Five for Silver

by Mary Reed

  Chapter Ten

  The mud-spattered apparition arrived at John’s door well after dark. Peter, who had answered its frantic knocking, stepped backwards with a cry of horror.

  “Anatolius!” John called from the top of the stairway. “You look as if you’ve been—”

  “Buried and dug up,” Anatolius said ruefully. He stepped into the atrium, dripping on the tiles.

  Peter returned upstairs, looking reproachfully back over his shoulder.

  Anatolius’ gaze followed the elderly servant. “I know I’m not exactly a sight for innocent eyes, but surely Peter knows me well enough not to take fright at my appearance?”

  “He’s not himself right now. Come up to my study.”

  Anatolius looked down at his waterlogged garments and shook his head. “I think I’d better not. I’m making enough of a mess as it is. Besides, I need to get home and change.”

  John came down to the atrium. Heavy rain rattled impatiently into the impluvium.

  “Crinagoras and I rode out to the countryside today. We were only half way back when the skies opened,” Anatolius explained. “Crinagoras had composed ten new epitaphs for himself by the time we’d reached the city.”

  “I can imagine, but frankly I’d rather not. Be careful, Anatolius, you’re dripping water on one of Hypatia’s pets.”

  Anatolius stepped away from the clay scorpion stationed near the door.

  “They make Hypatia happy,” John said in reply to the unspoken question. “I consider myself fortunate my servants haven’t deserted me for the safety of the countryside.”

  “Speaking of those who flee the city, Crinagoras and I were searching for just such a household. We made a discovery you might find interesting.”

  “That explains this late-night visit. I was afraid someone had died. Senator Balbinus, perhaps? Usually only bad news comes calling well after dark.”

  “No, there’s no such bad news.” Anatolius ran a hand through his sodden curls. “Have you learnt anything further about Gregory?”

  “Nothing that would help me find the person I seek.” John had not mentioned Peter’s misconceptions about his friend to Anatolius. The younger man had a loose tongue and might let the knowledge slip. John was more guarded or possibly less straightforward, a thought that made him uneasy.

  “Then I’m having more success than you are! I’ve found out the name of Nereus’ legal advisor.”

  ***

  Prudentius’ house sat behind the Hippodrome, just beyond the row of dilapidated wooden tenements piled at the base of the arena, like shipwrecks against a line of rocks.

  John knocked and waited.

  He seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time standing on doorsteps of late.

  The house front presented the anonymous facade common to Constantinople’s dwellings. Its door displayed the usual nail studding and metal strapping. Here in the city, even the homes of the well-to-do resembled crates stacked in a ship’s hold, all identical from the outside, but each holding…what?

  Which door would open to the solution he sought?

  This particular door opened on an unexpected cacophony—shouts, the buzz of conversation, a snatch of laughter, the clatter of a pan, the thump of a heavy basket. It was as if Constantinople had been turned inside out. The quiet of home lay in the street, while the bustle of the byways had come into Prudentius’ house.

  The young servant girl who opened the door carried a squalling infant in her arms. The girl ineffectually tried to shush the child. “I’ll tell him you’re here,” she said in reply to John’s inquiry. “Hurry up and come inside. Otherwise the geese’ll get out.”

  John followed her into the atrium. She was short, her brown hair pinned up securely. A loose, undyed tunic revealed a slightly built frame which was nevertheless broad in the hips. Her face was an attractive amalgam. She had the aquiline nose of a Roman, but full lips and dusky skin spoke of the empire’s eastern fringes. The exotic effect was somewhat diminished by the number of teeth her smile revealed as missing. John could see no geese, but stepped carefully around the evidence on the atrium tiles that proved their presence in the house.

  Inexplicably, the atrium resembled nothing so much as a public square. An assortment of people wandered through it or stood about talking. Others sat leaning against its walls. They could hardly all be servants.

  “Your master’s given shelter to his family?” John ventured.

