T
he woman was red-eyed and weary. Since sundown she had been in and out of
tavernae
soliciting business, but the loins of the Romans were not responsive to her decayed charms. She hated the prospect of going home. Home was a tumbledown hut at the foot of the Palatine Hill. Built into the hillside above were a number of tombs, bleak reminders of mortality. On the summit stood some of the finest houses in Rome. Their sewage combined with noxious liquors seeping from the tombs to rot the footings of her walls. She had grown so used to the smell that she no longer noticed it
Her shack was dark and lonely, and without a client for the night, Justine could not even buy oil for her lamp. There was nothing to eat either, but that scarcely mattered anymore. Her teeth were so rotten she could hardly chew and had to stifle her hunger pangs with soggy bread and overripe fruit when she could get them.
There was little pleasure in such a diet. At last she admitted defeat and set out for the Palatine.
The night seemed darker than any she could remember. “I am too old for this,” she said, talking to herself for company. “When I was young and beautiful they all wanted me; oh yes, I could command any price then. Now they laugh at me.”
Almost every statement she made was prefaced by, “When I was young and beautiful,” until the phrase had become a joke. “When you were young and beautiful that old she-wolf was still suckling Romulus and Remus!” her listeners would jeer.
People could be so cruel. Justine's eyes brimmed with self-pity. Once she had laughed at older harlots who were glad to settle for marriage to some rough farmer from the country and the security of food on the table every night. In her youth she had believed such women were foolishly sacrificing freedom for the drudgery of slavery. Now she would have accepted an offer of marriage from even the most impoverished goatherd or lime digger and been grateful, but the offers had dried up with the last of her beauty.
“This winter I'll be forced to get a bowl and beg,” she muttered to herself. Then a remnant of almost-forgotten pride surfaced. “No, I won't beg. I'll kill myself first. I will. I'd rather be dead.”
In the enveloping darkness, something snickered.
The woman froze. “Who's there?”
Silence. But the silence was not total; she could swear she heard breathing close by. She reached into the neck of her gown and fumbled between her scrawny, sagging breasts and produced a sliver of metal. “Who's there, I say. I warn you, I have a dagger here and I know how to use it.”
This time there was no mistaking the low chuckle. The sound came from off to her right, in the direction of the marshy waste ground that comprised much of the valley between the Capitoline and Palatine Hills. The
path she usually took home lay across that space, but she felt a curious disinclination to follow it. “Perhaps if I go back to that last tavern my luck will turn,” she murmured to herself.
Facing around, she began to retrace her steps. The breathing followed her.
Other sounds accompanied it now, whispers and murmurs and obscene smacking noises. She felt a sudden relief. She was being followed by young boys then, males still embarrassed by their burgeoning sexuality and resorting to childish games. But she knew how to deal with them.
Halting abruptly, she threw wide her arms. “That's all right. You needn't be afraid. Step up and show me what you're made of. I'll be good to you; I'll break you in right. Come now,” she wheedled, “come to me.”
Out of the darkness, something came.
Justine had thought nothing could shock her anymore, but she was wrong.
From the shadows swarmed amorphous apparitions that hissed and growled and sniggered, writhing obscenely as they advanced. Some appeared as gaping mouths with slimy tongues or slobbering lips that mimicked sucking. Others were oversized genital organs, a phalanx of throbbing phalluses advancing on the horrified woman. Still others were mere sparks of sulfurous light that gave off the stench of carrion.
Central among them was a figure who appeared human yet moved in rhythm with the disgusting phantasmagoria. He chuckled again.
“You called me?” asked the
siu.
Justine tried to run. He caught her before she had gone more than a few steps and threw her to the ground. Gibbering, the other horrid forms closed around them in anticipation.
“You must forgive my admirers,” the demon growled. “From time to time they follow me like shadows, and they are just about as useful. Let us dispense with them,
shall we?” He whirled on his companions with such a ghastly roar that they faded into the night, leaving him alone with his prey.
Justine fought with all her strength and the experience of too many years spent on the streets. She knew how to hurt a man. She kicked and clawed until he pinned her wrists with one hand, squeezing them tightly enough to block circulation. He stopped her from kicking him by the simple expedient of throwing his full weight on top of her.
