by Mary Reed
Before long she bent down and picked up what she’d expected to find.
A feather.
***
“Master, is that you?” Peter stuck his head out of his room and peered down the hallway.
There was no answer. The only illumination came from a terra-cotta lantern hanging at the end of the corridor.
He was certain he had heard a footstep.
“Mistress? Have you returned?”
Hadn’t he lit the lamp in the front room?
How long could it have been since he had dozed off?
He made the sign of his religion, picked up the lidded clay jar by his door, and crept out into the hallway.
Yes, there was the sound again, a barely distinguishable indication of movement.
The other door off the hallway opened into the room the master and mistress were using. He glanced in. Dim lantern light spilling in from the hallway slanted across the bottom of the pallet, leaving the rest of the room dark.
Peter edged slowly inside.
There was something on the bed. At first glance it might have been a small reclining figure.
Peter raised the jar, then stopped.
He had made out glassy eyes and a withered snarl.
It was only Cheops the cat mummy.
The light flickered, as if the flame in the lantern had been disturbed by a breeze.
Or by someone passing by behind him. Peter pivoted slowly. The hallway was empty.
He was certain there was someone else in the house. He could feel the other’s presence.
The master and mistress might return at any time. They wouldn’t be expecting someone to be waiting for them.
Waiting with evil intent.
Peter offered a silent prayer, clutched the pot tighter, and moved cautiously toward the darkened front room. As he stepped into it, he spotted a glint of light.
Was it a hungry blade?
He hurled the jar.
It exploded against the wall, sending fragments rattling around the room.
The intruder let out an oath. There was a crash and the house door flew open.
A gust of cool night air rushed in.
The nocturnal visitor had departed in haste.
Peter began to light the lamps. He hoped that before the master and mistress arrived back he would be able to find all the scorpions he had collected in the jar.
He sighed.
He was not certain now how many he had captured.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Anatolius sought solitude by the pool in John’s garden, but found Europa pulling weeds from the herb beds.
As he approached along the graveled path, she looked up from her labor and began to giggle. “Anatolius, where are you going dressed like that?”
“I borrowed this fine clothing from Francio. Don’t you like it?”
“Since you ask, I don’t think those birds are suitable for a lawyer!”
His bright blue garment was embroidered with strutting peacocks, the colors of their tails repeated in the wide border edging neck, sleeves, and hem.
“Indeed. However, we must always dress appropriately for the task in hand.”
“Do you have to appear disguised as a cage full of peacocks now or has Theodora engaged you to spy on her menagerie?”
“I’ll explain later,” Anatolius muttered, aware of how feeble his words would seem.
He had decided it would be best to disguise himself before visiting Bishop Crispin with the pilgrim flasks. He didn’t want the bishop to be able to give a recognizable description of him. It would be safer if no one at court discovered he had been asking what might be termed prying questions.
“You’re very mysterious all of a sudden, Anatolius. Where’s the guileless young man I once knew? Is this newly-found reticence part of your new profession?”
“I wish people would stop questioning my decision to become a lawyer! None of us are in our usual humors with everything that’s going on, are we? I might equally ask what you’re doing tending to the garden.”
“Tending to the plants gets my mind off everything. I’m really worried about Thomas. He should be back by now.” She sighed. “The emperor must value father’s advice. Or must have valued it, before…”
Europa looked at the water gurgling into the pool through what was had once been the mouth of some stone creature now too eroded by time and the elements to identify. She sat down on the marble bench under a nearby olive tree. “Could father have killed the senator?”
Anatolius was shocked. “It’s not in his nature! Surely you cannot think so?”
“Isn’t it? He was a mercenary, wasn’t he? He killed men.”
Anatolius paced over to the side of the pool. “Indeed. In this case, though, it just isn’t possible.”
“Will he be in great danger in Egypt, do you think?”
Anatolius hesitated. “Even so far away, he’s still under Mithra’s protection.”
Europa’s bleak smile showed she had given his pause more weight than his answer. “I have petitioned the Goddess to bring them all safely home. Let’s hope the patriarch doesn’t get wind of that! Gods don’t go away just because the emperor proclaims some law or other.”
“True, but in public we’re all Christians.”
Europa wiped away tears.
“Thomas will be back soon,” Anatolius told her. “Do your best not to worry.”
Europa made no reply. The quiet trickle of water into the pool was the only sound in the garden.
“It’s so still,” Anatolius commented. “It’s as if even leaves don’t care to exert themselves enough to move.”
“Now you sound more like yourself! You could make an excellent set of verses from that one thought alone!”
Anatolius shifted his feet. “To be illiterate is—”
“You take words too seriously, Anatolius.” Her tone was suddenly so cold.
Too late, Anatolius recalled that Thomas could not read.
“There are too many words being written,” Europa went on, glaring at him. “All these lawyers and poets and officials and churchmen scribbling their lives away. And what do most of those words do? Hurt someone, or hide something, or cause trouble one way or another.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Cornelia. Thomas is a bit of a wanderer, and you’re—”
“A wanderer too. I’ve spent my entire life traveling with a troupe.”
