The Curse-Maker

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CHAPTER ONE

The man was floating, serene, tunic swirling in the undulating waves like clouds against a blue sky. His mouth was open. He was dead.

I looked back toward Gwyna. She was kneeling in the saddle like a circus acrobat, struggling to see what was going on. At least she seemed focused. Not the aimless woman, the lost wife I’d brought here, hoping to find the woman I loved.

Voices rose from the crowd, agitated.

“Pollution! In our town! The council must—”

“Why doesn’t someone do something? Where’s Papirius?”

“How dare he do this to the goddess? To us?”

They shoved forward, scrambling for a closer look, taking me with them. Another voice, calmer than the rest.

“Can someone help me pull him up?”

The crowd was stiff with excitement, and I pushed my way through. I was stiff, and not so excited, but I was there, even if it was early in the morning after a long trip, and I was just trying to get some goddamn directions.

*   *   *

The reservoir was seven, maybe eight feet deep, filled from the famous Sacred Spring of the famous goddess Sulis. From the look of the pipes, it dispersed the famous hot water to the famous baths, just to the south. Everything in Aquae Sulis was famous.

Female faces were lining the three windows of the main bath building, staring down with horrified pleasure. The corpse bobbed against the wall, mouth still open, looking just as shocked. He danced and waved, making a low, slushing thud, held upright by a hemp rope secured under his arms and tied to a balustrade. I could see what the heat and the water had already done to his skin.

A young man with arms like Hercules was trying to unwind the rope and haul up the body. I grabbed the end of the rope.

“Go ahead and try it. I’ll anchor.”

He eyed me up and down with doubt. I planted my feet, and maybe something about my jaw made him start to unwind the damn rope. The mob stepped back half a foot.

Every time he pulled, I took up the slack. The dead man himself couldn’t weigh too much—he was on the small side—but the water made him heavy. The sun peeked over the golden limestone of the buildings, throwing a lurid yellow light on the water.

The corpse was near the top of the reservoir, and I grabbed enough rope to get it right on the balustrade.

“Move, damn you! Give him some room!”

The crowd inched backward while the body spread out, halfway on the pavement. Magic water dripped, making small magic rivers on the smooth pavement stone. I elbowed through a fat man with a wig and a slack-jawed servant girl, joining the young man with the big arms.

Now we had to touch him, and hope his skin wouldn’t flake off like cooked fish. Together we dragged him fully on the pavement, nearly intact. The herd hushed for a moment, making the squelches and squeaks of the corpse all the more audible.

Three men pushed toward the front, gawkers parting with a rustle. They all looked the same: neat, tidy, proper provincial business- and councilmen, togas too big and minds too small. A fat one in the middle seemed to be the leader.

“Yes—thank you, Drusius, thank you. How—how unfortunate.” One of the others cleared his throat, staring down with eyes as watery as the corpse.

The big one continued. “Don’t, er, touch him here, please. Philo is coming. Philo will, er, take it—take him—away.”

I stood up straighter, surreptitiously massaging my sore hip. “I don’t know who or what Philo is, but this man needs to be looked at now. And here.”

A titter or two. A couple of gasps. The three glanced at each other. The one with the fish eyes was older than the rest and looked to the fat one for guidance. The middle one blended in with the pale yellow rock.

Big Belly puffed like a peacock. “Lucius Valerius Philo is the most respected medicus in Aquae Sulis—and a member of the council. Who are you?”

I was tired. Saddle weary. Provincial towns always make me itch, even if everything is famous and the waters can raise the dead.

“I don’t give a damn if he’s the doctor for Domitian’s prick. I’m a medicus, and I’m examining this man. Now.”

A murmur ran through the crowd. The rope was too wet to lynch me with, and besides—no one ever wanted to touch a dead body. Hercules—or Drusius—took a step near me. There was support in the stance. And respect.

I knelt down. The dead man was about my age, maybe a little older, thirty-five to forty. Short, fairly muscular, but getting soft even before the water. Arms and face tan, but his legs never saw the light of day. They were dotted with freckles, like some kind of exotic mushroom.

The gown was cheap linen, white when Homer was young. Imitation Egyptian that might impress old ladies who liked exotic Eastern cults, if they were half-blind and wholly gullible. Bathing sandals were still on his feet. The crowd was getting closer again. I could almost feel Big Belly breathing on me.

“Give him some room!”

Drusius was answered with a low, throaty chuckle. Not from Big Belly. Feminine. Very feminine. The crowd made room for the woman who made it. I looked up.

