3
LIGHT STREAMED THROUGH THE SLATTED WINDOWS of the abandoned house. Babieca had come to think of it as the house with no insula, a wayward gosling abandoned by its mother. He was used to seeing his alley, and it felt more than strange to open his eyes to this place, dust-choked and unfamiliar. His bare feet shifted on the uneven floor. There was a faded fresco on the southern wall, but its actors had long since crumbled away. He could just make out the foliated borders, along with something that may have once been a leaping dolphin but was now a smudged blue crescent. The rest was shadows and broken plaster. He turned, about to say something to Roldan, and found himself looking instead at the naked miles. He’d grown used to seeing his friends this way, but her presence made him self-conscious. He turned away for the sake of modesty.
“It’s fine,” she said. “We’ve all been to the thermae.”
“That’s all well and good,” Morgan replied, “but we’re also used to appearing alone, in the privacy of our blind corners. This business of materializing together is unnerving.”
“That’s the usual way. There are only a few places in the city where it’s possible to cross as a group. Felix taught me how to do it but also warned me that it can be dangerous. If you rely too much on these places, you can lose your alley. You’ll simply forget where it is. Our alleys are safe spaces—blind corners, as you call them—but this house is exposed.”
“I’d like to quit debating this and get dressed,” Babieca said. “Please say you weren’t lying about our clothes being here. I have no wish to walk naked through the Subura.”
The miles knelt down and lifted two flagstones, revealing an alcove beneath the floor. Because she was naked, her action resembled some unearthly feat of strength, a trial of Fortuna that you’d expect to see immortalized in marble. Trying not to stare too fixedly at her muscular arms, Babieca realized that she could probably defeat them all bare-handed. Morgan would give her some trouble, but Fel was ultimately stronger than the sagittarius. He shifted his gaze to the fold beneath the floor and was relieved to see his cithara and tunica. Felix’s instrument had been interesting to play, but he preferred his own.
“Thanks for not selling our things.”
“Aside from the bow, it wouldn’t have been worth the trouble.”
“What? The strings alone—”
“Shut up and put your bloody clothes on,” Morgan said.
They dressed awkwardly, trying to ignore the strangeness of the moment. At first, Babieca kept his eyes on the dolphin smudge. Gradually, though, he found himself stealing glances at the bodies around him. In the apodyterium, looking was encouraged, but here it seemed brazen. He couldn’t help it, though. His curiosity was too powerful. He saw that Morgan’s breasts were small, with dark brown nipples. Her arms were dusted with light hair, and she had a curious constellation of freckles on her back. Roldan’s white backside reminded him of two marble bookends he’d seen once in Domina Pendelia’s tabularium. He avoided looking at Fel, worried that she might break his arm if she caught him staring. He was dimly aware of a less hostile side to her, something almost maternal, but he couldn’t quite remember where he’d seen it.
The thought of losing his alley made him nervous. It was the only safe space in the city, the one spot where nobody could find him. On that first day, the warmth of those filial stones had kept him from going crazy. He’d stood in the alley with arms crossed, bare ass pressed against the dimpled wall. It was strange to think that Egressus, ruled by Basilissa Pulcheria, had its own maze of alleys. He’d understood from the beginning that there were other cities, but even if he’d been able to afford passage by ship, the haunted harbor made things very difficult. Only a handful of vessels docked, and they never stayed for long. Travel by foot wasn’t really an option. Even beneath the sun, it was easy to lose your way in the forest. Once night fell, you became a target for silenoi, and worse.
“Have you been to Egressus?” he asked Fel. It was a random question, but now seemed like as good a time as any to ask. They were all slightly askew. It’s harder to lie about something when you’re halfway out of your clothes.
“No,” she said, fastening the leather straps of her greave. “Felix has, I think.”
“Is there anything Felix hasn’t done? He’s practically a miracle.”
“He helped you when no one else would. You owe him a debt.”