To her surprise, he was not nearly as heavy as he looked. But he stank abominably.
She tried to scream then. He covered her mouth with his own and swallowed the scream, then drew back enough to say, “I suppose it is too much to hope you might be a virgin?”
Before she could reply he chuckled again. The sound was mirthless and cruel. “No, I suppose not. A pity.”
“Do whatever you want; just don't kill me!”
“Kill you? I assure you, the mere thought of a corpse disgusts me.” Justine felt a shudder run through the body pressed against her own.
“I'll do anything ⦔
“Good, very good. I appreciate compliance in a woman. Tell me, what do you want most in all the world?”
“To get away from you!” she snapped.
“Oh, we can't allow that. Try again. Consider your situation. You are a harlot, I suspect, and thus in the business of selling yourself. If in exchange you could ask for anything you liked, no matter how impossible, what would you ask for?”
Her frantic mind skittered sideways and she said the first thing that popped into her head. “I'd ask for my youth back.”
“Better, much better. I think that could be arranged.”
“Don't be ridiculous. I'm old; I'm thirty,” Justine
confessed in a whisper. She turned her head to one side, trying to avoid his fetid breath.
As if he read her mind, he said, “Do you dislike my odor? Someday you will smell even worse, unless you find a way to stop time. That is what I can offer you. In exchange for something I require, I can make you half your age and keep you young forever.”
“You're mad.”
“The gift I describe is in my power to give, I assure you.”
“Only a demon could do such a thing!”
He stroked her sunken cheek. “And what do you think I am? I can make this flesh bloom again and do more besides, much, much more. In return, however, I have special needs that must be satisfied.”
Justine could not imagine what “special needs” this repulsive being might have. She was convinced he was mad and dangerous as well. In her years walking the streets of Rome she had met any number of madmen and learned it was best to placate them whenever possible.
“Just let me get up,” she urged, “and we can talk. I'm not used to doing business like this.”
He chuckled again. “On the contrary, I should say this is the very position in which you are most accustomed to doing business. But you may get up. If we are going to be partners, you deserve that courtesy.”
Partners. The idea repelled her. But if she could stall for time, perhaps she could find a way to escape. A few minutes ago she had been ready to consider dying; now she wanted most desperately to live.
“Do you indeed?” he asked abruptly, reading her thoughts, which were a clarion call in the Otherworld. In one lithe movement he was on his feet and reaching down to offer her a hand up.
Although she tried not to, Justine shrank from his touch. His hand was icy cold and very dry, the skin rough and flaking. His sharp nails bit into her palm like
tiny fangs. “Take me home with you,” he said. “We can talk there.”
The last thing she wanted was to lead this lunatic to her home, but she had no choice. With fast-beating heart she made her way across the fetid waste ground at the foot of the hills. He followed close behind her. She did not have to look back to know he was there. She could smell him. Just knowing he was there made the flesh burn on the back of her neck. In fact, her skin felt peculiar all over, as if she had been in the sun too long. A hot flush radiated from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. She toyed with the idea of claiming diseaseâa trick a Scythian whore had taught her in her youthâthen remembered that he could read her mind.
In the end she simply kept walking. For so many years she had done as men asked; the habit was deeply ingrained.
At last she came to the pitiful shack that was her home and tugged open the splintery door. There was no lock; she had nothing to protect, so she could not slam the door in his face and lock him out. But he was too close behind her anyway. She felt him brush past her into the darkness. Then she heard the scratch of fingernails on pottery.
“I have no oil for that lamp,” she started to say just as her one small lamp flared into light. He stood holding it in front of him while its flame threw eerie shadows on his face.
The sight made her nauseous.
“Do you not find me handsome?” he asked sardonically.
She could not bear to look at him. In the wavering light, his face was the color of putrid meat. “You must be diseased. Your skin is flaking off.”
“Unfortunately that is correct, but not because of disease.”
She could not resist asking, “Does it hurt?”
“You dear child. So tenderhearted.”
“I'm not a child and I'm not tenderhearted either.”
“But you would help me if you could?” he persisted.
“Of course, but I don't see how I ⦔
“In return for your youth, you will do anything?”
“Anything.”
“'Tis done, then. Now it is your turn.” Reaching for her with one hand, he caught her by the wrist and drew her closer to the light “Look down,” he commanded. “Dear child.”
