by Mary Reed
Dedi waved his hands and the burnt feather materialized, an arm’s breadth above the table, and floated gently downwards. Peter quickly drew his cup away.
“Remember,” Dedi continued, “Mehen works through the appointed guardian of his shrine.”
“By which you mean yourself? How were you appointed to such high office?”
“Mehen called me, Lord Chamberlain. Years ago I was a traveling magician, wandering about performing for a few coins.”
“Or frightening ignorant people enough so they’d give you more than a few if only you’d be on your way?”
Dedi reddened with anger, but ignored the comment. “Then something insisted to me that I travel along the Nile. I realized I was being drawn somewhere, as inexorably as the waters of great rivers are attracted to the sea. When I arrived here I camped just outside Melios’ estate, undecided as to whether I should continue on my journey. Ah! But then I awoke in the gray light before dawn next day with a heavy weight on my chest. It was a coiled snake, the very one you saw a few nights ago.”
The magician waved an excited hand. “Then, once I learnt the ruined temple was dedicated to Mehen, I immediately knew I had been sent a sign and that this was where I was meant to be.”
“So why hasn’t Mehen sent an enormous snake after Melios?” John asked pointedly.
“Doubt what I say at your own risk, Lord Chamberlain. The power of Mehen is everywhere in this place. There isn’t a structure in the oasis that doesn’t contain brick or stone from the temple ruins, all of them imbued with the Snake God’s power.”
John noticed Peter staring uneasily at the feather on the floor. “I gather the pilgrim business is lucrative, Dedi. Hardly surprising, is it, with a constant stream of travelers in need of shelter, making offerings, buying supplies and mementos. Naturally you would make such claims.”
“I can see you don’t believe me. Then consider Zebulon. Why does he never win that game he plays? It’s because of his religious beliefs and his blasphemous use of Mehen’s likeness, of course!”
John stood up. “You keep talking about Mehen and his power, Dedi. What I see are shabby illusions any fumbling magician could perform, all of them easily explained. You may be able to mislead many, but—”
Dedi leapt up, as if intending to restrain John from leaving. “You question my powers? Well, why haven’t you been able to explain why Melios’ sheep cut its own throat?”
Peter looked horrified. To hear his master addressed in such an insulting fashion!
“It was just another trick, Dedi.” John’s tone was withering.
“You know it wasn’t!” Dedi waved his hands frantically. “You’re mocking me! Very well, I’ll prove my powers beyond any doubt. I’ll force another sheep to kill itself.”
John took a step toward the doorway. “That’s hardly necessary, Dedi. As I said—”
“I must insist, Lord Chamberlain, if that is what it will take to convince you!”
John sighed. “Very well, then. It shall be arranged as you wish.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Felix strode across the track at the Hippodrome, past the spot where the senator had lain.
He felt out of place on the floor of the stadium. He was used to looking down from the tiers of marble seats which, vacant, now rose all around like marble cliffs.
He had already talked to every person he could find who might have known something about the deceased senator. The conversations had failed to bear out Anatolius’ conviction that a pointer to the murder might be found among Symacchus’ house guests. No one recalled anything noteworthy about the visitors, except that most were Egyptian, but as Felix endured much unenlightening gossip, it occurred to him to explore a different connection.
The Hippodrome might well have been chosen for the fateful meeting simply because it was temporarily unused and only lightly patrolled. Before the plague, however, the races had rivaled the Great Church as the attraction every traveler insisted on seeing. Would Symacchus’ guests have been any different?
Rounding the spina, Felix saw a man with a spear standing in the middle of the track. Heavy-jowled, with a thick neck and hooded eyes, he wore a tunic resembling a stained sack. He pushed the spear tip into the dirt gently, as if probing with a surgical instrument. He withdrew it, shuffled forward, and prodded again. For a few arm’s lengths behind him, the hard earth appeared dimpled, riddled with punctures. There were a couple of larger holes, of the sort a dog might dig, with soil piled beside them.
