Six for Gold

by Mary Reed

  Anatolius wondered whether master and servant sometimes sat together on this bench for such readings. Sheltered from all sight of the symbol of their faith, it would have been easier to hear the voices of those writers who believed in the old gods. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill your master? Had he lately quarreled with anyone, for example?”

  “Not a soul, sir. For all his wealth and power my master was as upstanding a Christian as any desert hermit. Everyone knew of his charitable works, although he forbade any of us to speak about them. It was not just a question of monetary donations, either. For instance, he often took in court pages who had outgrown their usefulness.”

  “You were once a page yourself, I believe,” Anatolius said.

  “Yes, sir, I was. The senator gave many of us work and shelter. Otherwise we would have been on the street when we were turned out after becoming men. He was much-loved.”

  Anatolius asked the servant for a description of the household.

  “I’m the wrong person to ask, sir. While I was his reader, I also helped here and there on occasion, doing weeding or occasional cleaning, that sort of thing. Mostly, however, I spent my time in my room up on the third floor. We readers must constantly practice our orating to gain the full effect when declaiming texts, you see. So I can’t tell you much about what went on in the household. Achilles, now, he could have told you everything about everyone.”

  “When do you expect him back?”

  “He won’t be returning.”

  “He’s left the city?”

  Diomedes made the Christian sign. “No, sir. The truth of the matter is, well, Achilles has been dragged down into the underworld. Yes, demons came and took him away!”

  The servant cast a frightened look over his shoulder as if he expected to see fiends lurking in the laurel or sunning themselves in a flower bed.

  Dropping his voice to a whisper, he continued. “It was about a week ago now, on the very night the master was murdered. My room is at the front of the house, so it overlooks the street. It was a few hours after sunset, and glancing out I noticed three or four men—or so I thought them—were just leaving the house. I couldn’t see who they were since they were moving away so briskly and by then of course it was quite dark. Nothing about them struck me as familiar, but Achilles was with them.”

  “You are certain of it?”

  “I cannot be mistaken, sir. I know him well and could identify him easily. He is bowlegged, you see, and quite bald. I was puzzled but not alarmed until just as the last man was about to go around the corner after the rest, he turned and seemed to look straight at me!”

  Again Diomedes made the Christian sign. “It was no man, sir. It was a demon from the pits of hell! And nobody has seen Achilles since!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The crocodile nosed its way along a channel that sliced through the towering reeds stretching stiff fingers up from Lake Mareotis.

  The boat for which the carved reptile served as a prow slid along behind. As the vessel glided through the water, it moved in and out of patches of shadow where smaller paths had been cleared for the benefit of those who lived on the lake’s islands.

  The maze of passages reminded John of the hallways of the palace’s administrative buildings.

  A startled heron flapped into the air.

  Down a narrow corridor where the sky was a blue sliver glimpsed above marching ranks of reeds growing so thickly a wider boat than theirs could not have passed between them, John glimpsed a fisherman emptying a net filled with wriggling silver into his small craft.

  Fortuna had smiled, John thought. He had found a captain willing to take Cornelia, Peter, and himself up river for the amount they had earned from a single, excruciating performance, and on a boat embarking within the hour.

  The captain carried a full cargo of wine amphorae as well as a quantity of timber lashed to the deck Anything extra by way of payment from the half dozen or so passengers he was transporting was a gift from the gods, the more so since it would not need to be reported to the boat owner.

  Soon the vessel left marshes and reeds behind and entered a network of canals that would eventually take them to the Nile. John and Cornelia sat on deck and watched men working the fields, laden donkeys plodding patiently along, and nut-brown children waving from muddy banks. Compared to the heat and noise of Alexandria, the boat was an oasis of calm.

  After a while Peter approached. He was beaming.

  “What an interesting country this is, master! It’s one thing to pour the wine, but quite another to see the grapes used to make it, being grown in such odd ways.”