“Don’t be so quick to paint him in bright colors. He helped us from the shadows, at no cost to his reputation. I didn’t see him running to protect the basilissa. In fact, if I remember, I saw him disappear in the opposite direction.”
“He was looking for me. He knew that the other miles would attack you, or turn you in for the reward. Apparently, I wasn’t smart enough to consider that. I helped you because Felix said you were good people.”
Babieca wasn’t sure how to reply. “Thank you,” was all he said.
“You can thank me properly if we survive.”
“All right,” Morgan began. “I understand that you’re taking a risk to help us. I don’t know you very well, so please don’t be offended by this question, but—why, exactly? If this goes wrong, you could face exile from the Gens of Miles.”
“Your gens could do the same thing. What’s your reason?”
“Well, I’d like to avoid a civil war, if possible. And it was my arrow that saved Pulcheria, so it might as well be my stupid decision that keeps this plan going. You’re not really part of it, though. You could easily walk away.”
“You’re right,” Fel said. “You don’t know me very well. If you did, you’d realize that I don’t walk away from people who need my help.” When she smiled, there was a trace of bitterness to it. “Anyway, my gens doesn’t accept me. There’s a story behind that, but now isn’t really the time.”
Roldan was staring uneasily at the door. “You said this wasn’t a protected space. Does that mean that someone could enter at any moment?”
“Not a lot of people know about this house. From the outside, it doesn’t look like much. I doubt anyone’s going to come charging in.”
“It’s fascinating,” he said. “I always thought that to leave the city—I mean, to really leave it—you had to return to your alley. But this place acts like a sort of bridge. Could we go anywhere from here?”
“Felix understands it more than I do. All I know is that if you still remember the other world, you can cross over. It depends on your willpower, though. The longer you stay in Anfractus, the harder it is to remember what came before.” She looked at Babieca. “You’ve spent the least time here, which is why you were able to cross on the first try.”
“How sweet,” Morgan said. “You’re almost virginal.”
“If only that were true.”
The miles fastened her scabbard. The helmet they’d seen her in previously must have belonged to the Hippodrome, for she was bareheaded now. Babieca caught Morgan staring at her again. Her desire was anything but subtle. He couldn’t imagine the sagittarius in bed with anyone, let alone a miles. The rivalry between their gens made even friendship inadvisable. Would Morgan pursue it? He’d never heard her speak of desire for anyone else. Then again, Roldan hadn’t volunteered any such information, either. Until yesterday, Babieca realized, he’d thought of both friends as insubstantial, devoid of appetite. Because they didn’t visit the basia or talk about their erotic conquests, he’d thought them flat and sexless. But they had their own unspoken intensities to deal with.
Roldan was still looking at the door. Babieca wanted to say something to him, to reassure him somehow, but the words caught in his throat. Everything had seemed simple when they were together, like two joints gliding into place. They’d made something with bright edges, a sealed mechanism dancing on its own. Apart, they had only words. Babieca had always preferred notes to nouns. Both deceived, but you had to forgive music, because it was older and somehow more necessary than conversation.
Fel turned to Morgan. “You and I are on equal footing. We both carry a die. We both have a gens behind us. I get the sense, though, that you’re the leader of this company. So I’ll defer to you. How should we proceed?”
Morgan looked surprised for a second. Uncertainty flashed across her eyes.
Roldan stepped forward. “We’ll follow you. Whatever your decision is.”
“I reserve the right to haunt you,” Babieca said, “should this turn out badly. That aside—I’ll do what you ask.”
She nodded slowly. “Good. Each of you has a unique strength, and if we combine them, we may actually succeed. Our first step should be recovering that killer bee. As long as Basilissa Latona controls it, she can loose another swarm of silenoi on Pulcheria.”
“Silenoi hunt in packs,” Roldan said, “not swarms. You’re mixing metaphors.”
“Thank you for that clarification.”
Babieca raised his hand.
Morgan gave him an odd look. “You can just speak.”
