by Mary Reed
Crispin gently closed the box. “Perhaps you think collecting objects from far-flung places is a strange interest for one who has been a guest here at the Hormisdas for most of Justinian’s reign? Let us say it’s because I must make my pilgrimages vicariously. Envoys and new arrivals to our enclave contribute to my collection.”
It was, Anatolius knew, well known that Theodora’s monophysite guests were likewise the orthodox Justinian’s prisoners. They were under the empress’ protection in the Hormisdas Palace, but not allowed to stray far from it.
“You have lived in Constantinople for a long time?”
“I arrived here more than a decade ago. I was with a delegation trying to fashion a compromise with those of the emperor’s religious persuasion. It transpired it was not the Lord’s will for that effort to succeed. I was content to remain. The local authorities in Antioch have long persecuted those with whom they disagree. You see what’s inscribed on the entablature?”
Lifting his gaze to the white marble frieze carried atop colored columns, Anatolius read a portion of the chiseled verse indicated. “…Pious and heaven-crowned Theodora…”
“The empress ordered this magnificent church constructed for us. And, to be honest, to house the thumb of Saint Sergius as well.”
Crispin tapped the box lid. “When even the oil from a lamp burning near a tomb is imbued by some essence of the saint interred there, contemplate how much more powerful is the smallest scrap of the saint’s earthly husk.”
“If the thumb of a Roman soldier is worthy of such a church, there must be relics worth an empire,” Anatolius observed.
“Were you a friend of the senator?”
“I fear I didn’t know him well.”
“He spoke most eloquently on behalf of the orthodox point of view,” Crispin said. “Justinian cannot reproach him for failing to persuade me that I am in error. True belief withstands any amount of reasoning.”
Crispin looked Anatolius up and down again, more critically than earlier. “It occurs to me that I do not know your name. Again, thank you for bringing the senator’s gift. Now I must attend to my devotions.”
As Crispin began to turn away, Anatolius drew forth the cross he had taken from the senator’s storeroom. He had chipped its enamel and snapped off the top so that it now resembled the broken artifact Thomas had been given to identify himself to the person he was to meet at the Hippodrome.
Crispin stared with ill-concealed surprise at the cross Anatolius was holding. “Where did you get that?”
“From an acquaintance of the senator’s. A man who told me of the offer he made to Symacchus, one he would like to convey to you, now that the senator is dead.”
Crispin’s suspicious gaze remained fixed on the broken cross. “Are you certain this man you mention knew the senator? I believe you have been sorely misled, whoever you are.”
“What do you mean?”
A faint smile flickered across Crispin’s narrow face. “The senator told me about a certain clumsy fellow who made a pretense of knowing things he clearly could not know, of having knowledge he did not possess. At one point, statements very akin to threats were made to the senator by this oaf. You say you bring the same message. The senator was recently murdered.”
Crispin paused. “Therefore in the circumstances I have no choice but to report our conversation to the authorities, my gaudy peacock friend,” he went on. “I shall pray your life is spared, but my petition is much more likely to be granted if you are far away from Constantinople.”
Chapter Thirty-one
John strode toward the ruins of the church over which Zebulon had once presided. The rising sun reddened smoke hanging over Mehenopolis, evidence of meals being cooked before the settlement began its day’s work. Fog steamed off the still surface of an irrigation ditch.
The bleakness of John’s humor did not match the perpetual sunlight of this strange country.
What could the night’s events have been intended to accomplish? Had the visitation by the supposed demon been a warning? If so, to whom? Was Dedi again demonstrating his supposed powers to Melios, or was someone else warning of the consequences to those of the settlement who had been displaying allegiance to a magician?
John could not envision Zebulon setting fire to a bird, although the cleric would have more reason than anyone to try to dissuade Mehenopolis’ residents to depart from what he considered blasphemous practices—not to mention his church had been burnt down.
