CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Philo walked beside me, stride for stride, echoing my own anxiety. There wasn’t much light to see by. Dawn was wearing black today.

The cool breeze from the western hills blew through the yellow dust and yellower leaves, sweeping them in flurries down the worn stone paths, toward the one place in Aquae Sulis everything ended up. The baths.

Bibax died next to them; Calpurnius died underneath them. Others died from deals made, curses cast, and money furtively handed over into a ready palm—all around the blue-green waters of Sulis. She must wonder why the hell she bothers.

The good doctor said little. The ragged light, playing hide-and-seek with the clouds that threatened rain, caught the fine lines in his face and dug them into crags. He looked his age today. I can’t say it bothered me much.

Octavio had fetched him out of bed in a panic. Philo had in turn fetched Papirius. No one knew who to blame for bringing Grattius. The three of them were waiting for us with various degrees of impatience by the large drain, along with a smaller man in filthy robes, obviously terrified.

The drain was typical Roman engineering—efficient, well built, and designed for maximum exploitation of resources. In this case, it let Papirius and company exploit the goddess.

My eyes traced the path of the pipes. Up above, somebody opened a sluice at the top of the spring. The sacred waters—carrying sacred gold and other donations to the Sulis Mutual Benefit Society—rushed through pipes and emptied into this drain via a wide terra-cotta channel. The drain was made large enough for men to walk through and clean or repair it—or pick up anything Sulis left behind.

Other pipes ran from the baths into the same system. I expected the spring was cleaned nearly as often as the pools were. No one bathed in it, but then nobody threw gold necklaces in the caldarium, either.

Octavio’s torch flicked orange light in everyone’s faces. I brushed it away, and it bounced on the brick walls and made teasing little shadows that promised to tell me what I wanted to know.

I asked: “Where is he?”

Papirius answered, distaste on his face. He clutched his long mantle, raising it several inches off the ground. The head priest was clearly not impressed with the temple sanitary system.

“He’s—he’s inside.”

I looked over at Philo. “Have you—”

He shook his head before I could get the question out. “No. I—I turned him over, saw that it was too late, and suggested we get you.”

I grunted and headed down into the drain. Small steps were built into the rock for the cleaners, who would come along and replace missing bricks or repair leaks to the pipe whenever the sluice wasn’t open. The wide, half-pipe channel carried the bulk of the water and mud through the hole. In the darkness of it, presumably in the channel, was the body of Calpurnius.

I looked up to where they were all staring down at me, and held up a hand.

“Somebody give me a goddamn lamp.”

Philo handed me a two-wick portable with a sturdy handle and a picture of Apollo and Daphne carved on it. The light was flickering, and the cold, dank air from the black hole of the drain threatened to snuff it out permanently.

I shielded it with my left hand and walked in, stooping half a foot so I could fit. The acrid odor of the burning wick blended with the volcanic bite of the water and the clean smell of wet earth. The walls were still wet and slippery a couple of feet up the sides, and a fine brown and yellow silt oozed along the channel like snail slime. I got about five feet in and finally saw Calpurnius.

He was lying facedown in the channel, his legs bent behind him in an unnatural pose by the force of the water and mud that had run over him. Poor bastard. The water didn’t leave him any cleaner.

His robe was caked in silt, his thin hair coated with it. His hands were bent into claws, as if he tried to scratch his way out.

I set the lamp down gingerly, and hoped like hell it wouldn’t blow out. I had just discovered that I didn’t like drains.

Calpurnius was heavier than he looked, and there wasn’t much room to maneuver. I tried not to let his head hit the terra-cotta when I wrestled him over, but his legs and arms smacked the hard surface with a thump.

“What’s going on? Are you all right, Arcturus?” Philo’s voice echoed weirdly in the muddy tunnel.

“Yeah. I’ll be a few minutes.”

I thought for a minute the lamp was playing tricks on me. Calpurnius’s face was twisted into something inhuman. The tongue extended, lips drawing over teeth in a grimace of absolute horror. Mud filled the mouth and nose and eyes, which had been open when the water came.

I felt his hands. They hung toward his side and were curved as if he tried to scratch himself. Stiffness wasn’t fully formed. The drain was cold, but the water and mud were warm. That made it hard to tell.

Neck was splotchy. Ground-in dirt on the back of his head, what looked like blood. I felt the skull gingerly. The skin was broken along the back. Shit. I should’ve caught it earlier. I didn’t want to flip him again.