Justine looked down.
The arm he was holding had been sunburnt and scrawny, scored with old scars; but even as she watched it began to change. The contours grew as plump and prettily rounded as in her youth. Her gnarled fingers became white and supple once more; then the broken fingernails were whole again, forming perfect arcs.
He slowly moved the lamplight along her arm, then across the front of her body. “Observe yourself, Justine.”
She did not ask how he knew her name. Her attention was focused on the full, firm breasts plainly visible in the low neck of her gown.
He released his hold on her. Her discolored metal mirror appeared in his hand and he held it before her face. “What do you see, Justine?”
“Is that me?” she asked tremulously, lifting a wondering hand to her cheek.
The girl in the mirror copied her gesture exactly. The girl was barely fifteen, with eyes like sloes and a ripe, red mouth. Not a line marred her perfect complexion; she was vibrant with life.
Staring into the mirror, Justine said, “I used to look like that.”
“You look like that now. And you will forever, unless I withdraw my gift. Or ⦠if we should fail to conclude our business arrangement ⦠.” He twisted the mirror away, then held it back. This time Justine found herself gazing upon the old familiar face that greeted her each
morning, haggard and wrinkled, with pouches under the eyes and an apathetic expression.
She caught his hand. “Ah no, bring her back!”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. Yes! I will do anything. Anything.”
His lips quirked into a smile. “Somehow I thought you would,” the demon said.
H
oratrim was dismayed to hear Tarquinius demand possession of Vesi. But before he could leap to his feet in protest, Delphia caught hold of his arm, squeezing firmly. “Don't be rash. The king's bestowing a great honor on her. Your mother will live in the royal palace and be treated like a queen.”
“I won't let my mother be any man's harlot!” Horatrim had never heard the word before, yet it suddenly burned through his mind.
Tarquinius overheard the outburst and blandly replied, “You misunderstand my intention, Horatrim. I don't need her for my bed; I have plenty of willing women. I want to install her as my personal soothsayer.”
Slowly Vesi turned her head and met her son's eyes. For a single instant he thought he saw his mother's true expression: terrified, lost. Then it faded and was gone.
It was close to noon the following morning when a sedan chair arrived at the house of Propertius Cocles and obsequious slaves offered their bowed backs for Vesi to step upon so she could climb in. She seemed quite content to go.
Severus had been too drunk to go home after the banquet, so he and Khebet had been given beds for the night. They now joined the party gathered at the door to wish Vesi farewell. Severus had a cloth soaked with vinegar wrapped around his head, but the Aegyptian showed no sign of a hangover. He was bathed, shaved, and neatly dressed, every hair in place. Even his fingernails were buffed and shining, and he exuded a throat-catching aroma of pungent herbs and exotic spices.
“I charge you to take good care of my friend,” Delphia told the king's servants.
“And remind him that it was I who found her for him,” added Propertius. Turning to Horatrim as the sedan chair disappeared down the street, he said, “You could not possibly have made better arrangements for your mother's welfare. Relax and be happy for her.”
“But she speaks so rarely,” Horatrim protested, “and when she does much of it is so obscure.”
Severus interjected, “No matter how obscure her pronouncements, they will be taken as messages from the gods. Propertius doesn't set great store by the gods, but I assure you Tarquinius does. As does my friend Khebet,” he added, indicating the Aegyptian.
Severus continued, “Unfortunately the rest of us have to work a bit harder at pleasing the king. I want to hear more about these paving ideas of yours, Horatrim. Propertius, do you mind if we take your guest on a little tour of the city? Perhaps the air will help clear my head.”
“Go right ahead,” said the trader with an indulgent wave of his hand. “I thought you would find Horatrim interesting. Just remember who introduced you to him.”
“He will probably try and charge me an introduction fee,” Severus grumbled as they strolled out into the street.
Rome by daylight was sprawling and squalid but still seethed with energy. The earliest settlers had been farmers who built their huts on the hills overlooking the Tiber in order to leave the fertile river valley free for grazing and cultivating. With the passage of time the pastoral settlement had gone through several transformations, becoming a market town for local produce, then a regional market involved in both export and import, then finally the headquarters of a fledgling bureaucracy devoted to managing the wealth of Rome. Now ambassadors and trade delegations from friend and foe alike made frequent visits to the city on the seven hills.
