by Mary Reed
Peter emerged into sunlight and crossed a busy square. Brightly clad men, hawk-nosed and wavy-haired, squabbled over bunches of leeks and radishes and baskets of coriander. Half-naked children teased thin, scavenging mongrels. Swirling clouds of droning, fat, black flies hovered over everything, crawled on the face of an infant held in its mother’s arms, tracked across slices of melon oozing sweet liquid. The air smelled of rotted and fermenting fruit. The scene might have been just off the Mese in Constantinople, except for the throngs of long-legged ibis strutting about, hopefully sticking their curved beaks into piles of debris littering the gutters.
Peter slumped against a brick wall and made the sign of his religion. He bent his head and closed his eyes.
“Please, Lord,” he murmured under his breath. “Show me a merchant, or a brothel, or even a prostitute. Someone who will purchase these silks.”
When he raised his head he found he was gazing toward a cul-de-sac leading from the opposite corner of the square.
Upon investigation he found his prayer had been answered. This particular narrow thoroughfare boasted a number of emporiums selling wares different from any he had seen thus far. Here was a candlemaker, its neighbor a silversmith.
The next establishment, little more than a cubbyhole open to the street with a counter in front and shelves lining its back walls, caught Peter’s interest because of the variety of its dusty goods. Colored glass bottles, statuettes, medallions, and tiny, stoppered, clay flasks jostled for space.
The shopkeeper, a big man in a voluminous red and white striped robe, accosted Peter in Coptic.
When Peter replied in Greek, the shopkeeper responded in Greek of a sort. “Remember good. Yes?”
The man grabbed a green bottle from his stock and held it out to Peter, who saw it was engraved with a picture of the lighthouse as he had seen from the Minotaur the day before.
“Pharos? Yes! Remember good! Yes?” The shopkeeper grinned, showing big teeth akin to granite blocks.
Peter shook his head and tapped his satchel.
The shopkeeper displayed one of the crude clay flasks, no bigger than his thumb. “Holy oil! Yes? Remember good! Yes?”
Peter would have liked to buy a souvenir for the master, something featuring a pyramid. Under the circumstances he couldn’t part with so much as a nummus. He shook his head and showed the man the silks.
When the shopkeeper understood the type of transaction Peter sought, his smile vanished. He pointed toward the end of the alley. “Pedibastet,” he said and turned away.
Pedibastet’s establishment was one of the most curious Peter had ever encountered. Not even in Constantinople had he seen a shop selling cat mummies.
Pedibastet sat on his haunches in front of his place of business. He was a swarthy man with an elongated face. His tunic was black, and his hair shone like ebony. On the ground before him lay his wares, feline corpses whose bodies were concealed in grubby wrappings reaching to their necks. Peter couldn’t help thinking of Anubis, guarding the dead.
The purveyor of cat mummies stood up, bowed, and introduced himself. “I can tell you have journeyed from afar. I bid you welcome. Would you care for refreshment?” His Greek was not the best, but compared to the seller of souvenirs he might have been an orator.
“Refreshment?” Having endured the sun beating on his head like a hammer for hours, Peter was tempted by the prospect of a sip of wine.
Pedibastet motioned toward his shadowy doorway. A stout youngster, also garbed in black, darted out with a brimming cup which he pressed into Peter’s free hand before vanishing back into the darkness.
“You will surely honor me by accepting my humble hospitality,” Pedibastet smiled. “After you have drunk my poor wine may I draw to your attention my offerings? Expensive they may be, I admit, but few in Alexandria have such wonderful samples of increasingly rare items, reminders of a time so ancient that not even the oldest of the old can recall it. In short…”
A sweep of his hand took in all of Egyptian history and his stock of recumbent felines equally. “I have for sale,” he went on, “having obtained them at great expense and not a little danger, I may add, authentic mummies of the animal sacred to the great goddess Bast.”
