Kelli Stanley - The Curse-Maker

“Go on.”

“Right now we’re in the middle of development plans for another complex. There are two more springs to the northwest of town, and we’d like to build a temple to Aesculapius, along with more baths. The council is hoping to make a deal with a mine consortium-you know, free baths for the miners thrown in. This sort of thing could jeopardize the entire proposal.”

Not to mention tourism. Murder at a health spa is bad for business. I stood up.

“I understand, Philo. I’ll do my best to find out what’s wrong with Aquae Sulis.” I wondered if he caught the sarcasm.

He looked at me. “You know, we help a lot of people-and not just through false hope or phony promises. These waters truly are gifts from the gods.”

“I’ll get a report on them later from my wife.”

He smiled. “How is your wife today?” He asked it softly.

“Fine, thanks.” I held his eyes a little longer than was customary. Turned to go, then turned back. “About that warning-”

“Ultor?”

“Yes. Maybe it’s a message to the other curse-writers-to the charlatans-to the quacks.” I laid particular emphasis on the last word.

He grunted. “Maybe. There are quite a few. Everyone from Tiberius Julianus and his eye cream to Faro the Great.”

“The one that talks to dead people?”

Philo nodded.

“Ask him to find out from Bibax who killed him.”

He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder again. “Arcturus, you’re a hell of a man. I really wished you liked me more.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I smiled stupidly and walked out. Philo always seemed to get the last word. Damn him.

The vultures were still circling when I walked out of Philo’s well-bred, handsome house. I started walking toward the temple, trying not to think about Quilla rubbing Gwyna down with oil. Then I banged into someone.

“Why don’t you watch where the hell you’re-”

“Sorry-”

It was the young stonecutter. Yellow dust covered his head and plain tunic, making him look like a statue. He glowered at me.

“Oh. It’s you.”

I glowered back.

“I said I was sorry, goddamn it. You should learn some manners.”

“I’m not the one who walked into someone, am I?”

We both stood there, glaring at one another. It was uncanny the way he reminded me of myself.

“I’m investigating the murder.”

“I hope you’re better at it than walking.” Then he smiled, right before I was about to punch him in the stomach. He held out his hand to grasp my arm. “My name’s Drusius.”

I grasped his. “Arcturus.”

We stood looking at each other, a little awkwardly.

“Just install a statue or something?”

He nodded. “Anybody with money wants to put up a statue or an altar to Sulis or Minerva, or whoever the hell they think she is, and there’s a lot of money floating in the water. At least these days.”

He coughed and turned to spit out something on the pavement.

“Is that why you were there yesterday?”

“Yeah. Laying groundwork. Then somebody shouted, and half the population of the town poured out to take a look.” He shook his head. “Poor bastard.”

“Did you know Bibax at all?”

“Only to look at. Our shop”-he pointed to the southwest corner of the baths-“is over there, and I used to pass him occasionally. Didn’t have a steady booth, that I could tell. Moved around a bit.”

“What kind of man was he?”

Drusius shrugged. “Same as everybody else. Out for himself.” He eyed me with a little suspicion. “Hear you’re from Londinium? Some kind of doctor?”

“I live in Londinium, and I’m the governor’s doctor. But my mother was British, if that makes you feel any better.”

He shrugged again. “Don’t make me feel one way or another. Just wanted to know what your business was. I was hopin’ someone would show up.”

Now I was curious. “Show up for what?”

He spat in the street again and looked at me steadily. “Did you have a look around? See all the sick people?”

I nodded, wondering where this was going.

“Well, a lot of them get better. They do. Something in the water, they say, or maybe just havin’ a holiday. You might even say Aquae Sulis is a healthy place-plenty do.”

“And?”

His brows drew together, and he gave me another long look.

“Then maybe, Doctor, you can tell me why so many people die here.”

He shouldered his tools and walked away before I could ask him anything else.

* * *

I stood there with a stupid look on my face, staring after Drusius. Goddamn it. He’d made sure to tell me where his shop was. Now I’d have to find it and coax the story out of him. There were a couple of hours left before the baths opened for male business, but let the bastard wait.

I faced the temple and looked around. At least it was cleaner than the main marketplace. Curse-writers and scribes lined up in neat little rows next to sellers of offerings. Coins, secondhand silver, jewelry, whatever you had or whatever you could afford-ready-made bribes, if the goddess was willing. I give you this, you do that. Don’t forget to say please. Simple. The curses, though-I wasn’t sure how they worked. I’d always cursed people to their faces, and I never asked a god to do for me what I could do for myself.

I approached a small stall. A thin man in a stained blue tunic looked at me with the eyes of a malnourished rat. I expected to see a tail.

“Wanna curse? Lose a robe? Somebody steal your wife?”

I leaned over the termite-infested board he used as a counter and let him assess how much money I had. He licked his lips, as the eyes clicked over past asses into sestertii and maybe even denarii.

“I can write you a good one. Court case, maybe. Make sure you win, make sure they swear to pay.”

I leaned a little farther in, and I started to make him nervous. “Maybe you want a boy? Can’t get him interested? Got a love defixio, too, he’ll bend over faster than a-”

“How do these work?”

That threw him off. He stared at me, at first with his mouth open. A fly flew dangerously close. Then the beady little eyes narrowed.

“Whaddya mean? These here are defixiones. Curses.”

“I gathered that. What’s the process? What do you do?”

Now the eyes were darting back and forth, trying to find an angle, or maybe find out what my angle was. Then his mouth closed up tight.

“I buy my lead fair and square. You ain’t goin’ t’ catch me sayin’ nothin’.”

“I’m not saying you don’t. I just want to know what it is you do.”

“I keep to the rules! I pay the temple! My lead’s all bought, I’m not one of these water-pipe thieves-you go down and talk to that one, he’s the one you’re looking for.”

He started to gather up the odd pieces of roughly square or rectangular lead that were stacked on the board, then took out a tattered leaf tablet from underneath and stuck it under his tunic.

“My spells is good ones, and my writing’s good, too. And my lead!” He looked at me angrily and swept the rest of the metal pieces into a worn leather pouch.

“You go down there to them others. I’m closed.”

With a twitch of his mouth, he scurried off to a dark hole he’d probably watch me from. I was left standing in front of a rotted board propped on two empty barrels, with a mildewed sailcloth sheet stretched above.

Someone chuckled behind me. I turned to find another priest. This one looked a little ratlike, too, but better fed. “You can find more educated versions next to the inscription carver.”

“I’m Julius Alpinius Classicianus Favonianus. I’m investigating the murder of Rufus Bibax.”