Kelli Stanley: The Curse-Maker

The man was floating, serene, tunic swirling in the undulating waves like clouds against a blue sky. His mouth was open. He was dead.

I looked back toward Gwyna. She was kneeling in the saddle like a circus acrobat, struggling to see what was going on. At least she seemed focused. Not the aimless woman, the lost wife I’d brought here, hoping to find the woman I loved.

Voices rose from the crowd, agitated.

“Pollution! In our town! The council must-”

“Why doesn’t someone do something? Where’s Papirius?”

“How dare he do this to the goddess? To us?”

They shoved forward, scrambling for a closer look, taking me with them. Another voice, calmer than the rest.

“Can someone help me pull him up?”

The crowd was stiff with excitement, and I pushed my way through. I was stiff, and not so excited, but I was there, even if it was early in the morning after a long trip, and I was just trying to get some goddamn directions.

* * *

The reservoir was seven, maybe eight feet deep, filled from the famous Sacred Spring of the famous goddess Sulis. From the look of the pipes, it dispersed the famous hot water to the famous baths, just to the south. Everything in Aquae Sulis was famous.

Female faces were lining the three windows of the main bath building, staring down with horrified pleasure. The corpse bobbed against the wall, mouth still open, looking just as shocked. He danced and waved, making a low, slushing thud, held upright by a hemp rope secured under his arms and tied to a balustrade. I could see what the heat and the water had already done to his skin.

A young man with arms like Hercules was trying to unwind the rope and haul up the body. I grabbed the end of the rope.

“Go ahead and try it. I’ll anchor.”

He eyed me up and down with doubt. I planted my feet, and maybe something about my jaw made him start to unwind the damn rope. The mob stepped back half a foot.

Every time he pulled, I took up the slack. The dead man himself couldn’t weigh too much-he was on the small side-but the water made him heavy. The sun peeked over the golden limestone of the buildings, throwing a lurid yellow light on the water.

The corpse was near the top of the reservoir, and I grabbed enough rope to get it right on the balustrade.

“Move, damn you! Give him some room!”

The crowd inched backward while the body spread out, halfway on the pavement. Magic water dripped, making small magic rivers on the smooth pavement stone. I elbowed through a fat man with a wig and a slack-jawed servant girl, joining the young man with the big arms.

Now we had to touch him, and hope his skin wouldn’t flake off like cooked fish. Together we dragged him fully on the pavement, nearly intact. The herd hushed for a moment, making the squelches and squeaks of the corpse all the more audible.

Three men pushed toward the front, gawkers parting with a rustle. They all looked the same: neat, tidy, proper provincial business- and councilmen, togas too big and minds too small. A fat one in the middle seemed to be the leader.

“Yes-thank you, Drusius, thank you. How-how unfortunate.” One of the others cleared his throat, staring down with eyes as watery as the corpse.

The big one continued. “Don’t, er, touch him here, please. Philo is coming. Philo will, er, take it-take him-away.”

I stood up straighter, surreptitiously massaging my sore hip. “I don’t know who or what Philo is, but this man needs to be looked at now. And here.”

A titter or two. A couple of gasps. The three glanced at each other. The one with the fish eyes was older than the rest and looked to the fat one for guidance. The middle one blended in with the pale yellow rock.

Big Belly puffed like a peacock. “Lucius Valerius Philo is the most respected medicus in Aquae Sulis-and a member of the council. Who are you?”

I was tired. Saddle weary. Provincial towns always make me itch, even if everything is famous and the waters can raise the dead.

“I don’t give a damn if he’s the doctor for Domitian’s prick. I’m a medicus, and I’m examining this man. Now.”

A murmur ran through the crowd. The rope was too wet to lynch me with, and besides-no one ever wanted to touch a dead body. Hercules-or Drusius-took a step near me. There was support in the stance. And respect.

I knelt down. The dead man was about my age, maybe a little older, thirty-five to forty. Short, fairly muscular, but getting soft even before the water. Arms and face tan, but his legs never saw the light of day. They were dotted with freckles, like some kind of exotic mushroom.

The gown was cheap linen, white when Homer was young. Imitation Egyptian that might impress old ladies who liked exotic Eastern cults, if they were half-blind and wholly gullible. Bathing sandals were still on his feet. The crowd was getting closer again. I could almost feel Big Belly breathing on me.

“Give him some room!”

Drusius was answered with a low, throaty chuckle. Not from Big Belly. Feminine. Very feminine. The crowd made room for the woman who made it. I looked up.

Riding hard on forty, red-haired, and everything she shouldn’t be, but what most men would want her to be. The kind of woman who always made her own way, in life or out of bed. She reminded me of Dionysia, my youthful indiscretion.

“Well, well, Drusius. It is Drusius, isn’t it? I’ve seen you hauling stone for your father, I believe. For dedications.” She peered down at the corpse and suddenly knelt next to me, a puff of sandalwood drifting up from underneath her dress.

“I promise I won’t crowd the doctor,” she whispered.

A loud squawk erupted from the back of the growing mob. Big Belly and Fish Eye were whispering to each other, and finally another voice-thin, whining, male-reached the front line, audible over the rustle of sweaty bodies and hushed conversation.

“Sulpicia? Sulpicia? Ah-there you are. What-what the hell is that?”

I didn’t bother to answer or look up. I’d continued, letting Sulpicia and her pet idiot distract the onlookers for me. The man had been dead anywhere from eight to twelve hours. There wasn’t much water in his mouth or lungs, and the red, engorged face and the two thumb-sized bruises by his windpipe confirmed he hadn’t drowned in seven feet of water.

Something glinted from the open mouth, and I noticed his cheeks were bulging. I reached in and pinched with two fingers, drawing it out while everyone looked at Sulpicia and pictured her naked. Her boyfriend suddenly realized there was a corpse dripping water on his toga hem and yelped.

“That’s-isn’t that the curse-writer, the scribe-”

“Rufus Bibax.”

I looked at the corpse again and noticed a faint tinge of red in his hair. Not much of a rufus . I stood up. The voice that identified him expressed authority. I wanted to see who it belonged to.

Standing next to a coiffed Roman in a gaudy toga was a middle-aged bald man. His expensively plain tunic was made louder by a heavy gold necklace. Priest was written all over him. Big Belly and the other two crowded close, giving me baleful looks when they weren’t staring at Sulpicia’s nipples.

The priest plastered a tight smile on his face. “I am Sextus Papirius Super. Head priest of the Temple of Sulis Minerva. I understand you’re a doctor.”

I stared at him. “Julius Alpinius Classicianus Favonianus. I’m the governor’s doctor, as a matter of fact.”

The murmur spread, growing progressively louder, until it broke against the edges of the crowd like a ripple on the water. He raised an eyebrow. “It’s very good of you to, er, help us with this unfortunate-incident. As this is holy ground-”