“With your leadership being official and all, I just wanted to make sure that I was following protocol. I wouldn’t want to—”
“Very well. I think we should go back to the artifex. She knows more than she was willing to admit. I could see it in her eyes when she was talking about that thing. It filled her with curiosity. And the eunuch must have had some reason for choosing her.”
“She could easily betray us.”
“To whom? Narses? The girl’s implicated—she’s the one who gave us the fucking bee. If she tries to sell us out, she’ll end up rotting alongside us in the carcer. The other prisoners will find all manner of unseemly uses for someone like her. I think she’ll keep quiet about what we’re planning.”
“I’d like to hear more about that,” Roldan said. “What comes later, I mean, once we’ve spoken with the artifex. How are we getting back into the arx?”
“One plan at a time,” Morgan replied.
It was clear that she didn’t know the answer, but Babieca wasn’t as worried as he might have been. The Arx of Violets had many subtle points of entry. Like any fortress, it was designed to resist a frontal attack. Its murderous curves allowed invaders to be herded in, like cows led to the slaughter. But there must have been a postern gate, a tunnel, some passage that could be used for the transfer of supplies. The lime-walled undercroft, full of food and other precious things, must have been accessible from the harbor. In stories, the basilissa were always fleeing by boat—no mention was ever made of them leaving by the front gate.
“What do you know about this artifex?” Fel asked. “Besides the fact that she’s curious and probably wants to save her own skin.”
“Well”—Babieca cracked his knuckles—“we know that she’s tired of fixing fountains for the basilissa. She was manipulated by the eunuch, just as we were.”
“Don’t sound so surprised. That’s their job.”
“She’s young,” Morgan said. “But smart. I’m inclined to agree with Babieca. She may not be an ally, but we’re in the same cauldron.”
Morgan managed to look slightly chagrined. “We don’t know.”
“Excellent. You want to charge into the Gens of Artifices, demanding to speak with an unknown girl. That couldn’t possibly fail.” She turned to Morgan. “Not that I’m questioning your decision, of course.”
“It’s morning.”
The miles frowned at Roldan. “I can see that. Because I have eyes.”
Her tone failed to bother him. “What I meant was, because of the hour, she won’t be in her quarters. Instead, she’ll be at the tower, paying respect to Fortuna. We may not know her name, but we’d still recognize her.”
“Fel has a point, though,” Morgan conceded. “Storming the tower in search of a red-haired girl is no better than roaming the halls of the gens.”
“We don’t all have to hang about,” Babieca said. “I can go alone. The lot of us would attract attention, but nobody’s going to notice a single trovador. They’ll just assume I’m playing for coin. Musicians are always underfoot.”
Fel didn’t seem totally convinced. “Even if you find her, what’s to keep her from screaming when she recognizes you?”
“He can be charming,” Morgan said. “At times.”
They left the house and walked toward the edge of the Subura, where the Tower of Artifices was located. The sun was punishing, and it gave them the excuse to lower their hoods. They formed a tight circle around Morgan, trying to obscure her appearance. Both the aedile and the arquites would be looking for a renegade sagittarius, but the rest of them might still escape notice. Babieca doubted that the tale told by the tower guards—involving a magic lyre and a fainting mechanical fox—had been received as anything close to an accurate report. It sounded like the type of story you’d make up after being caught asleep at your post.
Fel was probably known to the other miles, but that could work in their favor. Even if they disliked her, as she’d suggested, her presence lent them a certain respectability. A meretrix would have been better, but a miles certainly worked in a pinch. As they made their way through the crowded streets, Babieca felt for the first time that he was part of a company. Two of them were die-carriers, and another could speak to lares. His cithara was obviously the weak link, but he possessed something else, something more valuable. Unlike the auditor, the miles, or the sagittarius, he had no reputation. Most people ignored him, because he was simply the entertainment. That gave him freedom to move about unchecked.
They reached the tower. A few younger artifices were milling around the entrance, playing with gear-driven toys that sputtered steam. Babieca turned to Morgan.
“Wait close by. I’m not sure how long this is going to take, but if things heat up, you should be prepared to run. Don’t wait for me.”