As Felix approached, the man began to dig more vigorously. He bent down and plucked from the ground what looked like a clod of earth.
“Droserius!”
The man turned at the sound of his name.
“Captain! It’s you. I was afraid it was one of your men interrupting my work again.”
“I’ve explained to my patrols that you have legitimate business here, Droserius.”
“Yes, very legitimate, but they are always curious. Mostly looking for tips on the chariot teams for when racing resumes. Look, I’ve unearthed another crime.”
He tapped the clod of earth against his spear. Dirt fell away, revealing a metal cylinder as long as his finger. Tossing his weapon aside, he gently unrolled the thin lead sheet. “Remarkable how people still dare to break the law by putting curses on the race teams, isn’t it?”
Droserius rubbed his find on his tunic, leaving yet another streak of grime, and handed it to Felix.
It was a curse tablet. A demon with a contorted face, a long tail, and a rooster’s crest had been crudely incised into the lead, along with an inscription.
Felix squinted at it. “I release you, demon, from the bonds of time. I charge you, from this hour bring a pestilence onto the Greens. Torture them! Flay their horses! The charioteers Glarus and Primulus, crash them! Destroy them!” He didn’t attempt to articulate the magickal incantation which followed: Ziugeu. Diaronco. Baxcu. Oeeora. Cagora. Aaiereto.
He handed the tablet back to Droserius. “It’s easy enough to tell who’s being cursed, but there’s never any way to discover who buried the things. I hope you’ll finish soon. There’s nothing in here that needs guarding now, but when the races start—”
“Do you expect to have repaid me what you owe by then?”
“Surely you’ve already turned more than enough profit in this enterprise to allow me a fair amount of credit against that?”
“Perhaps.”
“I don’t want to be seen giving anyone preferential treatment, Droserius.”
“Who is going to question the captain of the excubitors? Are you looking to be promoted? What position do you seek?”
“I wouldn’t turn down a military command,” Felix admitted.
“Why would you want to go rambling around the ruins of Italy? Or worse still, far-off deserts?”
“I’ve been stuck inside the palace for too long, spending all my time looking at walls. Some nights I dream I’m on a march with nothing but the hills around me.”
“Never mind. It won’t be long before the racing starts up again. That’ll provide enough excitement for anyone.” Droserius contemplated the lead sheet. “Charioteers pay good money for a curse tablet with their name on it. They can destroy it and avoid whatever’s been wished on them. However, I may not be able to sell this one. Glarus is dead. His chariot’s axle broke, and it happened right where we’re standing. I saw it myself. It was as if an invisible hand erupted from the track and snapped it in half. Cost me a fortune. He’d just arrived from Thessalonika, and no one had heard of him. No one knew about his skill and so I placed a heavy wager on his first race.”
“Whoever concealed that tablet here must have heard about him, else how could they know his name?”
“That seems obvious. I just hope it wasn’t the fellow who made off with my money. I may have to put this back. I don’t think Primulus can afford it. He’s been down on his luck of late and now I see why. On the other ha
nd, if he removed the curse he might regain his former promise. No one else would be expecting that, so it would give me some scope for wagering. However, I can’t take any bets from you on his races, Captain. It wouldn’t be ethical.”
“I won’t be wagering again, Droserius.”
“No? It’s always good to have a break once in a while. Whets the appetite.” He closed his hand around the small cylinder. “I shall keep this one for now, I think. What stories lie beneath our feet, Felix. A secret history of intrigue and rivalry, of ill will and bad fortune. A gold mine to one who knows how to work it.”
“I want to ask you about another sort of story, Droserius. It involves the murdered senator. Were you here the day Symacchus was killed?”
“As I’ve already explained to your inquisitors, I always leave well before sunset. All those empty seats seem filled with phantoms once the moonlight hits them.”
“Do you know anything about Symacchus?”
