Nine for the Devil

by Mary Reed

  “Is it effective?”

  Gaius shrugged. “Pliny said that it was a monstrous system of puffing up the medical art and I tend to agree. However, Justinian is convinced he’s been poisoned endlessly in the natural course of events, and since he has not died then the mithridatum must be effective.”

  “Except in Theodora’s case.”

  “Yes. I suppose that’s what he thinks.” Gaius’ pouched eyes narrowed and his broad face reddened to match the color of his bulbous nose. “Unless he suddenly concludes I used the wrong formula, forgot the rhubarb or acacia juice, or didn’t prescribe enough, or did so at the wrong intervals. In which case, Mithra help me.”

  “You said she might have taken medications prepared by someone other than yourself?”

  “I’d be surprised if she didn’t. Antonina used to make cosmetics for Theodora. I think she had resumed as a gesture of friendship. Not that Theodora had any use for cosmetics in her state. She may have prepared and sent painkillers. The ladies-in-waiting used to bring gifts for the empress from various people. It wasn’t any business of mine.”

  Gaius took another gulp of wine. He licked his lips nervously.

  “You couldn’t dictate what was brought into Theodora’s room, Gaius. No one would expect it of you. Others spent much more time with her than you did.”

  “Yes, I hope Justinian sees it that way. It’s very foolish accepting preparations from people not trained as physicians. Mistakes are easy to make and beyond that, how do they know the person preparing something to be taken or applied hasn’t been bribed to poison it? Anyone can obtain poison. It’s possible to grow deadly plants anywhere. I have a few in my herb garden here on the palace grounds. I grow them to supply material for the preparations I prescribe. Some plants are like Janus, two-faced. The same ones can be used for good or ill, to kill or cure.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Take belladonna, for example. A tiny amount will bring about death, yet it’s useful for treating headaches and women’s problems. Or how about henbane? A very good painkiller if used in appropriate fashion, but otherwise a person taking too much will soon be beyond the reach of bodily pangs. By all means imbibe a quantity of hemlock if you want to leave the world, yet I also prescribe it to treat disorders of the skin.”

  “Your garden is accessible to anyone who cared to visit at night to gather certain plants in secret,” John observed.

  “Yes, it is. Hypatia tends to it. She occasionally makes herbal preparations for me, so she too may well come under suspicion. It’s probably best she’s under your protection, so far as any of us can protect anyone or ourselves.”

  John had not considered Hypatia might also be in danger. Was there anyone in the city who was not, one way or another? He scanned the room. “A poisoner wouldn’t necessarily have to be an herbalist,” he pointed out. “He could steal whatever he needed from your shelves “

  “True,” Gaius set down his jar. His hand trembled uncontrollably. “And just about everything here could be fatal given in the wrong amount.”

  “Including your cure for anxiety about the fate of the empire,” John tapped Gaius’ empty jar.

  “Quite right, John. But can you blame me?”

  There was a shouted order from the hallway.

  “This way!”

  Gaius leapt up at the loud thumping of what could only be several men wearing military boots running down the corridor.

  An excubitor appeared in the doorway.

  He continued past, followed by five others in a hurry.

  As their footsteps receded John’s gaze turned to Gaius, and to the shelf upon which the physician’s hand rested. Gaius’ fingertips were almost touching a tiny green glass bottle.

  John gave his friend a questioning look.

  “For pain,” Gaius said.

  “It’s poison, isn’t it?”

  “To avoid the pain that can be inflicted by the imperial torturers. I am only too familiar with the unspeakable agony a human body can be made to feel. A devilish hand assisted in creating our flesh. No decent entity would have made it capable of experiencing such pain.”

  Gaius sat down at the table. “Do you know the terror I’ve been going through? Remember, I had the knowledge and the opportunity to kill Theodora. I sit here and wait for excubitors to appear and pray they put a sword through me cleanly rather than dragging me down to the torturers. I keep my pain medication near me at all times. A very powerful poison. If they arrested me in this room it would be a corpse they’d be dragging outside.”

  He reached for his jar of wine but John pushed it out of his reach.

  “Try to stay calm, Gaius, and for Mithra’s sake, stay away from the wine. You need your wits. Excubitors are always racing about. You can’t be going into a panic every time you see an armed man coming in your direction. It’s the wine that takes your reason away.”

  “But I am an obvious suspect and obvious suspects are being—”

  “You had no reason to wish Theodora dead and every reason to want to keep her alive. How many years have you treated both the emperor and empress? You could have murdered either long ago. Justinian would have no reason to suspect you.”

  “What reason did the emperor have to order the silversmith’s delivery boy thrown off the seawall this morning? Just because the poor child somehow blundered into the imperial quarters by accident.”

