by Mary Reed
When John had last seen his daughter, the only time he had ever met her, Europa was still a girl. Now her figure was the slightest bit fuller, her features thinned and sharpened, her demeanor more adult. She had become a woman. He couldn’t help looking back at the door.
“Mother will be here shortly,” Europa said, as if reading his thoughts.
John nodded. “I see.”
He found himself in the kitchen with his visitors, unable to remember having climbed the stairs.
Hypatia poured wine and set out honey cakes, all the while peering curiously at the strangers until John, tersely, explained who they were. She left, with obvious reluctance, to work in the garden.
For a while the three of them sat and stared at each other, sipping wine.
Suddenly Thomas set down his cup and laughed.
“Well, John, here we are again. Doesn’t seem that long ago since we said farewell, does it?”
“Indeed not,” John replied. He did not add that their visit was unwelcome in one sense. He did not want his daughter and her mother living in the city. Powerful men made inviting targets. In his deliberately solitary life, John could employ a staff of only two servants, could both keep a house and walk in the streets unguarded. But how could he ask Europa and Cornelia to also live in such a dangerous manner?
“Many things must have changed since then, but I have to say these honey cakes are as good as I remember,” Thomas said. “Either your cantankerous old servant is still with you, or he taught his successor how to make them.”
Europa brushed a crumb from Thomas’ ginger mustache. “Mother’s not far away. A few hours’ ride at most. She’s still at the inn where we were staying.”
“The last time I saw you, you were bound for Crete, Europa. How long have you been living on my doorstep?”
“Not long.” Thomas took a swig from his cup and grimaced. “I must have neglected to finish that last cup of ghastly wine when I was here last. My thanks for saving it for me all these years.”
“Where have you been all this time?” John looked toward Europa, but again it was Thomas who answered.
“It’s more a question of where haven’t I been? Egypt, Gaul, Germania, living by sharp wits and a sharper blade.”
“And you, Europa?”
“Mother and I remained in Crete for a while and then rejoined the troupe. We were traveling with them until quite recently.” She glanced at Thomas, who appeared only too eager to take up her story.
“As I said, John, I found myself in Egypt. It was some months ago, in Pelusium, to be precise. Visiting the baths, I heard much talk about recently arrived entertainers, said to include a pair of bull-leapers in the ancient tradition. Could it possibly be the friends I’d last seen some years ago in Crete, I asked myself. After all, you don’t stumble over bull-leapers every day.”
Thomas offered Europa a broad smile. “I made some inquiries and finally found the troupe, or what was left of it. The company was in the process of disbanding. The plague had just appeared and had already taken a few of them. It was time to leave.”
“And what’s more, our bull had been stolen,” Europa put in. “I fear he ended up butchered. A beautiful, intelligent beast like that.” Her eyes glittered at the memory, although whether with tears of sorrow or anger John couldn’t tell.
“I don’t think those pagan priests would have allowed that,” Thomas observed. “But in any event, the disaster sweeping the city put an end to my business there as well.”
He paused and John wondered exactly what business Thomas had been pursuing so far away. “In any event, I suggested to the few remaining performers that we stick together and move along the coast, earning our way by impromptu performances in towns as we went. Alas, I fear I am not cut out to be an entertainer.”
The admission caused Thomas to pick up his cup, which turned out to be empty. Before he could say a word, Europa refilled it.
Thomas fortified himself and continued with his story. “Unfortunately, the plague appeared to be pursuing us. No sooner had we arrived in Ephesus, but the plague appeared. We hastened on to Smyrna and Nicaea and the same thing happened. You’d have thought we were carrying the disgusting sickness on our backs. Eventually we parted company with the rest and gradually worked our way up the coast to Nicomedia.”
“Naturally at that point it seemed an excellent notion to come into a city where the dead were piling up in the streets,” John observed.
Thomas began to mumble a reply.
“Mother asked Thomas to escort me here,” Europa interrupted. “She was trying to protect me.” Her tone and accompanying frown made it plain that she considered the effort unnecessary. “We knew Constantinople was being ravaged. Is there anywhere that isn’t? Yet, she said, to survive in the midst of such a horror, what better chance could one have than to live in the household of the Lord Chamberlain?”
“She’s a practical woman, is Cornelia,” Thomas put in.
“You say Cornelia is still at the inn where you were staying?”
“A place called the Inn at Stephen’s Column, on the road from Nicomedia. It’s not far from a stylite’s column. Stephen isn’t there any more, just the column. I suppose the place was built to accommodate passing pilgrims.”
“Why didn’t she accompany you?”
“The innkeeper owes us money,” explained Europa. “We’d paused there for a few days, performing in the courtyard to entertain guests. He was awaiting payment for something or other himself. I’m not certain of the details, but in any event, mother didn’t want to arrive on your doorstep empty-handed. Isn’t that what she said, Thomas?”
Thomas’ head bobbed in agreement.
“That would be her way,” John said. “A very proud woman, Cornelia. As if I don’t possess more than enough wealth!”
“I notice you still haven’t spent any of it on new furnishings,” said Thomas.
