The Mouth of Avernus

Kyriakos

Kyriakos was trying to focus on carving veins into the smooth dark stone, when a jab from Otto forced him to lift his head.

“What is it?”

“Oh nothing dominus. I just thought you might want to take a look over there.”

Antonia stepped into the shop escorted by an elder brother. She wore a simple tunica which only served to enhance the refinement of her features and the shine of her honey gold hair by contrast. Kyriakos sighed as he watched her pick up an inkstone in one delicate hand, set it down, and then pick up another.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Go help her choose,” Otto said.

Kyriakos jumped to his feet.

“You are interested in inkstones?” he asked.

“Yes, but I’ve never tried anything like this before.”

“It is certainly far from the traditional Roman way. My master always said that Romans prefer instruments with heads as hard as theirs.”

Antonia laughed prettily. “You said your master, does that mean you are a slave?”

Kyriakos’ smile faded. “No, that is to say, no longer. I was manumitted and adopted.”

Kyriakos felt accusatory eyes fall on the nape of his neck.

“Of course. A slave could not run his own shop. So how does it work, this inkstone?” She asked quickly.

“Here. Let me show you,” Kyriakos took the inkstone from her. Her hand lingered on his for a few moments before sliding away. Her brother watched the exchange intently.

The inkstone was the same opalescent black material as the one at his worktable, but this one was decorated with jet black horses.

Kyriakos dripped a few drops of water onto the inkstone and then rubbed it in small circles with an inkstick. He took out a brush and a sheet of paper and wrote out Antonia. He handed her the parchment.

Antonia lowered her eyebrows demurely and accepted the paper.

“You create beautiful brushwork.”

“Thank you. I’ve had years of practice.”

“Of course. It seems a bit more difficult than simple pen and ink.”

“Perhaps, but the inkstone will last forever, and an inkstick is certainly cheaper than refilling your inkwell. You can even make an inkstick yourself out of soot and glue, though they will not turn as beautiful as mine if I am not arrogant to say so.”

“You are not. It is not arrogant to speak the truth. It is pleasing to the gods,” Antonia stared at the pearlescent surface of the inkstone for a long time, then she exhaled and set the stone back on the shelf.

“Perhaps another time. I must finish the shopping before sunset.”

“Farewell, Antonia.”

“Farewell,” she turned and smiled at him before departing.

“You go ahead. I catch up with you at the dyers,” her brother said. He turned from the entry and stepped towards Kyriakos, raising his eyebrows haughtily.

“I know you do not have designs after my sister. Barbarian,” the man said imperiously.

“What business is it of yours citizen, that would be between Kyriakos and Antonius” Otto said pointedly.

“I, Marcus Antonius, serve as my father’s voice while he is away,” the man glared down at Otto. “Besides which slave, do you know what this is?” Marcus gestured towards his clothes.

“A toga,” Kyriakos guessed.

“It is not just ‘a toga,’ these stripes indicate my status as your duly elected aedile, and as aedile I will not stand foreigners slobbering after my dearest sister.”

Kyriakos did not respond.

“I see you understand, or perhaps you have learned silence as a means of obscuring your natural deceitfulness. Your fides punica. Just know I am keeping my eye on you.”

Marcus glared at Kyriakos for another few moments, then turned and followed his sister out of the shop.

“Don’t worry about him,” Otto said. “Patricians are all bastards.”

“Plebeians aren’t much better,” Kyriakos muttered, “present company excluded of course.”

“Of course. Well, it’s not so bad for you, being a Greek and all. It’s not like your father, there are tons of Greeks here, but he must have been the only man from China in all of Rome!”

“It’s less being a Greek and more a freeman in my case. Even a plebeian of sufficient means can marry a patrician woman, but a freeman? Never.”

Otto touched his arm sympathetically. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. We’ve worked enough for one day.”

“Well I have anyway,” Kyriakos said. They both laughed.

