Seven for a Secret (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

John continued through the alternating shadows and torchlight beneath the colonnade.

Only days earlier Agnes must have passed the same way. She might have been pondering whatever it was she intended to tell him. Did she realize she was in danger? Is that why she had arranged to meet in an obscure square while the city was still coming awake?

Here and there sculpture graced an alcove or a pedestal. Likenesses of long dead rulers and poets, the statues served as reminders of the empire’s ancient heritage.

Where had Agnes’ journey been interrupted? Had she gone past that marble Sophocles? Had she noticed him frowning at her? Was his bearded face the last thing she had seen before her attacker leapt from the black mouth of that nearby alleyway? Or had her assailant been hiding, masked behind the chiseled robes of the ancient playwright?

The red ruin of the woman’s battered face floated to the surface of John’s thoughts. He hoped it had been over too quickly for her to be aware of what was happening, that her killer had not dragged her away into darkness to complete his task in a leisurely fashion.

John brushed a spark from a sputtering torch off his shoulder.

There was no one to question. The only people on the street were of polished stone.

The thoroughfare crossed the street where Figulus kept his mosaic workshop and passed in front of the Church of the Mother of God, before running along the back wall of the law courts. To reach the square where John had been waiting for her, Agnes could have turned and gone past the courts or proceeded on for a short distance and gone up the street which went by the courtyard housing the make-shift theater, the dyer’s emporium, and the entrances to the underground establishments of Helias and Troilus.

John guessed Agnes would have gone by the theater since it was most likely a route she took often to see her friends.

He continued toward the intersection, past Opilio’s shop. A faint smell of spice drifted out through its lowered metal bars.

The giant, sausage-shaped sign looked even more obscene in the twilight.

The narrow way leading to the square, with its overhanging structures, was darker than the colonnade. The hot breath of forges and furnaces issued from archways.

In such an area why had the killer chosen to conceal his victim’s identifying tattoo with dye? Perhaps he had not had access to a furnace. There was also the problem of the smell of burning flesh. Dye was easy to come by. Jabesh’s establishment was not far from the alley leading to the cistern where John had found the body.

But then why not just carve the tattoo from the dead flesh?

Had Agnes come within shouting distance of the square? Surely whoever wanted to prevent the meeting would not have taken such a chance.

If, indeed, her ambush had been planned in advance.

Nothing moved in the square, aside from a dog which slunk away at John’s approach. Scattered shop front torches hardly penetrated the gloom. The stylite’s column rose from darkness into a gray rectangle of sky where a bright star winked between ragged clouds.

There was no light atop the column. No doubt the holy man would consider artificial illumination a luxury, a vanity of the world he had left behind. Would he, like Helias the sundial maker, be aware of the passage of time as the relentless sun drove his shadow around the top of the column or that of the column itself around the square?

John had completed the walk Agnes had failed to finish. He had learned little, observed nothing.

He looked up at the looming pillar. Might the stylite have seen something useful from his high perch?

From that height the holy man would be able to look down the street which John had just traversed, perhaps even into the courtyard where the theater was located.

A movement caught John’s eye, and he whirled around. He expected to see the feral dog had returned. Instead a figure coalesced from the darkness.

It was the acolyte he had glimpsed in the square during previous visits or perhaps another like him.

“Do you seek Lazarus?” the man asked. The deep, raspy voice identified the figure as a man. His face was hidden in the shadow of a hood. “I have taken in the offering baskets, but I will gladly accept whatever you care to give to the glory of our Lord.”

“I haven’t come here for that purpose,” John replied. “I do however wish to speak with this Lazarus.”

“That will not be possible. Lazarus has dedicated his tongue to glorifying the Lord. He does not engage in worldly discussions and speaks not of earthly things. All of his words are of Heaven. Pilgrims from far and wide make their way to this city to hear Lazarus describe the beauty and joys to be found in the Kingdom of God.”

“He will speak to me. I am a servant of Justinian, and the emperor is God’s representative on earth, is he not?”

“The emperor is nothing to Lazarus, less than the scrawny mongrel that lifts its leg against the pillar. Lazarus is above them both,” was the reply. “He prays to the Lord and the Lord protects him.”

