The Curse-Maker (30 page)

“What else? Any bows?”

“I—I think there might be four or five, sir.”

“Find them. You've got five minutes. And listen—give Draco the best sword here. Arm your strongest slaves with the rest. Then send them to Draco. The bows give to anyone who can shoot. Position the men—”

I couldn't see the front of the house from where I was standing, even if it hadn't been well into the first hour of night. I closed my eyes and tried to remember.

“Position the men behind the big rock, the one slightly uphill from the hawthorn tree. One there—and one from any window in the house that would give a good shot. Make sure they stay out of sight. Five minutes. Move.”

He blended into the darkness without more than a small squeal under his breath.

Draco was plucking my sleeve. “Where do you want us?”

“You, down the hill. If he doesn't already have someone waiting with him. If he does, same place, just stay out of sight. The other men, too. And Draco…”

His eyes glinted in the yellow light. “Yes, Arcturus?”

“Don't jump him unless he kills me. Is that clear?”

“But what if—”

“No. Do nothing, unless he kills me. Then take him alive.”

His hand gripped mine, and my arm was starting to hurt. Then he melted away in the shadows, as silent and still as the cloud that cut the face of the moon.

I knelt down and picked up some dirt. Always cheap and effective, and it felt comforting in my hand. I poured it inside a fold of my tunic, together with a couple of small rocks. I still felt naked. Looked around the barn. Pitchfork—too big. Shovel—likewise. The donkey was staring at me as if she were trying to tell me something. Of course.

I walked around behind the stalls to the tack room. Lineus had it open and was distributing yew bows to a few of the slaves. Draco and his men were already on their way down the hill.

I squeezed in beside one of the gardeners and rummaged on a shelf until I found it. A hoof pick. Hand-sized, with a curved, sharp end that could dig out mud—or a man's throat. The donkey gave me a satisfied look when I came back to the barn.

I kept it in my hand on the way to meet him. Gwyna was in the house somewhere, watching me as I walked in front, angling slowly toward the dark mass that looked vaguely like an outline of a man on horseback.

An owl flew off a nearby branch and hooted. I jumped. Maybe this was only what it seemed to be. Just a meeting. With a man who kept his face covered. My footsteps on the stones were loud. He'd know I was coming before he saw me. He knew I was alone. I figured he had men with bows and swords, too.

His horse snorted and stamped, and now I could see it was fast-built and dark. Chestnut, maybe, or gray. A small man. I breathed a little. I lifted my right hand, palm up. The pick was in my left. My voice came out as if a fat lady were sitting on it.

“I'm here. Climb off and tell me what you want.”

He was wrapped up in several mantles, but he uncovered his mouth. The voice was middle-aged, smooth, educated. A Roman voice. “I wanted to meet you, and I believe you wanted to meet me.”

“Who the hell are you?”

The voice laughed. “A direct question—but not a direct hit. Let's just say I own the shovel.”

So the syndicate had come out to play. I got a little closer to the horse. “It wasn't hard enough. What makes you think you are?”

He pushed some more cloth off of his face, probably trying to see me better, but he left enough to keep him completely in shadow. His voice not quite so amused. “We're not wrestlers. You're a doctor and I'm a businessman. I'm not looking for your soft spot. If I were…”

He lifted himself up in the saddle slightly and turned to look at the house. My hands were slippery around the pick. I tried to control my voice. He couldn't see my face, either, not clearly.

“What is it you want?”

“I told you. To meet you. Weren't you looking for me?”

“No. I don't give a fuck about you. You're legion bait. I suppose you mean I made enough noise, you heard from Grathus—and came to find me. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Well, it gives us an understanding. So now that I have found you—”

“You're trying to decide what to do with me.”

The figure was silent for a moment, as if it were throwing a die and waiting to see what turned up. “The governor is leaving. But you knew that.”

“So?”

“So you'll need new friends. People who can protect you. You've angered a good many people. The procurator—”

“The ex-procurator. Is that how you got your mining contract?”

He sat up stiffly. “I thought you might be intelligent enough to—”

“You thought I might be bought—but I don't worship money. I also don't work with men who won't show their faces and hire killers and rot out towns like the plague.”

Outrage poured through the layers of clothing, his gloved hand a tight fist on the reins. His voice was soft. “You could afford that pose—once. But now … now, Arcturus—you've got a wife. Maybe a family coming. Will you spit on money then? Or will you run to the governor—who won't be in a position to help you?”

“Say what you came to say and get the hell out of here.”

He watched me for a long minute. It came out abruptly. “We're leaving town. Pulling out. The mine is closed.”