“Yes but—”
“I ride bulls and I do it half-naked, just as my mother did.”
Anatolius looked at the formless form set in the pool. The hardest rock was not proof against time. “I’m sorry. You misunderstand. I didn’t intend to insult your husband. I was only concerned. People will wander off from where they’re safe, with no idea what they’re getting into—”
Europa peered at him. “Thomas is able to take care of himself. It’s Hypatia, isn’t it? You’re worried about Hypatia!”
“Certainly not!”
“Anatolius! You’re blushing!”
He disconsolately flapped a peacock-emblazoned sleeve. “I’m just embarrassed by this garish garment.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
A scorpion scuttled toward the chest.
Before it could slip out of sight, Peter swept the creature into a wine cup with the flat of his blade. John cracked open the lid of the jar and Peter dumped his venomous captive inside to join the other.
“I think that must be all of them, master.”
Dry, scraping noises came from the jar as John set it into a corner.
“I should have chased the intruder, master,” Peter apologized. “I might have been able to see who it was. At first I wasn’t even sure it was a man.”
“What else could it have been but a man?”
“There are demons even in Constantinople. Considering that blasphemous performance at the pagan shrine, I wouldn’t be surprised if demons were as thick as scorpions hereabou
ts.”
“Then let’s hope they all stay away. You did well, Peter. It was a most inventive weapon.”
“It was Zebulon who inspired it, master. I remarked to him this was a strange place with many dangers, and he mentioned those ancient travelers in the wilderness, beset by fiery serpents. He said the serpents were scorpions, for in the language in which the holy books were written serpent and scorpion are rendered by the same word.”
“It sounds like an interesting conversation, Peter.”
“Oh yes, it was indeed. I was going to gather vegetables and met him by Melios’ house. He invited me to play his strange game. Naturally I refused, but after I explained why I thought it blasphemous, we got into a most interesting theological discussion. I would have liked to have talked longer. He promised next time we met we’d continue our discussion about how the Son of Man was lifted up, just as Moses lifted up the brazen serpent in the wilderness to cure the sick. As I walked back, I began to think about serpents and snakes and scorpions, and well, that was how it came about.”
“An interesting story,” John said.
Peter frowned. “Even so, master, certain statements he made lead me to suspect he is less than orthodox, like many here.” The distress in his voice was marked.
John agreed, then turned his thoughts back to the recent attack. Had the intruder used the commotion caused by the flying demon to hide his activities, or had he purposely created the fiery diversion in order to—what?
The door banged open and Cornelia entered. Behind her, the only evidence of the recent excitement was a column of luminously gray smoke rising against the stars.
“Look what I found, John!” She held out a handful of half-burnt feathers. “It appears the secret of the illusion is known to charlatans all over Egypt.”
Peter stared at the pungent scraps.
“It’s to impress the ignorant, Peter,” Cornelia explained. “You’ll recall in Alexandria I mentioned Baba, the magician in the company John and I traveled with years ago? Well, one of his most frightening tricks for shows taking place after dark was pretending to conjure up a flaming demon.”
“However did he accomplish that, mistress?”
“Like most magick, it’s simple once you know how it’s done. After Baba intoned some meaningless incantation, an assistant hiding behind a house would put a torch to a hawk or some other large bird and then set it free. Do you remember, John, the time the unfortunate demon set half a village alight and we had to flee? We can be certain Dedi’s responsible for tonight’s blaze.”
“In which case, it was probably intended to further intimidate Melios. It might have been a diversionary tactic too,” John replied, and related Peter’s experience earlier that evening.
Cornelia looked thoughtful. “Whoever came in here might just have intended to rob us. A fire is the perfect opportunity for theft. After all, a Lord Chamberlain, even if he’s dressed in less than magnificent garments, would surely be traveling with bags of gold, wouldn’t he?”
Peter nodded solemnly. “I’m sure that is the opinion of most of the people in Mehenopolis.”
“What I would really like to know,” John said, “is where Dedi was at the time the flying demon appeared, particularly since we first saw it rising above the Rock of the Snake.”
“That reminds me,” Cornelia said. “There’s something I want to show you.”
***
Cornelia led John along a path through a stand of palms. Their towering height reminded John of the columned cisterns that competed with dungeons for space beneath the Great Palace. He preferred not to dwell too much on thoughts of those subterranean chambers into which so many vanished and from which so few returned.
“You’re quiet, John. I’m not surprised. I’ve found being back in Egypt after all these years disturbing. It’s as if we’ve stepped through a doorway into the past.”
“If we have, it must have been a doorway to a different past entirely. But here we are, together, and what is it that I am to see?”
Cornelia looked up at him, her face barely distinguishable in the dim light from the thick dusting of stars arching overhead.
“Do you ever wonder if we’d been able to stay together how different our lives might have been?”
