CHAPTER NINE

Breakfast was awkward. Gwyna avoided my eyes. I got up and walked behind her chair. She craned her head to look at me.

“Ardur—what—”

My hands on her shoulders silenced her. I massaged her neck and pulled her hair up. She leaned back against me, eyes closed. I kissed her neck, my lips traveling around to the front of her tunic, gently brushing her lips.

I said in a playful tone: “Just a reminder for when you see Philo today.”

She relaxed and smiled—a little wickedly—looking around to make sure there were no servants lurking. “Ardur—give me your hand.”

I held it out, and while I was still standing behind her, she calmly tucked it under her tunic. The breast strap she was wearing was very thin. I completely forgot why I was standing there. I also forgot my name.

She removed it—she had to be firm with it—and returned it to me, with another smile.

“Remember that when Sulpicia tries to climb in your lap.”

Breakfast suddenly tasted much better.

*   *   *

I decided not to take the litter, since walking helped me think, and I sure as hell needed some help. The weather was gray, as unsettled as my sense of purpose.

I walked down the hill to the gemmarius. The little shop clung to the dilapidated corner as if it were out of breath and tired of running. Not the moneyed area of Aquae Sulis.

Dirt streets, same yellow color as the baths. A fountain with a lion’s face, cracked, mended, broken nose, stood a few doors away in the center of the square, its drip unsteady. The smell of piss rose from the insulae above, carried on a breeze that would blow it into the marketplace, where it would disappear and be overwhelmed by worse.

The man’s son was standing in front, his hands on his belt.

“Yes? You want to buy something?”

“Necklace for my wife. I was here day before yesterday—asked directions. Your father gave them to me, thought I’d return the favor.”

Burly, dark complexion, wiry beard. He stared at me. Intense, but not hostile.

“Natta isn’t my father.”

“My mistake. I noticed you together at the baths yesterday and assumed—”

“Buteo? Are you—” The old man hobbled out from the darkness. He stopped when he saw me. “Good morning, friend. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to buy a necklace for my wife.”

“We have some beautiful things. Come inside.”

An old, smooth oak plank was both work space and selling area. A draft blew up the edges of a discolored, torn curtain hanging behind the counter. I assumed it divided his living area from the shop. Buteo disappeared behind the curtain. I figured he’d watch me.

Natta pulled out some surprisingly beautiful work. Carved gemstones were his specialty—jet, onyx, amber, garnet, amethyst, carnelian, even lapis and malachite. I pointed to a pile of carved stones he’d carefully wrapped in an oiled piece of leather.

“Can I see those?”

He smiled. “I’m afraid not. I’m saving them.”

Probably to sell for when he couldn’t work anymore. A day fast approaching. “I see. Holding on to your best work for last?”

“It is my best work. Yes. I’m waiting.”

Buteo climbed back out from behind the curtain and squeezed by, carrying a large rug that needed cleaning. He set it on his shoulder effortlessly. I noticed the size of his arms rivaled the stonecutter’s.

“Do you take pieces down by the baths? You might get higher prices.”

The old man shook his head violently. “No. I do not go to the marketplace. Sometimes Buteo—yes. It is a good plan. But…” He peered at me, his eyes rheumy. “It is a bad place, no? Not like—not like before.”

Before what? The old man wasn’t from here—his Latin was accented. Sounded like maybe Baetica or Mauretania.

He answered me without hearing the question. “Before. When Aquae Sulis was younger, and so was I. Now—well, you see for yourself what it has become. I saw you at the baths yesterday. You are a medicus. The governor’s medicus. Yes?”

“Arcturus is my name. The town has asked me—well, the ordo—the council—has asked me—”

“—to find the killer. I know. The curse-writer.” He shook his head. “There is much that is bad in Aquae Sulis. I wish you luck. I wish you luck in finding it and rooting it out. Then—maybe—it will be healthy again.” He sounded if he were talking to himself. “And now, Medice … have you chosen? And have you any advice for me?”

I remembered what Philo said about hope. I picked up a gold and emerald necklace, let it run through my fingers. “I’ll take this, and that carved gemstone—the mother-of-pearl Diana. As for advice—”

He smiled at me. “No need. You haven’t examined me, but I know what you would tell me. Still, thank you, Arcturus. I shall remember your name.”