Peter looked at the small, log-like bundles topped by shriveled feline heads resembling large, whiskered raisins. Here and there tufts of fur protruded untidily between the wrappings.
“Well…” His tone was doubtful. “I am not certain what purpose the mummy of a cat would serve in my master’s household.”
The man waved his hand again. “You are obviously newly arrived in Egypt, my friend. Have you never heard of the luck of Bast? Your master is wealthy?”
Peter agreed that was the case. He didn’t mention that the only wealth currently at his master’s disposal was in Peter’s possession.
“In that case, your master would most certainly be interested in one of my little friends. An interesting and unusual memento of his visit, and of course the ladies do love the dear little things. Think how delighted he would be to display such treasures, timeless reminders of his journey to Egypt. Why, I would even lower my price for one such as he, for I am certain he is a man of culture, of great taste. See, already the luck of Bast is working for him! Take this beauty, for example.”
He picked up a bundle that looked much like the rest, Peter thought. Indeed if anything it was somewhat more soiled than the others.
Glancing around and lowering his voice as if he feared their conversation might be overheard, Pedibastet went on. “This cat came from the garden of the temple to the goddess of love. The temple lies in ruins now, but descendants of the sacred cats live there still. There are those who feed them, since not every trace of the old religions are gone. I mention this as I can see you are a man of the world, and can draw your own conclusions.”
Pedibastet looked around again. “I would not tell this to anyone,” he continued, “but your face is that of a man who can be trusted. I have a few temple cats living with me, so devoted am I to their welfare. Would you care to see them?”
Intrigued, Peter indicated he would.
Pedibastet gestured him inside his cavern-like shop. It was odd, Peter thought as he entered, that the man would leave his priceless stock outside unguarded for anyone to steal.
Perhaps the local populace was not interested in such antiquities.
The interior was eye-wateringly pungent and, once his eyesight had adjusted to the gloom, Peter saw it was sparsely stocked. One or two boxes turned upside down displayed small wooden statues, roughly carved and painted, and a few pottery pieces. Every item offered for sale depicted cats.
One or two live specimens were also in evidence, washing their faces. A small brown cat watched from a corner, while a portly black feline sitting by the half-open back door observed the men with disdainful eyes as they passed by on their way to the garden behind the shop. The green and shady place Peter had expected to see turned out to be little more than a walled expanse of dirt where more cats slept or sunned themselves.
Within a few steps, Peter discovered that while a garden of plain dirt was not aesthetically pleasing it was, however, very convenient for the relief of cats.
“I thank you for your hospitality,” Peter said after glancing around. “However, I have something I would like to sell you. The merchant down the street seemed to think you might be interested.”
Pedibastet’s mask of affability dropped as swiftly as a eagle plummeting down on its prey. “You are not here to buy one of my wonderful mummies?”
Peter apologized. “I regret I seem to have misled you.”
Pedibastet gazed thoughtfully at Peter’s satchel. “But your master is rich?”
“He is, sir.”
“Then why would he want to sell me anything?”
“He doesn’t know. If he did, he would be displeased.”
Pedibastet did not seem deterred by the admission. “Do you think he mi
ght be interested in my humble offerings?”
“My master is interested in many strange matters.”
Pedibastet pondered briefly and then smiled. “I’m a little short of funds today. People speak ill of Egyptian bankers, and…well, I’m certain you don’t want the details. Suffice it to say, doing business in Alexandria is different than doing it in other great cities. As a gesture of good will, however, which you can repay by bringing your master to my shop tomorrow, I will purchase your wares for a small sum, provided you add a service to them.”
“A service?”
“You will need to be nimble. Can you run very fast? But no…” Pedibastet paused for a heartbeat. “At least you could try. My assistant broke his leg and the boy Rameses is busy wrapping one or two new arrivals more securely.”
“How do you expect me to obtain more silks? And what does being nimble have to do with it?”
“Silks?” Pedibastet’s long face dropped.