Riding hard on forty, red-haired, and everything she shouldn’t be, but what most men would want her to be. The kind of woman who always made her own way, in life or out of bed. She reminded me of Dionysia, my youthful indiscretion.

“Well, well, Drusius. It is Drusius, isn’t it? I’ve seen you hauling stone for your father, I believe. For dedications.” She peered down at the corpse and suddenly knelt next to me, a puff of sandalwood drifting up from underneath her dress.

“I promise I won’t crowd the doctor,” she whispered.

A loud squawk erupted from the back of the growing mob. Big Belly and Fish Eye were whispering to each other, and finally another voice—thin, whining, male—reached the front line, audible over the rustle of sweaty bodies and hushed conversation.

“Sulpicia? Sulpicia? Ah—there you are. What—what the hell is that?”

I didn’t bother to answer or look up. I’d continued, letting Sulpicia and her pet idiot distract the onlookers for me. The man had been dead anywhere from eight to twelve hours. There wasn’t much water in his mouth or lungs, and the red, engorged face and the two thumb-sized bruises by his windpipe confirmed he hadn’t drowned in seven feet of water.

Something glinted from the open mouth, and I noticed his cheeks were bulging. I reached in and pinched with two fingers, drawing it out while everyone looked at Sulpicia and pictured her naked. Her boyfriend suddenly realized there was a corpse dripping water on his toga hem and yelped.

“That’s—isn’t that the curse-writer, the scribe—”

“Rufus Bibax.”

I looked at the corpse again and noticed a faint tinge of red in his hair. Not much of a rufus. I stood up. The voice that identified him expressed authority. I wanted to see who it belonged to.

Standing next to a coiffed Roman in a gaudy toga was a middle-aged bald man. His expensively plain tunic was made louder by a heavy gold necklace. Priest was written all over him. Big Belly and the other two crowded close, giving me baleful looks when they weren’t staring at Sulpicia’s nipples.

The priest plastered a tight smile on his face. “I am Sextus Papirius Super. Head priest of the Temple of Sulis Minerva. I understand you’re a doctor.”

I stared at him. “Julius Alpinius Classicianus Favonianus. I’m the governor’s doctor, as a matter of fact.”

The murmur spread, growing progressively louder, until it broke against the edges of the crowd like a ripple on the water. He raised an eyebrow. “It’s very good of you to, er, help us with this unfortunate—incident. As this is holy ground—”

“Not any more, it ain’t!” Rough voice, croaking from the back. Laughter. The priest continued, his color rising. “As this is holy ground, we will have to remove the body at once and clean the spring.”

A tall man was making his way to the front. Almost exactly my height, handsome, distinguished. Maybe fifteen years older. The throng made way for him, some grabbing at him as though he were the featured gladiator. He exuded warmth and charisma. I didn’t like him.

He stepped forward, glanced at the priest. Papirius nodded his head in my direction. “The governor’s medicus, Philo. Julius Alpinius Classicianus Favonianus.”

His strong, lean faced creased with what looked like a genuine smile of welcome. “Favonianus. Of course, I’ve heard of you. You’re also known as Arcturus, I believe. We’re very lucky you’re here.” He reached out and grasped my arm. “Philo—one of the many doctors in Aquae Sulis.”

Modest, too. Big Belly grumbled, “We asked him to wait for you, Lucius.”

Philo shook his head, the gray in his temples glistening in the sun. “You have a much better doctor here.”

“Are you here on business, Favonianus?” The priest asked it as if there wasn’t a corpse between us.

“Actually, no. A holiday for my wife and me.”

I felt Sulpicia raise her eyebrows.

“Well, then perhaps you wouldn’t mind if Philo…”

I looked at the dapper doctor. He seemed competent enough, if a little disgusting in his perfection. I shrugged. “Be my guest.”

The young stonecutter—Drusius—stared at me, his thick eyebrows furrowed. What the hell did he want me to do? Fight over the dead body of Rufus Bibax? I’d been asked very politely to mind my own goddamn business, and I intended to do just that.

Philo smiled apologetically. “Please come by and see me. We’ll talk. Where are you staying?”

“The governor’s villa.”

The murmur went around again. I didn’t want to spoil it by asking where the hell the villa might be.

Papirius crooked a finger at two slaves, who ran up with a litter chair for the corpse, then started making priestly noises. “Please disperse, good people. The spring shall be emptied. Sulis will renew life, just as she has seen fit to take this one. Sulis will—”

I was heading out of the mob, and eyes—some friendly, some not, all curious—were following me. I turned around. “Sulis had nothing to do with it.”