  He waved a hand at the vineyard past which they were sailing. Workers watering the vines waved back. “That one has vines growing up poles, but the one we saw after we left the lake had vines on a sort of trellis.”

  “What a keen eye for detail you have, Peter,” Cornelia said.

  “Thorikos pointed it out to me, mistress. He’s the stout fellow in brown robes.”

  Cornelia nodded. “With the embroidered stripes down the sides.” She turned to John. “He has a rubicund face, or at least a rosy nose. His shape reminds me somewhat of a pear.”

  “He was a deacon in Cilicia,” Peter put in, “and he kept a wine-importing business on the side. He’s very comfortably off. We got into a conversation about his travels. Since he’s getting on in years and has no family, he decided to spend his savings to see the world. He says that although he misses the comforts of home, so far it has been most interesting.”

  “There are endless wonders to be seen in Egypt,” John said.

  “That’s exactly what I said, master! Thorikos has never been to Constantinople either. I ventured to suggest he should make it his next destination, once the plague has gone. Lord willing that be soon.”

  Peter waved his hands again. “And then Porphyrios chimed in and said he was of the same opinion—a traveler hasn’t seen a great city until he’d visited Constantinople. So of course I told them all about the palace and the court. I may say they were impressed.”

  John exchanged concerned glances with Cornelia. Peter’s garrulous nature might turn out to be a cause for concern. It was part of the reason he did not care to reveal everything he knew concerning his mission. Not everyone had trained their tongue as well as he had. Still, it was always wise to know with whom they were travelling, especially when night fell.

  “Who is Porphyrios?” John asked.

  “A charioteer. He’s raced at the Hippodrome. A fascinating fellow. He said that dogs always run along the bank when they drink from the Nile, to avoid being dragged in by crocodiles! We must be careful, master!”

  “I hope you aren’t developing a fear of those creatures before you ever see one,” Cornelia said. “What other stories was this character telling you?”

  “He mentioned that auburn hair is considered ill-omened in Egypt. Thorikos was horrified and said he was glad his had long ago turned gray. Though he regretted that as it was also thinning, it did not protect his scalp from the glare of the sun very well.”

  “Porphyrios sounds like quite the teller of tales,” John observed.

  Peter nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed, master. He also told me the Blue racing team are superstitious about anything green.”

  “I suppose that’s not surprising given their bitter rivalry with the Green faction,” Cornelia said. “What’s Porphyrios doing in Egypt?”

  “It’s another remarkable story, mistress. It seems he’s been exiled.”

  “Did he say why?” Cornelia asked.

  Peter shook his head. “No, and he looks the sort of man who wouldn’t appreciate being pressed for details. Besides, no sooner had he told us than he launched into a detailed account of every race he’s been in, and what’s more, insisted on showing off that odd-looking belt of his. He had it woven from the team’s reins after his last winning race, hoping it will bring him good fortune.”
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  “What about that little man who’s as black as a Nubian? The beekeeper?” Cornelia wondered. “I notice he rarely leaves his hives unattended.”

  “He was the first person I talked to after we came aboard. He speaks quite passable Greek. I didn’t realize those clay cylinders were hives until he told me. I asked him why he was traveling with his bees, and he said he followed the spring flowers every year. He sells a fair bit of honey. It’s used for everything from curing headaches to dressing wounds.”

  “I expect he does a brisk trade,” Cornelia replied.

  “He told me some terrible tales about crocodiles too, mistress. They leap up and drag people off the river bank or even boats and devour them before anyone realizes a companion has gone!”

  “What’s this beekeeper’s name, Peter?” John asked, glancing toward the stern where, he noted, the disgraced charioteer and the itinerant beekeeper were now in deep conversation.

  “Apollo.”

  “The ancient sun god!” Cornelia said. “What an appropriate name for a beekeeper, when sunlight is so vital to the flowers from which bees take their sustenance.”

