Furies (5 page)

Outside the gates, three young Roman soldiers gave offering at the Shrine of Bucephalus, Alexander’s loyal mount during his successful twelve-year campaign to conquer the world four centuries ago. It was said that upon the beast’s death in battle, a grieving Alexander had spent a staggering fifty talents on his funeral in addition to establishing the namesake city of Bucephala on the banks of the Hydapses. The conqueror’s further plans to build a series of grandiose monuments throughout the empire commemorating his stallion, however, expired when he himself did on the battlefield in Babylon. This alabaster shrine – a place of worship for all lovers of horse and chariot races, evidenced by the number of votive offerings littered about the statue’s hooves – had to suffice.

“Say, isn’t that Gellius?” Varus said. “Gellius!”

Caught off guard, Aculeo glanced towards the gates where Varus was looking. The man standing there was thinner than he recalled Gellius ever being, and pale as milk, his chin badly in need of a shave, his hair an unruly brown mop atop his head, but it was certainly him. Aculeo was seized with a sudden, stark panic. He tried to look away but caught the other man’s furious glare of recognition. Aculeo stammered and began to sweat. He tried to think of something to say but Gellius turned and left without a word.

“What’s with him I wonder?” Varus asked as they continued down the mosaic-tiled corridor. “Ah well, I suppose it has something to do with that Corvinus nonsense, it quite ruined him …” He glanced at Aculeo, eyes wide, and bit his bottom lip. “Ah, by Hera, there I go again, I didn’t mean that …”

“My own losses were minimal,” Aculeo lied again, offering what he hoped resembled a carefree smile.

“Well, that’s good. It’s part of doing business, I suppose,” he said, giving Aculeo a quick, sidelong glance.

They passed through the gates, the marble archway overhead carved with an elaborate frieze of a chariot race. The stench of rancid sweat from the crowds within, straw, manure and spilled beer all proved a challenge to his unsettled stomach and throbbing head. The heat inside the Hippodrome was relentless, the viewing area where most of the crowd stood unprotected from the strong Egyptian sun. Slaves walked around the inner ring of the track between races carrying large buckets of sparsiones, perfumed water which they sprayed as a mist over the welcoming crowd, providing them with some relief from both the heat and oppressive smell.

Betting brokers wove their way through the throngs, offering their odds, taking patrons’ bets and silver. Aculeo watched the next group of race horses being led in from the back stables towards the red clay dirt track ring within.

“Place a wager, sir?” one of the brokers asked him. “Four to one on Heracles’ Fury.”

“That’s the one,” Varus whispered eagerly.

Aculeo, still brooding over his encounter with Gellius, watched the other patrons standing nearby appraising the animals and their riders, touching them, saying a prayer, spitting out a curse, anything to gain an edge in the upcoming race. “Which one is she?”

“See there, in the green colours with the white blaze on her forehead?” the broker said. “An auspicious sign, sir.”

She is a fine looking beast, Aculeo thought, sleek black coat, fine long legs, fire in her eye.

“Five to one,” Varus proposed.

“Ah, sir, too steep,” the broker said, scratching at his beard. “I could do nine to two.”

“Done,” said Varus. Aculeo was thoughtful for a moment and gave a silent prayer to the gods before he counted out his silver and took the betting slip from the broker. The two men climbed the staircase to the second level to find some seats.

Aculeo looked down at the oval track as the horses were led into their stalls, their gleaming noses peering over the starting gate, anxious to begin. The red flag was dropped and the horses thundered out of the starting gate and the crowds roared in delight. The horses rounded the first corner, their bare-chested riders driving them, the crowds cheering them on. Varus cheered loudly for Heracles’ Fury, slapping his hands against the rail.

A familiar face caught Aculeo’s eye, moving through the crowd on the level below. Isn’t that Iovinus? he thought, his blood practically chilling within his veins. It can’t be. He moved closer to the rail, leaning over as far as he could. The same bony frame, stilt-legged walk, big ears, deeply receding hairline … it was surely him. The man licked his lips and gave a nervous look about, as though he was aware he was being watched. Iovinus, who had been Corvinus’ and Aculeo’s negotiatore, working as the conduit between the investors and the moneylenders to arrange the loans for the fleets, including for the final cursed voyages. He’d even sailed aboard the flagship of the second fleet to complete the exchange of goods on the other side. So what in the name of the blessed fucking Apollo is he doing here instead of at the bottom of the Roman Sea where the fish could pick his bones clean?

He watched Iovinus push his way through the cheering throngs towards the exit. Aculeo bolted towards the stairway – it was all he could do to keep from screaming. The horses thundered around the track below, clouds of red dust flying in the air beneath their hooves, their riders dressed in leather kilts switching them across their haunches, driving them on, the crowds roaring for their favourites.

“Where are you going?” Varus cried. “The race isn’t done!”

Aculeo raced down the steps, trying not to lose the man. Iovinus. Fucking Iovinus! How could that wretched, miserable bastard possibly still be alive while everything I had is gone? He reached the bottom level and elbowed through the spectators, including a pair of angry soldiers, drawing as close as he could as Iovinus neared the exit, almost close enough to grab the leather satchel slung about the man’s bony shoulder.

