by Mary Reed
“She just went to the other wing to look in on her favorite patient. If you wanted to stop by and give her some encouragement, Anatolius, it would be a kind gesture. She is a good worker, even if she does need to be reminded now and then that there are sufferers other than the one she’s devoted to.” He raised a warning hand. “Oh, one thing more, Crinagoras. You must not do anything strenuous for a few days. That means no exertion or heavy work and whatever you do, no writing for the time being either. There’s no telling what damage fanning those blazing fires of divine inspiration might cause you right now.”
Suppressing a smile, Anatolius thanked Gaius for his advice and hurried Crinagoras through the crowded hospice to the wing where Hypatia was working.
Directed further by a passing assistant, they soon found the hallway indicated and walked down it, glancing into each room.
“That’s Hypatia’s voice!” Anatolius suddenly declared. “I wonder if this is the room where this favorite patient of hers is—”
He stepped quickly back from the doorway.
“Mithra!” he cursed and hastily ushered Crinagoras outside.
***
“I’m not surprised John isn’t here, but the news I have is important. I’ll wait.” Anatolius was crossing the atrium on his way to the garden before Thomas could reply.
“There’s no one here but Peter and myself,” Thomas informed him as he followed.
Dusk had settled over the city. Light from torches set in the garden’s peristyle glinted on foliage, leaving the deepening shadows beneath trees and bushes untouched.
Anatolius dropped on to the bench beside the pool, “I saw Hypatia at the hospice a little while ago. I would have thought she’d be back home by now.”
“She will be here soon. Gaius lends her an escort home, if I can’t meet her myself,” Thomas replied. “However, just to change the subject, what do you make of that strange object?”
He pointed to the olive tree. A brass plate to which three or four short leather strips were attached hung from a branch. Taking the odd contraption down, he handed it to Anatolius. “I bought it from one of those vendors of trifles you see here and there.”
Anatolius glanced at the object and handed it back. “Not many sell portable oracles, I would think.”
Thomas looked disappointed as he hung the plate back on the branch. “You know it’s a reproduction of the oracle at Dodona?”
“I’d read its description, yes, but this is the first example I’ve actually handled. Why did you buy it?”
Thomas grinned in an embarrassed fashion. “It’s a lot of nonsense, of course, but I thought it would amuse Europa.”
“It’s often difficult to purchase suitable gifts for ladies.” Anatolius sounded wistful. “Mind you, most of the ones to whom I’ve presented tokens of my affection would scorn such a simple and useful item. They’d be much more interested in perfume and jewelry or fine clothing, things like that.”
“Then apparently being a barbarian has its advantages.” Thomas tapped the plate, listening to the leather strips slapping against it.
“It will only work correctly when the wind blows,” Anatolius remarked. “Why do you suppose it will amuse Europa? Is there some uncertainty in her future? A decision yet to made?”
“She will make the right decision,” Thomas confidently predicted and turned to look at John, who was approaching quietly from the house. “Lord Chamberlain, you have a visitor. I must depart to consult someone about a certain matter, so I’ll leave you to talk.”
John glanced at the brass plate, then looked after the retreating Briton. He asked Anatolius if he knew where the oracle had been found.
“Thomas mentioned he purchased it from a street vendor. Why do you ask?”
“Nereus’ house was broken into and one of his Dodona oracles is missing.”
“And you think that someone desperate to purchase food stole it and sold it to Thomas?”
“It seems a reasonable explanation, doesn’t it? A plate is easily carried.”
“From your gloomy demeanor I don’t need an oracle to predict your investigation isn’t going well.”
John sat down beside Anatolius and briefly recounted his day’s efforts, including his visit to the bookseller turned innkeeper for the dead.
“I’m not surprised to hear about Scipio’s newest commercial venture,” Anatolius observed. “He’s always struck me as more interested in coins than words. Oh, he fancies himself a shrewd businessman, but a really shrewd businessman would be selling wine or bread or shoes—anything but literary works. Do you believe this cart driver you sought really died of the plague? It seems very convenient to me. There were no visible wounds, I take it?”
“No. Still, next time you see Crinagoras, you should strongly advise him to stay on guard. He might want to retain Thomas in his employ for a while as well.”
“Yes, I’ll tell him. But are you really surprised one of the remaining witnesses would be carried off by the plague? I’d have wagered more than one of them would meet the same end. It’s almost a race between you and death, John. Are there any of the five witnesses still left alive you haven’t interviewed?”
Five for silver, John suddenly thought uneasily, remembering the strange fortune-telling rhyme he had heard so long ago in Bretania. Five witnesses left alive and silver in plenty to be had, given Nereus’ wealth. “Only this holy fool who seems to be everywhere and nowhere.”
“Perhaps you should try following Crinagoras. The fool seems to be following him around. First he’s at Nereus’ house, then Theodora’s banquet. Crinagoras tells me that Scipio tried to convince him he should write a chronicle of the fool’s antics. The bookseller’s taken an interest in the rascal, calculating people will want to read about him and his outrageous goings-on. He has a point, I will say, but Crinagoras refused to entertain the notion. He’s become quite distressed of late. He keeps telling me the holy man won’t let him alone.”
