Free Furies by D. L. Johnstone Page A

now? Just burst in on him?” Gellius asked.
    “Someone should wait in the alley in case he tries to escape,” Bitucus said.
    “I’ll do it. Just try not to fuck things up too badly,” Trogus grumbled, and limped to the back door. The others headed up the stairs. The only room with a door was at the end of a short hallway. The door hung crookedly in the frame, its boiled leather hinges cracked and peeling.
    Gellius knocked. No answer. “Maybe he’s out.”
    “To hell with it,” Aculeo said and put his foot to it. The door flew open with a crash against the wall. The room was dimly lit, a narrow pallet of a bed the only furniture, and smelled of must and sour body odour.
    A creaking noise sounded near the window. A figure hiding in the shadows turned slowly to face them. Aculeo recognized the outline of the man’s face. “Iovinus,” he whispered, scarcely able to believe it.
    “He’s going to jump!” Gellius cried. The three men raced forward to grab Iovinus before he could escape through the window to the alley below. But he only turned about slowly with a shuddery creak. By the dim light of morning they could see the way Iovinus’ eyes and tongue bulged from his bloated purple face and the rope that led from the rafters knotted about his broken neck.

     
    “Hephaestus’ crooked cock,” Trogus growled as they lay Iovinus’ corpse out on the thin straw mattress. Trogus started coughing again, long, painful hacks that seemed to shred his lungs.
    The tavern-keeper, a fat little Illyrian, kept running his stubby fingertips back through his thin, greasy hair. “This is bad luck, very, very bad luck,” he muttered almost to himself. “Why did he have to kill himself in my tavern of all places?”
    “Where are his belongings?” Aculeo asked.
    “What belongings?”
    “He was carrying a satchel when I saw him at the Hippodrome. Where is it?”
    “How should I know?”
    “You must have stolen it,” Bitucus said.
    “I never did such a thing!” the Illyrian cried. “I’m a man of the very greatest virtue!”
    “He searched the room when your man went out yesterday,” the thrattia said helpfully. “He didn’t find anything worth stealing though, just a few wax tablets.”
    “Filthy whore! I did nothing of the sort!”
    “He lies,” she said indifferently.
    The tavern-keeper cuffed the back of her head. “Stupid cunt!”
    “Illyrian assfuck!” she cried, then pounced on the man, knocking him to the floor, striking him about the face with a flurry of fists. Skinny and raw-boned, she likely would have beaten the man to death if the others hadn’t pulled her off of him.
    “Enough!” Aculeo said. “Where are the tablets now?”
    “I don’t know,” the tavern-keeper wheedled. “I swear! I noticed them only by accident when I came to clean his room, a service we gladly provide all out guests. I never touched them though, my most sacred oath!”
    “For what that’s worth. What was written on them?”
    “I have no …”
    “Some numbers and such, he told me,” the thrattia said. “He wouldn’t know anything else. He can’t read.” The tavern-keeper fell into a sulk, not daring to say another word.
    Aculeo reluctantly searched Iovinus’ corpse – hardly a pleasant task. He found a few sesterces in the coin purse and a small, round silver box tucked in a small pocket behind the belt. The box lid was engraved with a mythological scene, Perseus perhaps, and inlaid with mother-of-pearl – fine work, rather expensive looking. Aculeo flipped open the lid. There were three small waxy spheres within, each the size of his thumb tip and coated with tiny black seeds, glistening with an oily residue. He smelled them – incense. An odd thing for a man to carry about.
    They made their way into the narrow hallway to get what passed for fresh air in the foul little tavern.
    “Such a tragedy to lose a dear friend,” the tavern-keeper said, breaking the silence. “My deepest condolences. If you