'No!'
'A life for a life,' I said. 'Titus for Furius.'
'No, ruin for ruin! The death of Titus will not restore our house, our fortune, our good name.'
'Nor will the death of Cornelia. If you proceed now, you are sure to be caught. You must be content with half a portion of vengeance, and push the rest aside.'
'You intend to tell her, then? Now that you've caught me at it?'
I hesitated. 'First, tell me truly, Furia: did you push Titus from his balcony?'
She looked at me unwaveringly, the moonlight making her eyes glimmer like shards of onyx. 'Titus jumped from the balcony. He jumped because he thought he saw the lemur of my brother, and he could not stand his own wretchedness and guilt.'
I bowed my head. 'Go,' I whispered. 'Take your slave and go now, back to your mother and your niece and your brother's widow. Never come back.'
I looked up to see tears streaming down her face. It was a strange sight, to see a lemur weep. She called to the slave, and they departed from the thicket.
We ascended the hill in silence. Lucius's teeth stopped chattering and instead he began to huff and puff. Outside Cornelia's house I drew him aside.
'Lucius, you must not tell Cornelia.'
'But how else-'
'We will tell her that we found the tunnel but that no one came; that her persecutor has been frightened off for now, but may come again, in which case she can set her own guard. Yes, let her think that the unknown threat is still at large, plotting her destruction.'
'But surely she deserves-'
'She deserves what Furia had in store for her. Did you know that Cornelia had placed Furius's name on the lists, merely to obtain his house?'
'I-' Lucius bit his lip. 'I suspected the possibility. But Gordianus, what she did was hardly unique. Everyone was doing it.'
'Not everyone. Not you, Lucius.'
'True,' he said, nodding sheepishly. 'But Cornelia will fault you for not capturing the impostor. She'll refuse to pay your full fee.'
'I don't care about the fee.'
'I'll make up the difference,' said Lucius.
I laid my hand on his shoulder. 'What is rarer than a camel in Gaul?' I said. Lucius wrinkled his brow. 'An honest man in Rome!' I laughed and squeezed his shoulder.
Lucius shrugged off the compliment with typical chagrin. 'I still don't understand how you knew the identity of the impostor.'
'I told you that I visited the house on the Caelian Hill this morning. What I didn't tell you was what the old slave woman across the street revealed to me: that Furius not only had a sister, but that his sister bore a striking resemblance to him-so close, in fact, that with her softer, more feminine features, she might have passed for a younger version of Furius.'
'But her horrid appearance…'
'An illusion. When I followed Furius's widow to market, I saw her purchase a considerable quantity of calf's blood. She also gathered a spray of juniper berries, which her little girl carried for her.'
'Berries?'
'The cankers pasted on Furia's face-juniper berries cut in half. The blood was for matting her hair and daubing on her neck. As for the rest of her appearance, her ghastly makeup and costuming, you and I can only guess at the ingenuity of a household of women united toward a single goal. Furia has been in seclusion for months, which explains the almost uncanny paleness of her flesh-and the fact that she was able to cut off her hair without anyone taking notice.'
I shook my head. 'A remarkable woman. I wonder why she never married? I suppose the turmoil of the civil war must have destroyed any plans she had, and the death of her brothers ruined her prospects forever. Misery is like a pebble cast into a pond, sending out a wave that spreads and spreads.'
I headed home that night weary and wistful. There are days when one sees too much of the world's wickedness, and only a long sleep in the safe seclusion of home can restore an appetite for life. I thought of Bethesda and Eco, and tried to push the face of Furia from my thoughts. The last thing on my mind was the haunted soldier and his legion of lemures.
I passed by the wall of his garden, smelled the familiar tang of burning leaves, but thought nothing of it until I heard the little wooden door open behind me and the voice of his old retainer.
'Finder! Thank the gods you've finally returned!' he whispered hoarsely. He seemed to be in the grip of a strange malady, for even though the door allowed him more room to stand, he remained oddly bent. His eyes gleamed dully and his jaw trembled. 'The master sent messengers to your house-only to be told that you're out, but may return at any time. But when the lemures come, time stops. Please, come! Save the master-save us all!'
From beyond the wall I heard the sound of moaning, not from one man but from many. I heard a woman shriek, and the sound of heavy objects being overturned. What madness was taking place within the soldier's house.
'Please, help us! The lemures, the lemures!' The old slave made a face of such horror that I started back. I reached inside my tunic and felt my dagger. But of what use would a dagger be, to deal with those already dead?
I stepped through the little door. My heart pounded like a hammer in my chest.
The air of the garden was dank and smoky; after the drizzle, a clammy cold had descended like a blanket on the hills of Rome, holding down the smoke of hearth fires, making the air thick and stagnant. I breathed in an acrid breath and coughed.
The soldier came running from within the house. He tripped, fell, and staggered forward on his knees, wrapped his arms around my waist and looked up at me in abject terror. 'There!' He pointed back toward the house. 'They pursue me! Gods have mercy-the boy without a head, the soldier with his belly cut open, all the others!'
I peered into the hazy darkness, but saw nothing except a bit of whorling smoke. I suddenly felt dizzy and lightheaded. It was because I had not eaten all day, I told myself; I should have been less proud and presumed upon Cornelia's hospitality for a meal. Then, while I watched, the whorl of smoke began to expand and change shape. A face emerged from the murky darkness-a boy's face, twisted with agony.
'See!' cried the soldier. 'See how the poor lad holds his own head in his fist, like Perseus holding the head of the Gorgon! See how he stares, blaming me!'
Indeed, out of the darkness and smoke I began to see exactly what the wretched man described, a headless boy in battle garb clutching his dismembered head by the hair and holding it aloft. I opened my mouth in awe. Behind the boy, other shapes began to emerge-first a few, then many, then a legion of phantoms covered with blood and writhing like maggots in the air.
It was a terrifying spectacle. I would have fled, but I was rooted to the spot. The soldier clutched my knees. The old slave began to weep and babble. From within the house came the sound of others in distress, moaning and crying out.
'Don't you hear them?' cried the soldiers. 'The lemures, shrieking like harpies!' The great looming mass of corpses began to keen and wail-surely all of Rome could hear it!
Like a drowning man, the mind in great distress will clutch at anything to save itself. A bit of straw will float, but will not support a thrashing man; a plank of wood may give him respite, but best of all is a steady rock within the raging current. So my mind clutched at anything that might preserve it in the face of such overwhelming, inexplicable horror. Time had come to a stop, just as the old slave had said, and in that endlessly attenuated moment a flood of images, memories, schemes and notions raged through my mind. I clutched at straws. Madness pulled me downward, like an unseen current in black water. I sank-until I suddenly found the solid truth to cling to.
'The bush!' I whispered. 'The burning bush, which speaks aloud!'
The soldier, thinking I spied something within the mass of writhing lemures, clutched at me and trembled.