Someone shoved into him hard, almost knocking him down. “Where do you think you’re going?” a man’s voice cried, trembling with rage. Aculeo spun around in surprise – Gellius.

Iovinus had gained a few steps now and was almost through the exit. “Not now, Gellius,” Aculeo growled, trying to push past the man, but Gellius grabbed the hem of his tunic. Iovinus had almost reached the street. “Will you just …”

“I don’t think so!”Aculeo glanced down and paused. Gellius was pointing a shard of broken roof tile at him in a shaky hand. “I want to talk to you.”

The crowds roared again as Heracles’ Fury pulled a full length ahead of the rest, pounding along the track towards the finish. The impressive lead was quickly undone however when the horse stumbled a few lengths from the finish line and rolled into the dust. The crowd cried out in anguish as the horses that followed stumbled as well, tripped by the first horse’s upturned legs, all except the last, who managed to avoid the chaos and surge forward, her nose alone across the finish line.

“Gellius, I’ve got to go!” Iovinus was on the street now, slipping into the crowd.

“No!”

Aculeo pulled out of the man’s grasp to head to the gates when a hot streak of pain sliced across his upper arm. “Fuck!” he cried and punched Gellius square in the face. Gellius’ eyes went wide with shock as he fell awkwardly to the ground, hand to his face, blood streaming through his fingers. He sat there blubbering like a child. Aculeo broke away, looking around desperately for Iovinus.

The agonized whinnies of the fallen horses filled the Hippodrome, the poor beasts in obvious distress as they struggled to stand on their shattered legs, while slaves hurried out onto the track to dispatch them.

And Iovinus was gone.

Aculeo and Gellius threaded their way through the crowded laneways of the Agora. The market was alive with the raucous chaos of flute and drum from streetside musicians begging for spare coins, the bellowing cries of the merchants trying to entice any potential customers and the shrieks of street children playing tag amongst the stalls. A man took his life in his hands walking at mid-day down these narrow, twisting streets as pedestrians competed with chariots, mule carts, cattle and oxen. A pungent clash of smells hung in the air of rich spices from the Indes, fresh caught fish, roasted chickpeas, baking bread, barley beer and fresh garlic, mixed with the ripe, sweaty smell of the people themselves, gossiping, bartering, eating, drinking as they went.

“I should have left you there to rot,” Aculeo said, his wounded arm bound in a makeshift, blood-stained bandage.

“I’m surprised you didn’t,” Gellius said with a sniff. “You already stole our fortune, you thieving prick!”

“I’ve told you a thousand times already, I didn’t steal anything from anyone.”

“Say it a thousand more and I’ll still not believe you!”

“Then don’t. Where are you living?”

“The Little Eagle in Delta.”

“A tavern?”

“It’s just a temporary arrangement,” Gellius said.

Aculeo made no reply. Before the shipwrecks, Gellius lived in a fabulous villa with his partner Trogus just outside the palace district in Beta, an elegant showcase of a home where they’d hosted countless spectacular affairs, bolstered by a cellar stocked with the finest wines. Now look at him, limping along the street, gaunt, broken, his cheeks wan and unshaven, dark shadows like thumbprints pressed beneath his eyes. His tunic was a fine weave but frayed and greasy with wear, and now further marred by bloodstains down the front. His nose had stopped leaking at least, though it was swollen and dark as a fig.

“You there, sir,” a merchant cried, “yes that’s it, come in, come here. Tell me, have you ever seen such a beautiful carpet as this one? Straight from Babylon, not one of those Assyrian shitrags like they sell at the stalls down the way, I wouldn’t even let my wife’s mother wipe her buttocks with one of those. Look at this, look at the craftsmanship, I tell you there’s not another one like this in the world. Your wife would be the envy of her friends, believe me.”

“Just got a fine selection of new slaves in, my dear sir, you’re in luck,” exhorted another merchant. “You’re the first to see them, so you get first pick. This one, she’s a Thrattian, not so pretty I agree, a bit old and yes her teeth are not the best but she’s a hard worker and if you bring her home then perhaps your wife would forgive you for buying this lovely little one over here as well …”

“Fish?” another grinning vendor cried. “Come here. Look here, shark, tunny, oh, and Canopic eels – you’ll dine like Caesar himself. These were still swimming about in the sea this morning, they’ll be on your dinner plate tonight, come now, sir …”

“I do miss eels,” Gellius said softly. “Our old cook used to wrap them in beet leaves, cook them over some coals, serve them with some Antylla wine, sweet as plums …”

Aculeo’s own stomach ached at the memories of fine meals and evenings filled with wine and music and careless joy. Enough. “Let’s just get you home, alright?”

“Fuck you, Aculeo,” Gellius snapped, though he let himself be helped all the same.

A weathered sign painted with the image of a tattered birdlike creature swung over the door. This must be the Little Eagle, Aculeo mused. It was situated on a dingy little side street. It had a small dining area with a few mismatched tables and chairs and no place to recline – which was likely just as well, one wouldn’t want to get too comfortable here. Freedmen, pornes and clusters of sailors sat at the tables jabbering away in their foreign tongues, sizing up the new arrivals. Aculeo reluctantly followed Gellius inside.