“We absolutely won’t,” Morgan replied.
“I was expecting the tiniest bit of resistance.”
“Just go. Try not to make her scream or throw you out a window.”
He approached the entrance. The artifices glanced at his cithara, then returned to urging on their machines. Babieca walked up the spiral stairs. Builders hugged the walls, intent on assembling or stripping down devices. Tiny brass wheels and other mechanical entrails littered the stairs, and he had to look closely to avoid them. One of the artifices was working on a tripod with golden wheels. The tripod gave a sudden lurch, its wheels grinding, and Babieca realized with a start that it could move on its own.
“Excuse her,” the artifex said absently. “She’s newly made.”
The towers had always intrigued him. Built to please Fortuna, they provided a haven, court, and school for each of the day gens. The Tower of Artifices, over time, had become more of a workshop than a place of worship, and Babieca saw very little obeisance going on. You were supposed to turn inward, to regard yourself and your place on Fortuna’s wheel, but the artifices concentrated entirely on deciphering scrolls and tablets. They were thinking about their next project, not their fate. He didn’t know what went on in those towers devoted to the night gens, but he’d heard stories.
The meretrix would know. He’s of the night gens.
The Tower of Meretrices, he thought, must be a giant basia fucking the skyline. A monument to love and coin. He pictured Felix kissing the wheel. He must have had his reasons for taking the mask. As Roldan had pointed out, trovadores and meretrices were separated only by a spoke on the wheel, parallel gens that watched each other uneasily. Music’s reverie was not so far from love’s. Both songs loosened the limbs, both made you close your eyes, wishing to lock the moment in amber. Perhaps it was useless to assume any moral high ground.
Babieca reached the top floor. Light cut through tall, red-tinted windows, making everyone look as if they’d been drawn fresh from the forge. Unlike the sanctum of sagittarii, which had been sparse and well ordered, this room was a blaze of activity. Builders were gathered in loud groups, comparing machines, swapping parts, decrying the tools of their rivals. Devices leapt and played at their feet, sparking, clattering, making awkward circles, while their creators looked on with fierce pride. The altar to the goddess was covered in mechanical debris. Her wheel turned, powered by water, but its hiss was drowned out by the cries of the builders. Only a single artifex knelt before it. Babieca spied a lock of red hair, which had escaped from her cowl, and smiled.
He knelt beside her. “What do you ask of Fortuna?”
She turned, and her eyes widened. “What are you doing here?”
“Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”
The young artifex glanced around the room. “You’re wanted, you know. You, the auditor, and the crazy archer who felled the silenus. Anyone in this tower could find a dozen ways to spend the reward they’d earn for your capture.”
“They’re distracted, and I have an unremarkable face. Answer my question.”
“I’m asking forgiveness.”
“Well, you should. That bee nearly killed a basilissa.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“You can’t deny that you’re in as deep as we are.”
“You’re practically underwater. I’m still clinging to the shore.”
“Let go of the branch and help us.”
Her look was between fear and anger. “I’m not yet a builder. Just a nemo with no die and no machina to serve her. Basilissa Latona won’t hesitate to kill me.”
“Nor us. It’s going to be a huge killing party, which is why you should come.”
“How are you so flippant about this?”
Babieca held his hand out to Fortuna’s wheel, letting it graze his fingers as it passed. Though the motion was artificial, it still made him feel less alone.
“I’m scared,” he said. “Like you, I’m no die-carrier. I’ve no right to ask a boon of the goddess. All I have is music and a bit of luck. But my fear doesn’t matter. If Basilissa Pulcheria dies, there will be war. Die-carriers and dominae are going to decide the course of that war. But the nemones—you and I—will be ground underfoot. We won’t have a chance. I don’t know about you, but I love this city. I want more time. I want to grow. If Anfractus goes to war, I’ll be stoking a hypocaust again, if I don’t become a meal for some hungry silenus.”
The artifex considered his words for a moment. Then she leaned in, speaking even lower in spite of the noise around her.
