The Curse-Maker (5 page)

Stricta reddened a little, looked away, and squeezed Bilicho's hand.

“It's my fault. I left her in May. I left her when Agricola's boy died.”

They both understood and were quiet. I coughed, but it sounded more like a sob, even to me. Bilicho turned his head, and Stricta hurried to the kitchen. I wiped my eyes and looked at Bilicho, who was studying a spider on the wall. I cleared my throat to let him know it was safe.

“So what are you going to do?”

I told him about leaving Agricola, the army—about what it would mean for both of us. First, there was Aquae Sulis, and a chance to help Gwyna. Maybe it would let her see again. Let her find herself again.

“Best thing for her. Don't worry about Hefin, we'll keep him for you. I'll make sure he's schooled. One thing at a time for you—Gwyna comes first.”

He didn't want to let the boy go. The thought hit me like a bathhouse brick. He wanted a family. Maybe Stricta couldn't have children—not surprising, considering her background. And Bilicho, my own stubborn, protective, bashful Bilicho, wanted a family.

“There's no one I'd want to look after the boy more than you. However long I'll be—however long it takes—consider Hefin your son. I know she feels the same.”

His brown, weather-beaten face flushed with purple. We looked at each other, shuffled our feet, cleared our throats. Stricta recognized male emotion and walked in from the kitchen to save us.

“Arc-tur-us. You will need another housekeeper, yes?”

“Venutius is out looking for another slave this morning.”

“Sioned's husband died three months ago. She is not a slave, of course, but she would work for very little—especially for Gwyna.” She smiled at me, and the smile lit the spareness of her face and made her beautiful.

“That would be perfect. Do you know where she is?”

“She lives not far from here. I will ask her to see you.”

I stood up. “I'll send word when we reach Agricola's villa. Thank you both. For everything.”

Bilicho slapped me on the back, and Stricta said: “I'll get my cloak and find Sioned.”

We stepped outside together. Then she turned to me, urgency on her face.

“Arcturus. Please be patient with Gwyna. This is not your fault. Do not blame yourself.”

I stared at her. “Do you know something? Something that would help?”

She hesitated. She came to see Gwyna, Venutius said so. What did she know?

The brown-green eyes were deep. They wouldn't lie to me, but neither would they give up their secrets. Or my wife's.

“She will let you know what will help. But give her time. Make her live again, taste life again.” She squeezed my hand. “You did so for me, once.”

With those words, the former slave, the woman who'd been kept as a whore in the lowest of whorehouses, moved off with the grace of a dancer in the imperial court.

*   *   *

I hired a gentle black gelding for Gwyna. When I came home and told her we were leaving for Aquae Sulis in the morning, she raised her eyebrows.

“You must have a positive obsession with bathing, Arcturus. First you take a bath before you come home, and now we're traveling halfway across the country to take more.”

When I asked her if she felt physically able to travel, she got a little sharper: “I'm tired, not a cripple. I can keep up, if it's so important to you.”

“It is important to me, Gwyna. To us. I think a change of air would do you good.”

She shrugged. “Air is air. But, as I said, if it's important to you…” She let it trail off with the understanding that she was merely doing her duty.

When Sioned came by later in the afternoon, a look of pain—and strangely, of fear—crossed Gwyna's face. She greeted the old woman and turned to me.

“Arcturus, do you mind if I take a warm bath? I'd like one before we travel, and you can make arrangements with Sioned.”

The old lady squinted hard at Gwyna, her broad, plain face severe with worry. “What's the matter with the young mistress?”

More demand than question. I gave her a truncated version of nothing. There was nothing I could tell her—she could see the obvious for herself. She agreed to stay on out of loyalty to Gwyna, and probably a desire to find out if I was beating her. I gave her Coir's old room.

The next morning Gwyna was up before I was. I dreamed she was sitting beside me, her hand stroking my face like she used to. When I opened my eyes, she was dressed in traveling clothes and heading out the door.

A sardonic smile when she saw the gelding. Nimbus didn't think much of him, either, but he was a plucky little horse, maybe down on his luck. That made him part of the family.

