by Eric Mayer
Eutuchyus met the nameless man for the second time as the moon rose that night, shedding a cold light on what remained of a grove of trees. As with others in the city, they had long since been cut down for fuel and the low stumps left now served to display the offerings of those who daily gathered to sell wilted vegetables, expensive eggs, and the occasional scrawny chicken.
Coins had changed hands that morning, and now the steward had arrived to receive the item purchased. The man waiting was stooped and dark of beard, eyes, and skin, speaking with an accent not of Italy. How he came to be in the besieged city was a mystery. He had suddenly appeared in the market selling crusts of bread. On previous visits Eutuchyus had heard whispers about unusual services the man was rumored to provide, matters that would not stand the light of day nor investigation by civil authorities. No one knew where he lived or his name. He refused to give it since to have it meant the ability to exercise power over him.
The moon was balanced over nearby rooftops, giving sufficient light to examine the small sheet of lead he handed to Eutuchyus, who glanced at it and frowned “I do not understand this. What does it say?”
“It is written in the language of my country,” came the reply. “We Egyptians are famous for our ability to work magic of great power and you won’t find better unless you voyage there, which would be difficult in the current situation. I shall read it to you and then add the names you give me.”
He paused for effect and then spoke. “It begins thus: ‘Most powerful goddess, lioness-headed Sekhmet, blow your scorching breath on—here’s where I left a space for the names…and curse them with every misfortune in this world and the next. Insure they are disowned by their family and their business ventures fail. Afflict them with wasting diseases, to become blind and feeble and reduced to begging in the streets. Cause their sons to emerge from the womb deaf and dumb, their daughters to enter shameful trades, and their loved ones to die terrible deaths. And further, oh Lords of the Dead, after those here named die in agony, when their hearts are weighed against the Feather of Truth on the Great Scales in the Hall of Judgment and there found wanting, order the Eater of Hearts Ammit not to devour those organs thus giving those named a second and final death. Instead cast their souls into dust and darkness to wander, enduring unspeakable torments for all eternity.’” He looked up. “Is that acceptable?”
Eutuchyus nodded. “Most satisfactory.”
The other gave a pleased smile, disclosing several gaps in his teeth. He produced a stylus and poised it over the small scrap of lead. “The names?”
“Inscribe it with ‘those who have caused me pain,’” came the reply.
The Egyptian looked up. “I have a keen eye, sir, and can guess just who you mean. I have created many curse tablets but never for a man in your sad condition. I do not blame you for seeking revenge on those who maimed you. Be assured this is my most effective curse. I provided the same to a client just a month or so ago. His father had already lived beyond the normal span of years and was in perfect health, expected to live for at least another decade. Now my client is in mourning and the richest man in the city. Yes, depend on it, this is certainly a most powerful curse!” As he spoke he wrote quickly, then rolled up the small tablet and handed the finger-sized artifact to Eutuchyus. “Now you must hide it underground. Drop it down a drain or a well or bury it. The choice is yours but I must stress it is vital for the curse to work, otherwise you’ve wasted your money.”
Chapter Twenty-five
In the dusty gray light of dawn John sat on the bed and stared into his boot. The list was gone. The mysterious parchment he had found on Felix’s body, the list whose safety he had insured by carrying it around with him during the day and concealing it in his footwear before retiring for the night, had vanished.
He reached into the boot but his fingers found only grit.
No. Wait. There it was, jammed up into the toe.
He was still fumbling inside the boot when Clementia came into the room. She wore a thin linen tunica suitable only for a lady’s private chambers. A necklace glinted weakly in the tired light seeping through the dirty window.
“Lord Chamberlain, I was thinking about what Eutuchyus said and I realize I am an additional burden on the household.” She took off the necklace and handed it to John. “I would like you to sell this and use the money to buy food or whatever else is needed. It’s worth more than you will be able to obtain for it. A buyer shouldn’t be hard to find, though.”
John glanced at the necklace. Silver dolphins alternated with amethysts. “A striking design, Clementia. It would go well with a silver fibula and a matching ring made of silver and the same gem, don’t you think?”
“I suppose it would. You take an interest in jewelry?”
“No, I found such a ring and fibula among Felix’s possessions here. All three were made to be worn together. It’s the sort of gift a man gives to a woman with whom he has more than a business relationship. You insisted you did not have a close relationship with Felix.”
Clementia looked disconcerted. She sat down on the bed next to John who, himself, was clothed for sleep in a rough tunic. He did not care for her proximity. She put a tentative hand on his shoulder. “One likes to preserve one’s privacy. Isn’t that true, Lord Chamberlain?”
“True for some.”
“I might as well admit it. Felix and I were lovers, yes, but it was certainly nothing to concern anyone else. I didn’t know he bought this jewelry for me and wish he hadn’t. It seems to be tempting Fate to wear representations of dolphins. After all, isn’t it commonly said they take sailors to the afterlife? I never felt comfortable wearing the necklace.”
John stood up and threw the necklace down on Felix’s desk. “You have lied to me twice now, Clementia. You lied about being a servant rather then a senator’s daughter. Think carefully before you answer the question I am about to ask you.”