“You say the fool was at the empress’ banquet at Justinian’s Blachernae estate?”
“That’s right. I was going to tell you about it.” He recounted the fool’s performance. “If Theodora had thrown the fool into the imperial dungeons, you’d know exactly where to find him. As it is, he could be anywhere in the city or half way to Egypt by now. However, there is one mystery I have solved for you, even if it has nothing at all to do with Gregory’s murder.”
“And what might that be?” John leaned forward, picked up a pebble, tossed it into the pool, and watched rings spreading out toward the edge of the basin.
“When I was at the hospice this evening I saw the young man to whom Hypatia has become quite attached, and I’m sorry to say it’s that disgusting young court page Hektor.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“If you’re looking for Hypatia, I sent her home with a guard less than an hour ago.” Gaius looked up from the tray on which he was arranging what appeared to John to be undersized butcher’s tools.
“It’s just as well she isn’t here.”
Gaius wiped a fine-toothed saw on a none too clean cloth. “You’re as enigmatic as ever, John. I don’t suppose you’ve visited at this time of night to chat. What is it?”
The physician looked as if he hadn’t slept for days. The circles under his eyes might have been deep purplish bruises.
“Do you know anything about this favorite patient of Hypatia’s? Have you treated him yourself?”
“I’ve been concentrating on those suffering from the plague. My colleagues are very capable and really, with burns like that, all you can do is bathe them well in water and vinegar and keep the victims supplied with pain-killing potions.”
The physician rubbed his face wearily. “Then too we’ve had a sudden influx of patients who are half dead, but won’t die,” he went on. “At least not until they really get the plague. All of them are convinced they already have it, and from talking to them I gather they took massive amounts
of what was purportedly hellebore, hoping for a quick end. Whatever it was, it wasn’t poisonous enough to do the job. I imagine the purveyor of poison will be in some danger once his disgruntled customers get well enough to seek him out again.”
“Doubtless a refund of whatever they paid will be the least of their demands,” John observed, making a mental note to convey this startling development to Isis as soon as possible.
At John’s request Gaius escorted him to the patient’s room.
Inside the hospice it might have been midday since the halls were just as crowded, the cries of anguish were ceaseless as ever, the bustling attendants as numerous. Death and illness paid no heed to the hour.
“That’s the one.” Gaius indicated the room from the end of the hallway. The loud shouts emanating from within made it clear the patients were engaged in a game of knucklebones.
“Gambling seems to be inordinately popular here,” the physician went on, “considering we’re all rolling the bones with death every day. If you don’t mind, I’m hoping to get a little sleep, so I’ll leave you.”
John watched Gaius trudge off and then strode into the room he had pointed out.
The young man looked up. When he saw John, the suppurating red ruin of his features instantly twisted into a familiar sneer. “The Lord Chamberlain blesses us with his presence.”
The other wagerers in the room expressed vigorous doubts, well laced with obscenities, as to the validity of the claim.
John ordered them to leave, his tone and demeanor demanding obedience.
He looked more closely at Hektor. The court page had been a pretty boy who had grown into a handsome young man. Now all that was gone. “I regret your—”
“I doubt it,” Hektor interrupted. “At least the injury I suffered has not diminished me as a man. No, rather I consider my misfortune a sign from heaven.”
John ignored the insult.
“While the delightful Hypatia cared for me,” Hektor continued, “I had plenty of time to ponder my situation. Consider. I have been shown the eternal burning pit of Hell.”
John wondered if the young man’s experience had upset his humors. It was understandable if it had.
Hektor flung his arms wide. “Yes, Lord Chamberlain, the Lord cast a sinful court page into the pit and a Christian emerged. I intend to enter the church, for am I not a living example of how even the most miserable sinner among us can be saved?”
Justinian’s court was Christian and men could advance as far on piety as by their looks. Hektor’s intelligence was certainly still intact, John thought. “The truth is you were found intoxicated and unconscious in some gutter or other and mistaken for dead,” he said, recalling what Felix had told him about Hektor’s recent behavior. “Do you really believe anyone at court will believe you’ve become a fervent Christian?”
“It has always amazed me what people will believe, Lord Chamberlain. Besides, as you see, I wear the marks of my sincerity.” He ran a slender finger across his blistered face. The fingernail still bore a trace of colored polish, the last vestige of the pretty court page he had been.
Hektor’s character, however, had not been affected by his terrible experience.
“We shall see. Now, concerning Hypatia—”
Hektor grinned. “She told you I proposed marriage? I am flattered you would personally visit to give me your congratulations. Of course, I’m a few years younger than she, but vastly older in experience. In fact, I believe your friend Anatolius was already composing letters for the Master of the Offices at my age.”
“I will strongly advise Hypatia against any such union, Hektor.”
“And destroy her happiness? I am surprised at your jealousy! Why, I even gave her my ring as a token of my intentions.”
“Hypatia is free to choose her own husband, but don’t think you can use her as a means to gain access to my household. I’m well aware of your enmity toward me.”
“And if Hypatia marries me?” the young man replied insolently.
“Then she will leave my employ immediately.”
