One for Sorrow (19 page)
Kaloethes’ fears pounded in his head like a creditor at the door. He had awakened in a panic to familiar thoughts. All his bills were falling due at once. Debts, taxes, fees.
It was an impossible situation.
The innkeeper crept out of the suffocating room he shared with his wife, half expecting the woman to awake and thunder after him, demanding to know what he was doing. He escaped down the stairs and into the courtyard safely, but his accounts did not add up there either.
Half asleep, tatters of nightmare still clinging to his mind, his eye was drawn by the glimmer of the water in the fountain, the only hint of light in the courtyard. He contemplated throwing himself into it but then realized even that dramatic gesture would be doomed to failure for the basin was too shallow.
He was saved from whatever more practical solution might have occurred to him by the sound of a footstep.
“Who is it?” he demanded.
The figure that solidified from the darkness was the big redhead, Thomas. He should have guessed.
“Ah, innkeeper. Taking in some of the night breezes too, I see? I find the city most pleasant just before dawn.”
Kaloethes was fully awake now but his black mood remained. “You would know. I suppose this mysterious wandering in and out at odd hours is what you Britons call a quest?”
“I hope I haven’t disturbed anyone. I wasn’t trying to run off without paying my bill, by the way. As I told your wife…”
“Yes, she keeps pointing out to me how fortunate we are to enjoy your good credit. If only my own creditors could enjoy it as well.”
“If there’s been some misunderstanding, I’ll pay on the instant.”
This was a chance the innkeeper could not let pass, whatever the hour. Cautioning Thomas to tread quietly, he led him through the kitchen and into a cramped cell of an office, striking a light to the clay lamp he kept beside the door.
“There,” he said, tapping a meaty finger on the figures in the codex under Thomas’ account. “You’re in arrears to a sum of almost, well, see for yourself.”
“I’m afraid I must leave that task to you. But my purse is open.”
Kaloethes opinion of Thomas soared as coins fell into his hand. Perhaps he had been too sharp-tongued with the man.
“Look, come and share some of our excellent wine. I can’t sell the stuff anyway, so we might as well enjoy it.”
They sat at the kitchen table. The trembling lamplight struck sparks of gold in Thomas’ beard and accentuated the concavities around the innkeeper’s eyes.
“I am sorry if I gave the impression I mistrusted you, my friend,” Kaloethes said. “But you have been in this damnable city long enough now to know its ways. A nomisma to take a drink, two to take a breath.”
Thomas nodded silently.
“I am besieged by an army of officials demanding a ransom an honest man could never raise.”
“It’s a bad situation.” agreed Thomas. “Although besiegers usually carry swords.”
“Swords? What can a sword do but rip out your guts? A pen, now, applied to the right scrap of official parchment can rend you to your very soul! I tell you, I’d rather they came at me with swords, the bastards.”
“They say a man with a sword is no match for a pen. That hasn’t been my experience.”
Kaloethes studied Thomas’ apparently open, somewhat stupid, face, wondering how many more coins the so-called knight carried and how he had come by them. Kaloethes always wondered how people came by what they possessed.
“You’ve made no secret about this quest of yours. Perhaps I could help? I do have business contacts, including some at the palace.”
“Mine is a dangerous quest.”
Kaloethes drew his bulk up straighter, causing the wooden bench to creak loudly. “I am familiar with danger myself.”
Thomas coughed, releasing a spray of wine. “I don’t doubt it, having met your wife.”
Kaloethes grinned and poured Thomas more wine. You couldn’t hold against a man what he said when his tongue was loosened by drink. He’d seen babes in arms who could hold their wine better than Thomas. “My wife has large ambitions, Thomas.”
“Indeed, everything about her is large.”
Kaloethes felt the need for more wine himself. “Can you believe that when I met her she was a wood nymph?”
“As easily as I could believe the girls at Madam’s were once husky charioteers.”
“Well, it is true. And now? I can see that beautiful young girl in my memory but there’s nothing else left of her.” Kaloethes felt his eyes stinging. “She is gone, Thomas. Dead. That young girl I once loved is dead.”
Kaloethes noticed Thomas’ face darkened suddenly and his features tightened into a grim frown. Obviously the knight sympathized with his plight.
“You know people at the palace?” Thomas asked. “How about whoever’s replaced the unfortunate Keeper of the Plate? It might be useful if an interview could be arranged.”
