Furies (11 page)

Delta, the city’s Jewish Quarter, was quite unlike the rest of Alexandria. There were few images of any god there, no statues, shrines or plaques marking the boundaries of any divine presence or influence. The Jews’ prohibitive customs of food and worship had kept them distinct and apart from the rest of the city’s diverse populace. Even so, as citizens of Alexandria they’d certainly been successful enough – it was said there were now more of them in this city alone than all those who’d followed their prophet Moses out of Egypt.

Aculeo watched Trogus limp ahead of them. His cough had grown worse and he looked even more ill than he had the day before – gaunt and flushed and the ulcer on his leg looked puffy and seeped a trickle of clear pus. It was painful to even look at. “You should see a healer,” Aculeo said.

“Why don’t you take that long nose of yours and stick it up your ass,” Trogus growled.

“Don’t worry,” Gellius said quietly, “he’ll be fine once we find Iovinus.”

“We all will,” Bitucus agreed. Trogus said nothing, just put a clenched fist to his mouth to smother another racking cough.

“I can hardly wait,” Gellius said. “We’ll have ourselves a feast for all our friends – the finest food, the very best wine, music …”

“It will be as though none of this ever happened, as if it were simply a bad dream,” said Bitucus.

Gellius clapped a friendly hand on Aculeo’s shoulder. “What of you, Aculeo? What will you do once we recover our fortunes?”

“Take the first ship to Rome,” Aculeo said without hesitation. “I’ll take my wife and son back, we’ll buy the finest villa in the Seven Hills and never look back on this fucking city again.”

“An excellent plan,” Bitucus said with a grin.

“You’re idiots, all of you,” Trogus growled, wincing as he limped along the street.

“Why do you have to talk like that?” Gellius asked, sounding hurt.

“Oh use your head, damn you. If Iovinus is so fatted on our stolen fortunes, why’s he living in a room above some shitty little tavern in Delta?”

The others glanced at one another in sudden realization, but held their tongues for the rest of the journey.

The tavern was a small, seedy little dive in a dark corner of Delta with a handful of patrons, even at this early hour. The thrattia was pouring a jug of black wine from the swollen cowhide hanging on the back wall, siphoning it through a hole cut in one of the animal’s hooves. She glanced at the newcomers. “Find yourselves a table. Something to drink?”

“We’re not here for that,” Aculeo said. “We’re looking for a Roman named Iovinus, skinny fellow, big ears, late twenties.” The thrattia held his gaze, an eyebrow raised, saying nothing.

“Pay her something, fool,” Trogus growled. Aculeo handed her a bronze as. The woman wrinkled her nose. Aculeo reluctantly found a mate to the first coin.

“Upstairs,” she said with a shrug, and returned to her duties.

The men walked carefully to the bottom of a narrow staircase and looked at one another. “So what do we do now? Just burst in on him?” Gellius asked.

“Someone should wait in the alley in case he tries to escape,” Bitucus said.

“I’ll do it. Just try not to fuck things up too badly,” Trogus grumbled, and limped to the back door. The others headed up the stairs. The only room with a door was at the end of a short hallway. The door hung crookedly in the frame, its boiled leather hinges cracked and peeling.

Gellius knocked. No answer. “Maybe he’s out.”

“To hell with it,” Aculeo said and put his foot to it. The door flew open with a crash against the wall. The room was dimly lit, a narrow pallet of a bed the only furniture, and smelled of must and sour body odour.

A creaking noise sounded near the window. A figure hiding in the shadows turned slowly to face them. Aculeo recognized the outline of the man’s face. “Iovinus,” he whispered, scarcely able to believe it.

“He’s going to jump!” Gellius cried. The three men raced forward to grab Iovinus before he could escape through the window to the alley below. But he only turned about slowly with a shuddery creak. By the dim light of morning they could see the way Iovinus’ eyes and tongue bulged from his bloated purple face and the rope that led from the rafters knotted about his broken neck.

“Hephaestus’ crooked cock,” Trogus growled as they lay Iovinus’ corpse out on the thin straw mattress. Trogus started coughing again, long, painful hacks that seemed to shred his lungs.

The tavern-keeper, a fat little Illyrian, kept running his stubby fingertips back through his thin, greasy hair. “This is bad luck, very, very bad luck,” he muttered almost to himself. “Why did he have to kill himself in my tavern of all places?”

“Where are his belongings?” Aculeo asked.

“What belongings?”

“He was carrying a satchel when I saw him at the Hippodrome. Where is it?”

