Kelli Stanley - The Curse-Maker

Tears rolled down Gwyna’s cheek. Natta looked away from her and turned to face the waters again.

“Some said it was the priest’s child in the woman, and he was shamed. And when she died … some said he killed her, before the truth could come out, a baby born who looked like him. He was thrown out from the temple, left Hispania in disgrace.

“He thought the baby died with its mother. But the midwife delivered it, slapped it harder, and it began to breathe. A baby boy. The midwife gave it to the woman’s husband and helped him raise the child, until she, too, passed away.”

He brought the pouch out and held it in front of him, staring past it to the bubbling water.

“The boy learned the story from his father when he was old enough. They left Hispania and traveled, moving from one town to the next, and one day they came to a certain place. There, in the town, was the priest-the priest who long ago had loved the boy’s mother and left the child to die. And the boy-who was now a man-became enraged.

“The priest was now a doctor. And the man wanted revenge on this priest who had wronged his father, who had killed his mother. So he followed him-watched him-saw what he did. Sometimes in the name of mercy, sometimes for money. Always for reputation. A temple, the priest wanted. Another temple.

“The man saw the evil and thought he could rid the town of it. First one, then the other. Ending with the priest. Hydra heads, he called them. Hydra heads. But they poisoned him. Poisoned my Buteo.”

Gwyna took a step closer to him. The pouch made a small splash, the brown leather bobbing against the blue and green, drawing the sacred water in like breath. Becoming sodden and heavy and finally drifting, waving, falling to the bottom.

Natta whispered, facing the spring.

“These stones-our future-belong to the goddess. I will follow Buteo. But do not weep, lady. I will see her again. I have waited long enough.”

The spring churned and made little waves against the stone. A few people stood, some staring at the water. Some threw in a wooden carving or a small silver piece. I held on to Gwyna. Natta drew himself up from the rail and limped away, his faded robe trailing in the pale dust.

* * *

It was difficult to say good-bye after all. The slaves were still talking about the curse and how I broke it, and about the night we formed a small army and defeated Hannibal at the gates. Draco was coming back with us, a free man in more ways than one.

The donkey was healing well but couldn’t work anymore, and no one else was willing to pay for her feed. I’d board her out with Nimbus and Pluto. Maybe it was time to start thinking about that farm I always wanted.

We looked around the villa again, thanked it for making us welcome, a safe house in an unsafe town. That was changing.

The market square was cleaner. You couldn’t get aconitum quite as easily anymore, though the bottles of piss would always be big sellers. Grattius and Secundus disappeared, Grattius running from the legion, Secundus from ghosts more terrible than Rome. Papirius was still chief priest, but he would keep his nose cleaner and his hands out of the spring. Natta’s jewels would go to the goddess, disappearing in the water and mud, waiting for a future he’d never see.

Gwyna fingered the necklace she was wearing when we rode by the closed gemmarius shop, the horses’ hooves clomping on the paving stone.

A breeze blew against our backs, a warm spell that came out of nowhere, but maybe down from the green hills that ringed Aquae Sulis like a crown. It was dawn, the first hour of day, and the spring, as it had been when we met the old man, was empty. Draco waited for us up the hill.

She took the mask Papirius had given her and held it between her fingers. The splash of water rose like a little fountain. Together we watched the tin sink, the water washing over the face like a drowning man’s. When it was gone, she shuddered. I held her.

We climbed out of the valley until we were on the hill. Draco was ahead, holding the donkey. A pale sun shone on Aquae Sulis, and the stone was cleaner than it had been in a long time.

We reined in the horses and looked back. By the spring, facing us, was a group of people. I couldn’t make out their faces-one of them looked like the old lady who told me about Bibax. There was another old woman, a younger man, and a boy. Other figures crowded behind them. To the side of the water, by himself, was another man-dressed in the garb of a priest.

The old lady saw us, raised a hand. I looked at Gwyna. She was staring straight ahead, rigid. I raised my hand above my head. One by one, they seemed to dissolve in the dawn and the mist from the spring, until only a flicker of sun on yellow stone was shining from the waters of Sulis.

It was time to go home.