“What do you mean, leaving town?”

“I mean no investment. No temple, no bath. Our dealings with Aquae Sulis are through. Our local representative—”

“Grattius?”

A derisive rasp. “Grattius is a buffoon. Our representative got a little out of hand. Aquae Sulis isn't a good place for business anymore. So I came by—as a courtesy—to let you know you can call the legion in whenever you want. They won't find anything. The silver's all gone.”

“You underestimate the legion.”

“You overestimate the governor. He'll be in Rome soon, and no one will give a good goddamn about a little mine in a little corner of Britannia.”

“You seem to know Agricola. Or maybe think that you do.”

I could see his teeth in the dark. “I know enough.”

“Who's the local representative?”

The teeth got bigger. “You're the clever doctor. You figure it out.”

We stared at each other for a few seconds. Finally, I said: “Is that all?”

“For now. I'll be going. Don't try to stop me—there are seven men in various locations around the villa, all skilled mercenaries and very well armed.”

I'd moved closer to his horse a few inches at a time. I looked up at him. “I don't want to stop you. I want you to get the hell off this property.”

“You made your noise, native. It was loud enough for us to pay you a call. If I hear you again, you won't be shouting.” He paused for a minute, then added softly: “You've got a weak spot now, hard man.”

He tried to rein in the horse, but I grabbed the bridle. “Let me give you some information, since you've been so helpful. If you fucking bastards ever even look at my wife, you'll be begging me. And it won't be to go on living.”

The raspy chuckle bit my ears. “But you would never know, Arcturus. You wouldn't be there—and she wouldn't tell you.”

I buried the hook in his leg. The leather shin wraps ripped, and I felt the flesh quiver. Then I yanked the hook forward, dragging it around the circumference of his calf, until I was in danger of hitting the horse.

He screamed and clutched at it, and by instinct I ducked. An arrow whizzed by and stuck in the hawthorn tree. Another one flew from the rock where my men were but missed. Down on the path, I heard shouts and a clank of metal.

He was holding on to his leg, galloping down the hill. Footsteps ran by chasing him. I shouted for the servants to grab what they could and follow me. Somebody lit a torch, and we ran down the pathway until we could see a group of men in a circle. Draco and the slaves. They were holding four mercenaries at sword point.

Draco's face lit like a torch when he saw me. He'd spotted their men and circled behind them. Then he found their horses and figured capturing the mounts wasn't the same thing as an outright attack. When he heard the shouts, he tried to avenge my death. Fortunately, I was around to appreciate the effort.

The walk back up the hill felt like a triumph. The slaves started to sing, the burliest ones nudging the mercenaries forward with sword points. I sent one of the others to the legion outpost. Soldiers would pick up the men in a few hours, but meanwhile they'd be bound and gagged and harassed by the servants.

When the procession reached the front of the house again, I saw Gwyna standing in the door. She was holding a knife. “Ardur—I was so worried. My God—you're wounded—”

Everyone was quiet while I looked down in the torchlight at my new tunic. There was a bloodstain on the right side.

I reached in and pulled out the hoof pick. A chunk of leg was still attached.

“Not mine, sweetheart. Just a souvenir from our visitor.”

The slaves shouted, some waving swords in the air. I heard “curse” several times, and someone was earnestly explaining to one of the women that I had magical powers and couldn't be killed.

I handed the pick back to Lineus, who gave it to Marchoc. Draco was explaining to Ligur where to keep the prisoners—the woodshed—and how far apart they should be and how often they should be given water.

I wasn't going to bother with questioning them. Too many questions tonight. Besides, they were mercenaries. They wouldn't know the Aquae Sulis contact. They could help the legion track down the syndicate—maybe. If anybody cared to find it. The bastard was right about that.

Gwyna was grabbing my arm and leading me inside. “Sit down—let me—”

“What are you doing?”

“Taking care of you. I thought I'd give you a bath, and then—”

“Just get me my old tunic. We've got a dinner appointment.”

She stared at me, her mouth open, until I closed it with a kiss. She kissed me back, and I didn't care if the servants saw. Another faint shout rose from outside.

God, I was hungry.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

We were about an hour overdue. I leaned against the cushions. The litter swayed to the steady footfalls of the bearers, but I wasn't in the mood for a lullaby. I'd come close to killing a man. I was hungry for food, still hungry for blood. Always hungry for my wife. I watched Gwyna as she gazed out at the soft rain.

She was wrapped in a shiny golden tunic that glittered when she moved. A twilight-colored mantle draped her shoulders. She wasn't hiding anything in that outfit.

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.