  “You might say so. Prudentius says everyone is his family.” The infant in her arms seemed to find this information highly disturbing to judge by the increased strength of its cries. Answering wails from elsewhere revealed that the girl was not alone in her efforts to increase the population of the house.

  John followed her past two men squabbling over a basket filled with vegetables. The house might almost be termed the Forum Prudentius, he thought.

  As he went up three wide steps leading into Prudentius’ office, John felt a tug at his cloak.

  The beggar squatting on the bottom step looked up at him. “Please, excellency, a nummus or two. My family is hungry.”

  The girl slapped the ragged man’s hand down. “You’re no hungrier than the rest of us! Does Prudentius have to tell you again? No begging is allowed here at any time and especially not from prospective clients.”

  The beggar mumbled a number of obscene comments concerning the girl taking advantage of being the master’s favorite and her arrogance in assuming this allowed her to order everyone around, especially honest workers and decent folk who had unfortunately fallen on hard times. Such as himself.

  John followed her through the lawyer’s office and out into the garden. He was not surprised to see several crudely constructed shelters propped against the pillars of its peristyle. Numerous people were lying in the shadows. The garden itself resembled a long-abandoned field, overgrown with straggly bushes and spindly saplings sprouting from beds of weeds. Ashes filled the basin of the dry fountain.

  “It seems he must be out somewhere.” The girl stroked the scarlet-faced baby, whose keening now turned into huge gulping sobs, soon quieted by the brown breast she popped out from her tunic. “I would be happy to take a message. He’s likely looking for more mouths to feed.”

  The baby’s puckered mouth moved contentedly.

  “Who are these people?”

  “I don’t know all their names. Mine is Xanthe, by the way. They’re unfortunates such as beggars, out-of-work stone masons, orphans, impoverished widows, even a few whores, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  There was a rustling and a huge black cat exploded out of a patch of weeds nearby, collided with John’s boot, did a somersault, and raced away, pursued in an instant by a much smaller, tortoise-shell kitten.

  “As you see,” observed Xanthe, “he also takes in stray cats. There’s a not a finer Christian in the city. He took me in off the street. I’ve served in his household for years and he’s been like a father to me.”

  “Giving up so much space in his home must be difficult. Most would choose to donate to a hospice or some similar institution rather than fill their houses with the destitute.”

  “Not Prudentius! He likes to do heaven’s work with his own hands. Needless to say, we have regular visits from a prelate, who reminds all these fortunate souls where their aid really comes from.”

  John produced a handful of coins. “Give these to your master and this one is for your baby.” John had found coins unlocked tongues more quickly than wine. “Do you know when he might return?”

  Xanthe gazed down thoughtfully at the nursing infant as if it might have the answer. Then she looked up.

  “Ezra!” She accompanied her cry with an energetic wave of her arm, which dislodged the baby’s mouth and set it instantly screaming.

  John followed her gaze. A thin, half-naked man with a wild beard and straggling hair sat hunched near the peak of the roof.

  “Ezra! Did you see Pru
dentius go out?”

  “He visited the sick in the garden just after dawn. Haven’t seen him since.” The man’s croaked reply was scarcely audible.

  Xanthe turned back to John. “Sorry. You may have to come back tomorrow. Prudentius doesn’t often go out these days. Just as well, really, since every time he does, there’s yet another mouth to feed.”

  “The man on your roof…”

  “Ezra’s been here for months. He used to be a stylite. Prudentius found him lying at the base of his column. Fortunately for him it was not very tall. The master hired a cart to bring him back here. The poor fellow’s legs are like sticks. You could use them for skewers. It’s a sorry state of affairs, when stylites are falling off their columns like so many poisoned crows.”

  “I gather he stays on the roof because that’s the only place he feels comfortable?”

  “That’s exactly right! How did you know?”

  John smiled enigmatically.

  ***

  “Tell your master he can preserve his bacon in a dark place. I’ve got no dill left. None.” The vegetable-seller leaned over a display of limp greens of other descriptions to deliver her emphatic message.