A cold gust of air blew in the doorway, and it started to rain outside.

*   *   *

The rain came down in sudden, unexpected waves, as if someone were pouring a slop bucket out of the sky and aiming it at me. The drops hit the soft soil with a splat, churning up bile-colored mud before they gathered enough strength to form a rivulet. Just yesterday that color had been so pretty.

At least I wasn’t wearing a toga.

By the time I reached the stoneyard, the storm was over and a chill had set in. Drusius was surveying the pieces of newly washed stone. He stood with his hands on his hips, waiting. He couldn’t miss me—I was the tall man in a dirty wet tunic, too stupid to take a goddamn litter on a cloudy October morning in Aquae Sulis.

“Thought you’d come around.”

“I don’t like mysteries, Drusius. They piss me off.”

He shrugged. “Then why are you here?”

“Because you know something that will help me. I want the hell out of this town, but I’d like to leave it a little healthier than it was when I walked in. Call it a gift to Sulis.”

He kicked some mud away from a large rectangular slab of yellow rock. “Come inside.”

We walked through a small doorway, where the smell of cabbage and mutton overwhelmed the odor of rock, dirt, and sweat. An old man was lying on a nearly flat rush bed in the corner, facing the wall and snoring loudly.

“My father,” Drusius said abruptly. “Sleeping one off again. He won’t wake up.”

I followed him to the opposite corner, where a crooked wooden table crouched on three legs. He pulled up a clay flask from the floor underneath.

“Want some ale?”

“Yeah.”

He poured some dark brown liquid into two wooden cups covered in yellow dust. We drank at the same time, while he watched me. I smacked my lips.

“Local. Nice flavor. A little on the malty side, but maybe the barley was picked too late.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise, and he put down his cup. “Maybe you can do something in this town.”

“If you open your goddamn mouth and tell me what you know.”

He glanced over at his father. The sawing noise continued without a break. “I don’t want him to hear.”

“I can barely hear.”

He looked over at the old man again, then turned to me, his face hardened by resolution. “My best friend—a farmer—was murdered.”

“How do you know?”

“I knew him, I tell you! We were age-mates—grew up together—best friends. His father was an old crony of my father, same way. He was getting too old to do the work, same as mine. They said Aufidio had an accident.”

He leaned back in the willow twig chair, grimacing. “Accident—load of bullshit. He knew that property, every rock and tree on it.”

I poured some more ale. “When did this happen? And what was the accident?”

“About two years ago. His father found him. Looked like he’d fallen and hit his head. But goddamn it, Aufidio was more sure-footed than a goat.”

Drusius shook his head darkly and threw back another shot. “No. It was the boundary. That’s what killed him.”

“What boundary? Between the farm and another property?”

He nodded. “Farm and a mine. The one everyone says is haunted. That’s when I started to think, add things up.”

He crouched forward, eyes burning. “This town has been changing. Getting mean, getting greedy. I saw things. An old lady died—nothing wrong with her but needing some attention and a holiday. I put up a big stone for her in the temple, paid for by her nephew. Inherited a hell of a lot of money. Guilt, I say. Guilt.”

I said: “That would be Rusonia Aventina.”

That surprised him again. “You heard about it?”

“I hear a lot of things. What about the mine and the farm? What was the boundary problem?”

“They said he couldn’t keep sheep nearby. Said it wasn’t Aufidio’s land, but goddamn it”—he pounded his fist on the table so hard, I thought he’d wake the old man—“goddamn it, it was. Aufidio wanted to go to court. His father didn’t have any fight left, but Aufidio did. Last time I saw him was here, in town—he came out to the baths, said he had trouble sleeping. He was determined to fight. Then I hear it a week later. He’s dead.”

Drusius stared into his cup as if the ale were talking.

“What happened with the mine afterward?”

“Nothing. His old man kept away from it, like they wanted. He went last year, and the farm sold. Lots of land sells around here.”

I rubbed my neck. “What about other deaths? Like Sulpicia’s husband? Did you know him?”