I lifted his arms and took a closer look at his fingers and the heel of his palms. There—more skin torn. Both hands. Confirmation. No need to check the legs.

I stood up and nearly cracked my head. I was running out of time, and missing something. The lamp was wavering with uncertainty. So was I.

I bent down again quickly, tried to scoop water from the channel into my hand. I poured a few drops on Calpurnius’s face. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

I tore a piece of his wet robe, using a jagged piece of flint that lay in the channel. His nose and his mouth disgorged finger-fulls of silt and mud. Then his mouth threw up a piece of lead.

It was wedged in, like Bibax’s, but was a thick, rectangular piece that could’ve come straight off a pipe. I pried it out between Calpurnius’s tortured lips and dunked it in the channel. Under the lamp I could just make out a thick, straight line dug in with a stylus. I tilted the lead until it caught the flame just right. It read ULTOR in capitals.

I tucked it into my tunic. One last place to check before we moved the body. I rubbed the mud out of Calpurnius’s eyes until I could see some of the iris. The rims were red and inflamed, like they always were—one reason he looked like a rat. But underneath the mud the skin glistened faintly, as if an unguent or cream had been rubbed in. That was before he was dragged facedown into the drain. Dead.

I stood up again, slowly, looked at what had been Calpurnius, and said a small prayer for the poor bastard. I wasn’t sure if anyone else would. Then I cradled the lamp and made my way back out of the hole. They were waiting for me.

“Well?”

I ignored Papirius, brushed off some mud. I wished I could brush off the image of Calpurnius’s face. I turned to Philo.

“How did you know it was murder?”

He reddened slightly. “The look on his face. I turned him around to see if he was breathing at all. I assumed—well, I assumed with a look like that—”

“You assumed right. He was poisoned.”

Gasps all around.

Grattius shook his fat head. “Poisoned? Somebody poisoned a drain cleaner?”

I could barely make out the small, dirty figure hiding behind Grattius’s bulk. I shoved the duovir aside and walked over to the man shrinking in the shadows.

Papirius glided over immediately. “This is Senicio. He was the other cleaner who was supposed to work tonight. He found the body.” The head priest gave me a look that was supposed to mean something. “I trust him.”

That made one of us. I rarely trusted men trusted by a man I didn’t. Senicio quaked in his sandals, his feet looking like the bottom of an ugly statue.

“You found the body?”

“Y-yes, sir. Calpurnius—Calpurnius never showed up.”

“Were you supposed to meet him here? What time?”

Papirius intervened again. “Sixth hour of night. They empty the spring, and that gives it a few hours to get some water back. We make sure the baths are clean and full before we empty it, as it takes a full day and night to refill.”

I gave Papirius a smile he tried to give back. “Thanks. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to Senicio.”

Senicio shifted his small frame, picking at a wart on his left cheek.

“When was the last time you saw Calpurnius alive?”

He glanced over at Papirius as if to ask for permission, and I moved sideways to block his view.

“When?”

“Last night. Maybe—maybe the third hour, or so. He was eating at a tavern we like to go to. I stopped in for some wine, and Calpurnius was there.”

“Did he act any differently? Or say anything to you?”

Senicio ran his tongue over dry lips. “Uh—no. At least, not really. Nothing specific. He—he just seemed excited, is all.”

“Did you ask him why?”

He shook his head so vehemently that I thought he might make himself sick. “No. I—I just had a drink and left.”

I studied him for a few minutes. The squirming started almost immediately.

“Are you sure he didn’t say anything, Senicio?”

“He—he didn’t say anything, but—he was eating—what he was eating cost more than—more than usual.”

“He was splurging on a meal, in other words?”

“Yes—that’s it. I thought it was funny, you know, why tonight, when we have to clean the drain, and it’s not special, or anything. He—he just said he was celebrating.”

Papirius jumped in. “He said he was celebrating?”

The smaller priest cringed. “Yes, sir. That’s what he said.”

I changed tactics. “When did you realize something was wrong, Senicio? That was quick thinking.”

The little man expanded under the praise.

“Well, he—he never showed up. I called him, and I went into the tunnel—just a little ways—and didn’t—didn’t see him, and then Gregax opened the sluice, and I was busy.”

I glanced over at Papirius and made my tone friendly and conversational. “Find anything good? For Sulis, I mean?”