“I’ve asked myself often and there’s no answer. Which also seems to be the case with this accursed investigation. I’m beginning to feel exactly like Theseus following Ariadne’s thread, only I fear I’ve dropped mine and am wandering about in circles. I’m not even certain what I’m seeking.”
Cornelia smiled. “Where do you find yourself right now, John?”
“I’ve established very little. In brief, Dedi and Melios are competing for leadership of Mehenopolis and they’re also arguing about ownership of a piece of land. Dedi claims to have caused a sheep to kill itself. Melios is terrified of Dedi. Then too someone, probably Apollo even though he denies it, is smuggling religious relics by hiding them in his beehives.”
“Selling relics is a thriving trade and bees are excellent guardians, since it’s not only Melios who’s afraid of them. Remember how Porphyrios sat at the back of the cart, as far away as possible from the hives?”
John was silent for a while. “I’ve also been devoting some thought to Porphyrios. It’s highly suspicious that more than one exile was sent here at the same time.”
“Porphyrios must be grateful he was parted from Constantinople rather than from his head. And what about Zebulon, who apparently exiled himself, fleeing persecution years ago?”
“He’s safe here, at least. Who would journey this far to assassinate an old cleric?”
“Let Zebulon draw the wrath of Justinian and sailing beyond the Pillars of Hercules won’t save him.”
“Expecting a mere mortal to escape the wrath of the emperor is akin to asking him to undertake the labors of Hercules. Speaking of which, unfortunately thus far I have not been as successful as Hercules in performing my task,” John concluded.
“You may not have captured the Cretan bull like he did, John, but you certainly snared a Cretan bull-rider!”
John did not seem to hear her comment. “Cornelia, something has just occurred to me. It isn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that Zebulon is involved in the sheep’s mysterious death.”
Cornelia expressed her doubts.
“Consider,” John replied. “He serves as spiritual advisor to Melios and his household as well as to visitors and those who live in Mehenopolis. I could see Zebulon arranging it to discredit Dedi, given he knew Dedi would claim the credit. The magician is a dangerous heretic from Zebulon’s point of view, but if his wild claims and vanity could be used to maneuver him into declaring his hand in something forbidden, such as magick, and then the authorities were informed of it…”
They emerged from the palm grove. The vast pearled cloak of the sky stretched overhead.
“John, I have to confess. I may have killed that sheep. Yes, I could have climbed into the rafters of the barn during the daytime, hid there until the door was bolted, and then dropped down and—”
“It’s more likely you’ve been in the sun too long as well, Cornelia. Why do you make such a ludicrous claim?”
She assumed a theatrical pout. “I thought if I were a dispatcher of woolly animals you might pay more attention to me.”
John glanced around. “What is it you wanted to show me here?”
Cornelia reached up, caught John around the back of his neck, pulled his head down, and kissed him. “I want to feel you against me again. What do you say? Cheops will look the other way!”
John looked up at the stars cascading across the horizon with a brilliance he’d not seen since his youth.
“I think he will. It’s time we returned to our bed, Britomartis.”
Chapter Thirty
From outside, the Church of Sergius and Bacchus was a squat, domed structure slotted uncomfortably between the Church of Peter and Paul and the arch
itectural jumble of the Hormisdas Palace. Anatolius would never have guessed the building could contain the vast, airy space into which he stepped. From a floor of gray-veined marble, two tiers of red and green marble columns ascended to a vaulted sky filled with a glittering mosaic host of holy men and angels.
It was almost enough to make a Mithran believe in the Christian heaven.
He had, however, come to the church on secular business.
“I visited your lodgings and was directed here by your neighbor,” Anatolius said to Bishop Crispin. “That’s to say, the man who had taken up residence in the alcove with the statue of Diana next to your room. I expect you’ve noticed he’s got his laundry draped all over her?”
“I believe that is more for the sake of her modesty.” The monophysite ecclesiastic was a slight, narrow-faced man with a sparse black beard. He wore black robes cinched with a wide red belt. “Timothy is exceptionally learned. He spent several years meditating in a cave. Why do you wish to speak to me, young man?”
“I’m here on behalf of Senator Symacchus.”
The bishop looked Anatolius over as if he were a dubious theological argument.
“You were left this legacy in his will,” Anatolius went on, holding out the sandalwood box. “It’s his collection of pilgrim flasks.”
Crispin took the box and opened the lid. “How very kind of him to remember one with whom he so often argued!”
“I understand you held opposing religious views?”
“We sometimes win our opponents’ hearts, though they disagree with us intellectually.” Crispin held one of the tiny flasks up to his eyes. “Symacchus now knows which of us was right.” Placing the flask back in the box, he sketched a blessing.
“Are these interesting items very valuable?”
“It would be as well to ask the same of the blessings of the saints! If you mean are they worth anything in nomismata, I doubt it. As Symacchus knew, I collect them for my own enjoyment. Most of these examples are of a common variety, although I see one or two of a type I’ve not seen before. Still, I am very happy to have them. Thank you.”
“How did you come to take up such an interest, if I may ask?”