  “I can pay—”

  “You can see what I have to offer, you old fool. Can you see any dill? No! So no matter how much you say you can pay, I still can’t sell you something I haven’t got.”

  Peter turned away, his face flushed with anger and frustration. A fine thing for a Lord Chamberlain to eat boiled bacon prepared with insufficient dill. What did that silly girl Hypatia know about cooking? Running out of dill, indeed! It was intolerable.

  He’d been to the stall of every vegetable seller between the Great Church and the Golden Horn, or so it seemed. None offered so much as a stalk of dill. Other households had probably stocked up on herbs as a precaution against hunger while he’d been brooding over his poor friend.

  He had failed his master.

  It was true the Lord Chamberlain had ordered him to take time off from his duties, but now see how it had turned out? Why should he make matters worse by heeding his master’s order not to venture into the streets? Especially when there was no dill in the house.

  “Old man! Are you all right?” The seller called after him as he walked away.

  He ignored her. His heart thumped in his chest. If only it weren’t so hot. The sun seemed to beat all strength out of him. The colonnade he was walking toward kept moving sideways.

  He stared out at the harbor. Across the Golden Horn, pillars of coiling black smoke rose into the bright air, reminding him of pillars holding up the ceilings over the flaming pits of Hell.

  He knew of one last market he could try. He forced his heavy feet to keep moving, just as he had when he had been marching though the rocky passes in Isauria. When he had thought he could not lift his boots again, even though the sun had not even begun to slide down the slope of the blazing afternoon sky. Somehow he had taken another step, then another, until he lost count of the number of impossible steps he had taken. He and Gregory, he thought, reminding himself he was blessed he could still march through the city, however reluctant his aging legs might be.

  Gregory could not.

  He became aware the sun had stopped torturing him and looked up, expecting to see gathering clouds. Instead, he saw tenements leaning drunkenly over a street as narrow and winding as a dry stream bed.

  An unfamiliar street.

  He did not remember taking a wrong turn, but now he might as well have been in Antioch. Was it because the street was so silent? When had it become deserted? There had been people in the market he had just left, although not the usual jostling crowds. He had passed others going about on the first street he had turned down. Where had they all gone? To what sort of place had he found his way?

  Peter forced himself onward. He felt dizzy. A low humming filled his head. He began to sing a favorite hymn, “Though Thou Didst Descend into the Tomb.” It failed to lift his spirits. The buzzing in his head increased. Then he turned a corner and found his way blocked by a pile of dead, overhung by a thick, swirling cloud of flies.

  He hastily retraced his steps.

  The dim way was no longer deserted.

  A lone figure approached.

  Peter could not make out its face.

  Suddenly the figure broke into a loping run toward him.

  Peter fled as best he could.

  He veered into an alley, staggered briefly against a wall, stumbled onward.

  It was not so much an alley as a narrow space between two buildings whose walls almost touched overhead, blotting out light. In near darkness he trod on as best he could. His chest felt on fire. He prayed for strength, but slowed and stopped.

  He bent, gasping for breath.

  There was no sound of pursuit.

  Had he managed to elude the strange man?

  Unfortunately, he had not.

  A black figure floated silently toward him, seeming to draw nearer without actually traversing the filthy ground. Rather than growing more distinct as it approached, the figure grew blacker and more impenetrable, a vortex of darkness in which Peter perceived only shifting shapes he could not name.

  It stopped in front of him.

  With relief, Peter saw that it was just a man in a black cloak.

  But where was his face?

  Peter trembled. He felt a terrible cold emanating from the approaching figure. The cloak flapped like a raven’s wing and a tremendous blow to the side of his head sent Peter sprawling in the slops and debris littering the narrow space.

  In an instant Peter knew, it was death come for him, as it had for Gregory.

  He lay almost insensible as the dark shape leaned over him.

  Another shadow appeared.