Senicio shook his head again before the head priest could react. “Nothing much. Some gold coins I managed to catch. Heavy things stay in the channel, and that’s what I was looking for when I found—when I found—”

“When you found poor Calpurnius. I see.”

I paused a few moments. “Senicio—did Calpurnius have eye trouble?”

“Yes, sir. Most of us do, in fact.”

“Did he take anything for it? Anyone in particular did he see?”

“Not that I know of, sir. He was the suspicious type, if you know what I mean. Liked to try things himself.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

The junior priest looked like he might fall down. Papirius asked drily, “Are you done, Arcturus? May I send him away to get clean?”

“Please.”

Octavio asked no one in particular, “Should I open the baths, do you think?”

The question brought Grattius to life. “Of course you must open the baths. Nothing to do with the baths, eh, Arcturus? But you never explained yourself. Why would someone want to poison this drain person?”

I brought out the piece of lead from my tunic pocket.

“Ultor again?” Grattius exploded. “But we’ve asked you to stop this Ultor business. Bad for the town! Now here it is again!” Grattius glared at me through his piggish little eyes.

Philo said softly: “How do you figure on poison, Arcturus?”

I stared at him. “Same way you did. His expression. He was murdered. The murderer watched him die, then dragged him into the drain. They must’ve arranged to meet close by.”

“Do you have a guess as to what it was?”

“Aconitum.”

The word sent a shiver through the rest of the men, while Philo looked at me thoughtfully.

“Hecate’s poison,” murmured Papirius.

Philo was nodding. “The pain, the paralysis. Even the itching. It makes sense. How was it administered?”

“Probably through an eye cream.”

Grattius exploded. “What about this Ultor business, Arcturus? Does this mean Ultor’s one of these eye doctors, always trying to sell—”

“Not necessarily. In fact, it’s possible that this may be the last we’ll hear of Ultor.”

“What? You know who he is?”

“No. Still, I have a theory, and if Bibax and Calpurnius were killed for revenge, and I’m right about why, I don’t think Ultor will kill anyone else.”

A broad smile spread across Grattius’s face. “Well, that is good news. It would be decent of you to catch ’em, of course, but as long as he stops this murder business—”

He turned to the others brusquely. “Gentlemen, I’m cold. I’m going home.”

He wagged his head at Octavio. “You mind the baths—I’ll be in this afternoon, and I want my massage. Nobody needs to know about this priest.” He twisted his neck toward Papirius. “And you—you handle telling the ones that need to know—you know, the other cleaners. Get the body out of there and give it a simple burial. At night.”

He shivered. “This air isn’t good for me. See you later, gentlemen.”

He waddled his bulk back up the stairs and the pathway out. Papirius made some priestly noises about taking care of the dead, grabbed Octavio by the arm, and told him to get the furnace slaves, presumably to haul out Calpurnius. They both left, Papirius majestically, Octavio scurrying to do his bidding.

Philo was watching me. “So you think Bibax and Calpurnius were partners, then? Partners in the murders you’ve uncovered?”

I shrugged. “Makes sense. And if they were partners, then Ultor—someone who is being blackmailed, probably, or someone who figured out what they were doing and lost by it—Ultor’s job is over.”

He thought it over. “I see. You will still try to find him, of course?”

“Try is the operative word.”

He patted me on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll succeed. Aconitum was a brilliant deduction.”

“Not really. It adds to the allure—all the associations with Hecate and the Underworld. Makes it seem like Ultor isn’t a person.”

We were walking up the ramp toward ground level. The sun finally agreed to make an appearance.

“Shall I see you later today?”

I shook my head. “I don’t feel much like the baths.”

Philo smiled sadly. “Death is the ugliest thing in the world, and we see too much of it.”

“Especially in Aquae Sulis.”

He stared at me, patted me again on my upper arm, and walked away. I wasn’t sure whether he swallowed the story. The others did, without even tasting it.

The Ultor who killed Bibax and the Ultor who killed Calpurnius were two different people. That lead was written with capitals, deeply etched. This was a copy of a murder that was just three days old.

Calpurnius was killed because he made an appointment with someone—someone he thought he could shake down. He could collect from that someone to not tell me what he’d figured out, and he could collect from me to tell me a little of it. He played both sides against each other, and got the life squeezed out of him. And the poor bastard suffered. He wasn’t feeling any bono now.

I took a deep breath and looked at the spring, filling up with the bubbling, eternal water. Time for my interview with Faro Magnus.