Nine for the Devil (16 page)
John caught Felix leaving his office in the administrative building. The excubitor captain looked annoyed when John asked that guards be posted secretly to keep a watch on Anatolius’ house. “Do you suspect your friends now, John?”
“I’m not interested in Anatolius, but in who might be seeking his legal advice.”
“I don’t know if I can spare the men, John. Since Theodora died you’d think Justinian was fighting a war in the city, ordering guards here and there, usually for no reason I can see.” He ran a big hand through his bushy beard. A patch of white bristles had recently appeared in its center, like the first snow of the year glimpsed at the very peaks of distant mountains.
“I’ll find some men somewhere,” he went on. “I wish it were a war. With a real enemy we could come to grips with. How are excubitors supposed to defeat phantoms in Justinian’s mind? I wish I’d made my career in the army. I’d be a general now, rather than the leader of a bunch of bodyguards.”
“The Captain of the Excubitors ranks above most generals,” John reminded him. “If you really would prefer a military command, you might yet have the chance. Now that Theodora is gone, Germanus might take over from Belisarius. Justinian has always wanted—”
“And what makes you think Germanus would favor me? I don’t know the man. And, now, I need to go. Urgent business. All the emperor’s business is urgent these days. I will see that Anatolius’ house is kept under watch but I can’t believe you would try to catch him at something he shouldn’t be doing.”
“If he is doing anything he shouldn’t, or being tempted to, it would be better if I caught him at it before the emperor does.”
Felix grunted. “I suppose so.”
Then John was looking at his friend’s broad back receding down the corridor.
He seemed as impatient to get away from John as Anatolius had been. John thought of Peter, sick, and Cornelia gone to Zeno’s estate and silent. Theodora’s death had shaken John’s whole world.
Why should he be surprised that the world changed? That people grew older and died? Why did he notice the gray in Anatolius’ hair and the white in Felix’s beard? What did those details tell him that he didn’t already know? How much time did people spend making meaningless observations that only confirmed what they already knew?
They weren’t observations but distractions, just as his interviews of the previous day had been. What had he learned except that most of the court had reason to want Theodora dead? If he interviewed everyone who wanted Theodora dead he would need to talk to most of the population of Constantinople just for a start.
What was more important than motive was how Justinian’s theoretical murderer had reached the empress. The question was not merely who had access but who had access to those who had access. The lady-in-waiting Vesta, for example, was in contact with Antonina, Joannina, Anastasius, and, unfortunately, Anatolius.
Thinking about Vesta reminded John of the other young woman who had served Theodora, the girl the empress had plucked from Isis’ brothel, Kuria.
He thought he should talk to Isis again. The former madam had remembered Kuria as being a favorite of courtiers.
Now that a day had passed—a day that felt more like a week—perhaps Isis would be able to remember more about her former employee.
John’s route to Isis’ house for penitents took him through a nondescript square bounded on one side by a porticoed warehouse. As he approached it, the heap of gaudily hued rags piled in one corner moved. A dainty hand waved a greeting.
“Pulcheria!” John replied.
The beggar turned the good side of her face toward her visitor. It was an attractive face. Middle-aged now. Like everyone else John knew she was showing her age. Or at least one side of her face was attractive. The other side, ruined when a dissatisfied client had thrown a burning lamp at her years before, had not aged at all. It was still a melted mass of flesh, the visage of a demon caught in the act of changing into human form.
“You are enjoying our warm weather, Pulcheria?”
“Oh, yes. Those of us who live outdoors prefer the heat. But it has been so hot lately that people are staying inside, and so I have had fewer coins tossed my way. If you had a job for me, I would be pleased.”
Before John could reply there was a loud hiss. A mangy feline resembling a worn-out sack on three twisted sticks wobbled out from the sheltering rags, hissed at John again, and wandered away with all the grace of half a spider.
Pulcheria looked fondly after the cat. “Poor Tripod. He’s feeling his age in all three of his legs.”
“I am amazed he is still with you.”
“Oh, he’s tough. Nearly twenty now as near as I can tell. Thank the Lord. I know he can’t go on forever, but I try not to think about it. We all need a companion. I can almost feel sorry for the emperor.”
“I noticed you in the crowd watching Theodora’s funeral procession.”
“We must all pay our respects to our rulers whatever our stations in life.”
A generous attitude, John thought, for a woman who had been forced to make a living as a prostitute until disfigurement turned her into a street beggar. She showed no signs of bitterness. He saw she still bound her dark hair with countless colored ribbons, matching the wild arrangement of brilliant rags which formed her clothing.
They spoke for a while, then John pressed several coins of a denomination rarely glimpsed by beggars into her hand. He turned as if to leave, paused, exchanged a few more words with her, and added another coin. Finally he continued on his way.
