by Mary Reed
“Do you think Vigilius would have sought to harm the empress?”
“Physically, you mean? I know what is being said but I would never accuse him of murder.”
“Tell me, did you visit Theodora while she was ill? She must have sought spiritual guidance. She wouldn’t have allowed Vigilius to offer it, but she might have accepted comfort from you as patriarch.”
“She seldom summoned me after she took to her sickbed, Lord Chamberlain. She did not seem interested in receiving clergymen, or at least I was never informed of her asking to see one.”
“Odd behavior, I would say,” John offered.
“Very unusual. Perhaps she regretted her heretical leanings or maybe she took comfort from Justinian. He is after all God’s representative on earth.”
They continued to speak for a short time. Menas appeared satisfied Vigilius had said nothing to John which might cause Menas trouble, and John managed to avoid being drawn into further theological discussions.
Both being satisfied, they went their separate ways, John back to the house he had not expected to see again.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Hypatia thanked Anatolius and left his house. She was sure there had been someone observing her from the office. Who could possibly be there on business at this hour?
As she left, she saw the gatekeeper grinning to himself. Anatolius must have been entertaining a woman when Hypatia arrived. That was it. The gatekeeper suspected there had been trouble.
She came out of the passage and started across the small forum from which it led. In the forum’s center a statue of an emperor or some lesser forgotten luminary appeared to be wading in a fountain basin.
When she reached the corner of the street leading in the direction of the palace she paused.
A sudden impulse caused her to look back.
It wasn’t her business who Anatolius chose to entertain. Peter was more important than Anatolius’ love affairs.
But why had Anatolius been anxious for Hypatia to leave? What did he care whether John’s servant caught a glimpse of his lady friend?
As she stood in the shadows a figure emerged from the passage.
A woman dressed in a bright blue stola.
Vesta.
Joannina’s lady-in-waiting glanced around and then walked toward Hypatia.
Hypatia backed quickly into a doorway.
Vesta appeared to be in a hurry. She went by with her eyes down, so close Hypatia could smell her perfume. If she noticed a form in the shadowy doorway she must have taken it for a drowsing beggar.
Hypatia waited long enough to be certain Vesta was well on her way and then set off at a brisk pace for the palace.
She did not have time to ponder why Anatolius apparently had not wanted her to see Joannina’s lady-in-waiting. Having done what she could for John, her thoughts turned to Peter.
If Gaius were fit to treat the empress surely he was qualified to care for an elderly servant? But physicians were not always mindful enough of their patients’ comfort. Surely it wouldn’t interfere with Peter’s treatment if she made a potion to relieve pain. She could collect the necessary ingredients from Gaius’ herb garden on the way back.
Once on the palace grounds she took the wide path used by carters and others to ferry supplies to the kitchens. Now the sun had risen further, and shadows cast by lines of trees barred the path. Through the trees could be glimpsed the vegetable beds where Hypatia spent much of her time cultivating those needed for culinary purposes.
At its far end the path forked, one side leading to the kitchen buildings and the other to an open space where carts unloaded boxes of eggs, slabs of fly-encrusted meat, barrels of fish, sacks of flour, crates of fruit, and other supplies. Passing through the vegetable garden beyond would bring her out on a walkway providing a short cut to Gaius’ herb garden. It was a familiar route for Hypatia, who often took it when returning from an early morning visit to the market, but wished to pick fresher herbs for sauces or stews than those offered in the city.
She again thought of Peter left alone and quickened her step, ignoring the jests of three burly men carrying amphorae into the back door of the kitchens. She soon reached a large grove of pine trees shading a marble statue of Poseidon guarding a fish pond. Created to resemble an open space in a wood, the shrubby glade featured patches of ferns and wild flowers clustered here and there among moss-covered boulders. Poseidon’s fish, ornamental rather than destined to be served at the imperial table, lived in a rocky, shadow-dappled pool fed by a trickling stream.
A flicker of movement caught Hypatia’s eye as she passed the entrance to the grove.
Vesta was visible just behind Poseidon, working in a tall patch of foxgloves alive with the humming of bees going to and fro between the flowers’ purple fingers. Vesta kept looking around, furtively, as she stooped to collect foxglove leaves she put into a small bag.
When she first arrived at the Great Palace, Hypatia had been surprised the showy flowers were permitted to flourish on the grounds. They were praised by physicians for treating affectations of the heart, but she knew the purple spikes were also the source of a deadly poison and thus perhaps not the wisest choice of plantings in a court whose members would kill to advance a step in the hierarchy or eliminate a rival for an obscure imperial post.
Recollection of poison reminded Hypatia of John’s seemingly impossible task of finding Theodora’s poisoner, if indeed such a person existed.
Was the poison Justinian believed had been used to murder Theodora been brewed with these or other examples of the beautiful if deadly plant?
And to what purpose would Vesta put the material she was secretly gathering?
Intrigued, Hypatia hid behind a nearby summerhouse until Vesta emerged from the grove, and followed her a second time through the rapidly growing crowds in the city’s thoroughfares.
