Kelli Stanley - The Curse-Maker

“It’s nice, as togas go.”

“Well, hurry and put it on. We don’t have much time.”

She watched as I took off my tunic and shoes. It was nice to be stared at by my own wife for a change.

“I love the emerald necklace-and the Diana. She’s a special goddess to me, did you-did you know that?”

“No. I’m glad I bought the right thing.”

She was quiet while I wrestled with the toga. Then her voice came out small.

“Ardur-you didn’t buy this out of-of guilt, did you? You saw Sulpicia today…”

The toga was half on, and I had to yell through the cloth.

“Of course not! I bought it this morning, I’ll have you know! What the hell does Sulpicia have to do with anything? Come here and help me with this thing, and bring some fibulae. ”

I finally got my face out of the cloth and was starting to wrap it around myself when she came over with two pins.

“Well-I want to hear everything that happened today. Especially with Sulpicia.”

“I’ll be happy to tell you. After the dinner party. I want to know what you did, too-Philo said you’d come by.”

She nodded, a satisfied look on her face. “That was a test. I wanted to see if he’d be more loyal to you or to me.”

“I’m not sure it was such a good idea to tell him about our ideas.”

“Why not? If he’s involved, then it might make him do something rash. If he isn’t, then he can help.”

She stood on tiptoe and started to pin my shoulder. I yelped.

“Sorry. I hope he’s not tangled up in this. I rather like Philo.”

I looked down at her darkly. “Don’t.”

“Now, Ardur. Don’t be jealous.”

“Look who’s talking! When poor Sulpicia-”

“Poor Sulpicia? Poor Sulpicia?! ‘Poor’ Sulpicia as good as murdered her husband. Just because she makes you feel like a satyr in rut-”

“I am not a satyr in rut!” I protested.

The wicked smile came back. She raised her lips to brush my cheek.

“Yes, you are,” she murmured, “but we have a murder-several murders, in fact-to bring to justice. If Sulpicia doesn’t quit trying to scratch her itch on you, there’ll be another-and you’ll know who did it.”

I was beginning to like togas. A lot.

* * *

The host greeted us with disappointment when he saw the litter bearers.

“No mare? But Arcturus-”

“She’s not in heat, Secundus. If she goes into heat, we’ll talk.”

He grumbled a bit and led us in. His wife, a great hulking toothy woman who seemed to fill the room to capacity by herself, greeted us with a ferocious smile.

“Welcome, welcome. Glad to have you both. ’Course, I know the little wife.”

She chucked Gwyna under the chin, and Gwyna flinched, her eyes narrowed. Materna cleared her throat and dragged forward a pretty young girl, obviously bored.

“Secunda. My daughter.”

Her tone implied that Secundus had very little to do with it.

Secunda nodded, showing some interest in looking over Gwyna’s clothes and jewelry. When the survey was over, she closed her eyelids and slumped into the dining room. The other guests were already assembled.

Secundus offered me the so-called position of honor on the couches: imus in medio . I was glad for once. From the position on the low corner of the traditional square C, I could see everyone else’s reactions, the reason why this was supposed to be an honor. Maybe the bad food and worse society would be worth it.

Gwyna was below me and to the right. Below her was Big Belly, the councilman I’d met on our first day in Aquae Sulis. He was introduced as Quintus Pompeius-the town tax collector, a frequent dinner guest at every rich table in town. He nodded at us and scooted over. His wife was stuck in the bottom on the far right, in the lowest-of-the-low seat.

Above and next to me, middle on the middle couch, was a soldier, a middle-aged legionary with the unfortunate name of Marcus Mumius Modestus. He was the kind of man who never got beyond the middle, even at a dinner party.

The young Secunda was immediately above him, and mama Materna was keeping a beady eye on both of them. Her daughter might want to play “sheathe the gladius ” out of sheer ennui.

Materna took up most of the room on the highest couch. To the right and above her, Secundus tried not to disappear. Their most interesting guest held on to the far right summus in summus position with his fingernails.

“Arcturus-this is Faro Magnus. You’ve probably heard of him.”

Faro the Great. The one who could raise the dead. Sounded easier than raising any life in this place.

I nodded at Faro while Secundus talked about him like one of his horses.

“I told you the wife and I are keen on theatricals. Well, Faro has agreed to do something special for us tonight. He’s quite a little find, Faro is.” He winked broadly. “Right after we eat-can’t keep the cook waiting!”

The food was as stale and tasteless as the party. We gummed our way through a watery oyster and anchovy appetizer, gnawed an overcooked capon stuffed with cold chestnuts and tasteless truffles, and glued our lips together trying to eat the honeyed dates. I proceeded to ruin another set of napkins. They weren’t cheap. We couldn’t afford any more free dinners.

Faro, at least, was interesting. Slight man, well groomed, with black hair, thick and curly. His skin was startlingly white, his eyes an eerie, penetrating gray. He looked the part. Like the rest of us, he ate without much appetite.

Materna watched everyone, her eyes shining like a beetle’s back. A frightening woman. If I looked in her hand, I’d probably find some strings tied to Secundus’s back. Somehow I didn’t think she liked us. Especially Gwyna.

Our eyes met, and she bared her teeth at me. I smiled and accidentally swallowed a date pit. For relief, I turned to Mumius.

“So, Mumius-what legion are you with?”

He was picking date off his teeth. “II Augusta.”

“Oh-so you’re at Isca Silurum?”

He nodded. “Right now I have a message for the fortlet outside Aquae Sulis, and then I’m to report for Household service in Londinium. Hurt my leg, so they transferred me.”

“How’d you injure it?”

He turned red and stared at his dates. “Tripped on a picket.”

I changed the subject.

“What do you do?”

“I’m a wheelwright.”

I was hoping for more fascinating conversation from this unexpected new source, but Secundus made a noise in his throat, and everyone except Materna looked at him expectantly. She was gazing at Faro, with a suggestion she hoped he would raise more than the dead. Poor bastard. That would be a real miracle.

Two slaves cleared the tray in front of the necromancer, and he sat up, moving as deliberately as a tightrope walker. His eyes stared across the room, unfocused and blank.

“Well, as I say, the wife and I-we’re interested in things. Entertainments, and whatnot. And, if I may speak for you, dear”-Materna nodded her massive head at him graciously-“I-that is to say, we-think there’s much to be said for certain talents.”

He cleared his throat again and looked around nervously, as if he were afraid we’d all take the chance to yawn and leave the party.

“Faro here, for example. Now, I’m sure you’ve all read about people raising ghosts, but Faro here can really do it. He can talk to the dead. Gets ’em to talk back. So I thought-that is to say, we thought-why not give him a go at the party?”

Secundus sat down and smiled at his wife like a dog waiting for instructions.

I glanced sideways at Gwyna. She’d been talking with Crescentia, Big Belly’s wife, for most of the night. Now her eyes were enormous, and riveted on Faro. The black hair, the pale face, the expressive eyes-which seemed lifeless and dull, as if he had to empty his own soul to make contact with others. The mask was just about perfect. I couldn’t tell if it was comic or tragic.