Three for a Letter

by Mary Reed

No, he corrected himself, he had lost it because of the task he had to do. He had kept putting it off, trying to banish it from his mind, but now the unfortunate necessity could no longer be delayed.

  He was absolutely certain that his mechanical hand had not been misplaced, as Bertrada had repeatedly assured him. He had searched every shelf and cupboard and cranny in the workshops where it could possibly have been mislaid, not that he had ever have done such a thing before. What, was he becoming a forgetful, doddering old man like Zeno?

  No, someone had definitely stolen it. But who? And why? He could only speculate and none of the conclusions he drew were pleasant. Thus his current quest.

  He padded into the wing where the Ostrogoths had their apartments. Passing by Bertrada’s room, he turned around a corner and continued down a shorter corridor whose walls were washed in bright morning light. His foray had been as meticulously planned as one of his mechanical contrivances. If he were to be stopped by a house servant, he intended to say he was in the villa to repair one of Zeno’s automatic wine dispensers, the one in the form of a satyr, and was seeking the master to discuss the matter. The excuse would be accepted. After all, he was known and trusted—not to mention that the mechanical devices were constantly malfunctioning one way or another.

  As he went along the corridor, he met no one. The fact was, he thought, that Zeno did not have a sufficient number of servants for the size of the estate, nor did he keep a tight enough rein on those he employed. The ones who weren’t serving breakfast to the household were doubtless currently lolling around the kitchen, shirking their responsibilities. He’d seen it often enough.

  Poppaea would not be at breakfast, of course. Someone would be sitting with her. That might present a problem, but he had never shrunk from dealing with problems.

  He slowed his steps as he approached Poppaea’s room, then stopped and listened intently before moving forward and peering through its open door.

  The girl was alone. Hero smiled to himself. For once he was benefiting from his employer’s remarkably negligent regime.

  He moved swiftly to the sleeping girl’s bedside. The solemn little face was almost as white as the linen sheet pulled up under her chin. Hero glanced around. It wouldn’t take long, he thought.

  He heard the rustle of stiff fabric.

  “What are you doing?”

  Livia, Poppaea’s mother, was suddenly standing in the doorway.

  Hero straightened up. Panic filled his chest.

  Godomar loomed behind the woman’s shoulder. “By what right do you dare to enter this room?” he thundered, then fell silent. Livia also stared speechlessly.

  Hero realized that he had lifted his left arm and was gesturing wildly toward them with the stump. “My hand,” he stammered. “Who has stolen my hand?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Anatolius lingered in the bath. His head felt as full of wool as an overstuffed exercise ball and the steaming caldarium seemed to relieve its distress somewhat.

  The water temperature was kept exceedingly high, probably in deference to his uncle’s old bones, he thought as he lolled in the water gazing up at the steam coiling around the marble vines decorating the dome of the ceiling. His drowsy mind saw ever-changing shapes in the shifting mist, yet each was a reminder of Lucretia. The pale hand that had brushed his hair away from his eyes, a white shoulder, the curve of a breast caught by a stealthy beam of moonlight. All of them part of a past as irretrievable as the days of Augustus.

  She had been warm flesh and whispers and sweet skin and now she was another man’s wife, greeting her former lover politely in a house where he was not welcome. It had been only a few years since they were intimate and he thought he had long since come to terms with his feelings for Lucretia. But his visit to Balbinus’ house had stirred his blood—and his memories.

  By the time he arrived for the morning meal, Zeno’s dining room was empty but the serving girl clearing the table was happy to scamper away to the kitchen to seek viands on his behalf. He slumped down to await their arrival. To his consternation, the tall woman who had attempted to flirt with him at his uncle’s ill-fated banquet swept in shortly thereafter, bearing his breakfast on a silver platter.

  “I met a servant in the corridor, Anatolius, and thought I’d bring this in and keep you company for a while.” Calyce sat down next to him, so close that her light yellow sleeve brushed his arm. “Zeno has been telling everyone his nephew is unwell, but I must say that you look positively glowing.”

