Furies Read Free Page B

grumbled. There was no chance of sleep now. He crawled out of the bed, his feet found the cool floor, and he pulled a tunic from the chest. He held it up to the light. It was cheap linen fabric, so plain and such a provincial design he despised it but there was little choice. He gave it a cautious sniff, made a face at the off-smell, then slipped it on anyway.
    “Where are you going?” Xanthias asked as he emerged from the cubicle of a bedroom.
    “To the Agora, then the baths.”
    “The baths?” the slave said in a tone that made Aculeo feel like a wayward child.
    “It’s been days since I last went. I can barely stand my own smell.”
    “A wiser man would simply be thankful he still has a nose with which to smell his own stink. We’ve not a crumb of food in the pantry and our rent is due.”
    “I’ve got business prospects still,” Aculeo said irritably. “I’ll take care of it.”
    “Business prospects!” Xanthias cried. “Haven’t you already tossed away what little money we had left on dice and wine?”
    “You’re a slave. You know nothing of business.”
    “I know something about a fool and his silver though.”
    “I’ll be back in a few hours with some money and tonight we’ll eat and drink like Caesar himself. Alright?”
    “A flawless plan, Master. Then tomorrow we can go back to starving like Tantalus.”

     
    Aculeo watched the pawnbroker turn the emerald earrings about between his stubby fingers, holding them up to the dusty light. “You should’ve brought ‘em to me at the same time as the necklace,” the man said. “I could have given a better price.”
    “I wasn’t planning to sell them at all,” Aculeo said dully. He’d pawned the necklace over a month ago, and the coins he’d gotten for it had flowed through his fingers like water.
    “No one ever does,” the pawnbroker said with a dusty laugh. He laid the pretty baubles out on the counter, giving them a weary appraisal. “Eighty.”
    “Eighty sesterces? That’s outrageous, I paid over a thousand …”
    “I don’t care what you paid, I care what I can get for them. We’re hardly in the Painted Stoa here after all.” The man pursed his lips distastefully. “Alright, a hundred but that’s it.”
    “Three hundred or …” The pawnbroker snorted.  “Two?” The man slid the earrings back towards him. “Fine. A hundred.”
    It’s alright, Aculeo told himself hollowly as he watched the pawnbroker tuck the earrings away and set a small stack of coins out on the counter. It’s fine, I’ll buy them back and more when things are right again.  
    The Street of the Pawnbrokers was little more than a rutted back alley that reeked of piss and old vomit, its tight walls echoing with the dusty clink of mallets from the workers inside the countless shops along its length. It was part of the close-packed artisans’ ghetto, tucked in amidst the Street of the Goldsmiths, the Street of Textiles, the Booksellers Street and all the rest. The upper balconies of the surrounding tenements huddled together, practically touching one another, blocking all but a sliver of blue sky overhead.
    The day was early still, pedestrians meandering into the shops were a scattered few. Aculeo’s mind wandered as he headed towards the baths, his joints aching as he walked over the cracked, uneven paving stones, feeling aged beyond his years.
    “Aculeo?” a chipper voice cried. “Aculeo, is that you?” Aculeo reluctantly turned around and saw a plump, finely dressed young man with a large port-stain birthmark across his right cheek approaching him. Fundibus Varus – of all people to run into down here. The gods do enjoy shitting on mortal men.
    Aculeo forced a tight-lipped smile. “Varus. What a pleasant surprise.”
    Varus’ eyes flitted over Aculeo’s patched, plain tunic, a joke compared to his own pure white linen finery embroidered with glittering gold, blue and scarlet thread. Varus tore his gaze away in an effort to appear not to