“Now, that might not be out of the question although gold would almost certainly have to change hands. But I thought it was some sort of relic you sought, not palace treasures?”
“Yes, but—”
“Come with me,” Kaloethes said suddenly. Taking the lamp, he lifted a trapdoor in a corner of the kitchen. The men descended a rickety ladder into a musty catacomb.
“We keep our stores down here,” the innkeeper explained.
He could see Thomas’ eyes widen as he looked around at the crates and boxes piled to the ceiling. Several were open and close enough to make out clothing, cheap pottery, and domestic bric-a-brac. Balanced precariously on and among the boxes were chairs, ornate tables, and decorated chests.
Thomas stooped to pick up a scrap of shredded fabric. “Your vermin at least live well with nests of silk. I know I am not alone in taking comfort at Madam’s.” He smiled. “If you have a favorite there, I’m sure she would appreciate some of these things.”
“Most of them belong to my wife. She’d notice if anything was missing.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows. He took an unsteady step and leaned against a pile of crates.
The thought occurred to Kaloethes that he was alone with an apparently inebriated man who was carrying a large amount of money. It was immediately replaced by the thought that the inebriated man was armed with a sword.
Kaloethes reached into a long, wooden box and drew out a yellowish bone. “Look, this is what I’ve brought you to see. An authentic relic of Saint Prokopios. Not just a knuckle or a finger. The entire thigh bone that bore his blessed weight.”
He turned the bone around in the feeble lamp light.
“Martyred by being thrown into a pit of rats and devoured by all appearances,” Thomas observed.
“It is somewhat distressed, I agree, but that is no doubt why it was offered to me for a very reasonable price.”
“No, my friend, this is not the type of relic I am seeking.”
Kaloethes tossed the bone back into the box. Perhaps Thomas held his wine better than it seemed. “I was assured it was authentic and I have no reason to distrust the rag seller’s nephew,” he grumbled.
They climbed back up the ladder, Kaloethes breathing hard with exertion and frustrated by his inability to persuade Thomas to part with some of his remaining coins. His opportunity was slipping through his fingers.
“I know you are on a quest, Thomas, but even one on a quest has to pay the bills. You strike me as a man who would dare much. I might be able to offer you some tasks which could benefit both of us financially.”
“I fear not, friend. The task I have undertaken is enough for now.”
Through the window Kaloethes saw gray light creeping into the courtyard, as dawn arrived to reanimate his besieging army of creditors.
“Think about my offer, Thomas,” he whispered as they crept up the stairs. “At least think about it.”
John suppressed a yawn while the elderly Quaestor worked his way through the legal preliminaries to reading Leukos’ will with the patient determination, but none of the artistry, of a spider spinning its web.
It had been another late night.
Felix had had to be assisted to bed. He kept blubbering Berta’s name. John found it distressing because the memory would humiliate Felix, if he were to recall it.
Then there had been the encounter with Theodora. That was definitely an occurrence best forgotten. As were his hopes of negotiating approval of his investigation from Justinian.
John stifled another yawn, tensing his jaw painfully. The reading had been scheduled for a cramped hearing room near the law courts. There were no windows. Apparently the reality of the outside world was considered an unwanted intrusion.
John had brought with him the pouch Leukos had been carrying when he died. The few trinkets it contained were worth little. But it was part of Leukos’ estate, and John was hoping that someone from Leukos’ family would be there to claim it.
The Lord Chamberlain glanced around at the handful of people seated in the stuffy room. There was no one he recognized. A few men who appeared to be minor officials, professional acquaintances of Leukos, perhaps. Several others might have been hangers-on, present just in case they were mentioned in the will. It had been foolish of him to hope that some relative might attend, someone who could shed some light on Leukos’ past, perhaps even on the recent past, and on what may have caused his death.
There were more yawns. A fly explored the wall behind the droning Quaestor, and in the end, those assembled learned that Leukos, Keeper of the Plate, had granted manumission to his slaves and placed the bulk of his estate in the hands of John, Lord Chamberlain, to dispose of as he saw fit. John signed and swore out the required documents before the Quaestor.
When he was done, John returned to Leukos’ house. Perhaps he had missed some pointer to the truth during his recent visit. Certainly a person’s home should reveal something about its inhabitant, but Leukos’ residence was barren of the man’s personality. How—why—was this so?