Peter opened his satchel to reveal its contents.
“Not a cat?”
Peter looked at the seller of cat mummies in horror. “You thought I was trying to sell you the master’s cat? That’s what you expected me to catch? Cats? But why? You have so many already. Surely you don’t mean—”
“I breed cats.” Pedibastet’s tone was soothing. “What did you think? There are many cat lovers in Egypt. Now, as to your master’s visit—”
“Are you certain your real business is not ransoming cats?”
Pedibastet looked dumbfounded. The idea had never occurred to him although, he admitted to himself, it was definitely one to be pursued as soon as possible.
“There must be no one but fools left in Constantinople for anyone to have hired you as a servant!” he replied in exasperation. “My business is manufacturing cat mummies to sell to foreign visitors. Please leave immediately. You’ve wasted enough of my time!”
Peter crept out of the shop past the preserved remains of Pedibastet’s pathetic victims. As he crossed the bustling square again, he noticed another promising alleyway.
He would try once more before returning to the hostelry, he decided.
The elderly servant was distraught. In retrospect it was obvious enough what the rogue’s trade involved, but what Peter’s reason told him, his good nature often didn’t want to believe.
The narrow way he entered was populated only by a couple of strolling ibis. Peter navigated carefully around them. He heard the footsteps behind him too late, began to turn, and then the world went black.
Chapter Ten
The captain of the excubitors could not see him.
The clerk relayed the information to Anatolius with a knowing smirk. The message was the same one he’d delivered five days running, but the smirk had grown more pronounced every day.
“I insist I must speak to Captain Felix. It’s an important matter and I am the emperor’s secretary.”
“You mean you were his secretary. The captain is not here. You can try again tomorrow, if you wish.”
Anatolius left. The smirk followed him out into the corridor.
Why was Felix being so uncooperative?
He thought back to his last meeting with his friend. He’d asked him how he was faring in the search for Senator Symacchus’ murderer.
Felix had appeared uneasy, and finally admitted no official investigation was being undertaken. “Why not? Because Justinian hasn’t ordered one. And why should he? John was caught red-handed.”
As Anatolius questioned Felix further, it had become apparent John had not told the excubitor captain about Thomas’ involvement. If the Lord Chamberlain had chosen to withhold that information, it wasn’t for Anatolius to reveal it.
Had Felix somehow sensed Anatolius was not being entirely forthright? Was that why he refused to see him?
Anatolius decided he might be able to catch Felix at home.
He took a shortcut through the palace grounds. As he came around the corner of a pavilion, he was startled to see the man he sought walking swiftly ahead. Although several neglected flower beds and overgrown ornamental shrubs separated the two men, the burly, bearded figure was unmistakable.
Anatolius followed his friend at a distance. Felix did not turn toward the administrative complex where he had his office or down the path that would have taken him home. Instead he went out past the great bronze doors of the Chalke and strode along the Mese, moving rapidly further into the city.
Anatolius hurried along behind. Ordinarily he would have simply hailed Felix, but today he was angry about his friend’s seeming avoidance of him as well as curious about the man’s destination.
Had Felix been abroad on official business, he would certainly have been accompanied by a couple of his excubitors.
Even more intriguing, however, Felix was wearing a nondescript tunic over the leather leggings of an off-duty soldier, essentially disguising his rank.
Felix turned down a narrow street and vanished inside a tavern. It was a seedy establishment, opposite a public lavatory. The main attraction of the former appeared to be that it was open.
The plague had cured many a drinking problem and put more than a few taverns out of business.
There was no colonnade here. A row of shops opened directly onto the narrow street. All were closed, their wares protected by metal grates pulled down and locked to iron rings in the cobbles. The amount of debris that had accumulated around and behind the grates testified how long the businesses had been shut.
Anatolius eyed the tavern. Beside its door hung a wooden sign cut in the shape of an amphora, but so irregularly made it could well have been created by a carpenter who had imbibed the entire contents of his model.