Before John could reply, there was a rap at the house door.
John leapt to his feet and went to the top of the stairs.
Hypatia had come in from the garden and already opened the door, but the figure who rushed inside and loped frantically across the atrium towards the stairway was not Cornelia.
“Anatolius! You look as if you’ve had a terrible shock. Come up into the kitchen.”
“Fortuna has smiled on me, John.” The young man was out of breath as he reached the top of the stairs. “Balbinus is sinking fast! I called at his house again. The place was in an uproar, but I gathered that when Lucretia looks out of a window tomorrow, the sun will shine in on a widow.”
John caught his friend’s arm a stride’s distance from the kitchen and spun him around.
“Anatolius!”
Anatolius looked at him, amazed at his harsh tone.
John released his grip. “You’re wishing for Balbinus’ death!”
“I’m thinking of Lucretia—”
“No doubt. But the Lucretia you knew is gone, Anatolius.”
“No, John, never.”
“Lucretia has shared the senator’s bed for some time now. It’s true she left him once, but she returned.”
“John, I would rather not think—”
“You had better think about it, Anatolius. However much we may desire it, the past can’t return.”
Even as he uttered the words, John realized he had been giving voice to what he had been trying to tell himself ever since his visitors had arrived, counseling himself not to hope too much, not to build dreams.
As Anatolius turned toward the kitchen doorway, John saw Europa seated at the table, a living refutation of everything he had just said about the past.
Chapter Fifteen
John chose to cover the short distance between his house and that of the lawyer Prudentius by taking the back streets behind the Hippodrome rather than walking up the Mese.
It was just as well.
Those streets being less frequented, there
were fewer citizens to draw back fearfully from the tall, grim-faced Greek who was obviously, from his demeanor and dress, the bearer of some grievous trouble from the palace. Those passersby who scuttled out of his path were more frightened still by his lack of a bodyguard.
It was obvious to anyone he was as dangerous and reckless as he was powerful.
Despite his grim face, John was not contemplating the infliction of harm on anyone. He was merely thinking, as he liked to do as he walked. The harder he thought, the faster his feet moved.
Despite his rapid pace, he could not find any ready solutions to the myriad of problems posed by the unexpected arrival of his daughter in the company of Thomas. At the realization, his mouth settled into a hard line.
Then too there was Anatolius’ dangerous pursuit of Lucretia. Why hadn’t that young man grasped his opportunity and taken her to wife before she was married off to Senator Balbinus?
Most importantly, there was the matter of Peter’s illness. If his elderly servant were indeed dying then it was even more urgent that John find Gregory’s murderer. Or so he’d told himself upon waking that morning after a restless night filled with dreams he could not recall.
The evening before had been trying enough, brief as it had been thanks to the hour at which Thomas and Europa arrived. Hypatia had prepared rooms and they’d been happy enough to retire early, leaving John alone with his thoughts and Zoe.
All in all he felt he could hardly linger at home and chat with the new arrivals this morning. There was work to be done.
As Prudentius’ house door opened, a voice in the back of John’s mind insolently suggested that duty could also be a convenient refuge.
The exotic servant Xanthe greeted him. This time she did not carry her infant, which was doubtless one of those John could hear crying lustily in the far recesses of the house.
John was indeed fortunate today, Xanthe indicated. Prudentius was at home and receiving visitors in his office.
The lawyer had closed the room’s inner screens, barely muting the clamor from the atrium, while leaving the rest open to the garden.
The man John had arrived to interview turned out to be as tall as the Lord Chamberlain and hollow-chested with a long bony face, sporting as much bristling white hair in his eyebrows as on his balding, cropped scalp. He gave the impression of a patrician who had become a desert hermit, particularly in his garments. The gold embroidery around the collar of his well-worn robe had begun to unravel. Stray threads stuck out untidily, mirroring the hairs over his deep-set eyes.
He offered John the chair beside a dainty lacquered table whose legs terminated in carved and gilded swans’ heads. The delicate piece of furniture apparently served him for a desk.
“May I offer you wine and perhaps some of this excellent cheese?” Prudentius indicated a silver platter on the table. “It’s one of the smoked varieties. It’s flavored with thyme and very difficult to obtain of late. An unforgivable luxury under the circumstances, really, yet we all have our weaknesses.”
John politely declined. Aside from the incongruous table the room was utilitarian, its walls covered with niches overflowing with codexes and scrolls. More than a few were piled haphazardly on the floor. Several marble busts set on tall pedestals glowered balefully into the distance, like irate judges. The brass water clock sitting prominently in one corner doubtless served to remind Prudentius’ clients that his time was their money.
“There’s never been a slab of grilled meat of any kind that I find as tasty as this particular delicacy,” Prudentius said. “Like our emperor I choose not to sully myself by eating flesh.”
John gave the lawyer a thin smile, thinking of grilled fish.
Prudentius smiled in return. “I see you agree. Now, sir, Xanthe is a sweet child, but not much good at announcing visitors, I fear. To whom am I speaking?”
At the words Lord Chamberlain, the lawyer’s expression became grave. “How can I assist you, excellency?”
