by Mary Reed
Peter confirmed that he did. “And were your guests as curious as I about these invaders who were not invading?” he asked, trying valiantly to keep Sarcerdus to the point of his story.
“Indeed they were. So we all rode out to my finest vineyard. Did I mention that I breed the finest horses in the region?”
Peter had no chance to reply as Sarcerdus charged ahead. “Anyway, this vineyard sits on a hillside and for as long as anyone can recall there’s been a ruined temple there. It was built next to a fissure where a flame always burns, which is why I myself am of the opinion the building originally honored Zoroaster or some such fire deity. It looks picturesque enough and the only problem it causes is its attraction to amorous couples. That’s understandable enough, though, what with the spectacular view and the shelter it affords, especially on cold nights.”
“We were all young once,” Peter said with a wry smile.
“Indeed we were, indeed we were. But to get back to what I was saying, I could tell you much about Zorastrianism and many other such things besides. You might be surprised at my knowledge of pagan sects, but I was steeped in evil, Peter. I warmed my hands at those infernal fires. I immersed myself in the words of demons and alchemists and pagan writers. I shudder to think of it now.”
“This would be about the time when Michael arrived?” Peter interrupted, wiping sweat from his face. His sparse gray hair clung to his head like honey to a spoon and he had a sinking suspicion that Sarcerdus was about to embark on another rambling digression.
“What? Oh, yes, you have guessed it! There he was, standing beside the temple and addressing a small band of followers and, although he was offering the truth as I later came to realize, all I could see at the time were my trampled grapevines.”
Sarcerdus shook his head as if he couldn’t believe his own folly.
“But I did notice the flame that had issued ceaselessly from the rock for all those years flickered out while he spoke,” Sarcerdus said, “just as he was telling his followers that it was by fire that he would be known. And a wonder it was, too, because as he preached, the fire resumed burning of its own accord. I saw that with my own eyes!”
“So what did you do?” Peter prompted, hoping to hear the end of this remarkable account before he was cooked to the bone.
“I didn’t want to wait for the authorities to act since it would take too long and so, and I am ashamed to tell you this, I armed my workers and they drove Michael and his followers away. They were easily dispersed. He didn’t have as many as he has now, you see.”
“Yet today here you are, a follower yourself.”
“A wonder, is it not? And how it came about was this way. The following year stories began to drift back to me about a remarkable holy man who was moving west, driving the godless back like sand before the desert winds. I have business contacts in every corner of the empire, did I mention that? Well, I suddenly realized that the stories I was hearing spoke of the very man I had driven from my land.”
Peter murmured some commonplace words of comfort.
“Ah,” Sarcerdus said cheerfully, “but when you stop to think of it, Michael would not be about to enter Constantinople in triumph had I not forced him to flee my vineyard and take his message west. I was very humbled when I realized that I had served to set his feet on the journey.”
“There has never been one so humble as Sarcerdus Rufus, as so many have said,” Peter pointed out.
Sarcerdus laughed heartily, raising another tempest in the pool. It was the stormiest bath Peter had ever sat in, except for one occasion when he had arranged a tryst in a similar private bath behind his then owner’s house. But that had been a long time ago. Just the day before he had been sold into what became his military career, in fact.
“I thank you for relating your story so graciously,” he said, beginning to get to his feet. He lurched sideways. Both legs had fallen asleep. Sarcerdus reached over and grabbed Peter’s arm, steadying and detaining him at the same time.
“But don’t run off just yet, Peter,” he said persuasively. “I have not even begun to illuminate for you the stygian depths of the unrepeatable sins from which Michael has saved me.”
After Peter’s lengthy immersion in steaming water, the warm sunlight felt chilly against his puckered skin as he sat next to John on a stone bench beside a tree-lined path looping behind the villa.
“If someone had poured honey or a good sauce into that bath water I’d be ready for the platter,” he complained, shivering.