Feeling foolish, he stuck his head around the tavern door and peered in.
The cramped room was dim. Felix was talking to someone whose back Anatolius did not recognize at a table set against the rear wall.
Why shouldn’t Felix meet a friend for a cup of wine?
Even so, given Felix’s recent odd behavior, Anatolius was prepared to think the worst. He crossed the street and went under the marble archway into the lavatory. From inside, framed by the arch’s bas-reliefs of Greek gods, he could observe the tavern without being noticed.
Or so he hoped.
The smell made him gag. A glance at the state of the floor showed the facility hadn’t been cleaned recently—not to mention that he would have to burn his footwear when he returned to John’s house. Public services were vanishing even faster than the public. He wasn’t surprised the long, communal marble bench boasted only a single customer, seated at the far end. The man, slumped forward, ignored him.
Anatolius fixed his gaze on the tavern and its peeling plaster exterior. Flies droned. Time passed. More flies appeared, adding their complaints to the others clustering around the malodorous facility. He began to think if Zeus turned an ear toward the earth, all that god would hear from the capital would be a buzzing akin to that of a gigantic insect.
The man at the far end of the bench still hadn’t moved a muscle. Anatolius now realized he was dead. The morbid notion came to him that urchins had found a corpse in the street and sat it there as a macabre jest.
He almost missed Felix’s companion emerging from the tavern. All he could make out was the man’s retreating back.
He briefly considered following from sheer curiosity, but it was the captain of excubitors to whom he needed to talk. Thankful to be able to leave his temporary shelter, he went into the murky tavern, and sat down next to Felix who looked up, startled, from his wine cup.
“Something smells…” Felix’s gaze moved to Anatolius’ feet.
“I plan on burning my boots, Felix, but something else will still offend my nostrils. What have you been doing about helping John? Why have you been avoiding me?”
“You must have followed me here. Is that what a friend does?” Felix sounded hurt. His words were slurred. Anatolius realized his c
ompanion was intoxicated.
The portly owner of the establishment waddled toward them. Anatolius put him to flight with a baleful glare that conveyed the clear message: “Observe my elaborate robes. I am from the palace and that means trouble if you interfere!”
“Are you in some sort of difficulty, Felix?”
The captain stared over Anatolius’ shoulder for a short time as if considering the question, then slammed his cup down, splashing wine on the scantily clad women dancing lewdly in the fresco beside them.
“That’s it, Anatolius!” he roared. “I know what you’re going to complain about. You’re going to complain that I’ve taken up gambling again even though it’s my business, not yours! Not to mention just a small wager now and then doesn’t hurt anyone…”
“I was going to say you’re intoxicated—”
“Now there you’re totally wrong! Totally! Totally, totally wrong…”
Anatolius decided Felix could not possibly have got so inebriated in the short time he’d been inside the tavern. He must have begun drinking not long after he rolled out of bed.
“Who was that man who just left? Someone you’ve been placing bets with, I’ll wager!”
A huge grin parted Felix’s unkempt beard. “You’ll wager? You criticize me for betting, but you’ll wager?” He started to laugh.
“Proprietor!” he yelled. “Listen to this jest! The gentleman here questions my wagering yet he bets himself! Did you ever hear anything more comical?”
“Yes, I have,” replied the man from the other end of the tavern. “Mostly concerning the empress!”
Anatolius waited for the captain’s mirth to subside. “Felix, you can’t become involved in wagering again. You know you swore you were finished with that years ago.”
Felix grunted. “Shows what you know. The man I was speaking to isn’t a gambler. He’s a horse trainer. How could I wager with the races cancelled thanks to this pestilence? But I am keeping informed. I am an informed man. Very, very informed.”
He took another gulp of what remained of his wine. “I know the Greens lost their best horses last week. I wager you didn’t know that! That’s how informed I am. The owner sold them, you see. Race horses are worth more to butchers than bettors these days.”
