Kelli Stanley - The Curse-Maker

While Philo’s pretty serving girl escorted us to the triclinium, I put on my party face. I was even more of an outsider tonight. Maybe it was the excitement of wanting to kill and knowing I could. Maybe I was always like this.

My stomach felt as flat and empty as the grapes in a winepress. Rich pork odor-maybe suckling pig-tinged with a hint of fig teased my nostrils, and peas-with bacon and caraway-stewed chestnuts and lentils-honey cakes. A real goddamn dinner in Aquae Sulis.

The room was warm-but not too much. The furniture was good-but not too expensive. Nothing in excess-unless it was the fat old dowager stuffed into a stola that was too tight twenty-five years ago.

Philo rose with an easy grace. Libations had been poured; some of the guests were already on the road to Olympus. Even the large goblet on Philo’s table was almost empty. The good doctor was still drowning his sorrows by drinking in my wife. I smiled and bowed and stood in front of her.

“Arcturus. Gwyna. Thank you for sending back the message. I understand you were detained?” The always smooth delivery was for the guests: His eyes were worried.

“An unexpected visitor.”

He looked his age tonight. Anxiety dug out the fine lines around his eyes and mouth. He absentmindedly reached a hand to brush Gwyna’s arm and spoke in an undertone. “Are you-are you both-all right?”

I grinned again and gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. “Never better-but hungry.”

He dropped his hand from her elbow, and I let the wry expression he threw me bounce off my teeth. Message understood. “Of course. I’m sorry-let me introduce you to the guests. You know Octavio and Prunella-”

The balneator nodded and looked away, a scowl compressing his face into that of an ill-tempered dwarf. Animosity all aimed at me. Prunella was busy figuring out how Gwyna was keeping her tunic up-and wondering if she could get away with wearing a copy. She couldn’t. She’d been swapping intimate secrets with the wine jug again.

“-and of course Sulpicia and Vitellius.”

The smile that Gwyna turned toward Sulpicia held a certain self-conscious sense of triumph. Sulpicia’s face froze, her mouth wavering between a teeth-clenching grimace and a snarl. Vitellius dropped his spoon, which he’d been idiotically tapping on the palm of his hand. His mouth was open. The round was Gwyna’s.

“And may I present Marcus Tiberius Simio-and his charming wife, Regilla. Julius Alpinius Classicianus Favonianus-and his wife, Gwyna. Simio and Regilla are traveling through, on their way to Londinium.”

The hairy little man with red-rimmed eyes didn’t give a rat’s ass who I was. He went back to looking toward the kitchen. His wife was the sort of vacuuosly pretty woman you usually run into at dinner parties. About twenty years younger than her husband. The only thing that interested him was dinner. She stared at me, her eyes as round as the cheap white glass on her ears.

Philo cleared his throat. “Simio is a friend of an old client of mine. He thought he’d look me up, after all these years.”

Freeloaders. Explained his sudden lack of taste in guests.

“Finally”-he was guiding me by the arm back to the middle of the couches-“I don’t believe you’ve met Crassa. Related to the Vespasiani. Distantly,” he added under his breath.

Crassa smiled graciously at Gwyna. She was covered in ancient baubles, and the diadem on her wig was crooked. She turned her attention to me, unrolling me like a scroll. I suddenly remembered the time my Aunt Pervinca slapped my hands for stealing food from the kitchen.

“Arcturus, Gwyna-you’re here. In the place of honor.”

The couch was plush. I tried not to sink. Philo had the taste-and self-control-not to seat himself next to Gwyna. Or maybe that punch was a little harder than I thought. Crassa was next to her, and they were already deep in conversation.

The host placed himself on the next couch, with Octavio beside him. Prunella was calling the wine boy for more. To her right was Vitellius, who also noticed the wine boy but wasn’t drinking.

My eyes met Sulpicia’s. All offers were still open. I grinned at her. Must be the hair oil Gwyna put on me. She was finally forced to turn toward Regilla, who kept plucking her arm. Regilla’s husband was waiting for the food to come out as if it might escape.

Gwyna craned her head to whisper to me. “Is that cow still trying to seduce you with her eyes?”

“I hope you mean Sulpicia.”

She shook with repressed laughter, giving my leg a vicious pinch. I leaned forward to breathe in her ear. “You can’t see where you’re pinching, so be careful.”

“You be careful with Sulpicia, or I’ll know exactly where to pinch.”

The wine boy came by with wet towels for our hands and finally poured the drinks. I looked up to find Philo watching me. “Do you like the wine, Arcturus?” he said softly.

“Thurine, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Last of the vintage.”

There was something melancholy about Philo tonight, something out of reach. And I wondered. I wondered who Philo really was. He stood up to make the traditional speech, his eyes still haunted.

“Friends and guests. Welcome to my home. What is mine is yours.”

Sorry I can’t say the same, old boy. I took another sip of Thurine.

“Relax-enjoy the food and the company. As our Horace said, ‘ Carpe diem. ’ So please- carpe vinum .”

Everyone clapped their right hands at his wit, and he sat down amid the applause. His face was red. He was certainly following his own advice.

Three slaves came out of the kitchen bearing simple black platters of lentils and chestnuts. My mouth was too full and my stomach too empty to think any more about Philo or anything else.

The suckling pig was tender and exquisitely cooked. When we were finished with the honeyed millet cakes, I wiped my hands for the third time on my new napkin, unrooted a piece of meat with my tongue, and finally gave my attention to the party. I felt someone staring at me. Gwyna was talking to Crassa and fortunately couldn’t see that Sulpicia was using more than her eyes.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

Vitellius was nearly asleep. I lowered my voice. “You managed to pry him away from the bath boy? What’s wrong, is Drusius not-”

The almond eyes narrowed into slits. “Kindly keep your mouth shut.”

I feigned surprise. “But I have a question for your boyfriend-Vitellius-hey, Vitellius!”

He looked around, taking a few minutes to find me. “Oh-hello, Arcturus.”

“Hello. I wanted to ask you something.”

“Me? You wanted to ask me something?”

There was an echo in the room, and I was looking at it. “Yes. How long have you known Titus Ulpius Sestius?”

His expression got a little less bored and a lot less stupid. “Let me see-about two years or so. Why do you ask?”

“Because he claims you’re the one who gave him some information. Information that-well, let’s say it helped make him the man he is today.”

Sulpicia’s skin was now a pale shade of green. She whispered something to him through her teeth. When he looked back up at me, he wasn’t alone. Octavio was staring at me, his face twisted with hate. God, I was good at parties.

Crassa’s voice trailed off. One of those unexpected silences stood in the middle of the room and screamed. I took a drink. “Sad thing-about his aunt dying. Especially since she came out here for a cure.”

Prunella hiccupped. “Lo’s of people come here f’r a cure-an’ they never leave.”

She started laughing, out of control, and Octavio shook her. Regilla never met a pause she liked. Her chatter helped cover for Prunella.