Two for Joy jte-2 Page 13

  “Your father has been ferried over the Styx earlier than any of us could have foreseen,” John said, “but can you not try to think how happy he was about your appointment to the quaestor’s office? Many men must live beyond their time of happiness and die looking back on their lives with regret and bitterness. He was proud of you and although perhaps he rarely said so, he loved you. He has left you an honorable name and an excellent example of civic duty.”

  “And surely Lord Mithra smiles on him for that alone,” Anatolius murmured.

  John nodded. It seemed that their conversation was helping Anatolius somewhat, so he cast about for further topics. Inspiration struck him. “Anatolius, here is an odd coincidence. From what Philo has been telling me, if I had attended the Academy a few years later than I did, your father might well have been one of my tutors.”

  Anatolius looked surprised. “That’s an odd thought indeed. He used to talk occasionally about his days at the Academy, but after a while, you know how it is, the stories all become over familiar and you don’t listen too closely. Of course, he left the Academy years before Justinian ordered it closed. Yet despite what Justinian claims, I never formed the impression that theology was much discussed there, pagan or otherwise. I know my father lectured on the nature of justice, for one thing, and he did once attempt to explain the mathematical proof for the existence of the aether, or some such theory. I was not much interested, I am sorry to say.”

  “I wasn’t either,” John admitted. “I was hasty of nature, I fear, wishing to learn but not wanting to take the time necessary to acquire knowledge. That was why I left. Had Clotho spun my life differently, no doubt I would have trodden an entirely different path to the one that brought me eventually to Constantinople.”

  “You would have been happier, John. Yet I can’t imagine you being an inattentive student.”

  Anatolius got up and began pacing from the desk to the door and back again. John thought it was an encouraging sign that the younger man was restless. Upon arrival, John had questioned Simon and learnt that Anatolius, having ordered his father’s body prepared for burial, had locked himself into the study on the night of the banquet and remained there ever since, drinking only water and refusing food.

  Anatolius stopped his pacing and looked at John. There was a strange expression in his eyes. “I believe,” he announced, “that the dead can speak to us from Hades.”

  John wondered if the other had become light-headed from lack of nourishment.

  “And,” Anatolius continued serenely, “that the method by which they communicate with the living is through dreams. So I have slept here, in the last place my father saw before he left this world, hoping that he would appear in my dreams and tell me who murdered him.”

  John asked if he had received any such visitation.

  “No, my father did not come back,” Anatolius frowned. “But my mother did. Yet I cannot remember exactly what she said, however hard I try.” He looked stricken at his admission. “It seems to me that she bade me to open my eyes, to be ever vigilant and guard my back against the blade, just as my father said to me in this very room not so long ago. I asked her if she could name his murderer and suddenly she was gone.”

  “Then it was but a dream,” John said gently. “And we must labor in this world to find the culprit.” He stood and laid his thin hand on Anatolius’ arm. For an instant he recalled his recent audience with Theodora and her order that he devote himself solely to investigating the deaths of the stylites. He pushed the unpleasant recollection aside.

  “I give you my solemn oath, Anatolius, as a Runner of the Sun, as a fellow initiate of Lord Mithra, that I will help you find the man responsible for your father’s death and ensure that he pays the price for it.”

  Following his discussion with Anatolius, John made his way home through unusually congested streets, his thoughts restlessly circling the mystery of Senator Aurelius’ death. He was so preoccupied that he had pounded at his own front door long enough to attract a curious stare from the guard lounging outside the excubitors’ barracks across the square before he realized that Peter was not attending to his duties. When he tested the nail-studded door he found it secured from within.

  Faced with the unexpected problem of how to get into his own home, he stepped back and surveyed its brick front. The first floor was a blank wall in the usual fashion and the windows ranged along the second floor were well beyond his reach. A single rap on the door usually brought Peter, if not on the run, as near to it as he could manage. But Peter had not been himself recently and John now found himself imagining the elderly servant lying helpless inside, unable to move or be heard calling for assistance. Perhaps he had fallen down the narrow stairs and now lay unconscious only a step or two away on the other side of the door on which his master had lately been pounding.

  Suddenly the bolt was drawn back and the door swung open, revealing Peter’s leathery, lined face peering out. He apologized for the time it had taken for him to answer his master’s summons.

  “I laid down to rest for a while and fell asleep,” he explained as he rebolted the door. Hardly were the words spoken when his legs gave way. John barely caught his arm in time to prevent him from pitching forward and breaking his gray head open on the tiled floor.

  It was all John could do to assist Peter up the two flights of stairs to the servant’s room. Although Peter was too feeble to walk unaided he nevertheless protested and resisted John’s assistance, as drowning men will sometimes struggle against their rescuers.

  “I can’t lie about all day, master, I have work in the kitchen,” Peter fretted when John insisted he rest.

  “Bread and cheese will feed me well enough for now, and those I can get for myself.” John glanced at the large wooden cross on the wall behind Peter’s narrow cot. It struck him anew how ironic it was that a servant could display the symbols of his beliefs openly, whereas his powerful and high placed master could not afford the risk of having any symbol of Mithra in his home.

