Kelli Stanley - The Curse-Maker

For the second time that day, I was left standing on the pavement, feeling like a gaping idiot.

I spent the rest of the afternoon quizzing the offering stalls and curse-writers. No one wanted to admit knowing Bibax. No one mentioned his curses as possessing an unnaturally high success rate.

The priest knew something, obviously. Something I’d undoubtedly have to pay for. I accumulated a collection of eye creams, a badly sketched picture of the temple pediment, a blank piece of lead, and some clay testicles, the purchase price of small information. I shrugged and threw them into the spring with the other offerings. Not that I needed the testicles.

The bell for the baths finally sounded, and a throng of women rushed out, hair gleaming. I looked for Gwyna, and thought I saw her arm toss something out the window into the spring, but then I couldn’t see the rest of her and couldn’t be sure.

I made my way to the entrance, threading past females of all ages, shapes, and income levels. It was a relief to see Ligur, who’d been waiting all morning. We waited for the last stragglers, crimping their perfumed hair with their fingers, smearing rouge on their cheeks as they walked. I still didn’t see Gwyna. She’d stand out in the crowd like Venus in a roomful of gorgons.

Other men were waiting, too, trying to get an eyeful of any body part the last few women hadn’t shoved back into place. I paid half an as to the toothy attendant and finally stepped through the archway.

Dressing room first. This one offered large shelves in the shape of open boxes for you to store your clothes, and a not-too-narrow bench for slaves to sit and watch them for you. A few freelancers stood around, for those who couldn’t afford one or more slaves of their own.

The apodyterium was decorated with little sayings and greetings some promotionally-minded person obviously thought were clever, like GREETINGS, BATHER! THIS WAY TO HEALTH! Another small fresco illustrated a scene of two women bathing one another-a perennial favorite. Some poor bastard suffering from impotence had scratched a grafitto: I LIKE WOMEN. I LIKE SONG. I TAKE BATHS. SO WHAT IS WRONG?

I changed into a plain linen wraparound kilt. The steam from the heated pools was making it hard to breathe. I left Ligur sitting on the bench beneath my clothes and walked through another arch into the main building. The exercise room was on the right.

It was a spacious palaestra . Three large windows on the north, with views to the frigidarium, and three on the south, with unfortunate views to the market square. A few ex-gladiator types were trying to attract the attention of the women outside, flexing muscles and raising their kilts a little higher than was necessary.

Some were getting massaged, some getting their hair plucked here instead of in the baths themselves. The hell with fashion. My chest hair wasn’t in anyone’s way. Besides, there were too many hairy asses strutting around for anyone to pay attention to me.

I’d brought a handball, started throwing it at one of the walls. The sounds from the bath area filtered through the doorway, making it harder to concentrate.

“Sausage-fresh sausages with basil!”

“-all night long. She just wouldn’t stop! I thought my back would-”

“Perfume from the East-perfume from the East! Only two sestertii !”

“-and watch as this amazing performer will thrill you with her ability to fold herself into this tiny little box-”

“Quit splashing, you buffoon!”

“And I said-you won’t believe it-and I said-”

“Ouch! Goddamn it, that’s not a hair!”

I threw the ball and caught it on the return. A throaty chuckle made me feel even less dressed.

I turned to the window. Sulpicia was leaning on it with both arms, staring at me-and my kilt. I felt myself flush.

“Hello-Doctor. How do you like the baths?”

I threw again, missing the rebound. It hit a fat man with a furry back, who shot a venomous look in my direction. I picked it up, careful not to bend over toward Sulpicia.

“I haven’t been inside yet.”

“The water is special. Not the building, so much. You’ll see. Everything’s at just the right temperature.” Everything except me.

“Where’s Vitellius?” I asked abruptly.

She laughed. “He’s in the big bath. He never exercises.”

Her eyes crawled all over me. I felt like a slave at an auction. Measured, weighed, assessed.

I retrieved the ball from where I’d dropped it yet again. “I’ll go find him.”

“I’m sure he’s getting rubbed down. He likes his oil. I’d do it for him, but…” She shrugged. “Proper ladies don’t bathe with men.” She winked. “Unless they have private baths.”

I smiled weakly, took the ball, and retreated to the dressing room. I’d had enough exercise playing with Sulpicia. I told Ligur to follow me with the oil and strigil, then beckoned to a young boy in the corner.

“I need someone to watch my belongings. What’s your name?”

“Aeron, sir.”

“You’re hired. And Aeron … if you notice anything unusual that happens in this room, I’ll give you two sestertii .”

“Yes, sir!”

He reminded me of Hefin. I winced. Not here, not now. I’d gotten fat enough on the guilt diet. I tightened up my stomach muscles and moved on.

I turned left, to the artificially heated section on the west side. The water was plain, still, and cold, straight from the ground and heated by man. These pools weren’t as popular as the Great Bath, since it wasn’t Sulis’s water, and no one knew who its mother was.

The usual assortment of flesh displayed itself. Propped against alcoves, slumbering on the paved stone, a shoal of beached tunny on a stretch of yellow sand. I poured some oil on my skin, stepped into the tepidarium, and did some requisite splashing while I looked around.

Public baths were always hailed as the great leveler. The rich could rub elbows with the poor, and the poor could rub something else, if you paid them well enough. Baths were cleaner than whorehouses, and there were plenty of dark corners you could get to know each other better in.

Dandies with a ring on every finger strutted by in tight, wet kilts, advertising the daily special. Middle-aged merchants entertained whores in the caldarium , too fat to do anything but pant over the smell and sight of wet, jiggling skin.

Then there were the artistic entertainments. A poet croaked a turgid epic in a dull monotone while a younger version in the opposite corner recited naughty lyrics, punctuated by the snores of an old man who obviously didn’t find them naughty enough.

No lyre player today, but a juggler was doing tricks with a discus. When it landed on a muscular specimen in the caldarium, he proved his feet were faster than his hands. Various sellers of cakes, candies, sausages, and snacks wandered by, each item less appetizing than the one before it. I bought a mint breath freshener from a freckled man who obviously never tried his own product.

I climbed out of the caldarium disappointed. A typical day in a typical Roman bath. Nothing of particular interest.

Ligur gave me a vigorous strigiling, and I headed for the cold plunge. I was holding my breath, preparing for the shock of the water, when I recognized an eager voice behind me.

“It’s Arcturus, isn’t it?”

I exhaled and turned to see Octavio, who was clearly delighted to see me, because he raised his voice several levels and shouted: “Wonderful to have you, Arcturus! And how is the governor?”

“The same as he was yesterday, Octavio. Nice baths you have here.”

“Oh, but you haven’t seen the best of them yet. You must go to the Great Bath.” His voice went up again. “A doctor of your skill will appreciate the waters.”