“How should I know?”

“You must have stolen it,” Bitucus said.

“I never did such a thing!” the Illyrian cried. “I’m a man of the very greatest virtue!”

“He searched the room when your man went out yesterday,” the thrattia said helpfully. “He didn’t find anything worth stealing though, just a few wax tablets.”

“Filthy whore! I did nothing of the sort!”

“He lies,” she said indifferently.

The tavern-keeper cuffed the back of her head. “Stupid cunt!”

“Illyrian assfuck!” she cried, then pounced on the man, knocking him to the floor, striking him about the face with a flurry of fists. Skinny and raw-boned, she likely would have beaten the man to death if the others hadn’t pulled her off of him.

“Enough!” Aculeo said. “Where are the tablets now?”

“I don’t know,” the tavern-keeper wheedled. “I swear! I noticed them only by accident when I came to clean his room, a service we gladly provide all out guests. I never touched them though, my most sacred oath!”

“For what that’s worth. What was written on them?”

“I have no …”

“Some numbers and such, he told me,” the thrattia said. “He wouldn’t know anything else. He can’t read.” The tavern-keeper fell into a sulk, not daring to say another word.

Aculeo reluctantly searched Iovinus’ corpse – hardly a pleasant task. He found a few sesterces in the coin purse and a small, round silver box tucked in a small pocket behind the belt. The box lid was engraved with a mythological scene, Perseus perhaps, and inlaid with mother-of-pearl – fine work, rather expensive looking. Aculeo flipped open the lid. There were three small waxy spheres within, each the size of his thumb tip and coated with tiny black seeds, glistening with an oily residue. He smelled them – incense. An odd thing for a man to carry about.

They made their way into the narrow hallway to get what passed for fresh air in the foul little tavern.

“Such a tragedy to lose a dear friend,” the tavern-keeper said, breaking the silence. “My deepest condolences. If you gentlemen like, for a modest fee I would be pleased arrange his funerary services.”

“What – so you can pocket our money while you toss him in a ditch outside the western gates?” Trogus growled, then started coughing again.

“If you’re that lucky,” the thrattia said with a bitter laugh. “A man tastes much like pork if he’s prepared right. Or so they say.”

“An outrageous lie!” the tavern-keeper howled, raising a hand to strike her again, only to drop it when she shot him a look, daring him to try. Aculeo glanced down at the smoking brazier below, the sizzling chunks of meat being tended to by a slave. He and Gellius glanced uncomfortably at one another as they recalled their meal at the Little Eagle the other day.

“What now?” Bitucus asked.

“Now nothing,” Trogus said after his coughing fit ended. “Whatever Iovinus was up to is lost with the man himself.”

“But what about…?” Gellius whined.

“Enough! Any dreams of recovering our stolen fortunes are just that! Foolish dreams for halfwit children. Think about it, Gellius! If Iovinus had stolen our fucking fortunes, why would he have returned to the city only to take his sad excuse of a life in a shithole like this?”

“Shithole?” the tavern-keeper protested. “I’ll have you know …”

“Oh shut the fuck up!”

“We should take his body to the Necropolis,” Gellius said at last.

“A noble thought. And who’ll pay for his funeral?” Aculeo said.

“Who d’you think?” Trogus said.

Aculeo glared at him. “And why should I do that?”

“What would you suggest we do instead? Dump him outside the city walls with the dead slaves and street scrapings for the jackals to dispose of?”

“Of course not,” Gellius said firmly. “Thief or not, Iovinus was still a Roman. He still deserves some semblance of virtue on his final journey.”

Aculeo glowered at the other men. “Fine!” he cried at last. Even in death Iovinus had found a way to cut his purse.

Rhakotis, a ragged sprawling district of the city built across the barren delta behind the shipyards in Epsilon, was the original fishing village around which Alexandria had been built three centuries ago. The native fellahin still comprised the majority of the quarter’s population. The clean, even gridlines and pristine colonnades of the city’s broad boulevards were replaced here by cart paths, heavily rutted, thick with weeds and clods of animal dung. The air hung with the sweet, pervasive smell of baking bread and fermenting barley from the little breweries that dotted the area. Bronze-skinned fellahin men and women sat cross-legged on reed mats in what shade there was, pots and cups, idols and other crafts laid out before them for sale. They met Aculeo with guarded stares as he followed the hired slave pushing the barrow with Iovinus’ shrouded corpse along the hot, dusty street – Romans coming to their part of town rarely meant anything good.