He had recounted his conversation to John and now his master’s careful questioning was growing as wearisome as Sarcerdus’ convoluted digressions.
“He would insist on telling me all about numerous of his guests, master. He must really have hungered for civilization out there, however blasphemous its trappings. I gather that most of his visitors thanked him for his hospitality with valuable gifts. Which guests in particular is it you’re asking about? The demon-worshipping traders from India, was it?”
“I mean the men who were visiting when Michael was driven away, Peter. I would like to know more about them, if you can recollect anything else.”
“The ones who had come to gape at Satan’s fires, as my wealthy friend might put it? He didn’t really say too much about them, except that despite his story rambling all over the landscape I got the impression they left shortly after Michael departed. They hadn’t stayed long. Sarcerdus mentioned that he was upset at the time. He’d been enjoying the conversations they had been having and he thinks that business with Michael frightened them away. Or perhaps it had been their turn to get a word into the discourse with him and they could not? Or possibly I’m thinking of the travelers from Arabia who…”
John raised a warning hand at the sound of approaching voices. Two pilgrims deep in animated discussion went by without sparing a glance at the pair sitting on the bench.
“Shaving the head and talking must be the basic sacraments of this new faith,” Peter remarked when they had passed. “But truly, master, I have told you everything I know, and then repeated the same knowledge to you three more times and in different ways.”
John nodded. “I believe you have, Peter. You did very well. Thank you.”
“Very well? I had to say a few things I will be asking forgiveness for tonight! But what did I learn? You already knew Michael came from east of Lazica.”
“I’m interested in the eternal fires out there, Peter. Those men who came to study them, the guests who traveled to that far place to see them. Did he happen to say where they had come from?”
Peter shook his head. “So far as I can see, master, we have learned only that Michael is exactly as he says,” he went on. “So I fear you have risked your life for nothing because of a senseless message composed by Philo, and who can say for what reason now that he is dead?”
“I am not so certain that Philo led me astray, Peter.” A new question occurred to John. “Do you have any idea when he composed that letter? Did you notice him at work on it?”
Peter had not.
John looked thoughtful. “I wonder if it could have been written while I was away those two days, pursuing my investigations?”
“To be honest, I did not seek him out when he was not intruding into my kitchen.”
“Did he go anywhere during that time?”
“He was always in and out of the house. Seeking possible employment, he said.”
“Nothing else?”
“Well, he claimed once to be on the way to the imperial library. I didn’t believe him, but when he came back he was spouting facts in a positive flood, trying to convince me I had not seen with my own eyes the divine fire in the sky.”
Peter paused, feeling lightheaded. He suspected he was beginning to ramble somewhat.
John asked him if he recalled anything else Philo had said at the time.
“Not much. He kept talking about elements. And there was also something he attributed to some historian, Livy, was it?”
&n
bsp; John urged Peter to continue.
“The other thing I recall is that according to Philo, this historian described sacred lamps that apparently miraculously burst into flame when they got wet. In fact they were just a sham, a trick. I was offended because I took it as a sly way to say my religious beliefs are founded on a similar delusion.”
Peter rubbed his face. Strangely, the bench seemed to be moving, or perhaps it was the garden, beginning to rotate around the bench. “I don’t recall any more, master, and I fear that I really must lie down and rest now.”
John patted his servant’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Peter, I should not have pressed you so.”
But Peter was unable to reply. A dark fog gathered at the edge of his vision and suddenly he was falling forward into a pit as deep and black as Sarcerdus Rufus’ former sins.
Chapter Twenty-eight
It was yet another dawn arrival. John and Peter had entered the city lounging casually in the back of a farmer’s cart. If anyone had been assigned to watch against the exiled Lord Chamberlain’s return, he must have been asleep at his post for the two men were soon slipping unmolested across the cobbled square between the barracks and John’s house.
Although the house might not have been watched from outside it was certainly well guarded within. Darius, sworn to protect Isis’ door wherever that door might be, answered John’s summoning rap promptly.