“I may have an answer,” she said. “But it’s in the undercroft.”
“Can you sneak me in?”
“We’ll need to find you a proper tunica. If nobody’s looking too closely, you might pass for a builder. Follow me.”
She led him to the floor below. It was an empty tabularium. The stone shelves were filled with scroll cases and pumiced covers, along with ragged strands of decaying papyrus. Next to one of the shelves, someone had placed a wooden crate. Babieca saw that it was filled with an odd assortment: lenses, gears and bolts, a sandal, bent wires, a broken nutcracker.
“What is that?”
“A vessel for lost things. Every floor has them. Artifices are incredibly forgetful.”
She reached all the way to the bottom, withdrawing a soiled tunica. It was covered in grease spots and sported multiple tears. Brushing the flies away, she shook out the tunica, then handed it to Babieca.
“This has been here for weeks. I think it belonged to one of the more ancient builders. He’s a bit touched now, and sometimes he leaves his clothes in the oddest places.”
“Did he piss in that?”
“I imagine so. Put it on.”
“You’re joking.”
“Were you planning to knock someone out and steal their clothes? There’s hardly time for that, and it will draw notice, even from this lot. Put on the tunica. I’ll say that you’re my idiot brother and I’ve just dragged you from a ditch somewhere.”
“I feel as if you planned this.”
He undressed, folding his own tunica neatly and laying it in the vessel. Then, shuddering, he put on the soiled garment. This close to his skin, it smelled faintly of vomit, among other things. He stifled a gag. His flesh was crawling, but he couldn’t argue with her logic. Attacking an artifex would be stupid. This might actually work, unpleasant though it was.
Babieca followed her down the spiral stairs. A few of the less-distracted builders looked up as he passed, wrinkling their noses. Their interest waned after a moment, and they returned to their tasks. A filthy artifex wasn’t enough to fully divert their attention. The air grew chill as they passed underground, to the lowest level. A bored builder stood by the entrance to the undercroft, reading a tablet. He looked up, and his eyes narrowed.
“Who’s he? Why does he reek?”
“Found him passed out beneath the aqueduct,” she replied. “He’s family, though. What can you do?”
“If I found my brother in that state, I’d leave him there.”
She gave him a long look. His expression suddenly changed, as if he’d only now recognized her. Then, paling slightly, he nodded.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
They passed through the door that led to the undercroft.
“What was that about?” Babieca whispered.
“It’s complicated. I’ll explain later.”
His reply died softly as he took in the room. It was twice as large as any undercroft that he’d seen before, with a vaulted ceiling. Mosaics on the walls depicted Fortuna as architect, laying the foundations of Anfractus. Devices of every shape and size were gathered in piles, some of which came close to brushing the ceiling. Babieca saw clusters of lodestones and glass spheres for kindling fire. There were alarm clocks, door openers, self-trimming lamps that would burn all night if left alone. Discarded sundials and water clocks had been pushed against the walls, next to rusted pumps and lengths of broken chain. One pile was composed entirely of wooden birds, which must have warbled at one time but were now silent.
“We keep all manner of things here,” she said. “Broken machinae, toys that never worked, devices no longer in fashion.”
Babieca regarded a giant water screw leaning against the wall. Its teeth reminded him of a savage, burrowing animal. Next to it was a glittering case with a brass disc inside.
“What’s that thing?” He pointed to the small box.
“You can attach it to a wagon. It chimes with regularity, letting you know what distance you’ve traveled.”
“Strange,” he said, surveying the clocks and dials, “how officious we are about parceling out time. All that really matters is day and night.”
“Time is rhythm. Without it, there’d be no music.”
“You’ve got an answer for everything.”
“That’s what my mother used to say.”
He followed her through the chamber. Glass counters winked at him from the mounds, resting amid shattered spokes and bits of leather. He saw dispensers with coin slots—which he knew had once been popular—huddled next to a cracked water organ. In one corner was a frightening mechanical likeness of Fortuna. The paint was peeling from her face, and she held a libation cup whose gems had been pried off.