***
John shouldn’t have been startled to see Isis poring over the Christians’ holy book at her desk, but he was and admitted as much. “I realize people don’t believe I could possibly take religion seriously, but I do,” Isis told him. “It is my business to take it seriously. Would you care for one of these honey cakes?”
John shook his head. Although he had hardly eaten all day, his empty stomach rebelled at the idea of the rich, sweet cakes which were normally favorites. He sat on the couch.
Isis wiped a few crumbs from her white linen robe. “Christ was a troublemaker. I never knew that. Patriarch Menas would not have liked him very much.”
“You think not?”
“Would the patriarch like me if I walked into the Great Church and started telling him he had got his religion all wrong? It seems to me he was just asking for trouble.”
“My understanding is that he was well aware of the danger and knew what was coming.”
“Have you made a study of it, John? After all, Justinian is always immersed in church controversies.”
“I take an interest in religions. They are too important to the empire to ignore. I’m not a theologian. Justinian looks elsewhere for advice on theology.”
Isis licked honey off her fingers. “A haughty sort, this Christ, or so I originally felt. Arrogant. Demanding. But a brave man and at times gentle. Reading the story for myself is giving me quite a different impression of him.”
John sighed. “Man? Or God? Or both?”
“What do you mean? Oh, I know. What do they call it, the Three Chapters argument? I haven’t got to the part yet where they explain all that.” She gave him a playful smile.
She was just bantering as always. He carefully broached the subject of Kuria.
“That wretched girl! Did I look fierce when you reminded me of her yesterday? I must learn forgiveness.”
“Do you recall any of those men you said were attracted to her? Officials, patricians?”
“I don’t know, John. So many girls and so many men. I tried not to notice the men, or remember them. And the girls…you’d think I would remember. Maybe it’s my age. I only recalled Kuria because she wounded one of my girls.”
It was understandable, John told himself. Though a visit to the brothel might have been a memorable experience for each individual, for Isis it was simply a business. Would a vendor remember who she’d sold a couple of melons to years earlier? And as for clients from the imperial court…most of the court had probably crept past the gilded Eros that once stood outside Isis’ hospitable door, if they hadn’t slunk in through the back door instead.
He wanted to believe Isis was not concealing anything from him as everyone else seemed to be doing.
“Why do you suppose you remembered her having aristocratic clients at all, Isis? Did something we talked about bring it to mind? Was it someone you might have associated with Theodora or Justinian? Or with me?”
“With you, John?”
“I deal with many people at court. I thought perhaps there might be a connection to be discovered. Talking to me might set a spark of memory flickering.”
Isis pursed her lips. “A friend of yours perhaps? That big bear Felix.”
John stiffened. “Felix was visiting Kuria?”
“He wanted to marry her.”
John leaned back into the cushions with a sigh of relief. “No, no, Isis. That was poor Berta many years ago. She was the girl who was murdered.”
Isis made the Christian sign. “Yes, you’re right, John. It must have been Berta I was thinking about. Poor child. It just seemed as if it was more recently your friend was in here doting over her…strange how muddled the past gets.”
“The more important events always stay close to us, Isis. The less important recede. Berta was involved with violence as Kuria was, although Berta was the victim. That might be why you mixed up the two.”
“Yes, probably.” Isis looked alarmed. “I wonder if my mind is going to fade away as I get old? I can’t afford that to happen. I’ve always taken care of myself.”
“We all become a little forgetful as we get older, Isis.”
Later, on his way home, John remembered his consoling words to Isis.
He had never forgotten anything. And there were so many things he wished he could forget.
Hypatia met John as he came up the stairs. Except for bruising on her neck she showed no ill effects from her recent frightening encounter.
He asked if there had been word from Cornelia. “No.” She hesitated, then added, “If I may say so, it’s barely been three days. Babies don’t keep appointments, master. They arrive when they feel like it.”
John reflected again on what Isis had said about the past becoming muddled. It seemed to him as if Cornelia had departed a week before Theodora’s death, not two days afterwards.
“Hypatia, if you need to take the rest of the day off—”
“Oh, no, master. I’m fine. I have to keep an eye on Peter.”
“And how is Peter?” The puffiness around her dark eyes showed she had been crying.
“Worse. I managed to get some of the potion I made down him. It seems to have helped the pain but I think he’s drifting away. I’ve propped him up against a pillow so he could breath more easily. He’s been asking for you.”
John went up to the servant’s room slowly and with trepidation. Peter would never normally ask to see him. He would not consider it his place to make requests of his employer.
Peter was motionless, head slightly elevated, eyes shut. It would have been impossible to tell he was breathing except for the faint erratic, whistling that issued from his dry, slightly parted lips.
“Is that you, master?”
“Yes, Peter. Hypatia said you wished to see me.”
The old man’s eyes fluttered open. “I am sorry to trouble you, master.”
