by Mary Reed
The maker of signs bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Yet there is something hardened in your features,” he went on. “Military almost. And…hmmmm…there’s that look…” The man straightened his head and chuckled. “Well, sir, I give up. All I can think to classify you as is a philosopher!”
“I regret to say I’m not here to buy a sign,” John replied politely, “but rather seeking a sculptor named Dio.”
The red-faced man looked disappointed. “Dio? Naturally. He has all the luck!” He pointed across the courtyard to one of the larger shops.
“He has all the luck, you say?”
“One big commission after another. Why, customers pour in over there and the way they’re dressed, you’d think his door was the entrance to the emperor’s reception hall. He’s barely more than a youth. Granted, he has some talent.”
John thanked the man. “By the way,” he added, “you are quite correct about me, at least if you count as a philosopher someone who studied for a time at Plato’s Academy.”
The man brightened. “There it is. I do have a knack for reading people, sir. Very helpful in my trade, as you might surmise.”
John strode over to Dio’s shop. He guessed the sign-maker would soon be regaling everyone in earshot with how he’d identified a philosopher from the palace. Doubtless the tale of such a person visiting his emporium would be worth more to him as publicity for his wares than whatever he might have earned from a commission for a sign.
The sculptor’s shop was deserted except for a few bits of carved marble populating a table. They were chiefly smaller versions of the sculpture in the Great Church but there was also a woman’s head, startlingly realistic and thus none too flattering, depicting as it did every wrinkle and several prominent moles. A rejected commission perhaps?
John walked through the shop and into the studio behind.
The space was larger than he’d anticipated, two stories in height, with a packed dirt floor. Worktables covered with tools and partly shaped chunks of marble and granite lined unfinished masonry walls. Light poured down from tall, narrow windows.
Dio was nowhere to be seen.
At the far wall of the studio a dozen rectangular chunks of marble, all taller than a man, stood close together. Their grouping reminded John of the mysterious clusters of weather-eroded standing stones he’d seen in Bretania.
In front of them lay a chisel whose edge glistened moistly red.
A dark trickle curved from it into the marble grove. John followed its trail.
Spatters of blood had sprayed a tall marble slab set against the studio wall. A body sprawled at its foot, face upward.
Dio?
John realized he had no description.
Not that it would have assisted identification. Whoever had killed the man had applied the chisel to the victim’s face. The white patches glistening up through its scarlet ruin were not marble, but bone.
Voices sounded in the shop.
Had the sign-maker followed him?
He peered cautiously out from the cluster of marble monoliths.
Armed men entered the studio. Not excubitors. Sent by the Gourd, then. Had someone already found the body and alerted the authorities?
But if so, why hadn’t the sign-maker known Dio was dead? It was hardly the sort of thing whoever discovered the body would have kept secret.
Something else caused him to hesitate about revealing his presence. Perhaps it was a certain wariness in the way the men moved. A caution they would not have displayed if they were expecting to confront nothing more dangerous than a dead man.
Besides, he reasoned rapidly, why send so many men to look after one corpse?
“…tall and thin…a eunuch…” one of the men said.
It was John they sought. But why? The answer was as obvious as the murdered man at his feet. He was supposed to be caught at the scene.
Venturing another glance, John noted that two of the armed men were now blocking the door leading to the shop.
One of the others pointed toward his hiding place.
For an instant John considered surrendering himself. He was investigating a murder. Would it be so surprising that he might chance upon another victim?
Yet it was obvious that it had all been arranged. He was about to be wrongly accused. Or rather, first he would be murdered while supposedly resisting arrest. Then posthumously accused.
John made his decision.
Turning, he grasped the top of the slab against the studio wall and yanked himself upward.
Shouts rang out as he was spotted. By the time the first of the men reached the departed Dio, John had scrambled through the open window above the slab.
He found himself on the roof of a shed leaning against the back of the studio. Beyond rose a jumbled wilderness of buildings and tiled roofs.
He quickly crossed the shed, clambered onto the roof of the adjacent structure, and ran in the direction of the Domninus.
At the street, the tile roof came to an abrupt end. Here the buildings facing the Domninus were two stories tall, while the colonnade sheltering their shop entrances rose only to the height of a single story. Fortunately, the roof of the colonnade formed a serviceable route along and above the street. John lowered himself hastily onto it.
Looking down into the Domninus he saw several pursuers emerge from beneath the archway to the artisans’ enclave. From behind him came the sound of pounding boots and shouted commands to stop.
He began to run past the windows of the apartments that looked out over the colonnade roof.
Passersby gaped up at him from the street. He glanced back over his shoulder. Three men had reached the roof of the colonnade. More ran down the street, paralleling his flight. A few urchins joined the pursuit, screaming with excitement as they raced ahead of the armed men.
John was dimly aware of pale ovals of faces behind the windows he passed as the curious looked out to see the cause of the commotion.