John had not formed any conclusions by the time he came upon Zebulon seated on his accustomed bench, between the well and the ruined church.
The cleric had already captured a visitor. He was sharing a loaf of bread and a jug of water with the charioteer Porphyrios.
“Salutations, Lord Chamberlain!” Zebulon bowed without rising. “Would you care to share our humble repast?”
The big charioteer sitting beside him had left just enough space on the carved sandstone seat for John’s lean frame.
“An exciting night, wasn’t it, excellency?” remarked Porphyrios through a mouthful of bread.
Zebulon turned his face toward the sun. His profile, with its great beak of a nose and long flowing hair, was impressive, John thought. He would not have looked out of place clothed in sumptuous ecclesiastical garments, officiating in one of the capital’s great churches.
“A wonder so easily explained, Lord Chamberlain, and yet there seems no way to convince the ignorant of the truth,” Zebulon said. “I fear Dedi has provided many with food for thought.” He looked at the crust in his hand. “But is it poisoned or wholesome fare?”
“Do you believe Dedi was responsible for the flying demon?” John said.
“Isn’t it obvious, Lord Chamberlain? I can’t tell you how the trick was done, but I’m positive he’s the culprit.”
“On the other hand, if it was a genuine omen, a sign of ill to come, don’t you think Melios ought to be worried?” Porphyrios put in.
“Why do you suppose the warning was directed at Melios?” John asked.
“Because it was his property that was set on fire.”
“I regret to say Melios has a strong tendency to superstition,” Zebulon said. “He may well believe the demon was a personal message to him.”
Porphyrios shrugged. “Aren’t we all superstitious, if we’re honest about it? Even if we don’t agree with those who wear amulets to avert the evil eye, we all believe something.”
“Doubtless the same applies to charioteers?”
“True, excellency. I once worked for a team owner who immediately dismissed anyone found to have had anything to do with the color green. This was when I raced for the Blues. Our most experienced man lost his job for eating lettuce at the wrong time. He only ate it for his indigestion. We lost all our races that day and that only confirmed the owner’s belief that green was to be avoided.”
John had to lean forward slightly to direct a question to the cleric. “Would you say superstition is stronger in Mehenopolis than religious convictions? I’m thinking of Dedi’s magick against Melios’ beliefs.”
“The Lord will give us the answer soon enough,” Zebulon replied.
“You and Melios are both monophysites?”
“That’s right. We wouldn’t be popular in Constantinople. Why are you interested?”
“What about Melios’ problems with imperial taxes? Could it be these ruinous rates he complains of are a form of persecution, because of his religion?” Porphyrios suggested.
“I’d hardly call taxes persecution,” Zebulon replied. “If they are, we’re all martyrs. I would have been happy enough to pay higher taxes if I had been able to remain where I was. Besides which, the emperor tolerates us in Egypt. The empire needs Egypt’s wheat. If you’re a heretic or considered to be one, I say find yourself a far-off field of wheat to occupy, as in effect I did.”
A naked, sun-browned boy, his legs white with dust up to the knees, came running up
the road, vanished down the spiral staircase clinging to the inside of the well, reappeared, and ran back in the direction from which he’d arrived, water sloshing from his large earthenware pot.
“You’ve been here a long time, Zebulon, in fact since before Dedi arrived. I imagine you and Melios have become united against his influence,” John said.
“Not so, excellency. Our discussions are confined to spiritual affairs and matters relating to his estate.”
“And the snake game?”
“I fear not, Lord Chamberlain.”
“Your host has avoided sitting down at that board with you all these years?”
“He did play it once but he insisted on placing a substantial wager to make it more interesting, as he put it. I didn’t care for the idea, but he shelters and feeds me so I agreed. Unfortunately he lost. He’s refused to play ever since. It’s a pity, since I can’t seem to better anyone else, except for your good lady. I’m hoping she’ll visit me again today.”
John suppressed a sigh. Zebulon was always voluble on the subject of his game, if nothing else.
