The Curse-Maker (15 page)

The Entertainment waited a decent interval for the Host to be patted on the head by the Hostess. Then he looked around the room as if he'd just noticed it. His mouth opened, and the voice was sonorous and commanding.

“Dark. We must have dark.”

Secunda giggled and arched her back toward Faro as if to say, “Take me now.” Big Belly and his wife squirmed a little. Gwyna's eyes were still on the necromancer. I was beginning to dislike him. He was like a smell that started out tolerable and got rank the more you inhaled. I didn't object to a con man. Just an oily, good-looking one.

Secundus clapped his hands and told the slaves to put out the lamps. One by one, the room started to become dim, then gray, then nearly dark. It was always dull.

Magic didn't mean much to me. People like Faro had to make a living, too, and I could usually spot the tricks they pulled on rubes like Secundus. Most necromancers were small, starved-looking men, with lean eyes and furtive mouths, who looked like they not only spoke to the dead but borrowed their clothes. Their palms would be sticky with sweat and anything else that could help them deliver a trick or two. Faro's hands were dry and steady, more like a doctor's than a magician's. I couldn't see anything on them but skin. Not yet.

When all but one of the lamps were extinguished, a slave brought out a small table with three vases and set it in front of Faro. He picked up the first one and held it up so we could make out its shape in the darkened room.

“A sacrifice of milk—pure milk, mother's milk, suckled from the breast of the earth—”

Secunda stifled another giggle, choking it down when her mother turned a baleful look on her. He poured it into a shallow dish reverently, then held up another vase in the same way.

“A sacrifice of wine—pure wine, god's seed, spent from the body of Bacchus, intermediary of the dead, savior of man, intercessor with Proserpine—”

An Orphic touch. Nice work. Showed Faro was educated, maybe even a member of one of the more exclusive religious cults.

He poured the wine into the same dish, just a few drops. No one made any sound. I stifled a yawn. I hoped it wasn't the old water-to-wine trick. That was hackneyed fifty years ago.

Finally, he picked up the smallest vase. “A sacrifice of honey—pure honey, the moisture of the goddess, the life-giving Proserpine, the wife of Pluto, and mother of the dead.”

The honey drizzled very slowly. Materna leaned forward, waiting for it to drop from the vase, as if she believed the royal couple of Hades would suddenly materialize in the dish. Even Secunda was awake and not picking at her fingernails.

When enough honey oozed out, Faro shook his head three times, shook the plate three times, and started to chant.

“
Amoun aunantou laimoutau riptou mantaui mantou
Apollo, hear me, Apollo, God of prophecy and oracles,
Amoun, Aunantou laimoutau riptou mantaui mantou,
hear me, oh goddess Minerva, goddess that is Sulis, send your fallen, send your secrets,
amoun aunantuou laimoutau
!”

The chant got louder and more emphatic with every name. Faro's eyes were rolled back—I could see the white catch in the dim light. A breeze wafted through the room, and the last lamp flickered and died out.

“
Amoun aunantuou laimoutau
! Sulis—your secrets—the dead—lately or past—who is here who wants to speak? Who is here who misses? Who is here that yearns?
Amoun
—”

He was yelling, building to a crescendo that was almost a scream. The hair on my arms was standing on edge. Faro was good. Too good for Aquae Sulis.

“—
aunantou—laimoutau!
Sulis—let them speak! Let them hear! Let them see!”

Silence fell like a gravestone. Ragged breathing was the only thing I could hear. Then Faro's voice … but it didn't sound like Faro's voice. It sounded like a child's.

“Mommy—Daddy—we—we love you.”

Crescentia was sitting rigidly upright, her body trembling in the darkness. Big Belly—Pompeius—was beside her, his arm around her shoulders.

“P-Pompeia? Is—is it you?”

The voice came again. It didn't seem to be coming from Faro.

“Yes, Daddy. Sextus is here, too. We miss you, Daddy.”

Crescentia turned to Pompeius. “Oh—God—”

They clung to each other. Faro's mouth was open, but I couldn't see it move.

“We—we love you, too, children. Please—please see us—come to us—if you can.”

