here,” Sekhet said, her voice low, bristling with anger.

“What happened to them all?” Aculeo whispered darkly. Sekhet talked to the girl, who merely looked away, fidgeting. “Ask her where Callixenes took all the women.”

Sekhet asked her, and the girl took her by the hand and pulled her back outside along the path toward the pigs. They were great, fat stinking beasts, a dozen in total, spattered with mud and waste, blinking at them in the rain, squealing and grunting. The slave led them to the pen’s gate where the huge slave they’d seen here last time stood in the pouring rain, watching the pigs. He glanced up at the intruders, his tiny eyes anxiously darting about, his face red, and began grunting like a pig himself, flexing his great fists.

“Ready yourselves,” Capito cautioned.

The girl put a hand on the other slave’s huge, meaty arm, stroked it, touched his red-blotched cheek. The man gazed down at her, his grunting stopped, he calmed down, stood aside for them to pass.

“There are no more cages,” Capito said uneasily, looking about. “Where are the women?”

“Come,” Sekhet said. She and Aculeo walked toward the abattoir.

“Where are you going?”

“Wait here in case Callixenes returns,” Aculeo said. They stepped inside the crooked little shack, rain dripping through the leaky roof, a thin grey light seeping through a rough hole cut near the ceiling. A heavy cleaver, greasy with blood, lay atop the wooden block table, a large salting tub next to it. The fetid air was filled with the drone of flies, drawn to the hot, gagging stench of the rotting hogsheads and sides of meat hanging from the rafters. Aculeo glanced up at them anxiously.

Sekhet shook her head. “Not human.”

“Where are they then?” She shrugged. They stepped outside again. The pigs were slashing at one another now, squealing in desperate hunger. The giant slave seemed to wake up from his reverie, walked to the trough and emptied his dripping bucket into it. The pigs squealed in delight, burying their faces into the slop.

Sekhet watched them feeding, her eyes narrowed. “Move them back.”

“What, and lose a hand? Are you mad?” Capito snapped.

She glared at him in irritation, then grabbed a heavy sword from one of the officers and banged it against the trough, crying out at the pigs in Demotic. The pigs backed off from the trough in surprise, jostling one another in their attempt to get away. Sekhet thrust her hand into the slop. The pigs immediately charged, squealing in eager anticipation, throwing themselves up against the pen gates, rattling them. Sekhet almost fell through the rails of the pen had Capito not grabbed her just in time.

“What was so important that you had to do such a stupid thing as that?” he demanded. Sekhet held up her hand. And there in her open palm, amidst the pasty grey gruel and vegetable peelings, was a human toe, the toenail painted a pretty shade of coral. The others cried out in horror.

Aculeo put his hands over his eyes and shook his head. She’s truly dead, he thought miserably. It’s all over. He felt like he would be sick.

A roar of anger sounded from the brush up near the shack, then a shrill whistling sound cut through the air. An arrow struck the soldier Dryton in his midsection. He cursed, staggering back. A second arrow thwacked against the wall of the abattoir next to Aculeo’s head. The others scattered for cover. The Molossian hound tore out of the brush and pounded along the dirt straight at them, teeth bared. Capito managed to strike the beast across the head with the flat of his sword, sending it twisting and yelping into the mud. It rolled to a stop, then dragged itself whimpering back into the brush.

Aculeo grabbed the fallen soldier’s sword and followed the dog, slipping in the mud along the path, hoping it would lead to its master. He heard a rustling just up ahead and braced himself, heart pounding in his chest, sword at the ready. There was a blurring motion beside him – Callixenes charging him from the side, catching him by surprise, sword raised high. Aculeo stepped out of his path, barely managing to block the freedman’s deadly swing with his own sword, then turned and hacked at the backs of the man’s thighs as he passed. Callixenes cried out in rage and pain, falling to his knees in the mud. Aculeo managed to dodge out of the way, then cracked his sword pommel down hard on the man’s elbow. Callixenes bellowed like a hobbled mule, then head-butted Aculeo to the face. Aculeo felt his nose break, blood gushed from it, filling his mouth. Callixenes shoved him to the ground, then limped into the dense scrub. Aculeo staggered to his feet, dizzy with pain.