“Old man. Marcus Atius Vettus. Died in bed. Nothing strange about that. ’Course, his wife was happy, but I couldn’t blame her much. He was a nasty old bastard and she … she’s quite a woman.”

He blushed. He was young.

“You said Aquae Sulis has changed.”

“Marketplace, for one. More of these astrologers and whatnot. Curse people. Ghost stories, people say they can raise the dead. It’s not right. We always got lots of tourists—it’s a healthy place, good for bathing. But the ordo and the temple—they keep wanting more money. So they let more of these types in. Papirius didn’t used to run it—he was promoted to head priest, and he likes the money.”

“What about Grattius?”

He shook his head. “A fat, slobbering fool, but he’s lived here his whole life, same as me. It was his turn to be duovir, I guess.” He coughed and spat on the floor.

“Do you think people are being murdered?”

He looked me full in the face. “I don’t know. I just know it’s not right. People are dying who shouldn’t. Those mine people—they had something to do with Aufidio, that I do know, and they’re supposed to be out-of-towners, not from around here. Plus there’s the development down the way, with the ordo wanting to bring more baths, more temples, more crooks.”

He shook his head. “It’s not right.” He poured himself another drink.

I reached across the table and grabbed his arm. “Did Bibax have anything to do with this? Was he a contact for—getting rid of people?”

He spilled the drink on the table and wiped it with the sleeve of his tunic. “I don’t know. Maybe. He didn’t have nothing, though. He wasn’t rich, or at least he didn’t look like it. Lived down by where the new baths will be—not much down there but a couple of apartment houses.”

“But you suspected something.”

His eyes got evasive. “Look, maybe I saw somebody see him who shouldn’t see him. And maybe somebody died. That don’t mean it was wrong, exactly.”

Sulpicia.

I stood. I’d gotten as much as I could hope for.

“Thanks for the ale.”

He looked up at me, spat again. “I’m not saying anything about Bibax. But I do know Aufidio was murdered.”

“Do you remember a boy dying at the baths a couple of years ago? Sort of the town simpleton?”

“You must mean Dewi. Some out-of-towner said he stole a bath towel. Dewi died a few days later. That—that was another one, shouldn’t have happened. Dewi was a good lad, couldn’t help the way he came out.”

“Do you remember how he died?”

“You know, there was something about it—but damned if I can think of it now. If it comes to me, I can let you know.”

“Thanks. And Drusius—”

He looked up from where he’d been staring at the floor.

“Stonecutting’s not good for the lungs. Mix some horehound and mustard leaves with honey, and put them in some wine. Not ale. Drink it every day. And think about getting a farm. You can grow your own barley.”

He looked surprised again, but didn’t say anything.

*   *   *

I left for the temple, walking through the precinct area. Papirius made me wait. Even if he was inside playing footsie with the incense bearer, he would make me wait. He had to. He was important.

A junior-grade priest finally fluttered down the steps and pulled at my mantle. “Papirius said he will see you now.”

“How accomodating of Papirius. Lead on.”

We walked around the temple and into a back building that adjoined it. Papirius was lying on his side on a couch, attended by two other priests, drinking some wine. I sniffed. It smelled like Trifoline. An underappreciated variety. Papirius must be a connoisseur.

He motioned for me to join him.

“No, thanks. Just had some ale.”

He raised his eyebrows as if to say he hadn’t been aware he was hosting a barbarian. After a long, savoring sip, he put the silver cup down. “What do you need, Arcturus?”

“Just some information. Understanding how the temple works might help me figure out who wanted to pollute your spring with a dead body.”

He said dryly, “It’s not my spring. It belongs to the goddess. But yes, I see your point. What would you like to know?”

“Is the spring ever guarded? Does anyone in Aquae Sulis have access to it at any time?”

“Actually, yes. We’ve been thinking about building a covering over it, especially after this, but that won’t be for some time. Buildings cost money.”

“So if someone, say, wanted to throw in—say—a necklace in the middle of the night, they could?”

His smile was tight. “Certainly. If they wanted the goddess’s favor.”

“Or a dead body?”

He picked up the goblet again. “If they wanted her curse.”

“I see. What about the offerings?”

