Search the Seven Hills by Barbara Hambly Page B

physician,” she gasped. “The physician and—and—the maidservant—”
    He dragged her back up to face him. Tears were running down her face, her bosom heaving with terror. Marcus looked away, sickened, his whole soul crying out that it couldn’t be Nicanor—not Nicanor.
    Arrius’ voice was a deadly rasp. “There must be a dozen maidservants in the house. Which one?”
    “I don’t know,” she gasped; Marcus saw their shadows thrown against the wall jerk suddenly, and her voice rose to a shriek. “I don’t know! I swear it! By God I swear it! It’s a—a Greek name, Chloris or Chloe or Charis or something like that—please...”
    The dark shapes on the stained wall moved in the fitful torchlight. He heard Arrius growl, “Where’d they take the girl?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” sobbed the woman. “I don’t know who you mean!” Her voice was thick and jerky with sobs; Marcus saw the shadows sway and turn, and looked around to see the centurion push the woman away from him. She collapsed, weeping, on the floor.
    Arrius said impassively, “Lying bitch.”
    She made no reply, only lay there sobbing, her inky hair spread round about her, gulping and sniveling incoherently not to be hurt.
    “Aurelia Pollia really have a Greek slave girl?” he asked softly after a moment.
    Marcus shook his head. “I think she used to have a Greek girl named Ledo, but right now her dresser’s an Armenian—Maali—and both her maids are Africans, sisters, Priscilla and Prudentia.”
    The centurion nodded. “But I’d say three quarters of the wealthy houses in the city have some Greek girl in them named Chloris or Chloe or Charis or Corrinna or Core. And damn near every one of them has a physician.”
    Marcus looked up quickly. “You think she was lying?”
    He shrugged. “If she was, she was pretty safe. You know the physician?”
    Marcus nodded wretchedly.
    “You think he’s a Christian?”
    “I don’t know,” he replied, miserable with the truth that it was impossible to know. Before them on the floor, the woman groveled, sobbing, oblivious to their soft conversation. “I don’t think so, but...”
    “We’ll hold him in reserve, and I’ll cross-check with the others,” said Arrius. “No sense crushing the poor bastard’s finger joints on her word alone. Telesphorus and Ignatius, eh?” He stepped over to the door, pushed it open, and called, “Guard!”
    The woman Arete got slowly to her feet. With her struggles her gown had come unpinned and gaped open over her bosom; her damp black hair hung down like a river, framing her blotched, tear-streaked face. She said slowly, “I want to recant my faith.”
    Arrius shrugged, the dim lamplight glittering harshly over his mail shirt. His eyes might have been something dug from a mine. “Sorry. We’re not out for recantations. This is a civil case, and I don’t give an old date pit who you worship.”
    “But you promised,” she said desperately. “You said...”
    He glanced over at Marcus. “You hear me promise anything, boy?” Marcus shook his head.
    “You promised me,” said the woman frantically, as the guard entered and took her by the arm. Her voice rose to a shriek. “You stinking beast! You filthy pimp! The Lord God will smite you as he smote Ananias, as he smote Judas the traitor, as he...” The door shut behind them.
    “Whew.” Arrius removed his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow with his arm. “She may be right,” he said after a moment. “If I was planning revenge or anything else, she’s the last person I’d tell of it. Odds are she knows nothing of the kidnapping at all. There’s ways of finding out.”
    Sullen silence reigned in the Christians’ cell. Arrius called out “Ignatius!” and was answered by that shrill rasping voice.
    “Oh Lord!” it prayed, “sustain me to the glories of martyrdom in thy Holy Name!”
    “Shut up, you stinking heretic Sodomite,” growled the young boy in the