“The cup used to pour milk,” the artifex said. “And her eyes moved, or so I’ve heard. Such things are deemed ostentatious now. Latona buried it here, along with whatever else she thought was too bright or loud.”
“She may have been right about that one,” Babieca admitted. “I wouldn’t want Fortuna’s torso splashing milk on me.”
He followed her to the dimmest fold of the undercroft. There sat a pile of rings, fibulae, and other adornments. Most were rusted, but a few still held chips of onyx and chalcedony. They were fashioned into countless shapes: diminutive wheels, vine leaves, nightingales, and the inevitable cock meant as a fertility charm.
“Fibulae used to be a huge business,” she said. “You could fit them with all kinds of concealed mechanisms. A bird would chirp at your breast. A snake would writhe about your finger, driven by the teeth of tiny gears. A few of them, the older ones, even had real power. They could let you walk unseen in the middle of the day or give you the gift of many tongues. But that art was lost centuries ago. Now, they’re just bright, useless things.”
“If they’re so useless, why did you take me here?”
She looked away. “I’ve done a bit of research on the bee fibula.”
“I knew it.”
“I tore through every tablet. Some of the schematics and descriptions were beyond my understanding, but I did find something that mentioned a similar device. It had multiple functions—the most obvious being a sonic diversion, meant to draw the attention of the silenoi. Like a dog whistle.”
He watched her dig through the abandoned lapidary. She picked up a copper bird, examined its base for a moment, then put it back.
“The bee is only part of the mechanism,” she said absently, plunging her hands deep into the gleaming pile. “With the base, you can call the insect to you, or even send it flying back to the one who made it. We may not have the original base, but according to what I’ve read, they were all built along the same principles.”
His eyes widened. “Are you saying that you can make one?”
“I can try. I’ve got all the spare parts that I could ask for, and like I said, I’ve studied the fibula. I’m no expert, but I may be able to fashion something close.”
“I can see why Narses chose you.”
She looked slightly embarrassed. “Don’t sing my praises yet. Much of this is beyond repair. Just try to be quiet, and watch the door.”
He fell silent, watching her instead. She was too distracted to notice. Her hands moved quickly, lifting and sorting, occasionally removing a piece to lay it aside. She assembled a collection of small gears, a silver beak, three lengths of wire, a brass disc, and something triangular that he couldn’t identify. He watched her break brooches, sifting through their interiors and taking what she needed. The resulting hoard seemed random to him, but she stared at it thoughtfully, examining bright fragments. Eventually, she began to fasten things together. She tested gears, rubbing their brass teeth along her thumb. Like the artifices he’d seen on the steps, her mind was entirely focused.
Something moved in one of the piles.
“Did you hear that?”
She ignored him. The room was silent for a moment. Then he heard it again, a discrete rustling in the debris. He prepared himself to face a murderous machina, or perhaps the crazy old artifex that she’d mentioned earlier, whose stinking tunica he wore. What emerged from the pile, though, was neither of those things. He actually felt relief when he saw those familiar black orbs, swiveling in their brass sockets.
“Sulpicia! How long have you been here?”
At this, the young artifex looked up. Whatever she’d been assembling dropped from her suddenly nerveless grasp. Her eyes widened.
“Long enough to see that this one knows what she’s doing.” The fox regarded her mildly. “You’re trying to reconstruct a fibula, correct?”
She stared at the fox’s whirring tail. “Are you—what I think you are?”
“Her name’s Sulpicia,” Babieca said. “And yes.”
Gently, as if reaching toward insubstantial smoke, the artifex held out her hand. Sulpicia raised a single brass paw. Girl and machina touched, briefly. She stared at the fox in wonder. Her mouth moved slowly, but no words came out.
“You’ve done a nice job,” Sulpicia said. “You’re missing something, though. Here.” She nudged a small piece of brass across the floor. “Use this. It won’t be pretty, but that’s not really the point of the thing.”
“I thought you lived in the Arx of Violets.”