  The unwelcome, unspoken thought came to John. To the ancients bees represented souls.

  He hoped it was not a bad omen.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Felix pounded up the stairs. “Anatolius! I’ve just heard one of my men’s found a body in the water. It might be that missing servant you told me about. It appears the man was murdered.”

  Anatolius, paused, caught by surprise midway between the kitchen and John’s study, holding a wine jug.

  Hypatia stood beside the open house door, looking bemused, as Felix urged Anatolius downstairs and across the atrium.

  “But Felix, what about Hypatia and Europa—”

  “They’ll be perfectly safe behind locked doors,” Felix growled.

  Anatolius hastily pushed the jug into Hypatia’s hands. Then he and Felix were marching across the cobbles.

  “When you told me the man Achilles vanished the same night Symacchus was murdered, I didn’t expect he’d ever turn up again,” Felix said. “Even though we’ve got a city full of dead bodies, I told my men to keep their eyes open and gave them your description of the man. I’ve sent for the senator’s reader, of course, and perhaps he can identify the body.”

  They went out through the Chalke and quickly turned off onto a side street. Before long they were crossing a square scantily populated with passersby.

  As they approached the sea wall, a bundle of black rags lying in a warehouse doorway sprang to life and staggered toward them, coughing like a sick crow.

  “Sirs! Sirs! If I may introduce myself? My name is Tarquin. My services are much in demand at the palace. I know what gentlemen of refinement prefer.” The ragged young man simpered and pushed greasy hair away from his pallid face. The motion revealed the swellings on his neck.

  “He doesn’t realize he’s a dead man,” muttered Felix. “Or doesn’t care.”

  Anatolius tossed a coin. “Off with you, now.”

  Felix spat on the cobbles. “You might as well throw your money in the sewer, Anatolius. He’ll be taking the ferry with Charon soon.”

  “Well, at least he can afford a little wine now to ease the journey.” Anatolius stepped through a gap in the waist-high sea wall that opened onto a steep stairway. Its steps were slick with sea spray and bird droppings.

  When they reached the bottom, and Anatolius dared look up from his boots, he saw an excubitor and a crowd of gawkers on the dock gathered around what might have been a sodden sack of wheat.

  It was the corpse, bloated into an inhuman shape.

  The lantern-jawed excubitor with a gourd-like nose noticed Anatolius staring. “Don’t be thinking about prodding it, sir,” the man advised him. “He’ll burst like an overfilled wineskin.”

  “He’s been in the water several days,” Felix remarked, “so he could very well have gone in the night Symacchus was murdered.”

  Beyond the dock, a humid miasma clung to the calm waters of the Golden Horn. Flies buzzed around their newly found feast.

  The corpse stank. Anatolius tried to breathe through his mouth.

  “It’s definitely murder, captain,” the excubitor reported. “Observe the cord he’s wearing around his neck.”

  Felix bent to get a closer look at the swollen and discolored flesh, sending up a swarm of flies. “Criminals all think the same, Anatolius. Need to get rid of bloodstained cloaks or inconvenient bodies? Toss them in the water.”

  “And water’s never far away in this city,” observed a bystander.

  The captain uttered an oath and stood abruptly. “This could well be the man who came to my office to warn me about the senator’s murder.”

  “How can you tell?” To Anatolius the livid face retained no hint of individual features.

  “For one thing, our friend here was young and yet bald. Even though the fellow dashed in and out, that stuck in my mind. He was too young to have lost all his hair. Once you’ve seen a few bodies fished out, you can begin to visualize what they probably looked like before they went in. This definitely was not an old man.”

  Diomedes made his way through the crowd of onlookers, and after a hasty glance at the body turned to Felix.

  “Yes,” he said, “that’s Achilles, or at least those are the clothes he was wearing last time I saw him. May I leave now?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll need some further information. Wait here.”

  Felix took Anatolius by the elbow and led him to a spot behind a pallet of marble blocks, out of view and earshot of everyone.