  “You see,” said Peter, catching the direction of John’s glance, “you need not fear. I do not believe my time has come yet, but if it has, then surely He will send another to look after you in my place.”

  “That may be, but for now you need rest and that is what you must have. I shall ask Gaius to visit you and perhaps he can prescribe something to help you recuperate more quickly.”

  “That physician will have no stronger medicine than the one I am taking already.”

  Peter nodded at the plate on a small table in the corner. It held what remained of Matthew the Pure’s pilgrim token, the sight of which reminded John of the dangerous speed at which another holy man’s reputation was growing.

  He took bread from the basket on the kitchen table. Peter had not been well enough to go to market that morning, it seemed, for no cheese was to be found. Instead, John contented himself with a plain chunk of bread and a cup of water in what had been his study but with the arrival of Philo had been transformed into a shatranj room.

  After its outing to Aurelius’ banquet, the exotic game sat once again on its borrowed table, its heavily carved playing pieces arrayed against each other in orderly ranks.

  He picked up a finely wrought ship. It reminded him of his long ago journey to the chilly, misty land of Bretania at the very edge of the civilized world. The memory of crossing the choppy seas in the teeth of a gale was not a pleasant one and he set the piece back down quickly.

  Thankful for solitude, he sat quietly and allowed his gaze to wander across the mosaic wall of his study. At this hour, the girl Zoe slumbered quietly behind her tesseraed eyes, waiting for the flickering light of a lamp to awaken and animate her. Yet the world in which she lived still spoke to John.

  Beneath the heavenly riot of pagan gods, who like Zoe were nightly given life by lamplight although life of a much coarser nature, was the familiar bucolic scene. Staring at the bent-backed farmer plodding along behind a patient ox as he plowed his field, John’s thought
s strayed to the palace gardener, Hypatia.

  Suddenly, he saw a solution to the problem of what to do concerning Peter. He would enlist Hypatia to assist with the household duties, temporarily at least. Doubtless he would still have to order Peter to accept her help, particularly since he did not like anyone in his kitchen when he was cooking, but on the other hand, he suspected that his proud servant would not resist too strongly since Hypatia was a friend who had once served with him in the same household.

  The sound of Philo clattering upstairs intruded upon this happy thought.

  “John! I am glad to see you’ve returned!” Philo said, breezily barging into the study. “Because although as you know I am not one to complain, I visited the kitchen earlier and it’s not quite what I would expect to find in a Lord Chamberlain’s household. No roast venison, no lark’s tongues or stuffed peacocks, none of those exotic fruits and spices which we all know courtiers dine upon every night! What is that servant of yours up to, anyway? It took him long enough to answer the door, I noticed.”

  “You were here when I arrived?”

  “I was in the garden, contemplating philosophical theories. Anyway, I was wondering if perhaps we could dine upon duck again tonight, although Peter needs to make a richer sauce as I was telling him just the other day. I don’t think he appreciated the suggestion, to be honest.”

  “He will not be cooking anything tonight. He is unwell,” John said.

  “I see.” Philo was peeved. “Perhaps you should consider engaging another servant. After all, we replace our boots when they are no longer serviceable, do we not?”

  Philo’s hand went unerringly to the ship John had moved. “I see you have been examining my game. My demonstration at Aurelius’ banquet certainly attracted a good deal of interest, but I doubt if anyone will remember it now, considering all the excitement over the senator’s unfortunate death, not to mention that disreputable girl’s.”

  Philo continued to prattle on about his prospects of tutoring would-be shatranj players, but had lost John’s sympathetic ear after his outrageous suggestion that Peter be tossed aside like worn-out footwear.

  “Philo,” John finally cut in sharply, “Peter is my trusted servant and I will deal with his difficulties in the manner of a just master. But as for yourself, I must deal with you as master of this house. I must insist that from now on, while you are enjoying my hospitality, you will not venture outside alone. It would be foolish, since the streets are becoming extremely dangerous even for those who are familiar with the city.”

  Philo glared at his former student. “You have no right to speak to me in that manner, John.”

  “There is no one except for the emperor to whom I may not speak in any manner I wish,” John replied coldly. “And I am ordering you to remain inside this house for your own safety.”

  The harsh words stuck in his throat, or perhaps it was the last crumbs of bread. He reminded himself it had been many years since Philo had been his tutor and further that he had no right to speak of Peter in the manner that he had used.

  “Very well, John. After all, I am in no position to argue with my benefactor.” Philo replaced the shatranj ship on the board with enough force to send several smaller pieces to the floor.

  The mention of Aurelius’ banquet reminded John of another matter and his anger at Philo was now directed at himself. How could he have forgotten something so important? He, the Lord Chamberlain who owed his position and his continued life largely to his unerring attention to every detail, no matter how minor it seemed in the richly woven carpet of court life.

  “To change the subject, Philo,” he began, “Anatolius said he left a document here on the day of the banquet.”

  “He would have left it with your servant. Why are you asking me about it?”

  “Peter was not here then, being at work directing the slaves in Aurelius’ kitchen.”

  Philo looked at the ceiling. “I know nothing of any such document. You have intimated that I am foolish. Would you now call me a liar as well?”