Kyriakos and Otto stepped outside onto the Aventine hill. The sun of Aprilis was oppressive as if Hades herself were belching flames into the Roman sky. It was an excellent day to hide in the shade.

Kyriakos’ thoughts wandered back to Antonia and the wonderful curiosity in her hazel eyes. He felt she deserved a truly remarkable exhibition of his craft. His current project simply would not do. She required something exceptional, a completely new work, but what motif would do her justice?

Kyriakos stopped briefly to observe the sea of strange people in colorful clothing. The streets of Rome teemed with citizens and slaves. The crisp white togas of Senators mixed together with the roughspun of slaves and the bright colors of Egypt alike.

“Heathen!” Kyriakos heard from somewhere above him.

“You disgrace the gods!”

“Let’s go,” Otto urged.

Kyriakos bowed his head and hurried behind Otto down the hill, hoping to escape into the crush. Soon, the marble and painted stone was replaced with the stained plaster and peeling paint of the Subura, that seedier side of town.

Otto looked over his shoulder. “It looks like we lost them. Honestly. It is possible to be too devout.”

Kyriakos shrugged and stepped carefully around a pile of excrement as it sloshed down from a nearby tenement. Being chased out of the Aventine was nothing new to Kyriakos. They had been heading to the Subura anyway. It was all he could afford. He was barely able to make rent by selling his inkstones as novelties to the occasional Roman who found the far east fashionable, but he never got repeat business so he barely managed to keep his debtors at bay.

Kyriakos sighed as they crossed the threshold into Baebiana’s Tavern. The cellar-like cool of the stone room was a welcome respite from Sol. He blinked in the gloom unable to make out much beyond the vague outline of people and tables as his eyes adjusted.

“Kyriakos and Otto! What a pleasant surprise! Come, have a seat.”

Kyriakos recognized the voice as Gnaeus the metallurgist. Gnaeus’ shop was setup just across from Kyriakos and his pens and copper inkwells outsold Kyriakos’ alternatives a hundredfold. However, despite their professional animosity, he couldn’t help but to like the man.

Kyriakos and Otto found seats at Gnaeus’ table in the back of the room.

Kyriakos gestured to the server and she brought clay cups for him and Otto filled with the only vintage of nameless watered down wine they served at Baebiana’s. Kyriakos pulled out a sesterce as payment, but Gnaeus put his hand over his.

“Your money’s no good tonight friend. I just got a major contract from Baiae and I’m buying all night!”

“That’s very generous.”

“Think nothing of it. Oh, I almost forgot. Cornelia this is Kyriakos. Kyriakos, Cornelia.”

“Kyriakos is it?” the shrewd woman asked. “What is that Greek? It’s not spelled with a ‘k’ is it?”

“Two if you can believe it,” Gnaeus laughed boisterously.

Cornelia shook her head. “What is the point of a ‘k’ when a ‘c’ will do just as well and so much more elegantly don’t you think?”

“That’s just your vanity talking Cornelia.”

“Ah, perhaps you’re right. I am not unbiased. I was moved by the censor’s proposal for the removal of ‘z’ from the Latin alphabet and thought ‘k’ should be officially expunged as well.”

Kyriakos concentrated intently on the diminishing contents of his cup.

“It would turn Latin, our lingua temporis into a more civilized vector for expressions of Plato’s favored World of Forms,” Cornelia continued. “Are you familiar with that concept Kyriakos?”

“I am.”

“Ah a Greek scholar then. So tell me, what is your take on the mundus intelligibilis proposed by that famed philosopher, hampered though he was by his inferior ethnicity.”

“I think Plato saw a great deal. The realm of the gods is naturally the most perfect ideation of all things, while this realm is but a poor imitation.”

“Indeed? Do you believe that the gods are totally apart from our world then?”