The trip was uneventful. We kept a steady pace through the main road, taking a less traveled path through the Great Plain. She ate the food Venutius packed without complaint, just as she ate the plainer food we found at farms and inns, too.

Pluto, the little black gelding, was steady. Nimbus gradually grew to like him. I caught her giving him a nuzzle once, when we stopped for a rest in a meadow.

Gwyna showed emotion only once. There was a place on the Great Plain I wanted her to see. Not many farms around it, though plenty ringed the downland, with wheat and barley and flax growing like the buttercups. She could see it from a distance, and I knew she was curious.

“Arcturus—what is that? Those stones—”

“No one knows, Gwyna. They are the oldest of the Old Ones.”

She looked at me then, almost like herself. She was excited. “Can we see them?”

A light rain fell, and the green downland hummed with crickets. Wild hares dug in the soil, making large warrens, some of them older than the Romans in Britannia. Dark birds flew overhead, lighting on the giant rocks that rose up from the Earth like fingers, grasping at the sky.

Gwyna dismounted, walking up to one of the large blue stones, taller than any man. Silent, reverent touch. She walked the circle, in and out, laying her hand on each one in turn. There were tears in her eyes.

“Thank you, Ardur,” she whispered.

When we left the Plain that evening, her mask was firmly in place. But I could see it was a mask, hiding something ugly. Something she didn't want me to know.

CHAPTER FOUR

I opened my eyes, watched the sunlight glisten on the river below. The strange sound of laughter—female laughter—was floating from Agricola's house.

I ran up the path, unceremoniously throwing open the door. She was lying on one of the governor's elegant couches, smiling … her hand lightly touching the arm of Lucius Valerius Philo.

There was someone else with him I couldn't see at the moment.

“Arcturus?”

She was wearing a new purple tunic with a midnight blue
palla.
Her eyes were light and quick. Was this the same woman who couldn't control Coir? Had five minutes with Philo made her laugh for the first time in weeks? He must be some doctor. I gritted my teeth.

“It's Philo, Arcturus. He's come to talk to you.”

He stood up. “Favonianus—may I call you Arcturus, as your charming wife does?”

No, you may not call me Arcturus as my charming wife does. No one calls me Arcturus like that, especially you, you unctuous, wife-stealing sonofabitch.

“Yes,” I said.

“This is Grattius Tribax. He's one of the
duoviri
of Aquae Sulis—we're a
municipium,
you know.”

So they had some small independence and a direct relationship with Rome, while Grattius was one of the two men who thought they ran it all.

He stood up, a coarse, florid man who dressed as loudly as he talked. Clapped my shoulder as if we were old friends.

“Arcturus—so glad to have you in our little town. Philo tells me you've got quite the reputation—not that we don't get the very best people, mind, we're used to that in Aquae Sulis!” His mouth opened wide enough to show everyone in the room his gold fillings. Philo looked at him tolerantly and then spoke.

“Arcturus—we're here to ask you a favor. I know you're on leave, but your wife said you have no definite plans.”

We both looked at Gwyna, who opened her eyes wide, all innocence. Philo looked a lot longer than necessary before turning to me with a frank expression.

“I'd appreciate your help on this Bibax problem. There'll be talk in the town, and it will spread. Aquae Sulis is in a delicate position right now. We can't afford the bad publicity.”

I looked from my wife to Grattius to Philo. My eyes came back to Gwyna.

“What do you want me to do?” The question was aimed at her.

Grattius cleared his throat. “You have a reputation. For solving problems and making sure they stay quiet. We'd like you to take a look at our little problem, and clear it all up so's Aquae Sulis don't lose business. Couldn't be simpler, eh?”

He laughed, and I nudged a wine cup back into place. Philo looked at me earnestly.

“Anything you could do for us would help reassure the townspeople. Would you help?”

He said it to me but turned to Gwyna as well. A smart bastard, Philo. He already knew my weak spot. I took a step closer to her without thinking.

She looked at me expectantly. I had no choice. And somehow—somewhere—I'd known this would happen.

“I'll do what I can. But as we've just arrived—”

Grattius interrupted. “That's another reason we came by. You're both invited for dinner.”