Vesta’s destination lay in the shadow of the Hippodrome.
Antonina’s house.
Chapter Thirty
John found his house door locked. He knocked, waited, and tried again. There was no response.
He looked up at the second story window of his study. The diamond-shaped panes showed only muddled reflections.
He raised his fist to pound harder, then paused to think. If Hypatia were there she would have answered. She must have gone out, and Peter wouldn’t be able to navigate the stairs even if he could hear John’s knock up on the third floor.
It would be best if Peter didn’t hear because if he did, he might foolishly attempt to get out of bed.
What could have prompted Hypatia to leave Peter alone?
The answer was obvious. She assumed John was in danger, having been abducted in the middle of the night, and had gone to seek help.
Should he look for her at the Urban Prefect’s offices?
She would hardly have sought the assistance of the prefect’s night watch. They worked in concert with the excubitors and it had been excubitors who carried John off.
He doubted she had seen his captors but if by good fortune she had glimpsed the carriage surely she would have recognized it as an imperial vehicle.
Therefore, he reasoned, she would seek help from someone outside the palace.
Who did Hypatia know in the city who could help?
Anatolius. Who else? John’s friend, who had at one time paid her unwanted attention.
John strode back across the square in the direction from which he’d just arrived.
The sun rose higher, measuring its power in shadows fingering rooftops and statues. Already it was warm, heralding another stifling day. Carts carrying crates of produce and squawking chickens rattled through streets coming alive with artisans hurrying to their work and beggars rolling out of sheltered corners to begin scratching out a hopeless existence for another day.
John took a shortcut, little more than a crevice between buildings. He was sorry almost as soon as he emerged from it when he was hailed by a man scrubbing the entrance to a bus
iness selling costly linen, wool, and similar cloths.
“You are abroad early, sir. A worker like myself, no doubt? Times are hard for those who labor to earn an honest crust.”
The man sat back on his heels. “It’s not just outrageous taxes. When do you think Justinian will authorize measures to protect merchants from beggars using our doorsteps as lavatories?”
John was reminded of Artabanes urinating across his hedge frontier. Before he could answer, the shop owner, evidently a man happy to pass the time of day with anyone who would listen, continued.
“Every morning I have to scrub my steps. The ladies don’t want to buy in a place smelling of-well-it reminds me of a certain landowner one of my cousins works for. This landowner, you’d know him if I mentioned his name, very well-known he is, he’s so rich he has a servant whose only task is to keep his master’s collection of statues cleansed of bird droppings. And yet he only collects damaged statues! You know, missing a limb or damaged in the casting. What’s the use in buying such statues, I ask you, sir? They’re fit only to melt down for the value of the copper.”
John agreed that it was quite puzzling and hurried on before the fellow could bring up Theodora’s death and point out a rival who sold cloth colored with poisonous dyes.
It occurred to him that the peculiar collector might feel he was sheltering those poor, injured images. At times he found himself reacting to a statue he passed as if it were alive. Feeling sorry, for example, for the long-forgotten dignitary who stood year after year in the forum near Anatolius’ house, alone and unrecognized though he had been a great man once. Could a statue retain some part of the living man? If a dessicated piece of bone could harbor the essence of a saint, why not?
His thoughts uncharacteristically wandering, he almost failed to see the figure emerging from the entry of the passage to Anatolius’ house.
It was Vesta, walking quickly with her gaze on the ground.
John stepped back and positioned himself behind the unfortunate statue standing forlornly in the fountain’s basin. The marble man could have used the assistance of the benefactor of statuary. The less than artful modifications made by the weather and gulls made it hard to tell whether he was a general or a poet.
John waited until Vesta’s slim figure vanished down the street before continuing on his way.
When he had seen Vesta at Anatolius’ not long before, Anatolius’ comment had indicated the fair-haired lady-in-waiting was a client. However, it seemed a strange hour to be conducting business, and with a girl practically young enough to be a daughter.
Anatolius greeted him effusively.
“John! So you are well after all! Hypatia must be relieved.”
“She was here?”
“Yes. Didn’t you meet her on your way?”
John shook his head. “I took a shortcut.”
“She was frantic. Something about you being dragged out into the night. I was just about to rush off to the palace to see what I could find out.”
John gave a brief account of the night’s events, leaving out the fear he had felt.
“You best be getting home, John. Who knows what Hypatia will do when she gets back and finds you’re still absent?”
“Hypatia is a sensible woman. I’m sure she realizes she’s done what she could. Although I missed her, I did see Vesta leaving,” John added after a short pause.
Anatolius shook his head tiredly. “I’m overwhelmed with work, John. Vesta was here again yesterday. I stressed I couldn’t see her today because of a number of important appointments. So what does she do? She turns up on my doorstep before dawn, or as she put it in advance of my first appointment.”
“Is she consulting you on behalf of her mistress?”
“What else? The girl is a devoted servant but I wish she wouldn’t harass me endlessly. I’ve told her repeatedly there is nothing I can do to help a couple living together illicitly and without the approval of the girl’s parents.”