  “This is getting complicated. I see the senator’s so-called reader wears a lot of powder.”

  “So-called? You suspect Diomedes’ duties extended beyond reading?”

  “You told me he was a former court page. He’s far too old now for that sort of work, but then some of these aristocrats like their duck hung longer than others.”

  “You’re thinking Diomedes had something to do with the murder because of some relationship with the senator?”

  “Murders, Anatolius. Jealousy has killed many a man.”

  “Yes. Murders. It is getting complicated. It’s possible, I suppose, but I must say I’m dubious about the idea.”

  “One thing seems certain at least. Whoever killed Symacchus also killed Achilles. It is too much of a coincidence that two men from the same household were strangled within hours of each other. Anatolius, I owe you a favor for getting me home safely from that tavern the other day, but if Justinian discovers how many excubitors I’ve had searching for a servant supposedly carried off by demons…”

  “John told you he didn’t murder the senator, and how could he be responsible for this murder when he was arrested immediately?”

  Felix scowled. “As far as everyone else is concerned, since Justinian has said he’s responsible for Symacchus’ death, naturally makes it so, or at least for all practical purposes.”

  The captain ran an agitated hand through his beard. “But you’re missing the main point, Anatolius. Don’t you see? It was Achilles who came to tell me what was happening in the Hippodrome. Someone wanted Senator Symacchus dead, and further for some reason wished the senator’s body found exactly when we did. Obviously, this person intended to ensure the messenger sent to bring us to the Hippodrome wouldn’t be able to identify him later and took appropriate action. He’s certainly thorough, I’ll give him that.”

  “Nevertheless, whatever it takes to untangle this mystery, I think you’ll agree we must see justice done. I’ve been wondering if Justinian sent John off to Egypt for his own protection. But if so, why?”

  “I’d suggest Theodora’s involved,” Felix replied. “We all know she’s hated John for years. In fact, according to rumor he’s no safer on his way to Egypt than he is at the palace.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Felix paused. “You don’t kno
w? Of course not, since you haven’t been spending time at the palace lately. It’s being whispered that an assassin’s been sent after John.”

  Anatolius’ fists clenched. “Why didn’t you tell me before now?”

  “It’s just a rumor, although a plausible one, I admit. More than one man’s been sent away in disgrace so the messy business could be accomplished out of sight of the capital.”

  From where they stood, Anatolius could make out the mouth of the Golden Horn. A solitary ship was entering it, haze boiling around its outline. He wondered if the vessel had come from Egypt.

  “Even if it’s true, Felix, John’s been gone several days. He should have reached his destination by now.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  How strange, thought Peter. Every passenger was disembarking at the same place.

  He had risen early, before coils of mist swirling over the river had dispersed as the sun strengthened. Now the acrid smell of cooking smoke drifted from a settlement strung out beside the landing place.

  Already shadufs rose and fell. On the journey up the Nile, they had become a familiar sight, buckets at the end of sapling arms dipping into the river and rising, dripping, to empty their precious cargo into channels watering narrow patches of cultivated land.

  Peter was not the only early riser aboard.

  First he had run into the rosy-faced traveler Thorikos, arranging his small mountain of baggage on deck. Then Porphyrios the charioteer had appeared and commenced pacing up and down, flexing his muscles—limbering up for the land journey, as he put it. Finally, Apollo had begun to laboriously roll beehives to the ship’s rail nearest shore.

  They had been on the Nile for days, the north wind at their back a stronger force than the lazy, southern current. Peter soon lost track of the number of villages they had sailed past, each a nondescript straggle of mud huts clustered beside the river whose annual inundation brought them life each year. Beyond, beginning at their back walls, a vast emptiness stretched as far as the eye could see.

  The river was busy and their passing boat caused little notice, other than an occasional hail from a child running along the steep bank paralleling their vessel, hoping for a coin or a piece of bread to be tossed ashore.