He almost missed the movement of a warped shutter opening into his path. He dodged, just in time, stumbled, but managed to keep running.
Behind him there was a crash and a string of oaths, as the shutter slammed into his closest pursuer and sent the man sliding off the edge of the roof and into the street.
Ahead the narrow ravine of the Domninus and its colonnade ran into a forum. The uneven tiles made running difficult. The men racing along the thoroughfare were staying even with John. It was obvious that if he tried to scramble down into the forum his pursuers would be upon him in an instant.
The next window he arrived at was closed. John kicked it in and plunged through.
He caught a glimpse of a young woman standing beside a brazier. The toddler at her feet looked up at John with immense, solemn eyes. Then his mouth fell open and he looked at his mother in bewilderment.
In an instant John was out the door and leaping down the steep wooden stairs beyond.
Reaching the hallway he turned away from the street. A door at the other end opened into an alley.
Unfortunately the alley was not connected to the maze of narrow ways in which John had been hoping to evade his pursuers. Instead it led straight into the forum.
John sprinted for the opening. As he burst out into it armed men began to arrive from the Domninus.
It was still early. There were few people abroad and thus no crowds in which to lose himself.
A seller of produce arranging his wares on a stall looked up as John rushed past.
Something slapped John’s back. He didn’t turn. Another hit, this time on the back of his thigh. Then a green and white projectile hurtled over his head and smacked into the ground in front of him.
A bunch of leeks.
The civic-minded produce seller was doing his part to assist the authorities.
Looking for concealment John dodged into a public latrine, past a mendicant who had already taken up a post beside the carved dolphins decorating its ent
rance, and into the long room beyond.
A door in the far wall led to a room filled with buckets of sponges on sticks, supplied for the personal hygiene of patrons. From there, another door revealed a concrete-floored corridor slanted downward and then John emerged into the light.
He found himself gazing out over the waist-high parapet of the northern seawall.
He started across the cobbled space between the seawall and the back of the latrine. Even this small area boasted one or two beggars, who stared sullenly at him as he passed.
A granary abutting the seawall on the opposite side of the open area blocked further progress in that direction.
Several of John’s pursuers appeared, having made their way through the latrine, preventing any escape back along that path. The only other way out was a narrow opening between latrine and warehouse, but that led back to the forum.
John drew his sword.
He might be able to kill one or two, but he had no chance to against so many.
He leapt up onto the seawall.
Looking down, he did not see the roof of a warehouse so he could not put his faith in Mithra and leap as he had hoped. Only a sheer drop to the docks, much too far below. A jump would be fatal.
A stiff breeze brought with it a hint of seaspray.
John drew in a deep, painful breath, aware that he had come to a point where his remaining breaths could well be counted on his fingers.
His pursuers now moved forward warily, none of them wanting to be the first to feel the blade of a desperate, doomed man.
John was not afraid to die. If this were the death Mithra had chosen to grant him, he was thankful for it. It would be a soldier’s death.
He tensed himself, preparing to attack.
But, crept in the treacherous thought, what if their orders were not to kill? What if he were, instead, to be captured and transported to the imperial dungeons?
To jump would mean a clean death.
He felt an urgent tug on his cloak and looked down as the withered hand of a beggar huddled at the base of the seawall tugged again.
“Excellency,” the man croaked. “If you’re going to throw yourself over, could I have this?”
John yanked the cloak from the man’s grasp.
Furious, he nearly struck out at the beggar.
Then his quick glance in the man’s direction revealed what he had not noticed before, something the angled side of the nearby warehouse hid from the view of anyone not actually perched where he now stood.
On the other side of the building the seawall bulged slightly outward, and above it rose the tower of Avis.
“Quick! Grab him!” someone shouted hoarsely.
John pivoted and began to run as best he could along the treacherously narrow wall. Where it hugged the warehouse there was barely room to place his feet. He prayed to Mithra he would not step on a piece of loose masonry or slippery moss, or that a sudden breeze would not gust in off the water and unbalance him.
The brick wall rising up to his right seemed suddenly to be leaning seaward, as if to force him over the edge. There were no windows or doors into the warehouse to offer him an escape. He had to continue running or fall.
Perhaps Avis would assist a friend of Lady Anna’s, John thought rapidly, provided of course that he was not intercepted by armed men who doubtless would already be racing along on the other side of the warehouse to catch him when he emerged beyond it.
He came to the corner of the building, leapt from the wall and pounded up the tower’s winding staircase, within sight of the first of his pursuers.
The door at the top swung open.
Avis began to smile a welcome. Then his eyes widened as he looked over John’s shoulder and saw the small army now clattering up the splintered steps.
John made a show of shoving Avis out of the way, sending him stumbling down a few stairs. “You don’t know me!” he whispered hastily. “I forced my way past you!”
There was no reason for Avis to die also.