The house had the air of a building to which no one would return. The water clock remained dry. The kitchen walls retained the odor of meats that had been boiled there. In the hall the suggestion of recently consumed meals mingled with the cloying perfume used in preparing Leukos for burial.
Someone, presumably the servant Euphemia, had thrown open cupboards and chests prior to packing their contents into the crates strewn about the tiled floor. John examined several plates, an ornamental lamp, a set of candlesticks. Compared to the treasures with which he had dealt, Leukos’ possessions were simple.
John found Euphemia in Leukos’ bedroom, carefully removing clothes from the chest at the foot of the bed and smoothing out their wrinkles one last time.
“I’m happy to see you’re still here,” John told the girl. “I wish to ask a few more questions.”
Euphemia turned her gaze to the robe draped over one arm. Her finger traced the gold embroidery along the hem.
“If it’s about my master’s visitors or his doings, I can’t tell you any more, sir. I’ve thought about it since we talked, but I’ve told you all I know.”
“And the other servants?”
“I asked them. They know less than I do.”
It was hard for John to imagine that Leukos would have intentionally involved himself in any questionable activities. Could he have unintentionally done so? There were the mysterious night time visitors. And Leukos had worked closely with Xiphias, a man who was capable of anything.
“Did Leukos ever mention a man named Xiphias who worked with him?”
Euphemia shook her head. “He never spoke of his work to me.” She placed the gold-embroidered robe on the pile of other clothing on the bed.
“These men who brought things to the house from time to time, none of them were named Xiphias?”
“I don’t know their names, sir.”
“Do you recall a middle-aged, stooping man?” Knowing that he had described half the clerks at the palace, John searched for a more exact portrait of Xiphias. “A man with a hard face. A scowl. Tight-lipped.”
Euphemia looked at him blankly.
John was describing how he saw Xiphias. The man’s viciousness overrode in his memory any objective description. Then again he was a nondescript man, or was that also John’s perception?
Euphemia glanced down at the linen undergarment she’d removed from the chest, reddened, and placed it quickly with the other clothes.
John took Leukos’ pouch from his belt. There had been no one at the reading of the will to claim it. He emptied its familiar contents onto the bed.
“Do you recognize any of these things?”
Euphemia looked puzzled. “No, but the necklace is lovely.”
John picked it up. “For a new love, or a remembrance of an old one?”
“Truly, sir, I’ve never seen it before.”
“Did you take care of his personal belongings, look after his jewelry?”
“Yes, though the master didn’t have much jewelry. Just a few rings. He must have purchased the necklace very recently.”
John looked thoughtful. “So you are returning to the countryside where the mice are friendlier?”
The girl was startled. “Did I mention how much I hate the mice here, sir? I shall not miss them.”
John smiled, convinced he was missing something very important.
It was mid-afternoon by the time John reached Leukos’ grave, carrying a basket holding small cakes, the traditional meal for the dead. It was not, Peter had warned him, the proper day for kollyba, but then added that he imagined his God would nevertheless respect the gesture made on behalf of a man who had no family to perform the ritual.
Leukos had wished to be buried in a simple manner. His tomb was marked by what appeared to be the top of a vault but was only a thin layer of plaster over a mound of dirt. A lamp stood on a low pedestal beside the grave and, unlike most of the other lamps in the cemetery, it still burned.
John set the basket on the grass and removed a cake. He felt more awkward than he ever had in directing court ceremonies.
“Will it help or hurt you, my friend, to have a pagan eat kollyba before a god he doesn’t believe in?”
His voice sounded much louder in the open air than it did when he spoke to the mosaic girl in his study. Was Leukos now, like Zoe, no more than a vision in his imagination?
Christians believed in the immortality of the soul just as Mithrans did. But was it huddled amongst Leukos’ bones in the earth, waiting for his Lord’s return, or had it, as John believed, already escaped its crumbling body and begun its ascent of the heavenly ladder? And if it had, how would Leukos, good man, good Christian, pass by the fierce guardians along the way? Leukos had not had the benefit of learning the mysteries in which John was initiated.
“I am sorry I didn’t share meals with you more often in life.” John addressed the earthen mound. As he raised the cake to his lips there was a pitiful mewl, and glancing toward a nearby stele he saw the black cat he had glimpsed after Leukos’ funeral. He broke off a piece of the kollyba and threw it to the animal. The cat pounced instantly.