  Demons, Peter thought in terror. Had he not been a good enough Christian? He waited for the claws, the razor-sharp teeth.

  He awoke, propped up against a wall.

  Someone crouched beside him.

  He tried to turn his head to take a closer look. The pain in his neck brought tears to his eyes.

  “You were attacked by a thief.” The voice was sibilant. “It is fortunate I happened to pass by just now. Although I have a way of happening to pass by at the right time. You will not die, Peter. Assure your master of that.”

  Peter tried to respond, but could not.

  His rescuer patted his shoulder. Peter glimpsed the face. A face across which countless years and endless roads had scrawled a palimpsest of wrinkles in which everything was written, but nothing could be read.

  Then the strange man was gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  John followed a limping man carrying a sack down a short, narrow alley that opened unexpectedly into a dark courtyard. The place was not far from the Hippodrome, but sunk as it was between looming granite cliffs of surrounding warehouses, its cobbled space resembled a cavern. Several restless bears, growling and snuffling, were suitable inhabitants. John came to a halt, then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, thanked Mithra the beasts were locked inside iron cages.

  Beyond the cages, a few shadowy figures—bear trainers, John supposed—sat hunkered down around a bonfire, roasting chunks of skewered meat. By the evidence of the scattered amphorae and the scurrilous songs they were singing, the men had been drinking steadily for some time.

  The fellow whom John had shadowed stopped at the closest cage and emptied the contents of his sack through its bars.

  “You haven’t finished all the wine, I hope,” he shouted to his companions. “It’s all right for you lot to sit around and drink and gorge since it’s not your turn to scavenge for our friends. Took me longer than I expected. Do you know how many rats it takes to feed even one bear?”

  “Rats?” someone observed. “How dainty. You’ve been gathering little rats when the streets are piled with corpses.”

  “Have some decency!”

  “Besides, you don’t
want them getting a taste for human flesh,” another trainer added.

  “Well, the owner of the wine shop didn’t like the idea of a bear getting a taste of human flesh either, especially his. Samson hadn’t even got to the end of his chain and the owner was halfway down the Mese like a deacon with a demon on his backside, leaving all those amphorae untended.”

  “You’ve told us all this before! Wait till the Prefect’s men are back on duty and start asking questions. You won’t be so clever then. ‘And what did you say the thief’s weapon was? A bear?’ How hard is it going to be for even that stupid bunch to point the finger?”

  “Well,” grumbled the thief, “I notice you haven’t refused to drink the wine Samson got you.” He turned to the fellow with the sack of rats, who was now sitting by the bonfire. “Have some meat. It’s excellent.”

  The rat catcher picked up a skewer, sniffed at the slab of meat it held, and spit into the flames. “Not dog again!”

  “This isn’t your scrawny, stringy street mongrel. It’s a well fed watchdog. Quite succulent, it is. It was chained in the courtyard of a deserted mansion. Its master probably died. The poor thing would’ve starved to death. We did it a good turn, and saved it from a terrible end.”

  “You ought to be working as a thief,” grumbled the new arrival. “Why do you bother to train bears?”

  The thief shrugged. “I love bears, my friend! Beautiful animals they are. Bear training isn’t all about nomismata, you know.”

  John strode forward, past the cages.

  “Ah,” the rat catcher said with a leering grin, catching sight of him. “Looks like a visitor from the palace!” The man was snaggle-toothed, John noted.

  “Then you better be polite,” the thief hiccoughed, contriving to bow while still remaining seated on the straw-strewn cobbles.

  “Have you come to tell us the games are to start again?” the first speaker asked, looking hopeful.

  John shook his head.

  “See, see, I told you!” shouted a man perched on a stool. “When Sappho left, she not only took my good fortune, she took everyone else’s as well!”

  Fortuna may have frowned upon the bear trainers, John thought, but perhaps at last her humors had improved so far as his quest went. “It’s about Sappho I wish to question you.”