The Curse-Maker (23 page)

“All right, all right. Go on.”

“I thought I should go out. Talk only gets worse if you pay attention to it. I wanted to show people that I didn't give a damn for what they said or what they thought.”

I looked up from the pestle. “That's why I married you.”

Her lips curved for a moment. “That's not what you told me last night.”

I was grinding the willow into sawdust, so I stopped, shook it out on the table, and untied the sage. “A man can have a whole list of reasons. So who did you speak to?”

“Pompeius and Crescentia. I thought—well, since we'd both been put through it, it would be natural. So I took the litter and brought Quilla with me, and found out where they lived—”

“Where?”

“Northeast side of the city, closer to the cemeteries. A nice little villa, rather modest, really, considering he's a tax collector.”

I took the yew wood box from the kit and scooped some of the meat fat into it with my fingers. “What sort of tax collector? Imperial, local…”

“I hope you don't intend to wipe your hands on your tunic. We have to take it to the fuller's as it is.”

I'd just been on the point of smearing grease down my front. I sighed and tiptoed into the kitchen, where everyone made a point of ignoring me. Stole one of Priscus's rags and a wooden stick for stirring. Showed them to Gwyna. “Is this better?”

She gave me a mock reproving look and continued. “Pompeius is a local collector for the
municipium
of Aquae Sulis, and he collects both the land tax and poll tax, based on whenever there's a new census. There hasn't been one for two years.”

I grunted. Scraped the green-brown paste from the yew box into the grease pot, and started to grind more willow. “So he's not imperial. Which means no direct information about the mine syndicate, since all mine lease fees go straight to Rome. What else?”

“A few things. They're leaving in a few days—West Country. Heard there's more sunshine farther west. For Crescentia's health.”

“How long have they been here?”

“About seven years. He said it's changed. Used to be a smaller town, rather sleepy and restful, but now—well, the word he used was ‘rotting.' Pompeius said the town is rotting from within.”

I dumped the willow into the fat and picked up the sage. “From within, huh? Did he give you any examples?”

“He said once the baths and temple became so big—and such big business—everything else went to hell. No one pays any attention to the streets, or proper inns for the tourists—no real town planning at all. He swore that since Rome made them a
municipium,
with more civic independence, there's been less money circulating. Even the grain and sheep market is slow.”

“Strange. What about the investment people keep talking about, the development of those other springs?”

“He mentioned it. He said the only person who stood to profit was Octavio.”

I dropped my wooden stir-stick. “Octavio? Why the bathmaster?”

“Because he owns a lot of the land down there. According to Crescentia, though, he's absolutely drowning in debt. Cash poor and land rich.”

I retrieved my stick from the floor and scraped the sage into the pot. Then I scooped a big glob of everything into the yew box, careful to wipe my hands on the rag afterward.

“Yet he presumably pays his taxes.”

“In cash.”

“Did they mention what sort of development it is?”

“Crescentia said something about Philo being involved. Something to do with a temple to Aesculapius and another bath complex.”

She turned red and looked away for a minute. “She likes Philo. It seems most women do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Several are after him, but he's never responded.” Now she was definitely red. “Crescentia said she's never seen him act over anyone like he does over me.”

My head gave a sudden jolt, and I realized I was about to break the pestle. “We can discuss Philo's taste in women later. What else?”

She cleared her throat. “Crescentia needed a good gossip—she's the one who told me about Octavio. She knows everyone's financial standing, and she said that Octavio gets a share of the baths' profits but is always borrowing money. She thought it might be gambling. Oh, and something else interesting: He used to be a medical orderly. That's how he talked his way into running the baths.”

“An orderly? He's as useless as tits on a Vestal.”

She pursed her lips at me. “What an erudite and sensitive remark.”

“Who else did you talk about—other than Philo?”

“Papirius. No one seems to know much about him. He came up through the ranks, was elected head priest a few years ago. Not well liked.”

“How'd he get his money?”

She shook her head. “I don't think anybody mentioned it.”

I stirred the paste again. The yew box was full. Three days' worth of medicine for the donkey. “How the hell did he get the position if nobody likes him?”

She shrugged. “He brought in business.”

“For himself.” I wiped my hands off on the rag and settled back in the chair. “Who else?”

Her eyes got big. “Oh, of course. Grattius.”

“Something to do with the mine?”

“He brags about being the contact man, but other than throwing his mouth around, he doesn't have a whole lot of money. There was something else, too. Crescentia said Octavio wanted in on the investment deal with the mine but was pushed out.”

“Strange. Especially if he owns the land they're going to develop. Did they explain how everything would work, the mine and the new baths?”

“It was all about getting the mining consortium—whoever they are—to finance a building by the other springs. So in that sense, the two projects are tied together, I guess. There's a reservoir down there now, just like the main temple, but that's it.”

“What would the consortium get out of it, other than free baths?”

“I don't know.”

“I could make a guess. They'd need someplace to launder money—and lead and silver. What better place to wash it clean than a new bath complex?”

She nodded her head. “Makes perfect sense.”

“Well, I do have my moments. Sometimes I can even string a bunch of them together and get a whole day. Now—anyone else you discussed? Vitellius?”

“Sulpicia's boyfriend?” Her voice was puzzled. “What about him?”

“I don't know, but she dropped him like last year's favorite gladiator.”

“Nobody mentioned him. We talked about the other
duovir,
of course. Secundus.” She shuddered.

“Ah! So what did they say?”

“He was born and raised here. Made his money on sheep and horses, and then shipping.”

“Go on.”

“He operated out of Dubris and came back home as soon as he made enough money to impress the people he grew up with.”

