Kelli Stanley - The Curse-Maker

She nodded again. None of us said anything for a long minute, while Materna’s slow breath made the room a little colder. A broken-down chorus of three little boys and two old men followed behind Octavio and trooped in the room.

He lined them up in front of Papirius. One of the old men scratched himself. Bath servants were more cheap and plentiful than the cubicles themselves.

I held up a coin. “A denarius for anyone who saw who put wine in the fat woman’s shelf this morning. No other questions asked.”

They licked their lips and stared at the money. I twisted it around, the shiny silver promising life to the old, experience to the young.

“You won’t lose your place here, or be punished in any way. Right?”

I shot it at Papirius, and he flinched when it hit him, but he nodded.

An old man smacked his lips, this time getting out more than spit. “It were a woman.”

“What kind of woman? Young, old, ugly, pretty-”

“Don’t know. Saw her from behind. Looked young from there.”

I rubbed my nose and took a deep breath. Without looking at him, I said: “Philo, ask Secunda to turn around.”

“What? What are you-I can’t believe-I won’t stand-”

Papirius said: “Just turn her.”

A combination of cajoling and physical force resulted in a good view of Secunda’s best side. I looked at the old man. “Is that the one?”

He squinted and craned his neck, then looked at me. “Will I get the money-no matter what I say?”

“No matter what.”

He drew up some phlegm from his lungs, spat on the floor. “Don’t think it were her.”

Secunda’s shoulders slumped with relief. “You cheap quack-I still think you killed-”

“Not so nice to be the one accused, is it, Secunda?”

It drew a little blood and shut her up for once, and she went back to cringing against Philo, as helpless as a viper in a basket.

I knelt down by Materna and straightened her stola, her legs sticking out like stems on a toadstool.

Papirius asked: “Any change?”

“There won’t be any. Until she dies.”

“Can we move her and open the baths?”

“Sure. If anyone still thinks he can get clean in Aquae Sulis.”

Papirius’s mouth turned down until it met the wrinkles in his skinny neck. He directed his irritation at Octavio. “Don’t stand there like a gaping fish-get rid of the slaves, bring a stretcher! Philo-you don’t mind…”

He looked like he did, but shook his head.

“Have them carry her to Philo’s house-by the back way, in a litter. Use one from the temple. And get the baths open!”

Octavio flushed, but he wasn’t the kind that bites. Papirius drew himself up, nodded at Philo, and flounced out the doors. His robes trickled through the opening like a puddle of blood.

Secunda slumped on the bench, staring at Materna. Philo’s eyes met mine. Octavio skittered in with some muscular slaves and a wide stretcher.

He barked at the slaves. “Get her on there. Be careful-she’s not-”

“Dead yet?”

I thought I’d prod him a little, maybe get him to spill out what was eating his guts, and tell me what part of his miserable little life was my fault. He breathed hard through his nose.

“I wouldn’t joke, if I were you. You were hired to make sure-”

“I wasn’t hired, Octavio. I was asked. By a lot of nice people, who now all seem to want me out of town. At least as far away as, say, the cemetery.”

“Arcturus-I-”

“It doesn’t matter, Philo. Octavio here doesn’t like the color of my eyes, or the sound of my voice, or maybe the fact that I’ve found out some things about mines and money and property and murder that make his tunic a little too tight. Don’t worry, gentlemen. I’m almost done.”

Tired anger stretched my voice and made it sharp. “Take her home, Philo. With the girl. Secunda could use a little comforting. She’s been-comforted-before. And you, Octavio-you can start making odds on the time.”

I squeezed through the outer doors, pushed my way through the throng. The wind wasn’t blowing anymore. No birds were singing.

Gwyna was where I’d left her, with Ligur and Quilla. We walked home. She told me what happened.

Materna died as she lived-without a gentle thought, without mercy, pain her only companion. Except this time it was her own.

Her heart beat fast enough to echo against the stone. She burned but couldn’t sweat, opened eyes that couldn’t see. Lost the power of voice, her massive body helpless, limbs convulsed and thrashing. Unconciousness a gift she probably didn’t deserve. Materna wasn’t merely murdered. She was tortured along the way.

“What about Sulpicia? Did she-”

“Sulpicia snuck a taste of Materna’s wine, but only a drink. Said it was too sweet.”

The light was weak and pale. Natta’s shop was closed. Silence followed us home. She sent the servants ahead of us and turned to me, her eyes roaming my face.

“Ardur-I’m glad she’s dead. She was an evil thing. Not even human.”

I took a deep breath, couldn’t find any air. “As human as evil always is. Human and living. Inside all of us.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “The curse on Aquae Sulis is still alive, Gwyna. It won’t be buried with Materna.”

She stared at me. “You know something.”

I looked past her. “Let’s just say I’ve figured out a few things.”

Her voice was the first soft thing I’d felt since morning. “Do you-do you need time by yourself?”

I held her fingers to my lips to kiss them. “I’ll be in as soon as I can.”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss my cheek, then hurried up the hill. I watched until she was a small white speck, opening a door, disappearing inside to safety.

I looked around. I was standing near a blackthorn tree-the same tree where a wagon, two people, and a dead man waited one night. I put my hand on the gnarled trunk. The bark was rough and harsh, like it needed to be. Like I needed to be. I closed my eyes.

Strychnos killed Materna, almost killed Sulpicia. In her dreams, Materna saw Faro. She was ordering a mask to be nailed into his skull.

Poison killed Calpurnius, too: aconitum. He thought he’d joined the oldest business in the world, but he couldn’t afford the buy-in price.

Aconitum could be bought for a whisper and a wink if you had enough money, and it was offered for sale with the bottles of piss and oil and the rough-cut wooden breasts. Everything was for sale in Aquae Sulis.

Poison killed Dewi, too. A simpleton everyone tolerated, and most liked, and somebody murdered.

I leaned away from the tree trunk and walked around it, careful not to step on the grasping, gnarled roots.

Dewi reminded me of Aeron, and how much he was like Hefin. Age-mates. Age-mates and their special bond. A bond of memory.

The crickets were starting, a comforting sound. The wind gusted through, cool against my face, while a knot of birds expanded and contracted, black against the darkening sky, until they chose a tree for the evening and alighted, taking shelter from the dark.

Memory. Memory played the starring role, in this and every act. The food of love and the goad of hate, and in Aquae Sulis it played both parts.

I wondered who would remember Sestius’s aunt, or Sulpicia’s husband. Old and querulous and sick, hard to live with, too harsh and stern to understand the pleasures of the young, dying slowly, hurried along, no prosperity in their deaths. Too many ghosts, too much memory. Blackmail made them live again. Bibax, the only one to profit. Cui bono, cui bono …

Everyone made something from the mines. Octavio, Philo, Grattius, Vitellius, Papirius, Secundus. The mine promised them all what they wanted: money, power, a temple, another bath. All of them lost, some more than they could bear.