The acolyte made the sign of his religion before proceeding. “It may be that the emperor would threaten Lazarus with torture. That is his way. Yet do you suppose there is any torment worse than those Lazarus imposes on himself? His own awareness of sin sears his soul more painfully than a thousand red hot pincers. If you return in the morning you may listen to his message, but Lazarus talks with no one except the Lord.”

John craned his neck to observe the top of the pillar. The stylite would have retired to his tiny shelter by this hour. Every manner of religious zealot flocked to the Christian empire’s capital. There was no reason to disbelieve the acolyte’s description of the holy man’s attitude to worldly authorities. John had encountered far more eccentric holy men.

He considered whether a coin or two might help his cause but decided it would not. In his experience the poorer the Christian the less susceptible to bribery—a trait a Mithran like John could respect.

He therefore asked the acolyte the same questions he had put to the beggar, and was not surprised to find that the former could shed no light on matters.

John had to admit to himself that he was tired. He could approach the stylite at some later time, if it still seemed worthwhile. He started back the way he had come. Night settled into the narrow passage between the buildings like a black fog. He lengthened his stride.

Soon he saw ahead the pallid light of the intersecting thoroughfare.

Again the image of the dead women returned. Agnes. An actress he had never known. A woman of poor repute. Or was she Zoe, the girl on his wall, his confidant and silent member of his household? He could not separate the two, but neither could he force them to merge and take on a single identity.

They were different shadows cast by the same person.

There was a scuffling sound behind him.

His heart jumped. He hardly had time to chastise himself for not being on guard against attack as he should have been when all thoughts ceased.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

John knew he was dreaming, even though he had never before dreamt of Zoe.

“That is because I was never dead before,” she told him in an annoyed tone.

They were walking along a path in the grounds of Plato’s Academy.

John had not returned to the Academy since his youthful studies there. It looked much as he remembered, except that now ancient stone grave markers jutted up between the olive trees shading their way.

“I have heard that the dead return in dreams,” John replied, “but I never believed it.”

Zoe wore the same solemn expression she exhibited in the wall mosaic. “Look,” she pointed, “There is Justinian’s tomb.”

It struck John as remarkable the emperor would have chosen to be buried so far from the capital and on the grounds of the pagan school he had ordered closed. “Is that what you came back to tell me, Zoe?”

“Why would I want to grow up to be an actress?” she asked, ignoring his question. “I still live in our house, don’t I? I should not want to be a woman like her.”

“We cannot always choose who we grow up to be,” John said. He found himself looking at the girl more closely. She smiled at him. “You are not Zoe!”

“Of course I am.” As the girl spoke he saw that she was, indeed, composed of nothing but glass tesserae. “I will give you proof.”

She lifted a hand to her face and plucked out a glossy eye.

“No!” John tried to cry out but an impossible weight bore down on his chest, preventing him from forcing out the slightest sound. He reached toward the delicate hand which held out the shining fragment.

He saw who she was now.

Cornelia.

“No!”

His voice was suddenly shockingly loud as if he had burst up from deep water into light and air.

He gripped a hand.

Cornelia’s, holding a damp piece of cloth.

Sunlight forced him to briefly close his eyes. When he opened them again he saw he was in his bedroom, lying on the bed.

He remembered he had been sunk in thought while walking down a dark street.

Cornelia squeezed his hand. “Thanks to the Goddess,” she said. There were dark circles around her eyes. “You’ve been unconscious since last night.”

John realized his head throbbed with pain.

“Felix and several of his excubitors brought you home after dark, long after I expected you back. I feared the worst.”

“Felix?”

“Didn’t you hear me, John?” Relief sharpened Cornelia’s voice. “When Felix arrived—”

“I’m sorry. I wanted to finish…what I was doing.”

Cornelia wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. “Never mind. He said it was just a bump.” She dabbed the damp cloth at a spot behind his ear, causing pain to lance through his head.

“What happened? Why did Felix bring me back? How did he know where I was?”

“Someone told him there was a dead courtier in the street. He wasn’t very clear about it. I think he must have been rousted out of a tavern. He reeked of wine. He said when he got to you the City Prefect’s men were already there.”

“I wasn’t far from the Prefect’s offices in the law courts, the last I remember.”

“As soon as he saw it was you, Felix took charge. He said you were fortunate some passerby spotted you or else you might have lain there all night.”