John leapt into the whitewashed aviary. Startled birds took to the air, flapping up from feeding troughs and potted trees. Crows perched in the rafters croaked raucous warnings.
John slammed the door shut and shot its bolt as the first armed man toiled into view.
The door would not hold for long.
How could he possibly escape?
John found himself staring out of one of the enormous windows overlooking the Golden Horn.
The view was little different than from the seawall. How much extra span of life had his brief flight gained him? It didn’t matter, because now he again faced the same dilemma, imminent capture or a fatal leap.
A distressed sparrow fluttered past him and perched on Avis’ worktable.
John was struck by the irony. The sheer drop beyond the window was not a barrier to any of the feathered creatures in the tower. It presented one to him alone, who could only dream of flying.
A man who at least could dream about flying.
John grabbed the artificial wings set in the corner as the door burst open and his pursuers jostled into the tower.
A black shape dropped from the ceiling and flung itself at the first man’s face, screeching like a demon.
A huge raven.
One of Mithra’s sacred ravens.
Curses echoed off the walls. Blades flashed, swiped ineffectually at the black terror. The attacked man suddenly shrieked and clapped one hand to the side of his bleeding head.
The raven flapped away, part of an ear clutched in its razor beak.
By now John had grasped the loops on the undersides of the immense wings.
Leaping up on the wooden chest, he kicked at the window, once, twice. Fragments of glass exploded outward, sparkling in the harsh light that turned the water beyond the docks to molten bronze. As the glittering shards vanished downward, the small study was suddenly filled with a swarm of winged shapes.
For an instant John stood transfixed at the shattered window as the noisy cloud flowed around him and then outside, like multi-hued smoke.
Avis’ winged captives had gained their freedom.
John did not expect to soar across the Golden Horn, but he had seen leaves drift placidly to the earth, moving lazily back and forth on unseen air currents.
It was a chance he had to take.
Offering a swift prayer to Mithra for escape or a quick death, he grasped the loops tighter and jumped.
He was never certain what saved him, whether it was the updraft from the docks supporting taut, silk-covered wings and belling out his tunic, or that one wing scraped against the side of the tower and slowed his fall, or perhaps a combination of both.
Whatever the reason, the dock rushed up to slam into him and a few heartbeats later, John lay amid the wreckage of Avis’ wings, safe but almost senseless.
The Gourd’s men would be after him immediately. He had to get up and run, he thought groggily as he got up on his hands and knees.
A hand clamped around his arm and dragged him to his feet. “Quick! Come with me!” shouted the huge man who hauled him up.
It was Victor, Viator’s son.
“There’s a door around the corner! Hurry up!” Victor pulled John roughly along and thrust him through the doorway as nearby workers pretended not to notice anything amiss.
That was always the best response to anything unusual.
John’s head began to clear as the pair ran along a short corridor that was wet and slippery beneath their boots, and through a crude, stone doorway into yet another corridor, one that led to a narrow, dark tunnel that eventually branched into three even narrower ways. Without hesitation Victor plunged into the central passage.
John was already lost.
“My friends and I played in here when we were young,” Victor explained breathlessly as they clattered further into the labyrinth. “Know them all like the back of my hand. The Gourd’s men don’t.”
&
nbsp; They turned aside into an arched tunnel, its noisome muck up to their ankles. There were more doors and passageways, and then without warning John was in a place he remembered.
Viator’s warehouse.
“You probably wondered where I disappeared after you chased me in here,” Victor said with a wry grin. “Now you know.”
They flopped down on a pile of packing straw.
John looked down at the blood soaking through his tunic. A broken wooden slat from the wings must have scraped him, he thought vaguely. “Should I thank Fortuna you were on hand at the right time?”
“Not really,” Victor replied. “I’ve been hiding around here for my own safety. When the Gourd’s little army started thundering around so noisily I naturally took a look to see what was going on. And there you were, forcing your way into Avis’ tower with a pack of armed men after you. Naturally that caught my attention, even before you came crashing out the window as gracefully as a marble Icarus.”
John managed a smile at the imagery.
“Besides which, I wanted to see if the wings worked,” Victor admitted. “I’ve been waiting years to see them tested. Avis visits quite often asking for what he calls a small monetary contribution to help defray the necessary expenses of his work. Naturally I’ve developed quite an interest in the project.”
“Yes, I ran into him when we tried to arrest you, Victor,” John said wearily. “However, I suspect there was some other reason involved. Why did you really help me just now?”
The big man shrugged. “I’m a Christian, I’m supposed to help people in need.”
John was reminded of the cart driver who had tried to do the same thing and paid dearly for his effort, but found himself instead mentioning the doorkeeper who needed assistance after being stabbed as Victor and his friends escaped from the Great Church.
“I didn’t stab the old man,” Victor said. “I only found out about that later. However, I admit I do have a selfish motive for aiding you. I’m trying to find out who murdered my father.”
John awkwardly offered his condolences.