“Every now and again, my brother and I like to visit this place and check on the builders. Mostly to ensure that you don’t forge a weapon or burn down the city.”
“And”—she looked uncertainly at Babieca—“you know each other.”
“I fainted in his friend’s arms,” Sulpicia said. “Or pretended to, at any rate. Now go on. Attach the last piece. I want to see if it works.”
With shaking fingers, she attached the final component. What she held resembled a short rod with gleaming parts. Nothing happened at first. Then Babieca heard a low clicking noise, which seemed to come from the fibula. The artifex looked at it uncertainly, as if it might catch fire or devour her hand.
“What’s it doing?”
“You’ll see.” The fox lay down, examining her paws. “There aren’t many devices like that left in the city. If the creature is nearby, it should—”
Babieca heard a buzzing. At first it was faint, but it grew louder. A smile broke across his face when he saw a blurry spark rush through the open doorway. Like a scrap of quicksilver, it flew directly toward the fibula. The artifex, to her credit, stayed still. The bee circled her hand, then alighted on the fibula, as if it were a flower petal. Babieca drew closer. He could see the insect’s wings, fluttering rapidly. He noticed an unmistakable spot of green on its reflective underside. A dot of emerald blood.
“The killing instrument returns.” Sulpicia scratched her ear. “Not much to look at, but then again, its function has always been more defensive. Artifices of old used such machinae to distract silenoi—along with other things that have excellent hearing.”
The artifex stared at the bee. Her expression was a puzzle. She’d been far more astonished by Sulpicia, which was understandable.
“It’s under your control now,” Babieca said. “Didn’t you say that you could make it return to the one who forged it?”
“I—perhaps, but—”
“That’s simple,” the fox said. “You have the whole fibula now. The creature must obey. All you need say is: Return to your maker.”
The artifex hesitated. “Is that such a good idea?”
“We need to know who fashioned this thing,” Babieca said. “Anyone that powerful might be able to help us. Whoever it is, we need to reach them before Latona does. They’re in danger just as surely as we are.”
The artifex sighed. Then she murmured to the bee: “Return to your maker.”
The insect leapt from its perch. It hovered in the air for a moment, as if uncertain. They all watched it dancing in the dark of the undercroft, wings whirring. It almost seemed to be thinking about something. Perhaps it was recalling the face of its maker. Then it shot through the open doorway.
“Follow that bee!” Babieca cried.
They ran out of the undercroft, catching a glimpse of silver as it flew upstairs. The bored artifex who’d been reading stared at them in surprise. They ignored him, running up the stairs in pursuit of the insect. They found it flying in a circle within the tabularium. Was it waiting for them? Babieca couldn’t quite tell. It flew outside again. He grabbed his tunic and cithara, falling a step behind the fox and the artifex as they kept pursuit. The bee left the tower through a window, and they burst through the front door.
Roldan, Morgan, and Fel were waiting by the entrance.
“What are you—” Morgan began.
“No time!” Babieca broke into a run. “Keep up!”
They flew through the city, past wagons, messengers, and lean furs cleaving to alleys. They seemed to float above the stones as they ran, their sandals touching air. Sweating, panting, breaking into laughter, they followed the silver bee. Surely, they looked absurd: a man in a reeking tunica, clutching his instrument as he tried to keep pace with a red-haired artifex. Behind them, a miles was struggling to keep up, her single bronze greave catching the sunlight. To her right was a sagittarius, and to her left, an auditor, legs pumping, eyes straining to see what resembled an erratic star flying ahead of them. Babieca crowed. His body was on fire with joy. He was running along the spokes of Fortuna’s wheel. As long as he stayed in motion, he would never fall. None of them would.
The bee led them to the lowest part of the city. Here the cobblestones gave way to patched earth and marshy pools. The habitations fell away. The path was overgrown with reeds and tall osiers, brittle from the sun. They came to a marble-fronted building, silent and smelling of incense. Babieca watched the glint of silver as it flew into the necropolis. There was no time to question its motivations. The company followed.