“Yes, Daddy—we will see you and Mommy soon. We will come to you.”

The voice was fading. Crescentia was sobbing in Pompeius's arms, and her husband was a grayer shade of gray. My muscles were sore from tension. What the hell was going on here? Who the hell was Faro, and what was he getting out of causing people pain?

I was halfway off the couch when a different voice pierced the darkness. This one was deep and authoritative.

“Another one waits. One who cannot talk.”

It was Materna, this time. She thrust her neck out like a turtle, eager for more.

“Someone else? Who?”

The voice was silent for so long I thought it was finally over and we could turn on the lights and get some answers. Mumius grumbled and said something about “not what he expected.” I agreed with him. Then the voice started again.

“One is waiting. He … he cannot talk. He is … too young. He was—never born.”

I heard some shuffling next to me and felt sorry for Crescentia. Would the bastard never stop?

“He—he does not blame her … it is not her fault—for what happened. He says … he says he wishes he could have been—he would have been—a good son … for his mother. And his father.”

One of the tables crashed to the floor, and I could see a figure below me rush off the couch and out of the room, sobbing uncontrollably. Poor Crescentia. I was off the couch and standing. I'd settle the bastard. No one should have to go through something like that.

Secundus called for a light, and a slave lit a lamp to my right. The table was on the floor, and wine was spilled everywhere. Pompeius was sitting, staring down, clutching his wife in his arms. Crescentia was still on the couch. It was Gwyna who'd run out.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The shock was starting to wash over me, but I didn't have time to feel it. Much. Secundus was staring at me, slack-jawed and stupid. Pompeius tried to quiet Crescentia. Materna's eyes glittered, darting, the show better than she'd hoped. Faro lay stretched on the couch. Time to break the fucking trance.

I grabbed his tunic and lifted him off the floor. “Mumius! Hold this man. I want him in custody.”

Secundus started to speak. “We—that is, I—”

I turned to him. The look on my face was enough. “Get your sword out, Mumius.”

“But—I don't—I don't have author—”

I lowered Faro to the ground suddenly, hard enough to make his knees buckle. “You do now. I'm a senior officer.”

His
gladius
was shaking, but he pointed it in the right direction. I stared down at Secundus.

“He'll stay here tonight. You'll all stay here tonight, except for Pompeius and Crescentia.” They were still holding each other, and I nodded at them. “You've had enough. Go home.”

I threw Faro back into the couch and watched it skid a few feet across the mosaic floor. Then I turned to leave. Materna rose from her seat like the Minotaur.

“Just who gave you the right to come into my home and—”

I spun around from the doorway.

“Who gave you the right to do what you've done to my wife? Or them?”

I pointed at Pompeius and Crescentia, who were gathering their cloaks, and my finger was shaking with anger. I stared at her glistening eyes, the fat, yellowed face.

“Keep your mouth shut, lady. Or I'll shut it for you.”

I shoved two slaves aside on the way out, tried to find the litter bearers. They were nowhere in sight, and neither was Gwyna.

“Gwyna!” I didn't give a fuck who heard me. “Gwyna!”

Still no answer. I started walking.

I called her name intermittently, as I wound down a low hill to the outskirts of the city street. Calm night, not too cold. She'd be all right. She had to be all right. Goddamn it, Arcturus. You should have known. You're a doctor—you've seen it often enough. You should have fucking known.

“Gwyna!”

No answer. I stepped on rocks and didn't feel them, and the toga—the toga she bought me—was turning brown. She wouldn't like that. I held my breath and screwed up my face tight. No time for it. No time for panic. No goddamn time.

“Gwyna! Where are you?”

Rocking back and forth, back and forth. Keep walking. Not the goddamn time, not now. Not now. The drops fell on my hands, and I rubbed my cheeks and jaw viciously. Keep it in, goddamn it, Arcturus, find your wife. Find your wife.

“Gwyna! Gwyna! Please answer!”

I was almost at the villa. The door was there, and I pushed it in and was running into the
triclinium
when Lineus appeared.

“Where is she?”

“Your—your wife isn't here, sir. The litter bearers returned, but she wasn't with them. I assumed you both decided to walk back.”