  “I’ve just come from the bath. I’m probably better cooked than that egg.” Anatolius stared at his plate gloomily. “It looks as if one of those painted jellyfish decided to leap down off the wall and onto my plate.”

  Calyce gave a throaty laugh. “Oh, Anatolius! The reports of your wit are vastly understated.” Her narrow fingers patted the back of his hand, then daintily retreated.

  Anatolius was suddenly reminded of Lucretia. Perhaps it was the way Calcye’s impeccably reddened lips had shaped his name, pronouncing it with a slight breathiness he had not noticed before. Perhaps it was her husky laugh. No, he corrected himself, she was not Lucretia. She did not even resemble her physically. On the other hand, she was smiling at him.

  “I’ve caught an occasional glimpse of you at the palace, Anatolius,” Calyce was saying, “and whenever I did I always wondered why that good-looking young man with the dark curls looked so sad. But I’m repeating myself, for I surely mentioned that during our delightful discussion on the night of the banquet. Alas, that an evening that began so auspiciously for the two of us should have ended in such a terrible event.” She dabbed at her eyes and when she again fixed her gaze on him he noticed how large her pupils were, no doubt dilated with belladonna as was the fashion among women of the court.

  Anatolius took a bite of the undercooked egg. He now recalled he had done his utmost to avoid Calyce on the occasion in question, moving from atrium to garden to courtyard. She seemed to appear everywhere he went.

  “Do you know the empress very well, Anatolius?” she offered with another sweet smile that made him wonder why he had tried to escape her.

  “I have the honor occasionally to speak with her,” he replied politely.

  “How wonderful! But then I imagine you are familiar with everyone of importance in Constantinople, being a senator’s son as well as working at the palace. My family is also highly placed, you know. We own land in Italy as well as interests in shipping. I expect our property and businesses will be returned once Roman rule is restored. Then I shall go home although I must say that Italy will seem barely civilized compared to Constantinople.”

  She chattered on amiably but Anatolius hardly listened. He was too busy asking himself, now, not why he had tried to avoid her, but rather how he could have overlooked her.

  Perhaps his painful visit with Lucretia had been a gift from Fortuna. Having heard his lost love’s voice once again, he recognized a similarity in Calyce’s speech, one he had managed to miss on the night of the banquet. Thus encouraged, he looked at her anew, noting the aristocratic elegance he had dismissed as an overly prominent jaw. How strange that he could have been so blind.

  She clasped her pale hands together. “It seems to me that we have a lot in common, Anatolius. I wait upon the empress and you labor on behalf of the emperor. Not that you are a mere attendant like myself, of course. What was it dear Zeno said, that you are Justinian’s legal advisor? How very exciting!”

  “My uncle exaggerated a little, I fear. I am Justinian’s private secretary.”

  “Oh. Better yet! A man of letters. And poetry also perhaps? I do so love the ancient poets.”

  The wool stuffing seemed to be creeping into Anatolius’ head once more. When he spoke his words sounded to him as if they emanated from far away. “It’s true that my father favored a legal career for me, but I believe there is more truth to be found in any one verse of Ovid than in all the orations of Cicero.”

&nb
sp; Calyce’s long—some would say patrician—face grew serious. “Ovid? You admire Ovid? Why, this is most remarkable. Are you certain you are not my long lost brother?”

  As had too often happened, Anatolius was suddenly acutely aware that his breakfast companion was female, aware of the warm breath carrying her words and the smooth flesh beneath her fine silk garments.

  “Your brother?” he replied with mock alarm. “I do most sincerely hope not.”

  Calyce, surprisingly, blushed rosily.

  ***

  “And then,” Anatolius told John, “she said there was something on my face and ran her finger along the edge of my mouth even though I’m certain there was nothing there. Actually, I think it was just an excuse.”

  “You do have something on your face,” John told him impatiently. “It’s on the side of your nose. What did you have for breakfast?”