Horatrim noticed other kohl-eyed Aegyptians. Khebet even bowed politely to one, acknowledging recognition though nothing was said between them.
Khebet, it appeared, was a man of few words. He and Severus exchanged an occasional remark, but for the most part he was content to pace sedately beside the others. The only obvious interest he showed was in the new Temple of Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva that crowned the stony Capitoline Hill.
“I built that,” Severus said proudly. “Completed it within the time allowed and under budget. Observe the Etruscan-style portico. That was to please Tarquinius, of course.”
Rome was a city of wonders to Horatrim. He had never seen so many people in his life, and he was becoming increasingly aware that each person emitted a distinctive musical sound, a barely audible chime or lilt or even percussive beat. Some were pleasant, others discordant. Because he knew no different, Horatrim assumed that everyone else could hear this music, too.
“Listen!” he exclaimed.
Severus and Khebet stopped and looked at him quizzically.
“Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” asked Severus. The Aegyptian said nothing, merely raised one eyebrow.
“That!” Horatrim insisted, turning his head from side to side. He was trying to identify the direction of the martial music he was hearing, a sound as of trumpets in the air. His gaze fell on a side street just as an unusually tall, strikingly handsome man came striding out into the sunlight. The man, who appeared not much older than himself, walked as if the earth was hardly good enough for him. He was followed by a company of ceremonial bodyguards wearing plumed helmets and carrying highly polished spears at a uniform angle. They too moved with arrogance and grace.
The tall man's eyes met Horatrim's. They were a clear green with no gentleness in them. Theirs was the look of an eagle. They examined the young man, then flickered across Severus and the Aegyptian ⦠and dismissed them.
He strode past and was gone.
“Who was that, Severus?” Horatrim wanted to know. The force of the tall man's personality had jolted him across the space between them. “And wasn't he ⦠splendid!”
“Him? He's Lars Porsena, a prince of Clusium.”
“Clusium?”
“Hill country in Etruria, which makes him one of your own in a manner of speaking. He's visiting the king as head of a trade delegation. My brother knows him; Propertius knows everybody.”
“A prince,” murmured Horatrim, “from Etruria.” He turned to watch the bodyguard march away up the street. They were tautly muscled, clean-shaven, well-drilled. He thought them more impressive than the Romax ⦠Romans. “Were you ever a warrior?” he asked Severus.
“Me? I'm not such a fool as to be willing to lay down my life for someone else.”
“But surely to be a warrior is a noble calling.”
“I'm a senator. We do battle in a different way. When it comes to physical combat I prefer to be a spectator. I
go to the arena whenever there's a performance scheduled and wager on my favorite fighterâor the bearâbut I have no interest in risking my personal hide.”
Eyes fixed on the fast-disappearing Lars Porsena and his men, Horatrim said, “I think I would like to be a warrior.”
“You're a bit late. The Etruscans have lost their enthusiasm for warfare.”
The young man smiled almost dreamily. “We might find it again.”
“Better not let the king hear you say that. Our Tarquinius boasts of his noble Etruscan forebears, but he's really a Roman at heart. He truly believes the accident of having been born here makes him superior to anyone else, be they Hellenes or Carthaginians or even Etruscans. The welcome he gives trade delegations is all on the surface, good business for the city. If Lars Porsena or his warriors so much as waved a spear out of turn they would never see Etruria again.
“And speaking of Tarquinius ⦠since we've come to a particularly steep street, why don't you show us what you mean about laying paving, so I can discuss it with the king?”
They spent the early afternoon wandering around Rome. The Aegyptian, Horatrim eventually learned, held an exalted position in his own country. “I am a priest of Anubis, the Jackal God,” Khebet elaborated, briefly breaking his silence.
Severus took up the conversation. “Aegyptian priests are experts in mathematics, the science of numbers. They build quite remarkable temples by relying upon complex calculations no one here understands. Propertius knows Khebet through his trade connections in Aegypt, so he arranged for him to come and work with me for a time, instructing my men.”
Khebet gave a faint smile, the merest tightening of his lips over his teeth. “In return you pledged sacrifices to Anubis, remember.”