  John had spoken plainly on many occasions to satraps and senators and the highest officials of the empire. But those powerful men had not taught him to decipher the magic of the written word nor walked with him along the shaded paths of the Academy, opening his mind to the wonders of history and philosophy. He could not bring himself to do it.

  “No, Philo,” he finally admitted with a sigh. “I cannot call you a liar. But I must now go out, so please remain here and see that Peter does not try to over-exert himself. I have inquiries to make.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  John found the first person he sought standing under the portico of the senate house on the north side of the Forum Constantine.

  Senator Balbinus looked as if he’d not slept since he’d appeared at Aurelius’ house hotly demanding to speak to his recently murdered colleague concerning certain mysterious matters whose details he had refused to divulge.

  On this occasion, however, Balbinus’ anger was directed elsewhere.

  “The senators were ordered to convene here in the very midst of the mob,” he complained, “and furthermore, we’ve been forbidden to leave the city.” His tired gaze moved past John out into the forum.

  The crowd of raucous humanity eddying past the base of the Column of Constantine was the usual mixture of roughly clad laborers interspersed with an occasional better robed aristocrat. Customers jostled each other in front of the shops lining the upper and lower levels of the colonnades surrounding the forum. Nothing in the scene seemed out of the ordinary. Still, on his way over, John had sensed impending violence. Was the collective breath of the city sourer with wine, were its citizens talking louder than normal?

  “No doubt the emperor fears the sight of the entire senate scattering to their estates would cause a panic,” John commented.

  “It has nothing to do with Justinian. It’s Theodora who’s holding us hostage,” Balbinus replied. “There’s no doubt that this order is her doing. The emperor is a reasonable man, except when he chooses to wrestle with the angels. Not that we don’t all support his theological efforts, of course,” he added hastily. “Yet even the Patriarch has fled the city, or so I hear.”

  The two men were conversing beside one of the portico’s four towering columns, taking advantage of the scant warmth offered by weak early afternoon sunlight. John inquired politely about security measures at Balbinus’ country estates and vineyards and the senator grumbled and muttered his replies in irritated tones.

  “Do you think ne’er do wells in the country aren’t aware that we are being detained here?” he demanded. “Do you suppose they won’t be swift to take advantage of the situation if violence breaks out in the city? We are all men of property. Businessmen. It is intolerable that we should not be permitted to look after our assets at such a time as this.”

  John found himself wondering if it had been an illegal business arrangement that had led one senator to murder another. Yet powerful men did not usually find it necessary to personally resort to murder to dispose of their rivals. They had more subtle means at their disposal. Nevertheless, Balbinus’ visit to Aurelius had been just ill-timed and inexplicable enough to pique John’s curiosity.

  Then too, he could not help noticing that as Balbinus spoke he kept the side of his face presented toward his visitor. Certainly, John thought, it was a regal profile that would have looked more fitting on a follis than Justinian’s commoner cast of features. Was it the practiced vanity of a thoroughly professional politician or was the man trying to distract attention from the partially healed wound running along one cheekbone?

  “Was it affairs of business that brought you to Aurelius’ door?” he asked.

  Balbinus’ hesitation was slight enough that few but John would have noted it. “Of a sort,” he finally admitted.

  “Is it then a new arrangement that men of property normally discuss such matters at the first light of dawn?”

  “My visit concerned something I pr
efer not to discuss, Lord Chamberlain.”

  “Perhaps you would rather discuss it with the Prefect?”

  Balbinus looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  Now it was John who paused. The senator’s surprise seemed genuine. Could the man truly be such an innocent? Didn’t he realize the implications to be drawn from the odd hour of his visit to Aurelius’ home?

  “I mean no offense, senator, but your colleague Aurelius was murdered. The Prefect will naturally be interested in, let us not say an enemy, let us say a colleague with whom he had fallen out, who arrived uninvited at the victim’s doorstep shortly thereafter.”

  Balbinus affected a half-hearted laugh. “If I’d had the old rascal murdered why would I come calling? To ascertain whether the poison had had the desired effect? The whole affair is the talk of the senate.”

  Several senators emerged from the busy throng and nodded familiarly to Balbinus as they passed by on their way into the senate house. John did not recognize any of them, not surprisingly since most of the landholders who comprised the senatorial class visited the city only very occasionally. Aurelius was one of the few who lived there. Or had lived there, he corrected himself.

  Balbinus scowled. “Now that my colleagues have seen us talking, they’ll be asking me what fresh gossip I have from the palace.”

  “Senator, I must ask you again about your business with Aurelius. Let me also assure you that I am a much more discreet man than the Prefect.”

  “But you can’t suspect me, surely? I am a senator!”

  “I am not implying that, but surely you will understand that under the circumstances you are almost certainly already under suspicion so far as the Prefect is concerned?”

  “So you consider that’s a possibility? Well, then, it seems I must speak after all. It strikes me that if I’m thrown into the dungeons you can take over my job here, Lord Chamberlain. You certainly have the persuasive tongue for it!”

  Balbinus stared out into the forum for a few moments, deep in thought. One hand went absently to the reddened wound on his face, then drew away quickly.