After the long night and the long walk up the Mese to the cemetery, John felt sleepy. Lulled by the peaceful surroundings, he didn’t notice he had company until he felt the tip of a sword prodding his side.
He turned slowly, knowing a sudden move would only mean death. He was surprised to find himself staring into a face as gaunt as many buried around him.
The skeletal man laughed with a wheezing sound, as if some of his breath were escaping through the rents in the loose tunic flapping on his thin frame. “You’ve picked the right grave, you have. The Keeper of the Plate himself. Some fine things he must have carried down with him. But you’ve not been careful enough. So I’ve got you at last.”
“You’re mistaken. I’m not a grave-robber. I’ve come to pay tribute to my friend.” John displayed the piece of kollyba he held. “I am from the palace.”
“Ah, so you’re a liar as well as a grave-robber.”
“Can’t you see?” John indicated his expensive robes.
Another death-bed laugh issued from the man’s thin, colorless lips. The sword point bit more deeply and John felt a warm trickle of blood. He saw that his captor’s eyes were milky.
The man was half blind.
“You’ve sported with me for months. Now it’s my turn.” The gaunt man took a long, jerky stride forward, forcing John back a step. “Plenty of room for the likes of you around here,” he added. And John, looking carefully in the direction the man indicated, saw that they were standing not far from one of many fresh graves.
John remembered the kollyba in his hand and the scavenging cat. Praying to Mithra that the animal was still lurking nearby, he dropped the cake.
As John had hoped, a black shape erupted from the long grass and pounced onto the cake like a demon springing at a damned soul.
John’s captor, confronted unexpectedly by what must have appeared to him only as a terrible black specter, gasped, tottering backwards on thin legs. Then he was lying on his back, John’s knee digging into his ribs, the sword hovering over his throat.
The cat stood nearby, eyes alert for danger or more largesse, refusing to retreat as it desperately attempted to swallow the remains of the kollyba in a single gulp.
“Fortunately for you,” John told the cemetery guardian, “I really am from the palace. I am Lord Chamberlain to the emperor. Were I a common grave-robber, you’d be dead.” He let the man up.
“Spare me, excellency.” The man cringed, hunching over in terror until his head was almost level with John’s knees. “We have had trouble here. Sacrilege.”
“They aren’t simply stealing grave goods?”
Realizing he was to be spared, the cemetery guardian straightened up. “Oh no. Not just jewelry. The skull of John the Baptist. Leg bones of martyrs, saints’ knuckles.”
“You make it make appear all the apostles and fathers of the church were buried here.”
“You’d think so, seeing what’s been dug up and put on display.” The man lowered his voice. “Years ago, I was digging a grave and, God forgive me, I came too close to someone who’d already been here a while. I accidentally sliced into his side. He was just rotten cloth and bone by then. No complaint there.
“But not long afterwards, I was in a church, I won’t say which one, but what do you think was there, displayed in a reliquary? It was our poor Lord’s rib, the very one they say was damaged when his side was pierced by the centurion’s spear. Well, excellency, I could see better in those days, and so I can assure you that the only problem with that relic was that the nick in the rib was identical to the outline of the edge of my spade.”
John could well believe it. “This place is large and you are but one man. How did you come to notice me?”
“I heard you talking. My ears are better than my eyes. And then I saw a shape coming out of the field right where the aqueduct cuts through.”
“But I came from the road.”
The guardian frowned. He turned his head to one side, then the other. “I thought there was something. Yes. Listen.”
John could discern only insects heralding the approaching night.
“A spade. I hear a spade!”
The guardian bolted away. John followed. Although nearly blind the man dodged around grave markers and mounds as if he had ingrained the topography of the place in his mind.
The intruder, no doubt alerted by the noise of their approach, had vanished by the time the two reached where he had been digging.
“Grave robbing in broad daylight!” cried the guardian, flailing his sword around. “How could anyone dare it!”
John thought it might not have required much daring, considering that the cemetery’s guardian was more or less blind and the grave in question was in a nondescript corner, partially concealed by shrubbery.
A pile of dirt lay on one edge of a hole that reached down to the tile-lined crypt where a partially exhumed body lay.
John knelt by the graveside. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness of the pit he made out green silk robes and blond hair.
It was Berta.