Kyriakos shook his head. “That realm is generally apart from your mortal realm, but the influence of the gods on our world is undeniable. There world connects to this one through certain portals—"

Kyriakos went quiet as the door to the tavern swung shut. He noticed a familiar man enter. Cornelia kept up the conversation, but Kyriakos was no longer listening. The young Greek shrunk down into his chair as Marcus Antonius blinked in the darkness. Unfortunately, he soon turned and looked straight at Kyriakos.

“Ah Kyriakos. I was hoping to find you tomorrow, but it seems the gods have delivered you to me ahead of schedule.”

“I would not be flippant about the will of the gods,” Kyriakos warned.

Marcus frowned down at him. “I will do as I please heathen, you think your barbarian understanding of religion holds a candle to the devotion of a true Roman?”

“Upjumped twerp,” Gnaeus muttered.

“What was that, citizen?” Marcus asked threatening.

“Nothing at all Aedile. However, if you have no state business here would you please leave us to our cups. As you can see by our rings we are citizens and we have all worked hard all day ad gloriam Romae.”

“Yes, I can see your rings. I even see the ring of citizenship on this hairy barbarian’s finger, but I wonder if he is truly a citizen in the eyes of the law.”

“He’s no barbarian, he’s Greek citizen! It’s not like Kyriakos is some Gaul, why do you harass him so?” Otto stood and brandished his fist at the larger man.

“Kyriakos control your slave. Do not make me come back here with my cousin’s lictors. As it happens, I am here on state business. It is my job to investigate high crimes. And, though a foreigner, this boy’s master Feng Zhao was highly respected for his craft in some circles. Zhao’s potential murder certainly qualifies.”

Otto sat down, “what is he talking about Kyriakos? Murder?”

Kyriakos gazed levelly at Marcus.

“No response? Truly the mark of the fides punica. But enough. I command you to break your silence. Are you or are you not familiar with the Mouth of Avernus?”

“Everyone knows where we source our stone.”

“Indeed, in spite of the taboo?”

“In spite of it.”

“Well the taboo does not carry the weight of law, but this admission certainly speaks against your character.”

“Does it?”

“Indeed, for excuse or not, it seems to me that such a location would be the ideal spot to commit a murder. The murder of Feng Zhao for example who also frequented that forbidden space am I right?”

“You are.”

“To source those special stones of yours?”

“Correct. Master Zhao believed the Mouth had the potential to become the fifth great source of inkstone in the mortal realm. The other four are in his homeland. I have not seen these caves, but based on the quality of our inkstones I am inclined to agree with him.”

“Irrelevant. The fact of the matter is that I have witnesses that place you and Zhao entering that cave on the last day that Zhao was seen in Rome.”

The other patrons inhaled as one. The entire tavern had fallen silent to better eavesdrop on the exchange.

Kyriakos ground his teeth. “Yes. We went into the cave together, we also came out together. He disappeared sometime in the night.”

“Do you have witnesses that can attest to your return?”

“No. Only Zhao and I were ever willing to enter the cave.”

“This doesn’t sound very convincing.”

“Your argument doesn’t sound very convincing! Is that all you have? Some witness saw us do what we did multiple times every week.”

Marcus grew red. “Rome was not built in a day and so my case will not be made by a single piece of evidence. I am building a tower. This is only the first stone. The next is the circumstances surrounding the disappearance. For example when Zhao suddenly manumitted his slave and declared him to be his lawful son in a document that only came to light after his disappearance. A document signed using the very brushwork that you are known to be quite adept with Kyriakos.”

The silence in the tavern was palpable. Kyriakos began to sweat.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” he said weakly.

“Perhaps not, but it is interesting isn’t it? Interesting enough to warrant an investigation of that cave of yours.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it Marcus. Think of the taboo. You could displease the gods.”

“I will request an augury tomorrow and the blessing of the gods. Then, be assured, if there is something to be found I will find it.”

Marcus swept out of the tavern. Dozens of the tavern goers actually applauded as if they were at the theater.

Kyriakos stood, Otto grabbed his hand.

“You wouldn’t. You didn’t harm Master Zhao did you?”