“Yes, yes, of course!” Severus hastily assured him. “Bounteous sacrifices, just as we agreed.”
As they continued their stroll Severus called Horatrim's attention to the situation of various streets and asked for comment. In responding, the young man displayed a knowledge of construction that led the Roman to remark, “You certainly learned a lot in the cities of Etruria.”
“I've never seen the cities of Etruria.”
Severus's jaw dropped. Then he grinned. “Surely you jest with me.”
“It's no jest. I was born and raised in the Great Forest. Rome is the only city I've ever seen.”
“But that's simply not possible! How could you concoct such ideas out of nothing?”
“They don't come out of nothing. I ⦠it's difficult to explain this, Severus. But I simply know these things. And sometimes I hear voices.”
Khebet turned and gave him a penetrating look.
“Doesn't everyone hear voices?” Horatrim asked, surprised by the expression on the Aegyptian's face. “They tell me what to do. Sometimes,” he added ruefully, thinking of the girl Livia.
Severus hardly knew how to react. On rare occasions, perhaps once in a generation, someone produced a totally new idea. He had heard of such god-gifted geniuses, though he had never met one himself. Yet if Horatrim spoke the truth he was one of that number. “If your knowledge originates in your own head,” he told Horatrim, only half-joking, “we must be careful to see that no one chops it off.”
Late afternoon found them approaching an expanse of damp, rat-infested waste ground in the valley between the Palatine and Capitoline Hills. Here was dumped every sort of rubbish from oyster shells and dead dogs to aborted infants. Around the perimeter stood an assortment of makeshift shacks, some little
more than rotten planks leaning against each for support like drunkards leaving a tavern.
Horatrim remarked, “If this were drained you could build decent houses here. Or a market square or even some fine public building.”
“How would you suggest draining it?”
The young man squatted on his haunches, picked up a stick from the ground, and began drawing diagrams in the mud. Severus and Khebet leaned over his shoulder, watching. From time to time the Aegyptian gave a murmur of approval.
His first diagram concluded, Horatius went on, “As for the river, I am surprised you have no substantial bridge across it. Surely it would be to the city's advantage to unite both banks by something wider and more stable than that flimsy wooden structure you have now. Look here. You could span the Tiber like this, starting at this point, using arches for support ⦔
Lost in his work, he drew furiously as the two men watched him in silent amazement.
At last Severus found the voice to say, “I want you to work for me, Horatrim. In fact, I insist upon it.”
“Work for you? Why?”
“I'm the king's personal builder, his architect. When Tarquinius wants something constructed he commissions me to draw up the plans and contract materials and labor. There's always a nice profit to be made; he never questions the costs I quote him. No business head at all,” Severus added with a wink. “While you, my young friend, have a quite remarkable head. If you're willing to come up with ideas exclusively for my firm, I will reward you handsomely. Very handsomely.” He winked again.
“You want to buy my ideas?” Horatrim asked incredulously.
“Something like that, yes. An arrangement rather than a purchase however; one that would benefit us
both. You would be apprenticed to me to learn the building trade, and in time you might even have a share of the business. A very small share, of course. What do you think?”
A short time ago Horatrim had been a primitive child living in the Great Forest. Now he was being accepted as a man and offered work of importance in the city of Rome.
For one wild moment he almost laughed, but he was afraid they would misunderstand. With an effort he kept his face serious. “My mother foresaw this, Severus. She said my future was here, though neither of us had ever been here and we did not even know any Romans. But she insisted we come. You know the rest.”
The older man gave a low whistle. “She is obviously a great seer. But for great seers to survive, they must temper their pronouncements with discretion. I wonder what she'll foresee for our Tarquinius.”
As the day wore on the three men were too preoccupied to think of food. Only when a bank of dark clouds swept in over the river did Severus realize how late it was. “We had better go back to my brother's now, Horatrim. If I don't deliver you in time for dinner he'll suspect I've kidnapped his guest or begin charging me for your time.”
When they reached the house, the first person Horatrim saw was Livia. The Roman girl was sitting casually by the door as if she had just paused there for a moment. In truth, she had spent an impatient day awaiting the young man's return. At sight of her, all of Horatrim's plans and designs went out of his head. Once more his inner voices failed to guide him, but he was beginning to feel more confident.