“I would like information concerning a client of yours, a recently deceased shipper by the name of Nereus.”
“Nereus? Deceased, you say?”
John stated the cause of death.
A breeze wandering in from the sunny garden gently rustled legal documents in their niches.
Prudentius bowed his head. “Of course. Does anybody die of anything else these days?” He directed a sharp look at John. “How did you know he was my client?”
John mentioned the letter Cador had delivered.
“Of course. You understand, excellency, I must be cautious in matters concerning my clients. Any assistance I can offer therefore depends on what sort of information you seek.”
John outlined the little he had learnt about Nereus’ final hours. “Had he consulted you about making a new will?”
“Yes, he had, but it was more to confirm what he thought was applicable law. He owned a set of Justinian’s Institutes, and when laymen seek to interpret such technical writings, well…but there again it is a point of pride for many aristocrats to write their own wills. Since he apparently made an oral will, I would have to assume he never got around to actually writing a new will.”
“Do you know anything about the provisions in the will he intended to change?”
“He never consulted me about it.”
“When he asked you for advice, did he indicate what it was he wanted to accomplish?”
Prudentius leaned back slightly in his chair. “You put me in a difficult position, Lord Chamberlain.”
“I regret the necessity, but refusal to answer as far as you are able might put you in an even more difficult position,” John replied.
The lawyer’s shaggy eyebrows went up slightly. “I see. Very well. Nereus asked specifically about an oral will. He said he felt in these troubled times it was a very wise precaution to understand how to do it, just in case he needed the knowledge. Naturally I urged him to allow me to draw up a written will, since it would be much easier to administer. Then too, while he did not say as much, I formed the distinct impression he was considering disinheriting his son. He expressed some anxiety about Triton getting involved with, as he expressed it, a low class of woman who would find a liaison with a rich man’s son an attractive notion. And now I have told you everything I know and more than I should have.” He began to stand.
John remained seated. “A murder is involved.”
Prudentius settled heavily back into his chair. “You said my client died of the plague!”
“That is correct. However, one of the witnesses, a customs official named Gregory, was stabbed to death not long after he left Nereus’ bedside.”
Prudentius began to pluck absently at a loose thread protruding from his tunic sleeve. “Surely that is nothing but a sad coincidence, Lord Chamberlain? When there’s an estate in dispute people generally tend to attack the testator, not the witnesses. And how could anyone outside Nereus’ house possibly know what the oral will said? It had only just been made.”
“It’s possible Triton somehow learned of his father’s intent and wanted to prevent himself from being disinherited.”
“You mean by removing all the witnesses to his father’s final will?” Prudentius shook his head and chuckled. “One can’t disinherit a blood relation that easily. There’s the Lex Falcidia for one thing, whereby an heir is entitled to a portion of the estate, unless there’s ingratitude on his part, or what is legally termed ingratitude. Nereus should have been asking me for advice on that. Then there’s the matter of diminishing the estate by the granting of legacies rather than outright disinheritance, both of which may involve different procedures to be valid depending on the circumstances, I might add. And that’s just the start of the difficulties. Put the idea out of your mind, Lord Chamberlain. Your theoretical murderer wouldn’t know whether he’d gained anything from the crime until after the matter had been litigated for several years.”
He paused. “Besides, how could Triton know
about his father’s will unless he was standing there, listening at the door?”
“True. But consider, he might have bribed a servant to bring him word if Prudentius made a new will. However, you are correct. Murderers don’t necessarily consider all the details or think like lawyers.”
A clattering from the garden interrupted their conversation. Wheezing shouts followed. “Beware! Beware! The mighty fist of heaven descends on all sinners!”
John glanced out. Ezra was crawling rapidly over the roof tiles like a raggedly dressed crab.
“You are a person of great charity,” John observed.
“I hear that compliment often, Lord Chamberlain. People seem puzzled when I explain I try to give back to the poor some of the wealth the rich pay me to assist them with legal matters. I look on myself as a kind of tax collector, levying largely on greed. For example, an importer sells a shipment of sour wine and is promptly sued by the buyer and so finds he needs my assistance. A few waifs here are fed by my fees.”
“We were talking about oral wills. What exactly is the law concerning them?”
Prudentius’ long face grew longer. “I’m afraid the law is rarely exact. It’s complicated. Mens’ eyes read free, so if the law was only what is written down, why would anyone wish to employ me? No, what matters is not what is laid down, but what the judge thinks it is, or more precisely whether the litigant and the judge interpret it the same way.”
“I can see that might cause difficulties, but what do the laws say?”
“Very little. A testator may make an oral will in the same manner as a written one, that is, by calling seven witnesses, stating his intention to do so, and then declaring his will before them.”
John nodded. “The man who delivered the letter to you was one of Nereus’ witnesses, as was the murdered man and an acquaintance of a friend of mine. That leaves four whose identities are still unknown to me.”
“He couldn’t have called on any slaves he owned, I can tell you that.” Prudentius gazed out toward the stylite on the roof, as if the holy man was an aid to his memory.