“By Zurvan’s beard! What are you doing back here? And Peter, why are you wearing such fine clothes?” Darius shut and barred the door after quickly scanning the empty square. “What a night this has been, Lord Chamberlain,” he went on. “I was afraid your knock meant another sobbing woman seeking sanctuary!”
John gave him a questioning look. “You’ve been visited by sobbing women?”
“Well, only one, but that’s enough for me,” was the reply. “But more importantly, won’t Justinian have your head removed if he learns you’re back?”
“Perhaps not, after he’s heard all we have learned,” John said, hurrying up the stairs.
As he entered the kitchen he immediately recognized the woman whose pale patrician face was surrounded by greasy black ringlets.
“Lucretia! I am honored,” he said.
She sat sobbing quietly, ignoring Isis, who was pouring wine out for her. Peter hobbled in and although he said nothing John could read his servant’s horrified expression perfectly. His master’s wine being freely imbibed by two women, neither of them a relative, and the sun was barely risen. The scandal of it, the wagging tongues! Thank heavens nobody outside the house would hear of it.
“Master,” Peter said loudly, valiantly grabbing the wine jug and his master’s honor from Isis’ grasp, “perhaps some refreshment?”
The spectacle of a sumptuously robed servant waiting upon a Lord Chamberlain who was supposed to have fled at least as far as Cappadocia by now reduced Lucretia’s weeping to sniffles. She rose and embraced John. He rested his face on the top of her head for a few heartbeats before gently disengaging her arms and turning away, seemingly unconcerned by the astounded expressions blooming on Isis’ and Peter’s faces.
“Peter, take some wine yourself,” John instructed, warming his hands at the cheerily glowing brazier. He looked over his shoulder, cutting off his servant’s protests. “To keep up your strength, as a soldier always should.”
Darius’ bulk loomed into the room. Seeing it crowded, he leaned against the door post, his muscular arms folded.
“How is Felix?” John asked Isis, who had recovered her equilibrium. After years in her profession, few things threw her off stride for long.
“He is recuperating nicely, thanks to Hypatia’s ministrations. Her herbal knowledge is most impressive. She’s been quite busy since you left, chopping and measuring and cooking her potions.” She pointed toward the row of fragrant pots set along the base of the kitchen wall, mute confirmation of her words. “Your house is a positive hive of activity, more so than mine ever was, I do declare. But why are you here? None of us expected to see you so soon again, if indeed at all.”
“I will explain later.” John laid his hand gently on Lucretia’s arm. “Your husband Balbinus is searching for you, Lucretia,” he said quietly. “Why have you come here?”
“I came here because I was unable to see Anatolius. The house slaves would not allow me to enter and they refused to take a message to him. I suppose they thought I was some common woman, trying to cause trouble.” She dabbed at her eyes. Her hands were red and rough, the nails broken.
John glanced at Isis.
“No, she just arrived. She doesn’t know,” the woman muttered. Lucretia looked alarmed as Isis took her hand. “My dear, your friend is under arrest, accused of murder,” she said as gently as she could.
Lucretia gave a choking gasp and sat down abruptly.
Hypatia squeezed past Darius, who was still leaning on the door post. She might well have been standing in the hall listening to their conversation for some time, because she did not question John’s surprising reappearance. Instead she knelt by her pots, stirring them one by one.
“There is almost always a man behind a woman’s sorrow,” she announced to the room at large. “Or if not a man, then men.”
“How true, how true indeed,” Isis said with a sigh.
Lucretia looked haggard, much older than the last time John had seen her. That had been on the occasion of her wedding, a marriage that had broken Anatolius’ heart, or so Anatolius had claimed not long afterwards.
Lucretia mentioned the name almost before John had completed his recollection of the event.