“Of course not,” Kyriakos snarled as he stormed after Marcus. Dozens of eyes followed him.

“A ‘z’ and a ‘k’ then,” he heard Cornelia whisper.

The whispers followed Kyriakos into the street, scratching into his skull as he struggled to maintain a steady gait all the way back to the shop.

Inside, Kyriakos raced to the living quarters in the back and pulled on a cloak. He removed a simple mat to reveal a trapdoor. He opened it and crawled on his belly through the tunnel he and Zhao had dug in secret back when they first opened the shop.

Zhao had always feared that he would be the target of a pogrom, perhaps with good reason. That paranoia would serve Kyriakos well.

The sun had completely set when Kyriakos exited the tunnel a few hundred feet outside the city proper on the bank of the Tiber. Caked in dust and sweat, Kyriakos pulled up the hood of his cloak, obscured his tunnel exit with reeds, and walked south as the Tiber flowed.

The Mouth of Avernus loomed before him. Kyriakos looked down into the profound darkness that stretched out below his sandals.

“The Romans are superstitious fools, like everyone all over Creation who never travels a mile beyond the square of dirt they were born on,” Master Feng said in Kyriakos’ mind’s eye as he stepped over a low rock wall, past a warning sign that read Aditus Non Est, and into the sharp toothed mouth of the cave.

The darkness was complete after just a few hundred feet. Kyriakos could hear in the breath of the cave the soft howling of the lemures of the recently departed. He stepped carefully but confidently forward.

Suddenly, the darkness was broken by a flickering light casting shadows across the cave walls. Marcus appeared from behind a stalagmite not twenty feet from Kyriakos.

“I thought I might find you here. Your appearance belies your guilt.” Marcus said, brandishing a fasces, the ceremonial axe of the lictors as he closed rapidly on the smaller man.

“You should not have come here,” Kyriakos sighed, his breath mixing with the crescendoing cries of the lemures.

Marcus leapt forward, bunching up Kyriakos’ tunica in one hand and lifting the axe high in the other. “You’re coming with me Greek. Come willingly or die here and now.”

You should not have come here, the Keuthonymus repeated as the body of Kyriakos fell away, piling up like an unwound toga at its feet.

Marcus fell backwards, dropping his axe, and scrambled away from the looming shadow as it stretched up to the ceiling. He was still clutching the tunica in one hand as it slid easily from the pile of cloth-like skin that had been Kyriakos a moment ago.

“What. What is this?”

You were not invited into Pluto’s domain. However, I will find a place for you.  

A black claw reached out from the shadow and caught Marcus’ leg in a vice-like grip. Marcus screamed and thrashed impotently. The cries of the lemures reached a fever pitch as Marcus was dragged down, down, down into the pitch black gullet of the cave.

Marcus

Marcus luxuriated in his clean sheets. He pulled back the coverlet and observed the nakedness of Antonia. Such pleasures he kept all to himself. Was it any wonder he had felt so threatened by that simpering fool, Kyriakos?

Marcus stepped out of his bed chamber and indicated for two of his slaves to step out of the shadows and carefully wrap his toga of office around himself.

Marcus stepped out onto the balcony. He stood on the west side of the Palatine, the greatest hill in Rome, and he had a wonderful view of Tiber snaking its way down past the Circus Maximus and south towards the Mouth of Avernus.  

Marcus stepped away and carefully removed and unwrapped a bundle from his bag. He set down the new inkstone on a small three legged table next to Antonia’s sleeping form. The fine dark stone bore the motif of the cross-sectional of a pomegranate. It was his finest work yet. He left a small cup of water, an ink stick, parchment, and brush next to the stone to encourage its use.

Marcus smiled to himself as he stepped out into the already warm Aprilis morning and walked south towards the Aventine hill in the direction of Kyriakos’ shop. After Marcus’ show yesterday and given Kyriakos’ sudden absence it would be a simple matter to seize that shop and all its inventory ad gloriam Romae.