I looked at the fat, red, eager face of Grattius Tribax, rich freedman. I looked at the well-bred charm of the handsome Philo. Lastly, I looked at my wife—and saw interest and even some amusement.

I said: “Be delighted.”

I held out my hand to help Gwyna up, and she let me. A slave fetched our cloaks, and I bowed to the superior medical knowledge of the goddess Sulis.

*   *   *

There must be a special level of hell reserved for people like Grattius. Unfortunately, I was eating dinner in it. Guests included a retired
haruspex
and Philo—who, I found to my growing irritation, wasn't married.

The host's wife, Vibia, was a dull, plain, brown-haired woman, a former gymnast, so she said. She'd kept her figure, which was all she had. Her appetite reminded me of Draco's. She probably threw it all up again to keep slim. I thought about joining her.

The hors d'oeuvres were duck eggs drowned in
garum.
The main course, in addition to the roasted dormice, was some unidentifiable fish in a wine sauce, and dessert was honey cakes, figs, and dates cunningly arranged to look like a beehive with bees. God, how I missed Venutius.

I made the mistake of letting the host see my full wine cup.

“Drink up, m' boy, that's Trebellic wine, you know. Can't get any better than that!”

I smiled weakly and glanced at Philo, who was sharing a couch with his hosts. The old man who shared ours nodded off throughout the meal, emitting a loud belch every now and then to wake himself up.

The wine wasn't really Trebellium, of course—some sort of cheap wine-vinegar, not only phony, but a decade too late to be fashionable. I tried not to touch, smell, or taste the food, hiding as much as I could in a napkin. Gwyna was beside me, animatedly talking to none other than Sulpicia, who was on an adjoining couch to the left with the fop from earlier.

Julius Vitellius Scaevola was a merchant, an equestrian, and an investor in mines to the southwest of Aquae Sulis. He was absentmindedly rubbing the back of Sulpicia's legs, drunk, and trying to make conversation.

He hiccupped. “So—Favonianus—can I call you Arcturus?”

“Everyone else does.”

“Yes. Well. How about that Bibax? What about the tablet, eh? The
Ultor
and all? Whaddya think?”

I pretended not to hear, letting the rest of the conversation swirl around us. Snippets from Grattius, talking to Spurius Octavio, the bathmaster of the entire complex. Octavio's wife, a silly, loud-mouthed woman with henna-dyed hair and a garish green
palla,
was discussing something with Philo. Words separated from their meaning floated by—“Roscia's new litter” and “a divine new treatment by Audax—such a masseur!” and “haunted mine.”

“Haunted mine?” I couldn't pin down the source. All I could hear was Octavio's wife talking about Roscia, who wasn't a lately pregnant cat.

“I say—Arcturus! The murder, what about this murder?”

Vitellius hadn't succumbed yet, but before I could answer, the old
haruspex
growled: “Wickedness. That's what it is. Town's become wicked. Aquae Sulis is cursed.”

The room was suddenly quiet. The old man glared at the assembled party.

“I know what I say. I've seen the changes come. Aquae Sulis is cursed.”

Grattius leaned over to me from the right and whispered loudly: “Don't pay attention to old Marcius. He's only here because Papirius was busy tonight.” He added in a louder voice: “Have some more wine, Marcius!”

The old man shook his head. “As sure as my name is Aulus Marcius Memor, there is wickedness in this town. And the goddess will make it pay. She already has.”

His wrinkled mouth turned downward, as he stared at his empty wine cup. Then his eyes closed and he went to sleep.

The bathmaster's wife laughed loudly, yellow teeth bared. “Good old Marcius! Always good for a laugh.”

She caught my eye. “So what about it? What about Bibax? Was he really strangled?”

Everyone looked at me with an eagerness only stories about death and sex can inspire. I took a shot of the wine, and was proud of myself for not making a face.

“Yes.”

“How do you know?” the woman demanded. Octavio nudged her in the ribs.

“His body says so. And someone put the piece of lead in his mouth.”

Vibia snorted. “Died how he lived, didn't he? Choked on his own curses!”