Inside, the mausoleum was dimly lit by oil-fed lamps. The first graves were modest, arrayed in a plots that resembled dice. Babieca saw brittle wreathes, rusted baubles, and other gifts left by the living. Someone had placed a hen’s egg next to a child’s marker, symbolizing rebirth. They passed a row of red-and-black urns, decorated with funerary portraits. The ground sloped as they continued, drawing them deeper into the earth. The air was cool and sweet-smelling. He wanted to read the inscriptions, but there was no time. A few tired lupae watched them as they passed, saying nothing.
At last, they came to a section deep within the necropolis. They found the bee circling a grave marker with a rusted hammer beside it. The artifex had reached the grave first, and she was staring at it strangely.
Babieca peered at the letters on the stone. “‘I was Naucrate,’” he read softly, “‘the artifex. I maintained the fountains. May the goddess protect my daughter, Julia.’”
The artifex held out her hand. The bee alighted once again on the fibula, regarding her calmly as it fluttered its wings. Then it grew still.
“Naucrate was my mother,” Julia said. “She did more than maintain the fountains. She was a true artifex. I barely hold a flake of her talent.”
Babieca stared at her. “It was your mother who fashioned the bee,” he said. “All this time, you’ve been the missing piece.”
She looked bitterly at the insect. “This was all that she left me. It didn’t fly, or make noise—it was just a useless thing. I could never understand why she wanted me to keep it. When the spado offered to buy it in his master’s name, I—” She was on the verge of tears. “The money was too good. I couldn’t say no.”
“Wait,” Morgan said. “What do you mean, ‘in his master’s name’?”
“Well—it wasn’t Narses who paid me. It was another spado, a younger one. His servant, I guess. I wasn’t sure how he’d heard of the thing, but artifices like to gossip. It was finely crafted, even if it didn’t do anything. I could see why he’d want to buy it. So I took his coins and erased it from my mind. The last piece of my mother. I was happy to see it go.” Her eyes widened. “Then, last night, it came buzzing at my window. I’d already heard talk of the bloody banquet. What was I supposed to do? I yelled at it to go away. It flew off.”
“Why did you lie to us?” Babieca asked.
“I was frightened and ashamed. I just wanted you to leave me alone. How was I to know that my mother’s brooch would cause so much trouble? Look at it. Would you imagine that such a little thing could be so dangerous?”
“Julia—” Morgan gave her a long look. “Describe this young eunuch.”
“I don’t know. He was sort of fat. He wore a green cap, like they do sometimes. He had soft hands, and a high voice. He carried the seal of Narses.”
“He was at the Hippodrome,” Roldan said. “Standing by Narses. And I saw him once before that, eating lemon sharbah.”
“We spoke with him at the banquet. He was polite. Harmless, I thought.” Babieca chuckled. “All this time, we’ve had our eye on the wrong spado. I don’t think Narses had anything to do with this. It was his servant. Basilissa Latona must have made some kind of deal with him.”
“A power-hungry spado,” Roldan said. “Could that really be it?”
“Remember what Felix said.” Babieca was nodding now. “He never spoke with Narses about the fibula—only to one of his attendants. He must have stolen the seal. Maybe he showed it to Felix as well.”
“I don’t understand.” Julia placed the fibula in her tunic. “Why would a spado try to murder a basilissa?”
“Because he wants a promotion,” Fel replied. “Narses wouldn’t allow this. Latona must be trying to work around him. Fortuna knows what she promised the young eunuch, but it most likely involves his master’s head on a pike.”
Morgan turned to Julia. “If you’re through lying—perhaps you can help us. We need to get Basilissa Pulcheria to safety.”
Julia looked thoughtful. “I might know a way into the arx. It’s not pleasant.”
Morgan was about to reply when she suddenly wrinkled her nose. She looked at Babieca in astonishment. “Did you piss yourself?”
“It’s the tunica!”
“You might want to accustom yourself to that particular smell,” Julia said. “The place I have in mind is a lot worse.”