“Only what everyone else knows, Felix. He was devout to a fault, wasn’t he? I would not be surprised to hear the night you found him was the first time he’d set foot in the place.”
“What about his guests? I don’t imagine he discouraged them from coming to the races?”
Droserius picked up his spear and gestured with it toward the seats. “The Hippodrome holds thousands of spectators. How many of them could I know?”
“You and your cronies are on always on the lookout for wealthy foreign chickpeas. You wouldn’t think a hawk could spot a dead mouse on a hillside, but it does. What about the question?”
Droserius laughed. “Now that you mention it, there was an Egyptian fellow who was staying with Symacchus. Some big fish from an exceedingly small pond. A place called Mehenopolis.”
“What was his name?”
“Melios.”
“You have a good memory.” Felix was suspicious.
“It’s hard to forget someone who owes you as much money as he owes me.”
“He wagered heavily?”
“And lost. Hercules himself couldn’t have dragged that fellow away from the races. And he never paid up. I got off lightly compared to some I could mention. This was a couple of years ago.”
“Why did you trust him to settle his debt? He was, after all, a stranger to you.”
“He was staying with the senator. A man like Symacchus wouldn’t offer hospitality to a dishonorable man. Or so I thought.” Droserius thrust his spear into the ground.
“Did you lend Melios money?”
“I have a weakness for assisting those who aren’t rich enough to invest in their luck, as you know, captain. Besides, Melios said he was in the city to present a petition to the emperor concerning some grievance or other. As far as anyone could ascertain, that was true. There was a lot of money involved, so with the stroke of his pen, Justinian was going to gild the fellow’s backside.”
He paused. “I thought he was a good risk. I was wrong.”
***
The body on the pallet lay as still as if death’s vast weight had already settled into the flesh. Glittering like gems sewn to the edge of a courtier’s robe, the gaze moved back and forth while the leaden face remained immobile.
“I thought I was climbing the ladder to heaven and you were a demon tollkeeper.”
“It’s me, Tarquin. It’s Hektor. Remember we were friends when we were both court pages? I’ve had an accident.” Hektor turned his head to one side, to give the dying man a better view of his profile.
“Hektor?”
“I found you not far from the docks, huddled in a doorway. The Lord must have directed my steps.”
“You speak of a Lord? The one you offered the chicken to that night when we were young? The dark one? No, you can’t persuade me. This is a snare. Don’t hurl me into the pit, I beg of you.” Tarquin’s hands, curled into claws, trembled.
“You’re not dead, Tarquin. You’re safe with me in the Hormisdas. What happened to you? I thought you’d been taken into the household of—”
“He tired of me. They all tire of me eventually, and yet what other way did I have to survive? Am I to burn in the eternal flames for it? Have mercy!”
“I’m not here to throw you into the flames, Tarquin.”
“I didn’t want to die on the street. I had nowhere else to go.”
“You haven’t died and you won’t.” The swellings on the sick man’s neck showed the lie. Hektor looked round as the door behind him creaked open, letting a shaft of light into the dim, smoky room, accompanied by a burst of noise from the crowded corridor beyond.
Bishop Crispin shut the door behind him. “Ah, finally I’ve tracked you down, Hektor. Where have you been keeping yourself?” His gaze moved to the pallet.
“As you see, I’ve been tending to an old friend.”
“Oh yes. Very praiseworthy. Now, I must ask you about a peculiar visitor of mine. A bald-headed fellow dressed all in peacocks. Does that suggestion anyone you know?”
“He doesn’t sound like anyone at court.” Hektor frowned. “Then again, I no longer spend much time among those who indulge in such sartorial vanities.”
“Of course not, but I’d hoped you might recall this man. His demeanor struck me as suspicious.”
Hektor stared thoughtfully into the gloomy recesses of the room. “I may need to take some action,” he muttered.
Crispin stepped nearer to the sick man. He looked down at Tarquin, then up at Hektor, distress in his face.
“I fear there is nothing to be done.”