  John got up as Gaius stood. The physician swayed slightly. His color had changed from red to chalky white. “You’ve started me thinking, John. All this talk about poisons, and who might have got poison into Theodora’s hands. I had not given it enough consideration. But clearly, Antonina has the skill, the personal connection. If Justinian wants a murderer I’d advise him to look in Antonina’s direction. She can concoct a poison as well as I can. Expose her as quickly as you can, John, before it’s too late for me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Manuel, cook for Empress Theodora, locked the storeroom in which were secured victuals and spices for dishes destined for the imperial couple. He nodded a goodnight to the guard stationed at the iron-banded door and went out through the series of long basement vaults that served as the palace kitchens. A skeleton night staff moved through the red shadows cast by the scattered braziers in operation at this late hour. From some distant chamber came a monotonous echoing thump as a servant chopped vegetables—parsnips perhaps—for a soup to be simmered through the night. No, onions. Manuel could distinguish the smell of freshly chopped onion, recognizable even in an atmosphere redolent of banquets past. The sooty whitewashed walls exuded the odor of meats broiled over the years and expensive spices few tongues in this part of the world would ever taste.

  The cook was swarthy complexioned or else the smoke through which he moved day after day had soaked into his pores. He was as emaciated as a man who never came within sight of a square meal. When asked how that could be, Manuel joked that in the constant heat from dozens of massive braziers, he continually sweated off the morsels he sampled.

  He stopped to speak to Petrus, who took charge during the night. His second-in-command was covered in loose feathers from the chicken he was plucking. One of the slaves should have done the job but Petrus enjoyed plucking and gutting chickens.

  “That new assistant hasn’t been back?” Manuel asked.

  Petrus shook his head. “Just as well. He insisted he knew all about cooking. Always had his nose in one of the pots. I had to keep explaining that he hadn’t been hired to cook but to clean and haul supplies off the delivery carts.”

  “He was good at that. I’d thought he was a bit old for hard physical labor, but you saw the size of him. A powerful fellow.”

  Petrus blew drifting chicken feathers away from his mouth. “A hard man, I’d say. Not your typical help. I put him down for one of the Praetorian Prefect’s men.”


  “My guess was he actually worked directly for Justinian. I was given to understand he could be trusted because he had worked for highly placed officials.”

  “A spy?”

  Both men knew that the emperor had the kitchens kept under constant surveillance. Some of the guards were known to the staff, others were not. Generally there was a man who reported to the Master of Offices and another employed by the Praetorian Prefect. They kept an eye on both the staff and each other. Usually the emperor had his own spy there to watch everything and everybody else. The watchers were constantly being replaced, making it difficult for them to discover each other and collude. It all made little difference to the functioning of the kitchens, considering the virtual army employed there.

  “It isn’t a coincidence the man vanished the very day the empress died,” Manuel observed.

  “No. No coincidence.” Petrus slapped the denuded chicken down on the table and picked up a knife. “I think we can safely say the emperor was disappointed in the poor man, whoever he worked for and…well…” Petrus stabbed his blade into the chicken and tore its belly and chest wide open.

  “Justinian’s gone mad,” Manuel said. “He’s convinced the empress was poisoned, impossible as that is. He’s looking for someone to blame.”

  “He must think this spy of his missed something important.”

  “One of the dishwashers didn’t show up this morning either. Perhaps he was working for the Master of Offices. I’m sure we’ll eventually notice others are gone too.”

  Petrus reached into the chicken carcass and pulled. A handful of guts came out with a slurping noise. “If Justinian knew who the poisoner was he would have him gutted like this chicken, but more slowly.”

  “You can’t execute someone who doesn’t exist. So the watchers pay the price for not spotting someone who was never there. When I delivered the emperor’s breakfast I noticed the guards to Theodora’s sickroom have been replaced.”

  Petrus was groping deep inside the dead chicken. Finally his hand emerged, fingers gripping the last, stringy bloody entrails. “At least he doesn’t suspect you, Manuel.”

  The empress’ cook grimaced. “I pray he doesn’t.”

  “Don’t worry. If Justinian suspected you, do you think you’d still be alive? I’ll wager you didn’t sleep much last night. Try to catch up on your rest. Come in late. I’ll take charge until you feel like coming in.” He started sweeping offal from the pile of gutted chickens off the table.

  Manuel left to the moist sound of vital organs plopping into a bucket.

  He nodded to the sentry at the door. A new man. Had the familiar sentry been reassigned? Or perhaps the question was had he been reassigned to a post in the land of the living or sent to the land of the dead?

  He decided to return to his rooms via the brightly torch lit walkway that passed by the Triclinium rather than taking his usual shortcut through the dim gardens. There were so many guards about one might have thought the palace was under siege.

  Perhaps it was time for him to retire. How many years had he served the empress? Ever since the previous cook had been—well, it was best to forget the incident of the fish. What would he do now? There were endless banquets to be prepared. Perhaps he might be ordered to take over the cooking for Justinian.

  He hoped not. Cooking for the emperor, who was a vegetarian and austere in his tastes, would be like cooking for a peasant farmer. There were those who hated Theodora. Manuel could never understand why. There was no dish too exotic for her palate. She had been a joy to cook for until the last few weeks, when she had been unable to hold down anything but broth. Even so, had she not complimented him on his broth of partridge, venison, and crab?

  Yes, he had accumulated enough wealth to retire in luxury. Perhaps he could move to the provinces, run an inn for well-to-do travelers who would be glad to have a good palace style meal during a long journey far from the amenities of the city.