Clementia flushed with anger.
John took the crumpled scrap of parchment out of his boot and showed it to her. “What do you know about this?”
She stared at him. “What is it?”
“A list of names. People I asked you about, if you recall.” John watched her demeanor closely. “You didn’t seem very curious about the names when I questioned you and you don’t look very surprised now. You do know what this list is.”
Clementia gave sigh and slumped forward. Not really defeated, John thought, but feigning defeat as a prelude to some fresh subterfuge.
“Yes, I recognize that parchment. I have the contents memorized.”
“The question is how and why did Felix come into possession of this? Who are these people? What connection do they have with Felix?”
“Very well, Lord Chamberlain. I will tell you what I know, though I warn you I only know the half of it. My great-great grandfather was a senator who was instrumental in hiding a number of church treasures just before the Vandals sacked Rome. He passed on a list that he said would point the way to the location of the valuables. But they could only be found by following a specific path and this information was entrusted to someone else who did not know the names. So neither could find the cache without the other. The arrangement had to be kept secret, so secret the details were lost as time passed, as Rome was sacked again and the Goths took control of Italy. We keep searching and hope one day to locate the treasures.”
“You say ‘we keep searching.’ You mean your family? Did your father search before Totila had him taken away or is this a new project you have undertaken?”
John saw from the way Clementia’s face clouded that he’d guessed correctly. “And how does Felix fit into all this?” he asked.
“As a high-ranking official, he could go anywhere and ask anyone anything. Rather like yourself, Lord Chamberlain. After I told him the story he agreed to help me search.”
“For the enrichment of the church or yourself?”
Clementia met his challenging gaze steadily and said nothing.
Two parts of the extraordinary tale were probably true at least, John thought. Eutuchyus had mentioned even in the worst weather Felix had spent much time out and about. And Leon had lamented that many hidden church possessions had never been recovered.
“Are you sure this is all you know, Clementia, or are you lying to me yet again?”
She leapt from the bed and took hold of John’s arm, pressing herself against him. In the chilly room her breath felt hot in his ear. “Lies? How can you accuse me of lying? You, who lived at the imperial court. People like us, who move in the circles of the powerful, must speak discreetly.”
John wondered if she had spoken discreetly to Felix. He gently disengaged his arm and stepped away.
“Your friend did everything he could to help me, Lord Chamberlain, because he loved me and I loved him. He would have wanted you to complete his task. And I am sure he would not have objected if you took his place.”
“I do not wish to take Felix’s place, Clementia. However, to the extent it will help me find his murderer, I will continue to pursue the puzzle of those hidden valuables.”
“Thank you, Lord Chamberlain. I can tell you hold me in low regard. When you know me better you might change your mind, as Felix did.”
Chapter Twenty-six
John wished to know Clementia better, although not in the manner she proposed. On his way to the Lateran Palace to speak to Leon he wondered what had caused Felix to change his mind about her, provided he had not, in reality, been attracted to her from the first.
Viteric had not arrived at the house early. Nor was John aware of Viteric following him. John had the impression that the young soldier obeying Diogenes’ order to keep track of John was not carrying it out as diligently as before.
A guard informed him that Archdeacon Leon could be found in the basilica of the palace this morning. A thin, echoing noise resembling the sound of a small dispirited mob filled the nave. The noise stopped, replaced by the cheerful, melodious song of sparrows flitting through the shadows near the ceiling, occasionally swooping down between the rows of pillars into the light. Then the mournful sound started again.
“They’re practicing and they need it,” said a stooped fellow who emerged from a side aisle carrying an oil jug. “They used to sound like the angels in heaven. Now they sound like the angels thrown out of heaven, on their way down. Considering the riff raff there is left to choose from now, it’s no wonder.”
The singers resumed, massed voices rising into a long, sustained moan before petering out.
“I was told I could find Archdeacon Leon here.”
“He was here with another man earlier. They have gone to the Holy Stairs. Do you want me to take you to him? I’m not done filling the lamps but my ears would welcome a rest.”
His guide led John out of the church and through the palace. “In the old days it was a pleasure to hear them practicing while I worked. Back then they chose only those with fine voices. These days they are lucky if they can find enough voices of any sort. Now there are beggars who sing for coins in the street, actresses and whores, soldiers who sing on the march, and cooks who sing to their pots.”
Remembering how his former servant Peter sang dolefully as he cooked, John winced, imagining the Great Church filled to the dome with the singing of dozens of Peters.
They came to a dim hallway. “You’ll find him at the far end, sir. Now I must return to work and the infernal racket.”
A pudgy, prematurely balding man John recognized as the man who had ushered him into the library where Leon was working on his first visit was staring intently down the stairs. He turned, startled, only when John was almost beside him. “Lord Chamberlain, why—?”
John brushed past him. He could see Leon, who had collapsed near the top of the stairway.
Matthew clutched John’s shoulder. “Please, sir, the Holy Stairs may only be ascended on one’s knees.”