Papirius and Philo looked at me, the priest irritated, the doctor curious.

“What did you say?” asked Papirius.

“I said Sulis had nothing to do with it. That man was strangled and thrown in your pool. Murdered—and the murderer left behind a little note.”

I held out my hand. In the palm was a small piece of lead, very thinly hammered and square cut. On it was inscribed one word: Ultor. The Avenger.

*   *   *

Gwyna looked disappointed, which dumbfounded me. I’d done what I thought would please her—avoided getting involved. I’d even avoided Sulpicia, which was no easy task because she kept getting in my way. I climbed back on Nimbus, looking around at the small-pored golden limestone of the buildings. It reminded me of Gwyna’s hair, and was safer to look at than she was.

The wealthy owned long, low villas close to the temple and baths, or in the hills above, to the northwest of the town nearer the small fort. Somewhere among them was Agricola’s. Gwyna asked me: “Did you find out where the villa is?”

I turned red and she gave me a pitying look. Another market square up ahead. I nudged Nimbus, who obligingly trotted forward—the one female in the family who tolerated me—and dismounted at the nearest shop, a gemmarius around the corner from the oversized temple area.

A tattered sign boasted that Tiberius Natta offered an assortment of carved gemstones, set and unset. He was a swarthy man with gray hair, short and stocky. Used a cane, though he couldn’t have been sixty yet. An assistant, another dark man in his late thirties, came forward to answer my question.

Seems Agricola’s villa was right up the street, on a little hill overlooking the temple area. I thanked them, and told Gwyna while I climbed back on Nimbus.

She nodded, avoiding my eyes. Once we could see the villa from the road, I pointed it out, and we started the climb up the path to where it perched, low and inviting, with a superb view of the temple and the river. The silence was broken by the morning song of birds and the sound of the horses’ hooves stepping on the fragile rock.

We rounded a corner, and the house was in front of us. Large, with a detached stable, private bath, and a small attempt at a vineyard. The terraced gardens were full of lavender, Gwyna’s favorite scent.

Suddenly, she asked: “Why didn’t you stay?”

I must have looked as stupid as I felt, because she said it again.

“Why didn’t you stay?”

“I don’t understand. Stay where?”

“At the pool. Why didn’t you stay with the body? Why did you let those other men take it away?”

I dismounted and came around and offered a hand, which she ignored, springing lightly to the ground herself.

“Gwyna, we’re here to relax. And to take care of you, and—and to fix things. Why the hell should I have insisted?”

She stared at me, holding Pluto’s reins as he tried to get a bite of hollyhock while Nimbus gave him a withering look.

“Because it was the right thing to do. It happened for a reason, that we came into town and you were there when that poor man was discovered. Besides, I don’t need anybody to ‘take care of me.’ ”

She flounced ahead, jerking Pluto’s nose away from the flowers.

*   *   *

The slaves were the best kind: invisible, accommodating, unquestioning. Everything was ready for an extended holiday for the newlyweds. Except the newlyweds themselves.

Gwyna busied herself with the servants, a vast improvement from the apathy of home. I watched her moving around in her riding breeches, until she got tired of me blocking the way and ordered me into the triclinium. The cook served a delicious lunch of sheep’s milk cheese—much creamier than we get in Londinium—figs, olives, and snails cooked in garlic.

Gwyna didn’t eat, though she came in to make sure the wine was poured correctly. She said: “Why don’t you bathe, Arcturus? You touched a dead man, didn’t you?”

Clipped and chilly. I headed for the villa’s bath and the warmth of Agricola’s caldarium.

After a good rubdown by a strapping Pannonian named Ligur, I started to relax in spite of myself. Ligur was shaving me when Gwyna walked in. She saw me, stopped, turned to leave.

“Wait—what—where are you going?”

The shrug was elaborate. “Your face needs a shave. I see you’re already taken care of.”

She was dressed in a modest bathing tunic, different from the more revealing breast band and short skirt she normally wore, and left before I could say anything else. I wondered again what happened to the woman I married less than a year before.

I dressed for dinner. I could hear her in the caldarium and imagined the slave girl massaging her with oil. That should be my job.

Thinking about it meant either another trip to the frigidarium or a brisk walk, so I left for the garden, where I could breathe again. A breeze from the hills carried the sweet scent of roses, mixed with lavender, and ruffled my hair.

The governor’s villa in Aquae Sulis. A goddamn beautiful spot to be miserable in.

Copyright © 2011 by Kelli Stanley