“I was told you blessed the sheep before it was placed in the pen?”
“Yes, at Melios’ request. I was uneasy about it but as you’ll appreciate felt I could hardly refuse since he’s given me shelter all these years. Dedi heard about it and ever since he’s been proclaiming the animal’s death proves Mehen is more powerful than the Lord. What he conveniently doesn’t mention is that Melios took all sorts of other precautions. Protective garlands, charms, that kind of thing. The sheep even shared its pen with a clay scorpion.”
Zebulon absently traced a hieroglyph incised on his bench, where sprightly quail chicks, reed baskets, sinuous snakes, zigzagging lines, and seated scribes formed undecipherable messages. “Every day I sit on a bench carved from a block of stone that was once part of the temple up there on the Rock of the Snake. Much of its material has been used to build houses in the settlement. No wonder the people cling to strange beliefs, despite all my efforts.”
John seized his opportunity to mention pilgrim flasks and from there, recalling the bones hidden in Apollo’s beehive, moved on to the subject of trading in relics.
Porphyrios grunted. “There’s plenty of money to be made that way. Sorry, Zebulon, but you must admit while those departed holy men may have been poor, their bones and such have since made a lot of men wealthy.”
Zebulon laughed. “True enough. Well, excellency, I suppose I can’t persuade you to engage me in a game? What about you, Porphyrios?”
The charioteer got to his feet. “I’m always ready for a strenuous contest, but unfortunately I have urgent business.”
“I fear I must decline too,” John said. “Doubtless someone willing to play will come along soon.”
Zebulon smiled. “Send your servant some time if you can spare him, Lord Chamberlain. I enjoyed talking to him. He’s a born theologian.”
John followed Porphyrios, who marched energetically away. He soon caught up and matched the charioteer’s stride.
“I have the impression you want to speak to me in private, Lord Chamberlain. I can’t fathom why. I’ve only just arrived here myself, so I have no idea what’s been going on. Thinking about the relic trade, it strikes me a fellow in the sort of financial straits Melios claims to be in would find it a useful source of income.”
They were passing along the bank of a wide ditch. Bees droned, reminding John of Apollo’s charges.
After an initial hesitation, Porphyrios continued. “I thought it best not to say anything in front of Zebulon, but mention of taxes reminded me about something. The assessor has been asking Melios questions about you.”
“How do you know this?”
“I happened to be at Melios’ house when Scrofa arrived. He requested a private interview so I retired to another room. Their talk became somewhat heated, so much so I could hardly avoid overhearing what was being said. He pressed Melios for details about your movements and the real reason you were here. Not that Melios could supply any information beyond what everyone in Mehenopolis knew. Scrofa had hardly departed when you arrived, so I decided to leave and return later in the day since it was obvious Melios would probably not be available again for some time.”
So John had in fact heard his name spoken as he approached Melios’ house. “I intend to interview Scrofa later this morning. Doubtless he can shed light on his interest in my movements.”
Porphyrios shook his head. “I’m afraid he’ll not be easily found, excellency. According to Zebulon all the tax assessors who visit Mehenopolis take bribes. Just imagine Scrofa’s consternation when he arrived, ready to put his hand out as usual, only to find one of the highest officials of the empire in residence. He must be terrified you’ll discover what’s he’s been doing and report him to the authorities.”
Porphyrios came to a halt and stared thoughtfully at the ditch. Sunlight ran across its water like liquid fire. “Lord Chamberlain, I may as well confess I’ve been lying to you,” he went on. “I’m not an exile. Now that we’re alone, I can reveal the real reason for my visit.”
He scowled. “I was losing one race after another. Finally I discovered someone had buried a curse tablet behind our stables. You’ve probably seen them? Little bits of rolled lead with vindictive magickal imprecations written on them. I threw it into the Marmara. However, since I didn’t know who was responsible—there are many who are jealous of my prowess—I feared he would obtain another and I wouldn’t find it.”