***
Outside the hospice, the Augustaion was sunk in an orange twilight. Night never descended entirely anywhere near the Great Church, with its hundreds of lamps shining through scores of windows.
John walked away from the direction of the Great Palace. He did not care to return home yet. He stuck to the center of the Mese, avoiding its shadowed colonnades. No stars were visible in the sky. Here and there smoke ascended in columns, glowing in the city lights.
He arrived at the semi-circular courtyard housing Isis’ establishment, the gilded Eros outside announcing the business conducted therein.
Zeus opened the door and gestured John inside with a grandiose wave of a gold-painted, wooden thunderbolt.
John, a swift glance encompassing the spectacle before him, from the crown of a well-curled gray wig to the gilt-encrusted sandals adorning large, pale feet, handed his blade to the father of the gods.
The doorkeeper looked highly embarrassed as he placed it with other weapons ranged neatly beside the door.
“Well, Thomas, you certainly appear to have risen in the world since I last saw you. As far as Olympus, in fact.”
“You followed me, didn’t you?”
“As a matter of fact, I merely decided to call on Isis. What are you doing here? Presumably you have a good reason for impersonating Zeus?”
Thomas flushed, heightened color clashing with his gray wig and red mustache. “I’ve been contemplating my future, John, and I thought it was time I followed a more regular calling. I’d never contemplated working in a place like this, but when I visited Isis yesterday to…er…renew our acquaintanceship, she offered me the post. I thought well, why not?” He frowned. “I never anticipated it would involve having to dress up in this ridiculous costume.”
He paused as light footsteps announced the arrival of the madam. “John! I thought I recognized your voice. What do you think about our new doorkeeper? With Zeus guarding us, how can we fail to prosper?”
Thomas, scowling fiercely, contemplated his flimsy sandals.
“Do I take it that you’ve decided to change your decor to emulate Olympus?” John asked as he and Isis retreated to her private apartment.
“Not yet.” She seated herself on the well-stuffed couch and gestured to him to help himself to wine and sweetmeats. “I’ve dressed my girls as assorted goddesses to see if there’s enough interest to justify all the expense of redecoration. It’s going to be costly, what with a certain amount of gilding and a few appropriate busts and statues and perhaps even a mosaic or two.”
“When you told me you were contemplating a religious theme I thought you had in mind something Christian.”
“I did. Almost everyone in Constantinople’s thinking about heaven right now. So it occurred to me it might be a popular theme. Then I thought, no, Zeus is a much more interesting deity from my point of view. Very lusty, for a start. Fortuna must have sent you, because I was going to ask Thomas to convey a message when he returned home.”
Home. The word leapt out at John. It had not occurred to him that his house was serving as a temporary home to Thomas and Europa. The notion seemed vaguely unsettling, akin to the queasiness he always felt when crossing deep water. “Has one of your girls heard something useful to my investigation?”
“Not yet, I fear. Rather I have a question for you, concerning a man called Aristotle of Athens.”
John arched his eyebrows. “Fortuna has indeed smiled on you, Isis. I spoke to him not long ago.”
“Excellent! As I mentioned, if I redecorate I’ll be in the market for appropriate statuary and busts. Well, it so happened that during a recent visit one of my girls’ regular clients mentioned he’d just purchased an antique marble of Aphrodite in the embrace of Adonis from this Aristotle at a very reasonable price, given its apparent age and the quality of the workmanship.”
“Apparent age?”
>
Isis laughed. “Yes, it seems Aristotle has a fine trade in forged antiquities. The client, who seemed very knowledgeable, indicated the process involves burial of the statues for some time in pits well supplied with donkey urine and cow manure.”
John nodded. “He’s right. Aristotle’s garden is graced, if that’s the right description, with just such a pit. He claims he’s been collecting it because he’s planning to venture into tanning leather in due course. Manure would be easy enough to obtain. I’d heard tales about him burying a body in the middle of the night. Now I see there is a much less sinister explanation than this might suggest. However, why would your patron mention this strange information?”
“You may well ask, John. I certainly did, and in questioning my girl discovered it was not so much the fellow boasting about his knowledge or using it as an indication he could afford artifacts of that sort, but rather the fact that this statue he purchased had inspired him. He wished for its pose to be recreated in the flesh for his enjoyment.”
“Surely not an uncommon request in a house dedicated to Aphrodite?”
“True enough. However, it transpired that the immortals were performing an act you won’t see on public display among the sculptures decorating city squares or the baths or gymnasium. That being the case, Aristotle sounds like a man who deals in exactly the kind of works I may need, forged or not. So what I want to know, John, is where can I find him?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The sound of John’s footsteps followed him as he departed homeward from Isis’ establishment. Away from its warm lamplight and quiet voices, it was difficult to believe there was anyone left alive in the city.
John reflected that the only apparent result of his investigations so far had been to assist Isis in obtaining erotic statues from a forger of antiquities. If, indeed, she decided to do business with Aristotle. He had counseled against it.
Isis had chuckled and patted his arm. “You declare he’s not to be trusted? He’s in a suspect business? What would I know of such things, is that what troubles you? I am not the innocent child you remember from Egypt, John.”