“She's not here—are you sure? She's got to be—Gwyna! Gwyna!” I ran through the house bellowing her name. Lineus and a trail of slaves followed me.

“Gwyna? Gwyna!”

They looked in every corner—outside in the garden, the barn. Lineus mobilized them like an army, staying with me while I threw open every door in the house. No Gwyna.

I turned to Lineus. “I'm going to look in town. If she comes in the meantime—”

“I'll hold her here for you, sir. Don't worry.”

Aquae Sulis was a pale cream in the moonlight. The fountain by Natta's shop sputtered its uneven drops, my footsteps echoing, a hurried, urgent shuffling in the desolate market square.

What did she say about Diana? A special goddess? And the Isis—it made sense now. Diana and Isis. Both goddesses for childbirth.

Don't think, Arcturus. Don't feel. Just walk.

“Gwyna! Gwyna!”

No answer but my own voice bouncing against the yellow limestone. Maybe—maybe a goddess—it was a chance. A hope. A prayer.

I found her looking over the edge of the spring. The square was empty, and the temple was just a rectangular building, but the spring still bubbled.

She was holding the Diana stone I'd bought for her, face pale. She couldn't do it here—it's not easy in six and a half feet of water. But she was thinking about it.

Her shoulders were bare and cold to my touch, the skin flat and dead. As dead as the child we'd made together.

“I'm … I'm sorry I failed you. I should've known—should've realized … and—and I'm sorry we lost a child.”

Her face was emotionless. Empty, like Faro's eyes. I shook her, her hair tumbling.

“Goddamn it, I love you! I don't care if we never have children! I love you! Do you understand? You! Not your goddamn womb!”

She looked at me. Her hand crept to my face.

“You don't want—you don't want…”

“Of course I'd like to make a family—with you. Because I'd like to leave the world a better place when I'm gone, and the only way I know how is to make sure there's a little bit of you still on it. But you … when I thought you might—please, God, please—please don't…”

I couldn't hold it back anymore. I clung to her, holding her so tight against my chest that I could feel her heart beat, even through the sobs that were shaking my body.

We stood like that for a long time. And the spring bubbled.

*   *   *

The look of relief on Lineus's face endeared him to me.

“I see you've found her,
Dominus
.”

“Yes, and I'm never going to misplace her again, I promise you.”

I looked down into Gwyna's eyes. “Lineus, please tell the litter bearers we won't need them tomorow. Give them the day off. Could you make sure that for the rest of the night, we are not disturbed—I mean, complete privacy. Is that clear?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

He beckoned the door slave away and handed me a lamp. By the time we reached the bath, there was no one else in the entire wing.

She told me everything.

How she kept it from me because of Gnaeus's death. She wanted to surprise me, give me life again. Give me a son.

She told me how she was doing some cleaning and bent down and started to bleed. It wouldn't stop, and the pain kept growing. All she thought of was the baby—how to save the baby. I felt like I was bleeding myself, hearing how she fled to our room, holding a pillow to her abdomen, trying not to scream. She didn't want Hefin to know.

She told me how she sent Coir for Stricta. Thank God she knew what to do. Stricta thought of Gwyna. She saved her life. The baby—the baby was four months along.

Stricta kept Gwyna's secret. Even from Bilicho—because she knew Bilicho would tell me, and Gwyna … Gwyna didn't want me to know.

Then she told me how Coir had seen the bloodstains, realized what happened. How she used the knowledge to keep Gwyna in the palm of her hand.

Despair gave way to anger. Anger at Coir, even a little anger at Stricta, but especially at myself. Gwyna didn't tell me she was pregnant because she wanted to surprise me, bring me out of my guilt and depression. She didn't want to interfere with my—duties. But the only goddamn duty that mattered was the one I failed her in.

She was still dressed in her purple gown, shivering. She needed the warm water. I did, too. I brought some towels and the oil and started to undress her, as carefully and gently as my shaking hands would allow.

“Ardur—what are you—”

“Shh. You did this for me once, when I came home dirty and sore and miserable. Now it's my turn.”