John pulled a stool to the side of the bed and sat down. He saw laid on the bedside table the coin from Derbe which Peter had found in Isauria during his military days, a lucky coin or so he claimed, because it came from a city visited by Saint Paul. Beside it, on a leather thong, lay the Egyptian amulet Hypatia had given him years before when she had worked for John. And then there was the wooden cross above the bed.
All equally ineffective.
“It’s no trouble, Peter. How are you feeling? Hypatia tells me she made a potion for you.”
“A lovely girl, master, even if hopeless at cooking.” Peter lapsed into silence. His creased face was gray, inert and heavy as if eternity had already begun to insinuate itself into his flesh.
From the open window came the clump of boots on cobbles. Excubitors were returning to the barracks. Or leaving. A gull screeched and others returned the shrill call.
John did not have words of comfort for his long-time companion. Christians were quick to assure the sick and bereaved they would pray for them. It came automatically, provided them with comfort. Not that John had ever known such prayers to alter fate. Was that surprising? Even the gods of Olympus had been subject to fate. Why not the Christians’ god?
John’s own Mithra was not a god who would look kindly on pleas that he alter the natural course of life. It was up to the Mithran to deal with life, whatever that might entail, to survive uncomplainingly, to serve.
Peter spoke at last. “Don’t trouble yourself over me, master. If my time has come, I’m ready. Only I’m sorry it has to be now, with your grandchild not yet arrived, and when Hypatia has just returned.” He fell silent for a heartbeat, his eyes turned toward the blank plaster of the ceiling. “Do you know,” he resumed. “I was dreaming just now of my mother. I was a very small child and she was telling me the story of Tobit. It is my favorite because it was the first story my mother told me. Tobit went to sleep by the side of the house and was blinded by bird droppings. That got my attention.”
“Yes, it would.”
“Tobit’s son—just a boy—goes on a long journey. His dog accompanies him. I liked that. And the angel Raphael is his guide, except he doesn’t know his companion is an angel until the end. They battle a giant fish and drive away a demon. My mother didn’t tell me it was a demon of lust, though.”
“It is the kind of story a boy would like.”
“I became a Christian right away. It sounded exciting. I didn’t like the story about the crucifixion at all. I couldn’t help imagining how it would feel to have nails pounded through my hands. And the idea of a dead body rising and walking out of a cave—that kept me awake.”
“Your mother was wise to start with Tobit.”
John’s own faith—or at least his adherence to the strict, soldierly ethic of Mithraism—had come to him as an adult, following the drowning of his friend Julius, and had strengthened during his enslavement and castration by Persians.
When they had served together as mercenaries, he had resisted Julius’ efforts to teach him about Mithra. After John had suffered, the words of his dead companion returned to him, and he realized he had not truly heard them before. Thus had Julius spoken from the dead.
Mithraism was a religion of endurance and acceptance. If John had not run away from his philosophy studies to become a mercenary he might have become a stoic rather than a Mithran.
He studied Peter uneasily. He shared John’s stoicism and his tendency to keep his thoughts to himself—particularly his darker thoughts. It was unlike Peter to speak of such personal matters.
“Master, would you…would you open the chest at the foot of my bed? I can’t reach it. You’ll find a sandalwood box there.”
It sat in a corner of the chest, pushed down beside neatly folded garments. The box held a flat, terracotta flask no longer than John’s thumb. There were handles on each side of the tiny artifact. Engraved into its oval center was a simple picture of a man, with a camel on each side.
“It is the Saint Menas flask I brought back from Egypt,” Peter said. “It contains holy oil from the lamp that burns outside the saint’s tomb.”
John thought it ironic that the current patriarch, who did not strike him as a saint but rather just another of the powerful men who ruled the empire, should share his name with a holy man. “Do you want me to set it on the table beside your coin and amulet, or do you want to hold it?”
“If you would open it for me, please, master? There’s a bit of wax over the neck. If I had enough strength to lift my arms I would do it myself. They say Constantine’s daughter was cured by holy waters from beside the saint’s tomb. I have saved the flask for years. Now, I feel, it might be time to use it.”
John scraped off the wax and held the flask tentatively between thumb and forefinger. What did one do with holy oil?
“Could you place a drop on my forehead, master? I know I should not be asking you, but…”
“It’s little enough to ask, Peter.”
John turned his hand and a drop of oil ran out onto the tip of his finger. There was nothing mysterious about it. It was simply a drop of lamp oil. He dabbed a bit onto Peter’s parchment dry forehead.
“If you could draw another across that one…”
John did so, uncomfortably aware he was mimicking the sign of the Christians.
He put the flask down, propped it upright against the amulet in case oil remained inside.
Peter let his eyes close. His breath whistled in and out, more regularly now.
Had he gone to sleep?
John rose quietly and went out. He didn’t care to wait.
He was half afraid Peter would next be asking that he pray for him.