John stopped. Now he could see that the elderly churchman was actually on his knees, robes spread out around him on the steps. As John watched, Leon painfully pulled himself up another step, keeping his eyes down.
“This is the staircase which led to the praetorium of Pontius Pilate in Jerusalem,” Matthew went on. “The very stairs on which Christ set his feet.”
Leon continued to reenact Christ’s fateful climb, wheezing audibly.
As a Mithran, John found it hard to appreciate the Christian desire for abasement and pain. Matthew regarded his suffering superior with reverent approval. John felt embarrassed and sorry for the man.
Finally Leon dragged himself up to the top of the stairs. Too weak to stand he let himself fall back against the nearest wall. Only then did he notice John. He made a feeble gesture of recognition, eyes shut, panting.
“Don’t worry,” Matthew said. “He will recover shortly. Before the Goths made it impossible, pilgrims used to fill these stairs every day, many of them old and ill, and never once did anyone fail to complete their journey or fare the worse for it. On these sacred stairs the believer is under the Lord’s protection.”
John was casting around for a comment that was both polite and noncommittal when Leon managed to speak. “Help me up, Matthew. I’m feeling much better.”
Before long they were seated in the library where John and the archdeacon had first talked. Leon was still breathless and his eyes resembled half buried embers in his ashen face.
“I anticipated you would visit me again, Lord Chamberlain. How can I assist you this time?”
“I am here in connection with an ecclesiastical matter.”
Leon smiled. “You are returning the relic you borrowed? The knife?”
“Not yet. It has not served its purpose. I am here to consult you on another matter concerning the church.”
Leon drew his eyebrows together. “This would be…?”
“The preservation of sacred artifacts by concealing them. As you will recall, we spoke briefly of that during my first visit.”
“Yes?” Leon sounded uncertain.
Matthew, standing nearby, leaned closer to Leon. “Perhaps you should not try to discuss church matters when you are so exhausted?”
Leon waved the suggestion away. “What is this about concealed artifacts?”
John recounted what Clementia had told him about the joint efforts of the church and senators to keep the church’s wealth safe.
“Yes, yes, that is my understanding of the matter, as far as it goes. So those names you were asking me about when we met at the hospital were those on a list handed down in a senator’s family?”
John feared for an instant that he had said too much.
Leon smiled wearily. “Don’t worry. I was being honest when I said I didn’t recognize the names, nor do I have any inkling what the list represents. In fact I do not know what clue it is the church is supposed to have. History is very large and cluttered. It is amazing how quickly things become lost in it. Through the years the church has searched for the lost caches but to no avail. It is perhaps for the best. It is safer to leave them where they are until the time comes when they will no longer have to be hidden.”
“Perhaps you should leave now, Lord Chamberlain,” put in Matthew. “You have your information.”
Ignoring the interruption, John persisted. “And there is no indication where the lost artifacts could be?”
“None. Their location was never written down. The only thing that is said, and I believe it possible it’s merely a legend that has grown up over the decades, is that their safekeeping was entrusted to the care of the dead.”
As he left the palace John was turning everything Archdeacon Leon had told him over in his mind. He was only vaguely aware of the discordant chants still emanating from the church. As they faded behind him they might have been the faint r
aucous cries of crows. The harder he thought the faster he walked, a habitual, unconscious action exacerbated by the steep incline of the street leading down off the Caelian Hill. At a corner he almost collided with a curtained litter carried by four slaves.
He stopped and watched the litter and its bearers climb the hill. Who could be left in this benighted, depopulated city grand enough to be borne in such fashion? And what did it signify to be carried in luxury through empty streets, past vacant buildings, all surrounded by an enemy which might at any hour sweep away what little remained of the city? People would live as they were accustomed to living until the very end.
Having stopped, John realized his calves ached and he was sweating. His swirling thoughts, interrupted, settled and as they did he saw clearly the most important thing Leon had said. That the safekeeping of the church treasures had been entrusted to the care of the dead.
The list Felix had carried with him had to do with the search. John had been searching for those people amongst the living. He should have been searching amongst the dead. And where in Rome were the dead but in the catacombs where Felix had been killed?
John turned and headed in the direction of the city wall.
Although Cassius was no longer alive to guide him, he remembered the way through the armory beneath the tower to the stairs under the grate in the floor. None of the soldiers he encountered challenged him. John looked authoritative and intent on important business. Once in the dark maze of corridors and armed with a torch, he followed the trail of Mithran torchbearers painted on the rough-hewn walls.
No one was at the mithraeum. John said a brief prayer before beginning his search. With only slight hesitation he found the corridor where Felix had been killed. There was little to differentiate it from all the other corridors, so narrow he could touch both walls when he spread his arms. The walls filled with burial niches, each sealed with marble or plaster. Yet this particular spot, where Felix’s body had lain, John recalled down to the most insignificant detail and would never forget. The spidery crack in the rock near where Felix had fallen. The marble plaque that was slightly askew. The setting had been carved into his mind. He supposed he would see it in his dreams and hoped he wouldn’t.