He paused and rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. “Since Anastasius is Theodora’s grandson he’ll doubtless avoid prosecution. I’ve stressed that more than once to Vesta, not to mention pointing out the young couple should be grateful for the protection Theodora extends them from the grave.”
“A strange notion,” John observed.
“Yes. Well, I shouldn’t detain you.”
John was struck with the unsettling impression that Anatolius was concealing something. Was his friend really so tired or was he trying to mask his nervousness? Did he seem overly anxious for John to return home?
Perhaps Anatolius sensed John’s doubts. He smiled ruefully. “I must be getting old, John. The young ladies visit my house only for advice these days.”
“You mentioned that the last time I saw Vesta here.”
“Did I?”
In the old days a young lady who insisted on visiting Anatolius with regularity would most certainly have found herself subject to his attentions. Not that Vesta was a beauty. She was still just a ungainly girl.
“At least I have saved you going to the palace to try and save me,” John said. “I’d best be on my way.”
“Wait, my friend. I’m afraid I might have given you the wrong impression. I didn’t mean to be rude. Stay a little while. Have a cup of wine. You look as if you need one.”
“But Hypatia-”
“As you say, she’s sensible. She was much calmer by the time she left. I’ll have the wine brought. You don’t have to worry about Hypatia.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Hypatia peered toward Antonina’s house, into which Vesta had just vanished.
Why would Vesta be taking foxglove from the palace garden to Antonina? She would have to tell the Lord Chamberlain, when she saw him.
She tried to assure herself she would see him soon.
There was Peter to think about now, though.
She started back to the palace, hurrying, avoiding knots of idlers lounging against the walls of the Hippodrome and stepping carefully to avoid rotting straw and vegetable matter scattered along the way.
She passed by the Palace of Antiochus with its distinctive domed hexagonal entrance hall and turned onto the Mese. A one-legged beggar seated on a pile of rags near the intersection shook his walking stick at her. “Charity, lady, for the love of heaven,” he rasped.
Preoccupied with concern for Peter and having nothing to give anyway Hypatia barely noticed the man. She hurried past with a shake of her head. She hoped Peter would not panic when he realized she was gone. She hoped in particular that he would not try to get out of bed.
A footstep sounded behind her. Before she could swing around or shriek, a hand clamped over her mouth and she was dragged through an open doorway. It happened so quickly it was unlikely any passersby had noticed, even more unlikely that strangers would come to her aid.
“Charity, lady, for the love of heaven,” leered the beggar she had ignored. His tone sounded quite different and he was suddenly spry and two-legged.
Hypatia bit his hand. Her attacker yanked it away and as she started to scream smacked her face hard with his other hand. She fell to the ground, stunned. By the time she regained her senses the hand was clamped over her mouth again. The air smelled of ashes. From the little she could see in the dimness they were inside a fire gutted store.
The erstwhile cripple bent over her. “Maybe I should let you shout, lady. There’s plenty who would like to share in your charity! After all, what is one more man? Or a couple of men?” He tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her tunic, stuffed it roughly into her mouth, and rolled her onto her back.
Half choking, Hypatia stared up at him. How could she have allowed her attention to wander while out on the streets by herself? A child would have known better. If only she could go back to the point when she had watched Vesta emerge from Anatolius’ house. She should never have followed her. She would be home now, tending to Peter. She forced herself not to think of it. Whatever happened, she would not plead with her ass
ailant.
“Not going to struggle?” The beggar sounded disappointed. “Perhaps a little encouragement…?” His hands closed around her neck.
Then, as if mad with rage, he screamed.
***
As John started down the Mese on his way home, he told himself he had lingered too long with Anatolius. Talking about current events over a cup of wine, Anatolius had seemed less wary, more himself. Even so, John sensed an unusual undercurrent. Was his old friend trying too hard to appear himself? Did he speak too lightly and at too much length? Did he smile too broadly? Or was it that John was exhausted and overly suspicious?
He would never have registered the familiar sight of a beggar emerging from the side of the Hippodrome and settling down in front of a row of vacant shops if Hypatia had not appeared almost immediately from the same direction.
He increased his pace to catch up with her. He saw the beggar hold out his hand as she passed where he squatted on his rags.
Then John saw the beggar leap to his feet, nimbly, despite the walking stick he’d displayed.
As the assailant dragged Hypatia into a fire-gutted shop, John sprinted toward them.
He heard Hypatia scream.
He increased his pace and dodged around two laborers on their way to work. A ragged woman jumped out of his path and stared incredulously after the tall, lean man racing as if pursued by demons.
Finally he burst into the burnt-out building. It took an instant for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Then he saw the beggar kneeling over Hypatia, his hands around her neck.
John stepped forward before the beggar realized he was there and reaching around the man’s face dug his fingers into the eye sockets.
The attacked man shrieked. Twisted away. Elbowed John in the stomach. Though he must have been half blinded, he stumbled out onto the Mese and ran, weaving back and forth.
John didn’t bother to pursue him. He helped Hypatia to her feet instead.
