Three for a Letter (13 page)

“Minthe is a very wise woman.” Sunilda popped a fat olive into her mouth and chewed enthusiastically.

“Some do say so,” Paul nodded, “but I’ve got to know her because she often buys produce from me.”

“You grow herbs?” John asked with interest.

Paul shook his head. “No, I don’t. Minthe grows whatever she needs for those potions of hers. It’s vegetables she buys from me. A few radishes, some beetroots, a cabbage now and then, that sort of thing. She doesn’t bother to plant such sensible things as vegetables.”

“Minthe prefers to devote all her garden to herbs and flowers.” An olive pit rattled onto the girl’s plate. “Someone left a question for the goats, Paul,” she went on. “Is it true that the omens have been very bad these past few days?”

John gave Paul a questioning look.

“I put no faith in those goats, excellency,” the man said, avoiding a direct answer, “although I’ve heard quite a few villagers say on more than one occasion that the animals are always right.”

“The rain has stopped,” Sunilda said, bounding off the bench and outside in a instant. “Look,” she said as they followed her, “you can see the goats from here.”

Ghostly pillars of mist were swirling slowly up from the dark water. John could barely see the rocky island and said so. “The young have much better eyesight,” he remarked to Paul. “But what are these terrible omens that the villagers have apparently been talking so much about lately?”

“Among the ignorant it’s said that the patterns the beasts are forming as they graze on the slopes have not been glimpsed within living memory,” Paul replied slowly. “Some terrible disaster is to be expected, or so it’s being said. However, it’s my opinion that we have already had a catastrophe, for what is worse than the death of a child?”

“Don’t be sad about Gadaric, Paul.” As Sunilda spoke, John felt her small hand grasp his arm. “Now the Lord Chamberlain and I must be off to another engagement. Thank you for your kind hospitality. I shall expect to see you at the celebrations.”

Paul, concealing a smile, gave a stiff little bow of farewell.

Watery sunlight broke through the clouds as John and the girl reached the road.

The Lord Chamberlain’s young charge whirled to face the sea again. Her golden hair comb came free and John plucked it from the grass. As he did so he heard laughter drifting on the wind.

He looked along the beach in the direction in which Sunilda was now staring intently.

Two figures moved near the water. They had obviously been unable to find shelter from the storm as their sodden robes hung about them. One was pacing stolidly along while the other darted ahead and back and then ahead again. The big bearded figure was unmistakably Felix and his companion, doubtless, was Bertrada.

It was a sight John wished he had not observed. A soldier could not allow himself such indulgences while on duty and under special orders from Justinian. Much as he disliked the notion, he knew he would have to speak to Felix about the matter.

Chapter Sixteen

“I fear I was ambushed by Bertrada,” confessed Felix.

On his way to Zeno’s bath house shortly after sunrise John had encountered his visibly agitated friend in the open air gymnasium.

“You were strong enough to fend off the young woman’s attack, I presume?”

“As you well know, a weaker force sometimes prevails against a stronger when it is allied with surprise. On the other hand, perhaps it was more an enchantment than an ambush,” Felix replied.

The big captain picked up a leather exercise ball lying in one of the puddles left on the concrete by the previous day’s downpour. He eyed the oblong ball suspiciously. “This looks normal enough but you never know, it might suddenly burst open and birds fly out. You can’t take anything for granted on this estate.”

He heaved the heavy ball at the Lord Chamberlain, who caught it and threw it back with a grunt of effort.

“That at least doesn’t work automatically,” John noted.

“Probably because Zeno hasn’t thought of it yet.”

The two men tossed the ball back and forth in silence for a while. When in Constantinople, John habitually spent an hour or so daily in the gymnasium at the Baths of Zeuxippos, determined to avoid any hint of the softness that the ignorant typically associated with those whom they carelessly lumped together under the name of eunuch.

The early morning sun had not risen far, but although the enclosure was still in cool shadow, the back of his tunic was soon damp from effort. The sharp cawing of crows roosting nearby formed a raucous counterpoint to the regular thump of the leather ball.

“I should not have to warn you about the dangers of becoming entangled with anyone even remotely close to Theodora,” John eventually remarked.

Felix pointed out that Bertrada was merely a nursemaid.

“But she is nursemaid to a child who is a future queen, and a child, moreover, who is an imperial hostage.”

“Perhaps you’re right, John,” Felix admitted. “Even so, Bertrada is so like my Berta…”

“But only like her,” John reminded his friend. “And how is Bertrada so like her? Close to her age? Similar hair color? You might as well say that Sunilda is like my daughter at the same age.”

Felix stepped swiftly forward to catch John’s short throw. “I’ve seen the wistful way you sometimes look at your young charge, John. I knew you were thinking of Europa. As to Bertrada, she looks exactly like Berta. The face, the hair, they could be twins.”