“Lord Chamberlain,” she said, “I had planned to give certain information to Anatolius. I felt I could trust him to see that the right people received it.” She reddened slightly at this admission of that old relationship. “But since I cannot and I am among friends, I will tell you. You were at the shrine to meet with Michael. I observed you there and hid, in case you saw me and told my husband where I was. Forgive me for that.”
John said there was no need to ask for forgiveness.
Lucretia thanked him and then went on. “You were there but a short time and therefore did not hear what I did. I went to the shrine because of Michael’s words. How could I not be attracted by one who seeks to exalt the vessel of our humanity, used and mistreated as I have been?”
Isis gave a slight sniff of disapproval. “I appreciate your distress, child, but there are plenty who wouldn’t feel too used at being matched with a prosperous senator.”
Lucretia ignored her comment. “But what I heard and saw as I helped tend the sick and wounded disturbed me greatly. Michael’s followers occasionally spoke of matters that did not seem entirely appropriate for men of peace.”
“Certainly some do carry weapons,” Peter put in. “We’ve seen that ourselves.”
“And I have seen the results of the wielding of those weapons,” Lucretia said. “But more than that, I overheard some discussing how the city would soon be at their feet and the price they would exact upon it. That did not sound much like the talk of pilgrims to me. But then came mention of supernatural weaponry.”
John glanced over at her with keen interest. “Go on.”
Lucretia shrugged hopelessly. “They realized I was listening and moved away. Then I recalled one of the excubitors had advised me to leave for my own safety and thinking that it was now time to take that advice, I departed. If only he could have taken his own counsel. As I crept out, he was being carried to his grave by two of his comrades at arms.”
John offered a silent prayer that Mithra would accept and reward the unknown soldier who had succumbed to wounds gained by carrying out his duty.
“But,” Lucretia went on, determined, it seemed, to drain the pool of bitterness festering within her, “I do believe that aid is coming from an unexpected quarter, John. For soon the holy man, if he is indeed a holy man, will also be taking his last journey.”
“I don’t believe that he’s in danger
from Justinian mounting another attack,” John assured her. “If Michael is caught he will surely die, but it will be in a far subtler way than by being put to the sword.”
“As far as Michael is concerned,” Hypatia put in, “I have a suspicion that Justinian cannot bribe him as he can the Persians, if you’ll excuse my saying so, Darius.”
Darius grunted agreement from the doorway. “I only wish Khosrow would pass some of Justinian’s tribute money along to my family. Then they could live like, well, like Khosrow!”
Lucretia spoke again. “Justinian will not need to purchase peace. As I said, Michael is not long for this world. He displays the marks of shackles. He’s a fraud, I’m convinced of that, but while he is now free of his chains, yet those chains still bind him, and securely at that, to an imminent death.”
“Now you sound as mysterious as a prophecy from the oracle at Delphi,” John said. “With Peter’s assistance, I’ve learned some surprising things about Michael and his followers and you’re certainly correct to suspect the intentions of some of his acolytes at least. But nothing we discovered suggests that Michael will die in the immediate future.”
“Then I will interpret my prophecy, as you call it,” Lucretia replied grimly. “Michael’s leg is mortifying. I saw the creeping lines of poison radiating away from those disgusting shackle sores myself, like the rays of some dark sun. He won’t be seeing too many more sunrises, that’s certain.”
Hypatia poured a pungent mixture from one of her pots into a clay bowl and vigorously stirred the liquid with a wooden spatula. “Isn’t his leg being treated? Honey, that’s the stuff for preventing infection and healing sores. At least that’s what we use in Egypt, but you have to be quick with its application if it’s needed. I’ll wager they sent you away with honey on your ankles when you acquired that tattoo, Isis?”
Isis stretched out her leg and pulled her garment up far enough to reveal her tattoo. “They did indeed and, as you can see, it took beautifully.” Neither the darkly outlined vertical rectangle with a pinched waist and flared base nor the horizontal bars across the top of the tattoo were blurred.