“It’s been some time since races were held in the capital, thanks to the plague.”
“And that gave me the chance to come to Egypt, since I made inquiries and learned the best charms come from this land. My intent is to purchase a protective amulet and thereby change my fortunes once racing resumes. When I heard rumors about a powerful magician in Mehenopolis, I came here.”
“Dedi deals in such things?”
“Right now he’s considering the matter.”
“You’re haggling over the price, you mean.”
“Well…yes…but now you have my story. It isn’t the sort of tale I’d care to have spread around, so you can understand my bending the truth a little.”
***
Peter had almost finished chopping vegetables for the evening meal when Hapymen arrived.
“Your master keeps you busy,” his visitor observed. Sweat ran down his brown chest in rivulets.
Peter half wished he could shed his clothing for the clout of cloth which was all Hapymen wore. It would be much cooler although a lot less dignified.
“It’s the master’s right, but I’m not as busy as I should be.” Peter wiped the blade of his knife on his tunic. “I still haven’t obtained everything I need to make honey cakes. He dines on so little and most of the time doesn’t seem to take notice of what he’s eating. That’s a dangerous practice at the palace.”
“I suppose all that rich food upsets the humors at times?”
Peter’s head bobbed below the table as he bent to rummage in his basket of garden produce.
“That’s true enough.” He reappeared with what he had sought. “As you see, as part of the evening meal I’m preparing onions. The master likes them chopped and boiled. He doesn’t care for elaborate fare. Just between us, I suspect the palace banquets he’s required to attend are a terrible penance to one with such simple tastes.”
“I don’t know that I would care to be present at one either, Peter. Judging by what you’ve said, I wonder if it’s safe to break bread with the emperor.”
“I have myself heard gossip, after a sudden death supposedly caused by tainted fish, that it was not as spoilt as it was claimed to be. Garum sauce covers many sins.” Peter nodded knowingly and resumed chopping.
“But surely you’re not suggesting poison?”
“You must make up your own mind on that, Hapymen, but remember, life at court is not always quite the way it appears.”
&nbs
p; “After Melios visited the capital, he requested his cook to recreate some of the fine meals he had had there,” Hapymen remarked. “The attempt wasn’t too successful, although I’m certain that in one case the master confused the ingredients for two separate dishes and thought they were for one.”
“Oh?”
“As I recall, it involved a mixture of eggs and cheese and swordfish, which sounds bad enough, but then the cook was instructed to add cabbage and garlic as well.” Hapymen gave a dramatic shudder. “Quite a few servants were in my vegetable beds that night, picking lettuce to quell their stomachs!”
“Many in Constantinople enjoy that particular meal. Monokythron, it’s called, because it’s all cooked together in one pot. Not that I care for it myself. It’s far too rich for an old army cook like me.”
His visitor laughed. “Speaking of which, it’s as well I stopped by, Peter. You need better onions for your master’s meal. That one’s well past its best. When they grow that large, the flavor becomes far too strong.”
Peter looked dubious. “Yes, well, it’s rather bigger than most as you say. I haven’t been paying as much attention this morning to my duties as I should. Last night was extremely upsetting.”
Hapymen nodded sympathetically. “We’re all out of humor this morning between too much excitement and not enough sleep. I’ll go right now and personally dig you better onions. I’d like your master to taste just how fine my vegetables are! Besides, I know Melios would be furious if he thought his eminent guest had not been served the best his estate has to offer. It’s a matter of pride, isn’t it?”
Peter agreed. “And we servants too play our part in upholding our masters’ honor. I’m grateful for your help.”
Chapter Thirty-two
The first voice Anatolius heard was Europa’s, the next a man’s, loud and threatening.
His kalamos slipped and a blot of ink splotched the final sheet of the baker’s vexatious will. In an instant he was out of John’s study and running downstairs.
He could almost hear Bishop Crispin urging him to leave the city.