He took another sip and stared at me over the edge of the cup. “What about them?”

My smile probably curled a bit on the edges.

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, Papirius, but with the amount of offerings Sulis collects, in a month her spring would look like a rubbish heap, and no one could see the goddamn water. That is, if it wasn’t cleaned out, and cleaned on a regular basis.”

His lips pinched together. The goddess was displeased. Or maybe just Papirius.

“That’s no secret. Of course we have to clean out the spring. Mud collects in the bottom, and would eventually prevent the water from even coming in. There’s a sluice in there we open, and the force of the water flushes itself and the mud down an outlet to the main drain.”

“Then what happens to the gifts? The donations to the Guild for Lesser Goddesses?”

“Kindly watch your tongue. You’re still on sacred ground.”

“I’ll watch my tongue if you watch my face. Take a look at it. It’s the face of an impious, impatient man, who is trying to solve a murder for you and your claque of upstart hicks. This is a business, we both know that, and the sooner I can get it all fixed for you, the sooner I can get the hell back to where I belong.”

He stared at me rigidly, the goblet midway between his lips and the table. Finally, he put it down. “Some of the offerings are collected by the drain cleaners and brought into the temple.”

“Only some? Why not all?”

“You’ve seen the spring. Heavier objects fall in the mud, and the mud is deep. The force of the water is very strong when we clean it. They can’t catch everything.”

“How many cleaners are there?”

“Four. All priests. Only those dedicated to Sulis’s service may touch the offerings.”

“What if something particularly pleasing to the goddess—a nice piece of jewelry, for instance—doesn’t hit the water?”

He shrugged. “If it lands on the reservoir wall and doesn’t slide down, one of the cleaners can go along the walkway and retrieve it. There’s enough room. Then they bring it to me, and it’s logged and deposited in the treasury.”

“What if someone else wanted to pick it up? Someone who knew it would be there?”

That surprised him. “Someone stealing from Sulis? In this town? I don’t believe it.”

That is, someone else stealing from Sulis.

“Why not? Isn’t it physically possible?”

“Physically, yes—I suppose so. They’d have to do it at night, or whenever they could snatch a moment and people weren’t looking. I suppose they could dress as a priest—or use some kind of rake to pick it up. But it seems like a great deal of trouble for a very undependable source of income. Of course, there’s also the risk of—well, the goddess’s revenge.”

“If you collect it, what happens to it? Where does it go?”

He sighed. “Into the temple treasury, which is stored inside the temple. It belongs, as I’ve told you, to the goddess. And I fear, Arcturus, I fear very much that you’ve already angered her past redemption.”

“I tend to do that with women. But thanks for the warning.” I stood up. “Can I see the temple treasury?”

“That’s highly irregular. But if you must—”

“I must. By the way, when do you empty the spring again?”

“Tomorrow. We do it at sundown, as soon as the baths are empty.”

He led me in silence from the plushly decorated room and back around to the front of the temple. I felt eyes on my back and turned around to catch a glimpse of Calpurnius.

“Calpurnius is a cleaner, isn’t he?”

Papirius turned to look at me. “Yes. Why? Do you know him?”

“Not really.”

We continued into the temple, the other priests scurrying out of his way.

“My wife ran into yours at the baths yesterday.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? She met Flavia?”

“Had a great time. You know how women are—talk, talk, talk.”

By now we were in the sanctum of sanctums. Sulis was one rich lady. Gold, silver, gemstones, coins, statues—all lined the walls, covered the floor, or filled chests stacked and labeled. The dates on them went back a long time. I whistled. Hell of a business.

Papirius led me to the nearest chest. “We haven’t received many large offerings lately.”

I guess Bibax didn’t count.

He opened it and let my eyes feast on the bangles and bracelets. It was about half full. I looked up at the priest, who stretched his mouth and nodded.

I dug my hands in and brought up handfuls of gold and silver. They must let the bronze wash away. No clay, no wood. Just liquid assets, suitable for a spring.

I stood back up and thanked Papirius. He put a strongly fingered hand on my elbow and ushered me out. I’d seen plenty of jewelry and money—but no gold and amethyst necklace.