  Anatolius, who had searched the garden for John in order to regale him with an account of his newfound joy, was disappointed at his friend’s reaction. The day had hardly begun but already the sun felt hot. Even so, the seasons were turning inexorably. There would be few more mornings such as this before autumn arrived, he thought as he rubbed his nose petulantly. “Still, I do think Calyce is quite fond of me,” he grinned as they strolled along the shady path.

  “I thought that was obvious, given that on the night of the banquet you were practically hiding behind me to escape the attentions of the—what was your term? Sharp-beaked harpy?”

  “You’re in a foul mood, John. However, I shall forgive you.” Anatolius glanced at the statue of Venus, a shapely reminder of one of Zeno’s past passions, standing in front of a tangle of rose bushes at the fork in the path at which they had just arrived.

  John gave a grim smile but did not respond as they strolled down the narrow way on their right. A few turns back and forth and they found themselves looking at the stout door leading to Castor’s estate.

  Anatolius tested the door, finding it locked. “Briarus certainly keeps his master’s estate well secured,” he remarked.

  John regarded the high wall between Zeno’s overgrown grounds and those of his more security-conscious neighbor.

  “I intend to visit Briarus again and ask if there is any news of Castor,” he finally said.

  ***

  The overbearing estate manager was even less happy to see John and Anatolius than on their earlier visit. The sound of their approach brought him out of his stone lodge before they had reached the entrance of the estate. He was brandishing a broom. In response to John’s question as he unlocked the gate to admit them, he explained he been sweeping out his home.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Anatolius told him. “When I first saw you, I was afraid you intended to drive us off with that domestic weapon.”

  Rather than looking abashed Briarus glowered. It was a pity the man was a servant, Anatolius decided. He would have made an extremely effective dictator.

  “We have had problems with unruly village children, sir,” Briarus said. “It’s because of the dog.” He pointed at the mosaic adorning the archway over the gate. Below the ferocious black beast was the expected legend warning passersby to beware of the dog.

  “Every time children from the village go by they insist on coming up to the gate,” Briarus explained. “They know that we have no dog but they pretend to suddenly notice our guardian here and go staggering sideways from the shock or fall down and roll in the dust. Then they get up and scream and run away.”

  “Sometimes life can take you by surprise like that,” Anatolius observed.

  “They think it’s a great joke, sir,” Briarus said morosely. “It almost appears to have become something of a tradition. Of course, it’s extremely disruptive of my duties for if I hear a commotion I am duty bound to investigate it.”

  “This area is certainly rich in tradition,” put in John, “but we’re here for another reason. Have you had word from your master?”

  Briarus shook his head silently. Without further word, John strode through the opened gate and stepped briskly toward the stone lodge. The agitated estate manager rushed after him. Anatolius followed, puzzled by his friend’s uncharacteristic abruptness.

  “You will excuse me, Briarus,” John said quietly as he entered the lodge. “I am afraid that this is necessary.”

  In contrast to its rough-hewn exterior, the building’s interior was smoothly plastered. John seemed little interested in the brazier set against one wall, the neatly made bed or any of its other sparse furnishings. His gaze had immediately fastened on the one unexpected aspect of the small dwelling—the boxes and baskets stacked carefully in two piles just inside the door.

  “These were all delivered for the master during his absence,” Briarus informed his visitors. “I am storing them here where I can keep a close eye upon them. The house servants are sometimes rather careless and to tell the truth, with one or two, I’m not sure they’re entirely honest.”

  John hefted a basket from the top of the closest pile. A quick glance showed it contained only dark green apples. “If you’d care to assist me, Anatolius?”

  Anatolius made the discovery before he had finished asking John what it was that he sought. It was in a wooden basket with a tight-fitting lid sitting atop the other stack.

  He lowered the basket to the floor, cut the thick cord tying it shut and, assuring the outraged Briarus that Castor would not hold him personally responsible for allowing such freedom to be taken with his possessions, he pulled off the lid.

