Kelli Stanley - The Curse-Maker

“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.”