Even though Hektor’s words were spoken softly, Tarquin heard them. “What’s that you’re saying? I am going to die here?”
“Let’s not speak of such things. You need to rest.”
“Yes, yes, but before that I must tell you. I’ve had a vision, a dream. Hektor. You will be rewarded for your works. You won’t die on the street, Hektor. Heaven has told me so.”
***
A young man in a flowing cloak forced back the bull’s head and buried a dagger in its neck. A snake, a scorpion, and a dog joined in the attack on the dying animal.
Felix stood in the shadows and contemplated the bas relief at the front of the mithraeum. It depicted Mithras slaying the Great Bull, the moment of creation.
He turned as Anatolius entered the narrow underground chamber. “Sorry about asking you to meet me here, Anatolius, but under the circumstances I thought it best if we weren’t seen talking.”
“You’ve discovered something useful?”
“I think so.” Felix glanced around, with the instinctive caution of the military man. They were alone. The guttering light from an oil lamp sitting on a stone bench animated whorls of yellow stars painted on the vaulted ceiling. “I’ve been making discreet inquiries about Senator Symacchus’ Egyptian visitors. I’ve heard enough gossip to enliven dinner parties for the rest of my life.”
“But what did you find out that would be useful to us?” Anatolius broke in.
“Apparently most of the senator’s guests were distant relatives or friends and acquaintances of distant relatives, who’d heard that the senator’s door was always open to Egyptian travelers who arrived in Constantinople, be they businessman, dignitary, or pilgrim.”
“That’s common knowledge.”
“I’ll wager it isn’t common knowledge that one of his visitors, a rascal named Melios, ran up big debts gambling on the races and returned to Egypt without paying!” Felix went on to detail the story Droserius had told him
“How reliable is your source?”
“He got his knowledge first hand.”
“First hand? He’s a gambler, you mean. Is that how you obtained this information?”
Avoiding Anatolius’ gaze, Felix studied the bas relief of Mithra as if he’d never seen the god before. “Sometimes you can’t be too dainty about who you talk to when you’re investigating. You know that as well as I do.”
“You’ve gone back to wa
gering, just like I said!”
Felix grunted and looked at his boots. “Just a coin here and there, for the sport. At least you won’t find me fleeing the city with creditors at my heels baying for my blood. Besides which, it was necessary for the task in hand.”
“Was there any mention of relics in connection with this Melios? I can’t see how he would have anything to do with this whole business.”
“As I said, Symacchus’ guests were a boring lot. Melios was the only one I was able to find anything out about.”
“He was from Egypt, of course. Where?”
Felix furrowed his brow. “Droserius did tell me. Some long name. I’m not sure. Mehen something or other, if I recall.”
“Mehenopolis?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“That’s where John was sent. So there must be a connection.”
Anatolius let his gaze wander to the sacred scene behind the altar. There was always something to ponder anew about the symbols of their religion—a raven, a scorpion, a snake, a lion and a cup, an ear of wheat growing from the tip of the bull’s tail, the god’s two torch bearers.
There was as much written in these images as in all of Justinian’s legislation.
The over-riding message, however, was plain. All life had sprung from the Great Bull’s death.
“Anatolius,” Felix said quietly. “Tread lightly. And now I have a question for you. Is there a new requirement for a lawyer to be bald? Although it’s not a bad idea at that, since it prevents disgruntled clients from grabbing his hair, the better to cut his throat.”
Chapter Thirty-five
“And this business with the sheep was just a trick, Lord Chamberlain? Imagine, Dedi trying to wrest my position away in such a fashion.” Melios’ words smelled of wine. His wig was askew and he kept turning the side of his face with the clouded eye straight at John in a disconcerting manner.
He appeared to be as upset and angry as Dedi had been by the end of John’s visit.
It was only a few hours since John had returned from Dedi’s house and informed Melios about the proposed show of power. The headman must have begun fortifying his courage immediately.