Yet John had been assured that the area was not well traveled at night. He asked Cornelia who had made the report to the Prefect.

“No one seems to know and I didn’t think to ask Felix under the circumstances. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

John pushed himself into a sitting position. The movement made his head feel as if it would burst. His vision blurred.

“Did anyone see who attacked me?”

Cornelia shook her head. “Felix said it was a simple robbery. Your money was gone. But I think someone doesn’t want you looking into that woman’s death.”

“Felix is right. It had to be robbery. If someone didn’t want me investigating that murder they would have killed me.”

“Perhaps it was meant as a warning. Isn’t it just as I said? You can’t go about unguarded—”

“There’d be no point in trying to frighten me, Cornelia. I could order others to investigate if I felt my life was in danger.”

“Which is what you should have done, John. Why didn’t you go to Felix about it? He would surely have set some of his excubitors to work for you.”

“This is a private matter. I want to keep it private.”

“Is it?” Cornelia snapped. “What is this actress to us?”

“I’ve known her for a long time, or so it seems. Don’t worry, this had nothing to do with Agnes. It was a common street crime.”

“Oh, very common, I am certain. It’s common for high officials to stroll around the city in dark corners, all alone, just inviting someone to sneak up behind them and hit them over the head.”

“Shopkeepers and laborers and clerks walk the streets by themselves,” John pointed out, suppressing a smile at Cornelia’s outburst, realizing her fiery outpouring masked concern for the man she loved. “Besides, I have the advantage of military training.”

“Much good it did you!” Cornelia replied with a slight smile.

John put a hand to the tender spot on his skull. It was badly swollen. When he touched it pain brought tears to his eyes.

He noticed Peter standing in the doorway. There were two of him. Both frowned with disapproval. Both retreated into the hallway when John glared in their direction.

John squeezed his eyes open and shut several times, trying to clear his vision. “If people could creep up behind my back without my realizing it, I would’ve been dead long ago,” he argued.

“You’re not as young as you used to be, John.” Cornelia leaned over and kissed his forehead. “We have spent most of our lives apart. I would quite like for you to stay with me for a while. And don’t forget Europa. It’s time we went to visit her. She’s more important than a mosaic girl, or an actress, or whoever’s death it is you want to avenge, because I can see clearly that’s your intention.”

“It is part of putting things in order, in the world, in my own mind. But I do think of our daughter.”

“Not as much as you’ve lately been thinking about this Agnes.”

John made no reply because she was right.

He saw that Peter had returned to the doorway, looking alarmed. “Master, I told him that you—”

A figure decked out in garish orange robes brushed past the servant.

It was Francio.

Before anyone would remonstrate, he yanked a cloth off the basket he carried, revealing a heap of coiled sausage links. “I heard about your accident, Lord Chamberlain. It’s all over the palace. I immediately thought how disappointed you would be if you were unable to come to my banquet so I have brought the banquet to you. Or rather the sausages at any rate. Lucanian sausages, no less. You can’t find them just anywhere. They’ll have you up and about in no time.”

Cornelia thanked him without mentioning the household had recently dined on the same hearty fare.

John threw off his cover and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The room whirled around. “Lucanian sausages? Where were they purchased, Francio?”

“Where…?”

“Was it from a man called Opilio?”

Francio glanced around in confusion. “Opilio? It might have been. The name sounds familiar.”

“Did he deliver them while Crinagoras was reciting his verse in your kitchen?”

“I’m not certain. It’s possible. He made more than one visit to bring his wares. Now, John, make certain Peter cooks them well. Even eaten alone, they are perfection, and I am certain my guests—”

“Mithra!” John burst out. “That’s where the sausage maker must have heard Zoe’s name. Apparently Opilio still hasn’t told me the whole story.” He stood up and staggered.

“You’re not fit to go out,” Cornelia told him.

“Master,” Peter cried, “let me fetch a physician.”

“No need to consult a physician, John,” Francio said. “Try these delightful morsels. They’ll build up your strength in no time.”

He thrust the basket toward Cornelia, who pushed it back sharply.

Francio lost his grip and the basket fell to the floor. He stood blinking, looking distressed, chains of sausage looped at his boots. “I was only trying to make you feel better,” he said in a hurt tone.

But John was already out the door, closely followed by Cornelia and Peter.