Free The Curse-Maker by Kelli Stanley Page A

sardonically. “Did that answer your questions?”
    I looked at him. “I always have more.”
    He sucked his teeth again. “I have a few minutes before I’m needed at the temple.”
    â€œWhat do you do there?”
    He laughed without mirth. “I’m a temple cleaner. Lowest of the low. A priest in training, suckling the hind tit of Sulis, and lucky to get a few drops.”
    â€œHow does the temple collect its taxes? From people like Bibax, I mean.”
    He raised his eyebrows and said in a dry voice: “You’ll have to ask Papirius about that. I don’t get to touch the money.”
    â€œDid you know Bibax?”
    He shrugged. “Not personally. I saw him around. He wasn’t the best or the worst of his kind.”
    I asked slowly: “Will the lady get her ring back?”
    He gave me a funny look. “Maybe. Sometimes they do. Fairly often, in fact. The curses are a way to keep order in this town. We’re far away from Rome—that little fortlet doesn’t give a damn about us—and we don’t have vigiles or even a native system left to enforce the laws. And it’s a small place, Aquae Sulis, for all the cosmopolitan airs it puts on. And that’s only been within the last few years, anyway.”
    â€œHow do curses enforce the law? I don’t understand.”
    â€œDon’t you? You can’t keep secrets in this place. Take a look around. Between everyone going to the baths, and the sellers at the marketplace—who would sell their grandmother’s teeth if they could find a buyer—everyone knows everyone else’s business. If Flavia’s ring gets stolen, there are a limited number of people who probably did it. If word gets around that she’s had them cursed, well—why take chances? Just leave it at the temple anonymously.”
    â€œWhy should a thief care?”
    â€œBecause a thief has to live here, too. And a thief depends on Sulis’s waters, just like the rest of us.” He shivered. “I’m getting cold. I’d better go back.”
    â€œCalpurnius—what if the thief isn’t a local?”
    He paused and smiled. “Ah. That would be a problem, wouldn’t it? We hope fear will keep them all in line.” Then he turned to leave again.
    I changed tactics. “Do people die here?”
    That stopped him midstep. “What did you say?”
    â€œDo people die here?”
    He laughed again, a dry wheezing sound that sounded frozen and empty.
    â€œHave you looked around you? Of course, people die. They come here sick—wills made out—she can’t save all of them, can she? Not even a precious medicus could do that.”
    He gave me a withering look and headed back to the Temple, his toga still trailing a growing collection of dirt. On an impulse, I ran after him.
    â€œ Ultor —the message. Was Bibax killed because he was a failure? Because his curses didn’t work?”
    He was only a few feet away from the temple, and there were other priests on the steps. He stood for a moment, wavering. Then he turned around and stared at me.
    His voice was lowered. “Oh, no. I don’t think so.” He looked from left to right, then up at me, his brown eyes narrowed and penetrating. “I think Rufus Bibax was killed because his curses came true.”
    For the second time that day, I was left standing on the pavement, feeling like a gaping idiot.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    I spent the rest of the afternoon quizzing the offering stalls and curse-writers. No one wanted to admit knowing Bibax. No one mentioned his curses as possessing an unnaturally high success rate.
    The priest knew something, obviously. Something I’d undoubtedly have to pay for. I accumulated a collection of eye creams, a badly sketched picture of the temple pediment, a blank piece of lead, and some clay testicles, the purchase price of small information. I shrugged and threw them into the