Stalling so that we didn’t dress together. Just like last night. I swallowed my worry and asked: “What should I wear?”
A game she enjoyed. After wrapping up in a cloak and clucking over the few clothes I’d brought, she pulled out a white undertunic, a dark brown outer tunic with gold trim, a studded military belt, and a green cloak-my only fashionable lacerna.
“I’ll have to buy you a few more things. You didn’t bring your toga, did you?”
“Why the hell would I drag that moth-eaten old-”
“It isn’t moth-eaten, and you look very dignified in it.” She sighed. “Well, if you didn’t bring it, I’ll have to buy you a new one. Although a ready-made toga with a senatorial stripe will be hard to find.”
“Why do I need it? Why should I wear it?”
She looked at me as if I were a child. “Because, Arcturus. This is a society town, remember? If you’re going to fit in and get people to talk to you, you need to look the part.”
She glanced at her own clothes, which almost filled the chest in the corner. “I’m just glad I brought my red palla. I wish I’d thought to bring some more jewelry, though.”
I kept forgetting that we weren’t really on vacation. This was work-as foul a job as cleaning the Cloaca Maxima. Rome’s biggest sewer bore a striking resemblance to Grattius’s mouth. I told Gwyna I’d see her in the triclinium. She was busy choosing a bracelet but held her cheek up to be kissed.
The household was so efficient I thought maybe one of the slaves could figure out who murdered Bibax. They bustled around, serving a perfect breakfast of oats, figs, honey, hard-boiled eggs, and cream, all at just the right temperature.
Mine rose when Gwyna walked in. A gleaming underdress flashed from beneath a marigold tunic, fastened with a violet belt under her breasts. Her hair was piled in soft curls, and a gold bracelet of native design shone at her wrist.
“You’re-you-”
She waited patiently until I regained the power of speech.
“Yes, Ardur?”
I swallowed. “You’re beautiful.”
The smile nearly blinded me. “Why, thank you.”
She reached for an egg. To distract myself, I stood up to look at Agricola’s calendar.
“Kalends of October already. Fides’s Day.”
“Does that mean it’s a holiday?”
“No. We’re just supposed to pay honor to Fidelity.” I gave her a dark look. “In that outfit, I don’t think it could hurt.”
She swallowed the egg she was eating and burst out laughing.
* * *
After breakfast, I found one of the slaves-how many were there?-to take messages to the fort. A military courier would deliver them to Agricola and Bilicho. I scrawled a few lines on a couple of sheets of papyrus while Gwyna told Ligur and Quilla to get our bath things ready.
If the Aquae Sulis thermae were like every other bath in the province, there would be separate hours for men and women to bathe-women in the morning, from daylight until the sixth or seventh hour, and men from then until sundown. I thought we’d walk down the hill into town, but Gwyna shook her head at me.
“Arcturus, think. You were invited to dinner by one of the duoviri. You’re famous-and you’re investigating a murder. You must do what is socially expected, if you want to get anywhere. We’ll take the litter.”
She said it so decisively I couldn’t argue. “But Grattius-”
She raised her eyebrows. “Grattius? What does he have to do-oh, I see. No, silly, Agricola has a litter here, and two litter bearers. They’re much bigger and better looking, too.”
I knew I’d hate the goddamn thing.
I grumbled, but somehow we were able to fit bathing shoes, bathing clothes, towels, ointment boxes, strigils, an exercise ball, a perfume case, and makeup equipment. There was no room for Ligur and Quilla; there was barely room for us. They walked. I wished we could.
Gwyna planned everything. “I’ll stay all morning, and catch the latest gossip. That’s the best way I can help, I think.” She looked at me to make sure I was listening. She smelled like lavender and sandalwood. “Then I’ll do some shopping-find you a toga-and perhaps another mantle for me-and then I’ll meet you at home when you’re done.”
“Done with what?”
“Arcturus, aren’t you paying attention? The baths. That’s where we’ll find out everything. Isn’t that part of your plan?”
I tried to look as though I had a plan. “Well-yes. I was going to talk to Philo first. I can do that while you’re bathing. Then take a look around.”
I tore my eyes from Gwyna, and felt my mind grind into gear like a millstone. “I-I mean, we-need to find out about Rufus Bibax. That Ultor curse was used to leave a message, for someone still in Aquae Sulis. And the spring … convenience? Or a warning to the temple? And what about-”
Gwyna was smiling at me. “We’re here, Ardur. Now, don’t forget to put some oil on your hair. I know you don’t like it, but-”
“I know. It’s expected.”
“And watch your language. Don’t use that street Latin you like so much, and not too many British words.”
“Anything else?”
She reached over and squeezed my hand. “Be careful.”
Then she stepped out of the litter, which had been so carefully lowered by Agricola’s strapping bearers that I barely noticed it. I watched her blend into the swirl of colors of the open forum, heading for the entrance to the baths.
So much for a holiday. Time to work.
* * *
It wasn’t the kind of town I’d want to die in.
The yellow stone was pretty, especially in a dim dawn or failing twilight, like a woman who picks up sailors at a wharf-side bar. The closer you got, the more you wanted to run for the next ship out of port.
The noise made you wish you were deaf if you weren’t already, and even a morning breeze couldn’t waft away the stench of decay. It lingered sensuously, the choice perfume of the marketplace.
The scent fanned from the potions hawked by a shrill old woman, who promised life just short of immortality. She didn’t tell you she was twenty-six. It kissed the sweaty little men in sweaty little tents selling spells for a toothache. They’d knock it out with a hammer for only two asses more. It touched the bored wood-carvers, chiseling shapeless blocks into breasts or legs, whatever it was that needed a prayer. It even followed you to the spring, where you’d mumble an imprecation, and throw something in. Maybe you’d live another week. Maybe Sulis would take care of you.
A one-eyed woman could tell your future, and see if you were still in it. A pockmarked youth with a perpetual itch sold Egyptian lotions. Amulets for every disease ever known and a few that someone made up dangled from the neck of a large woman with a growth under her chin. She’d let you touch it-for a price.
Retired soldiers hobbled by, one-legged, while women with festering breasts started to cry because they couldn’t nurse, their babies shrunken from illness or hunger. They bought potions made of cow piss and olive oil, and Babylonian unguent that was local beeswax dyed purple. The sellers mixed in shit from the public shithouse, of course. Everyone knew it was a phony if it didn’t smell bad. But what the hell-put it on, rub it in. Sulis will take care of you.
There were other faces in the crowd, sharper and quick-eyed, recognizing opportunity and holding open the door. Old people in chairs were carted this way and that by hopeful relatives who weren’t hoping for recovery. Stepmothers eyed their stepsons carefully and fingered certain concoctions with an appreciative gleam. Then there were the parents with the baby keeping them up at nights. They were looking for a potion-soaked rag, and they leaned on the counter and you could see in their eyes they weren’t overly particular about what was on it.
I looked up. The sky was blue and cloudless. Maybe for the rich, the pretenders like Grattius, all this was invisible. They could drift in and out of the waters, indulge their vices, enjoy being blind. But I couldn’t shut my eyes fast enough. I walked around to the east side of the temple to find Philo.