“To your eyes, perhaps.”

“She has the same enthusiastic temperament,” Felix responded with a grin.

“But didn’t we all when we were her age?”

Felix looked exasperated. “She is my country-woman as well!” he declared. “We’re of the same blood!”

John began to reply but the velocity with which the heavy leather ball hit his chest convinced him that there was no point in saying anything further about Bertrada. He decided to change the subject. “Have you had any other thoughts about where Barnabas might have gone, Felix?”

“He’s probably in Egypt by now, John. Or Crete. Who knows where he’s fled? Now, what about this? Everyone is convinced that Poppaea was poisoned, but if the murderer’s also a poisoner, then why didn’t he poison Gadaric? No, I’m not entirely convinced that Poppaea’s illness was an attempted murder.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, Felix.”

The flush of exertion visible above Felix’ thick beard suddenly deepened. He failed to intercept the ball on its next return, and it splashed into a puddle.

“You think that I’ve revealed weakness, don’t you, John? You have my oath that I haven’t been that weak. Not yet, at least. How often do we get a second chance? Even if she is not Berta, she is as near to her as I will ever meet again.”

John remained silent.

“I’m extremely tired of being a glorified guard!” Felix snarled.

The statement took the Lord Chamberlain by surprise and he said so.

“I don’t mean just this particular assignment. I’m a fighting man, or at least I used to be one. When I was given the opportunity to join the excubitors, to have the honor of serving directly under Justinian, stationed inside the palace at the very heart of the empire—how could I have refused? Besides, I was tired of campaigning.”

“You certainly made the best of your opportunity, Felix. Few have risen so quickly to be captain. There’s no doubt it was as a result of your heroism during the riots. You are a powerful man now, my friend, and many must envy your success.”

“Powerful? Where is my power? Unless I were to rally my excubitors to place me on Justinian’s throne—as more than a few military men have done in their time—I’m nothing more than a bodyguard, and one with Theodora’s venomous gaze on him at all times at that.”

John had never heard Felix voice such sentiments before, even when the gruff captain was intoxicated. “If you truly desired more power, you’d be seated on the throne already or, what’s much more likely, your bones would be crumbling away in the earth. What is it that you really desire?”

Felix said nothing at first but walked over to retrieve the wet exercise ball.

“To be with Belisarius in Italy,” he finally admitted slowly. “Or even to be Belisarius, camped with my troops outside the gates of Ravenna. If I’d remained with the army, I might be there in his place. Instead I let myself be enticed to Constantinople, to breathe the perfumes of the court. They’re like an enchantment, putting a man to sleep.”

John said that he suspected that it was not so much the perfumes of the court but rather the one worn by Bertrada that had affected Felix.

The big man glared at him. “We sometimes lose sight of the road Fortuna has laid before us, John, and sometimes our friends do the same.” He put all his weight behind his throw. John stopped the ball but its force drove him back a step. As he recovered his equilibrium, Felix whirled and stalked away across the wet concrete.

John thought of calling after him, but the captain had no sooner vanished around the corner of the bath house than Anatolius appeared, accompanied by Zeno.

“What’s the matter with Felix?” Anatolius asked immediately. “I greeted him in a perfectly civil manner and he practically knocked me down.”

“He’s suffering from an enchantment, or so he says,” John informed him. “And what are you doing here at the first hour of the morning, Anatolius? You bring important news perhaps?”

Anatolius shook his head. “I fear not. I couldn’t sleep at all, thinking about Lucretia, so I thought I might as well ride out here immediately.” Looking shamefaced, he recounted what had transpired during his visit to Balbinus’ home.

“You shouldn’t be risking life and limb on the road in the middle of the night just to bring a report, although I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.” John did not care for the sound of Lucretia’s name on Anatolius’ lips, nor the way he said it, but made no comment. One argument with a friend about a woman was enough before breakfast. He would broach the topic tactfully later, when he could speak to Anatolius in private.

“Speaking of enchantments,” Zeno put in suddenly, “I got up with the sun also and I have wonderful news, John. You need no longer concern yourself about Barnabas.”

“I do wish you had mentioned that on the way over here, uncle,” Anatolius chided him. “Why, I was positively gripped with fear every time we passed by a bush tall enough to hide a dwarf.”

“That’s rather a startling statement, Zeno,” John observed in a mild tone.

Zeno beamed. “But quite true, John. I just consulted Minthe. I left a question for the goats, you see. You’ve all been working so terribly hard, searching everywhere for Barnabas and patrolling the estate and so on, and everyone in an uproar and terribly worried that he might be creeping about waiting to strike again. I know you blame him for poisoning Poppaea, but all the children doted on him. He was wonderful with them, too. So I decided to ask the goats if we would ever find out his whereabouts.”