  He heard boots thudding along the marble walkway behind him.

  Some emergency?

  As the footsteps came up beside him they slowed to match his pace.

  “Manuel, cook for Empress Theodora?” inquired a gravelly voice.

  Two hulking guards, hands on the hilts of their sheathed swords, flanked him. A hollow space as vast as the inside of the Great Church seemed to open up inside Manuel’s chest. “Yes?” He wasn’t sure how he managed to get the word out.

  “You are to accompany us. Orders from Emperor Justinian,” said one of the guards. He was practically a youngster. A curl of red hair fell from under his helmet and lay across his unlined forehead.

  “What…what is this about?”

  “We are here merely to carry out the emperor’s orders. Come with us.”

  Manuel felt a hand on his shoulder. It was all he could do to control his bladder.

  They led him down a narrow path into the gardens. Their feet crunched on gravel.

  “Justinian desires to see me?”

  The guards did not answer.

  They passed through a gap in the shrubbery and the bright light illuminating the broad marble walkway and pouring out into the grounds beyond was abruptly blotted out.

  Manuel’s heart pounded in fits and starts. “Am I…am I under arrest?”

  The guards remained silent.

  They halted at a patch of dark bare ground surrounded by bushes. Manuel could hear the ratcheting of summer insects in the dark foliage. The sharp odor of dill came to his nostrils. Oddly, as much as Theodora had favored esoteric spices, she had always loved dill.

  He heard the whisper of a steel blade slipping from its sheath.

  The guards said nothing.

  The red-haired youngster slit Manuel like a chicken from belly to breast.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sprawling two-story mansion of General Belisarius and his wife Antonina rubbed its polished granite walls up against the southern end of the Hippodrome. It wasn’t a salubrious location but then Belisarius wasn’t home very often. He was usually camped on some distant border though at present, to hear some tell it, he was on board a ship sailing up and down the Italian coast, shaking his fist at the Goths and waiting for Justinian to send swords and spears.

  John guessed when races were in progress the cheers of the crowds must shake the house like thunder. Did the sound remind Antonina that despite her wealth and high position she had come from a family of charioteers? Theodora had accomplished a similar rise to greater power from even lower antecedents, being the daughter of a bear trainer. Perhaps this was the main strand in the bonds of friendship between the two women.

  As he climbed the flight of white marble steps, John reflected that even when races were not in progress, Antonina would be reminded of her past by the pervasive smell emanating from the vast stables beneath the track, the same atmosphere in which she had grown up.

  He had no desire to speak to Antonina or any reason to suspect her of harming her imperial friend, but her name was on everyone’s lips and therefore he considered it prudent to be able to tell Justinian he had questioned the woman. More than that, Gaius had wanted him to speak to her and he could hardly ignore his friend’s request even though he didn’t expect to discover anything that would make the physician less fearful for his own safety.

  At the thud of a knocker shaped like a horse’s head the door opened and John was ushered in by a lugubrious servant who escorted him to a room on the far side of an atrium decorated with frescoes of heroic battles from mythology. It was a fitting flourish for the house of a successful general, even if its owner didn’t have much opportunity to admire it.

  John stepped into the room to which he had been directed and found Theodora staring at him.

  A chill prickled the back of his neck, then, in a heartbeat, he realized it was only a painted representation of t
he empress. She was flanked by attendants in garments almost as rich as her own, though none wore jewelry to rival hers and only she wore a crown. The fresco covered the entire back wall. The room was filled with fragrant lilies and roses in pots and vases.

  Antonina reclined on a scarlet upholstered couch beneath a window opened to a garden. “It is a good likeness, is it not, Lord Chamberlain?”

  “Indeed.”

  Antonina’s eyes were as blue as a clear morning sky and her hair as pale as the moon in that sky. There were those who claimed she practiced magick and by that means not only controlled her husband but also the hand prints of time. John ascribed her youthful appearance to the lotions and other cosmetic preparations she prepared for herself and other ladies of the court.

  If you approached closely enough her age would show, but once you got that close it would be too late.

  John sat in an ornately carved but uncomfortable chair facing her, separated from her couch by a low table, acutely aware of Theodora’s menacing stare. “A few questions, Antonina,” he began. He suddenly realized the window behind her providing a glimpse of an exotic garden, was, like Antonina’s complexion, nothing more than cleverly applied paint.

  “I know why you are here and will be happy to assist,” Antonina replied. “In fact, I can give you information you will find useful.” She remained in her reclining position, as if prepared to dine in the old Roman style. Her light blue silk robe were slightly rumpled, showing a trim ankle and smooth muscular calf. She smiled. “I do not have to tell you there are several persons with grievances who might not be amiss to helping our dear empress leave the world.”

  She glanced at the fresco. “A faithful rendering of the beautiful mosaic in Ravenna, Lord Chamberlain. I was able to obtain the artist’s designs. They were costly but well worth the price. The imperial couple could hardly go to Ravenna so their portraits went instead and the mosaicists copied them. Unfortunately the empress looks ill, not that we can wonder at that.”