  Lying inside the box was one of strangest contraptions he had ever seen, a bizarre construction of metal, wires and leather straps. At first he thought it merely a particularly elaborate set of pincers but then he realized it was a fair simulacrum of a human hand.

  The fingers were curved as if ready to grasp hold of something but by the dried blood covering them, they might as well be pointing to a murderer.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hero stood defiantly beside the forge, a hammer in his one soot-streaked hand. He looked away from John, Zeno and Anatolius, toward Felix and the two excubitors accompanying him.

  The anger in the brawny inventor’s eyes was as hot as the forge. He looked swiftly around the workshop, as if weighing what chance he and his hammer might have against six opponents, but when he finally moved it was to raise the stump of his arm to wipe sweat from his glistening forehead.

  “What did you mean when you said you weren’t going to hurt the girl?” John asked him again.

  “It was a misunderstanding, Lord Chamberlain. I admit I was going to look around Poppaea’s room. I was searching for my mechanical hand. The children have hidden things before and so I thought perhaps they were playing another little joke on me. Then Godomar accused me of intending to harm the child. So naturally when you arrived with guards…”

  “You gave me a terrible fright as well.” Zeno’s tone was as sharp as John had ever heard it. “How are we supposed to get anything done with excubitors constantly getting underfoot? And what’s this about your hand being missing, Hero?”

  Hero glared at his employer. “I don’t know anything more about it than that, since I haven’t been able to work on it for days or even think about it, what with finishing constructing the whale and then all the commotion after the banquet. Not to mention that I’ve just started on this pressing new project.” He waved his hammer at the collection of lengths of fine chain, cogs, scraps of leather, and an assortment of body parts made of hammered metal laid out on the dirt floor.

  “A representation of a cart accident on the Mese?” Anatolius mused callously.

  “They will be shaped into an exceedingly fine contribution to the festival, as you well know!” Zeno told his nephew in a severe tone. “Although how it and the other automatons could possibly be assembled without Hero’s expertise and oversight I can’t say!” He directed a meaningful stare in John’s direction.

  “I’m sorry, Zeno,�
� John replied, “but unless Hero intends to be more cooperative, I’m going to have to order him kept confined for now.”

  “How can I tell you any more than I know?” Hero’s voice rose to a shout but he made no effort to resist as the excubitors stepped forward to escort him away.

  “Confine him to one of the spare rooms in the back of the villa,” Felix instructed his men, “but see that it isn’t anywhere near the one Briarus is locked up in.”

  “Do you think they were working together?” Anatolius wondered, looking after the trio as Hero was marched away.

  John replied that he had no idea.

  “The weapon was in Briarus’ possession but it belonged to Hero, so therefore both are suspect,” Felix told Anatolius. He barely looked at John, obviously still angry over their previous day’s conversation concerning Bertrada. Zeno however was oblivious, continuing to complain bitterly like a child whose outing has been ruined by a sudden rain storm.

  John, who had laid the strange prosthesis out on a work table, ignored Zeno’s protests and examined the device closely.

  “It’s a complicated affair, isn’t it?” Anatolius eyed the artificial hand. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say so but by the look of the intricate workings, Hero must have spent considerably more time working on this hand than on that simple mechanical man spread out all over the floor.”

  Zeno looked offended. “This automaton is sufficiently complex to fire an arrow before it’s tipped over the precipice into the sea, Anatolius. You should never judge by appearances.”

  John had picked up the mechanical hand and was tugging experimentally at one of its dangling leather straps. The action caused two of the fingers to curl realistically. Looking more closely he saw that the finger joints were hinged, held together by thin leather sinews.

  “How could he possibly hope to operate the thing? Did he intend to hold the straps between his teeth?” Felix rubbed his great beard vigorously, as if the action might cause the answer to fall out of it. “Though it’s recorded that when the general Marcus Sergius lost his right arm to the enemy, he ordered an iron hand be manufactured. According to Pliny, it was designed solely to hold the general’s shield. So while it allowed him to resume battle it could do nothing more than that, and thus was quite unlike this strange monstrosity.”