Anatolius suppressed a grin. “Don’t tell me they’ve told you where to find him?”

“No, but they’ve done almost as well. The searching and patrolling can be called off now. Barnabas definitely isn’t here.”

John looked skeptical.

“You doubt the goats, don’t you?” Zeno was genuinely hurt. “Well, Minthe was waiting for the sun to rise when I got to the shrine, so that she could interpret the placing of the animals. Luckily for us it’s a clear morning so as the sky lightened I could just make out the goats. To me they were just specks scattered all over the hillsides, what with my eyesight not being what it once was and the distance and all, but even I could see they had wandered into a most peculiar arrangement.”

“This fortune-telling by goat arrangement sounds rather like reading the twisted entrails of a chicken,” Anatolius said with interest.

“Indeed it is, and Minthe has the skill to read the meaning of the patterns,” Zeno replied enthusiastically. “Now, it seems when the white goats graze high—”

John broke in, sensing a rambling lecture in the offing. “And what exactly did the goats have to say?”

“Their message was that Barnabas has crossed the waters. In other words, he’s definitely gone away,” Zeno replied.

“They’re probably right,” John agreed. “Felix and I have come to the same conclusion. The mime most likely took ship within hours of the boy’s murder.”

“So now will Felix call off his patrols, and we’ll be able to concentrate on arrangements for the festival?” Zeno asked hopefully.

“You’ve overlooked one thing,” John replied. “Even if the goats are correct about Barnabas, the patrols must continue until we catch the person who attempted Poppaea’s murder.” John sighed. “And as far as Gadaric’s death is concerned, we still don’t know who was responsible.”

Zeno looked downcast, but only for an instant. “That can be my next question for the goats!”

***

Hero had decided he could put off his task no longer.

He crept softly down the long corridor. The sun had been up long enough so that the occupants of Zeno’s villa would have risen from their beds, or so he supposed, but not so long since that they would have finished eating their morning meal. What a luxury it must be, to be served breakfast in such a grand dining room. Not that he would care to be stuffing himself with bread and dates at such an early hour, let alone wine, and especially surrounded by painted schools of fish and octopi and other such creatures as a drowning man might see as he sank to the depths to die. The very thought made him lose his appetite.

No, he corrected himself, he had lost it because of the task he had to do. He had kept putting it off, trying to banish it from his mind, but now the unfortunate necessity could no longer be delayed.

He was absolutely certain that his mechanical hand had not been misplaced, as Bertrada had repeatedly assured him. He had searched every shelf and cupboard and cranny in the workshops where it could possibly have been mislaid, not that he had ever have done such a thing before. What, was he becoming a forgetful, doddering old man like Zeno?

No, someone had definitely stolen it. But who? And why? He could only speculate and none of the conclusions he drew were pleasant. Thus his current quest.

He padded into the wing where the Ostrogoths had their apartments. Passing by Bertrada’s room, he turned around a corner and continued down a shorter corridor whose walls were washed in bright morning light. His foray had been as meticulously planned as one of his mechanical contrivances. If he were to be stopped by a house servant, he intended to say he was in the villa to repair one of Zeno’s automatic wine dispensers, the one in the form of a satyr, and was seeking the master to discuss the matter. The excuse would be accepted. After all, he was known and trusted—not to mention that the mechanical devices were constantly malfunctioning one way or another.

As he went along the corridor, he met no one. The fact was, he thought, that Zeno did not have a sufficient number of servants for the size of the estate, nor did he keep a tight enough rein on those he employed. The ones who weren’t serving breakfast to the household were doubtless currently lolling around the kitchen, shirking their responsibilities. He’d seen it often enough.

Poppaea would not be at breakfast, of course. Someone would be sitting with her. That might present a problem, but he had never shrunk from dealing with problems.

He slowed his steps as he approached Poppaea’s room, then stopped and listened intently before moving forward and peering through its open door.

The girl was alone. Hero smiled to himself. For once he was benefiting from his employer’s remarkably negligent regime.

He moved swiftly to the sleeping girl’s bedside. The solemn little face was almost as white as the linen sheet pulled up under her chin. Hero glanced around. It wouldn’t take long, he thought.

He heard the rustle of stiff fabric.

“What are you doing?”

Livia, Poppaea’s mother, was suddenly standing in the doorway.

Hero straightened up. Panic filled his chest.

Godomar loomed behind the woman’s shoulder. “By what right do you dare to enter this room?” he thundered, then fell silent. Livia also stared speechlessly.

Hero realized that he had lifted his left arm and was gesturing wildly toward them with the stump. “My hand,” he stammered. “Who has stolen my hand?”