“He'll never have that much. What about—”

Her lips drew together in a tight line. “Materna. According to Crescentia, she's become worse as Secunda's grown up, and grown up to be pretty. She's the only surviving child. Materna's obsession with Faro is common talk. So is her resentment of attractive women—Sulpicia for one. She helped spread the rumors about Sulpicia's husband.”

“Which turned out to be more than rumors.”

“That's not why she told them.”

“Anything else?”

“They've never had a problem with their taxes.”

I rubbed my chin. I needed a shave again. “What about Philo, other than his infatuation with a certain married woman?”

“I've done nothing to encourage him.”

“You don't have to.”

We stared at one another. The corners of her mouth curled up and stretched a little, like a cat in the sun. “I admit I enjoy it when you get jealous. But Ardur … you know I love you, and I think you know how much.”

We stared some more until the hair on my arms stood up and my throat made a frog noise. “Tell me what you heard.”

“Crescentia said he came from Hispania several years ago. He's grown in status ever since. Pompeius repeated what she'd said about Philo and that proposed temple to Aesculapius near the other spring.”

“Does he pay his taxes?”

“Oh, yes. Cash.”

“He's about sixty, you know.”

Her eyes enjoyed a small chuckle at my expense. “I know.” Then she leaned forward and spoke with some seriousness. “Why does he bother you so much? Philo's been nothing but a friend to us since we've arrived. Look what he did this morning.”

I still wasn't sure about this morning. Slapping Materna to keep her mouth shut about Gwyna was my job. Philo stepped in as my surrogate. A position he no doubt enjoyed.

Gwyna was still leaning toward me, her clasped hands encircling her knees, her eyes trying to read my face. The penmanship was messy. I was confused about the good doctor. Somehow he made me not feel—not feel like either the governor's
medicus
or the man who married my wife. That wasn't Philo's fault, though. That was mine.

I smoothed out a wrinkle in my forehead and wished what was inside of me would straighten as easily. Maybe it would, if I could just catch my breath. I looked up at Gwyna, who was still watching me, worry nipping at the edges of her face.

“All right. Let's go over the dangers of living in Aquae Sulis. Do you have any blank spots on that papyrus?”

“No, but I brought a wax tablet.”

“Can I have it?”

She handed it over, and I scribbled with the stylus and handed it back. “Read it out loud, if you would.”

She squinted at it. “Is that in Greek?”

“Very funny.”

“Let's see—it says ‘Murders.' Underneath, the first word is ‘Bibax.'

“Underneath ‘Bibax,' write ‘blackmail.' ”

She wrote it down in an elegant hand and asked: “Are you listing motives?”

So much for the mystery of my methods. “Well—yes.”

She tapped the stylus on her lips and thought a minute. “Under ‘blackmail' we can list Sulpicia, of course. And Titus Ulpius Sestius.”

“The nephew of the old lady? Rusonia what's-her-name?”

“Rusonia Aventina. I think he's being blackmailed.”

“Why?”

“From something Crescentia mentioned I forgot to tell you. Sestius is running through his money too quickly.”

“From spending it on some dancing girl.”

“Not just that. He's wildly overindulgent, owes everyone in town—and he's always nervous, looking over his shoulder. He's scared of something, Ardur.”

“He should be, if he killed his aunt.”

“So we're not done with the Bibax business?”

“We never finished it. The mine and Faro interrupted us.”

“Do you think they might be connected? Bibax and what we think his scheme was—and the mine?”

I shrugged. “Certainly the mine seems connected to this new development project. And that friend of Drusius—the farmer who died? Killed because of the mine. Was he cursed by Bibax? I don't know. Finding how everything fits together is a goddamn Gordian knot. Anyone else under ‘blackmail'?”

“Not that I can think of. But what about revenge? The note said
‘Ultor,'
after all. Someone like a relative of that young man—the one you just mentioned—”

“Aufidio.”

She wrote it down excitedly. “Yes—a relative would want revenge on Bibax.”

“Only if he knew Bibax was responsible, and right now it looks like the mine people were. The two I met would've slit their mother's throat for a bottle of
posca.
”

“I don't care, I'm writing it down.”

“All right. Let's move on to Calpurnius.”

“But Ardur—you haven't listed the other motive.”

“What other motive?”

She drew her knees up to her chest and laced her fingers around them. “The ‘unknown.' Perhaps Bibax's accomplice became tired of sharing the profits. I suppose that would make greed the motive. But maybe it was someone we don't even know—for reasons we haven't discovered yet. It's important to list, I think.”

“Go ahead. It's a good idea.”

“Calpurnius. ‘Blackmail,' of course.”

“And we don't know who.”

“Any ideas?”

I said slowly: “At first I thought there were two different murderers, and that the
‘Ultor'
note was faked—planted on Calpurnius to confuse us. Now I'm not so sure. Maybe I was supposed to think that. Maybe I was supposed to notice the difference in the writing.”

“Maybe you're overthinking it?” It was a tentative suggestion, and I grinned at her.

“Probably. Because I can't figure out why someone would want revenge against Calpurnius.
‘Ultor'
doesn't make sense, unless Papirius got really pissed off about a drain. No, I figure he was killed because someone saw him talking to me, and that person thought he knew enough to be a danger. But Calpurnius wanted money. He wouldn't talk for free. Maybe he even tried to blackmail the murderer—and get paid twice for the same information. All I got out of it was
‘cui bono.'
We know what he got.”

“
Cui bono.
You know, Ardur—that reminds me of the mine, and the development by the spring.”

“Now you know why my head hurts.”

“Poor baby. Let's get back to categories. Calpurnius was probably killed for knowledge—that works, doesn't it?”

“Yes. We should list that under Faro, as well.”

Her hand shook a little when she wrote the name down. I said: “Before I forget—that boy—Dewi. You can put him under your ‘unknown' category.”

Gwyna looked up, pleased. Then she realized what I meant. “You mean he really was murdered?”