by Eric Mayer
“I will always protect you,” he had told her. “But if I am not by your side this will protect you.”
That had been long ago, but the blade was still sharp.
John and Julius hid their rowboat in a patch of reeds and waded through foul-smelling mud to the riverbank. To Julius’ disgust, John had not stolen the boat but purchased it, rousing its owner by pounding at the door of a ramshackle riverside hut. The bleary-eyed fisherman had looked frightened, then suspicious, but the price offered allayed his concerns. John explained that it was easier to put a coin into a man’s hand than hit him over the head. It wasn’t a lesson Julius wanted to hear.
John didn’t like the impetuous boy tagging along but didn’t want to put off his visit to the Goth encampment. “We’re going to obtain information, not to fight,” he explained to his companion a dozen times.
The air was clammy with mist. As they scraped the mud off their boots, birds sang, anticipating the sun. Voices and the squeak and rattle of carts led them to a road. The sun was up by the time they reached a procession of farmers bringing supplies to the Goth encampment. Evidently, they had traveled from beyond the ravaged area around the city. In addition to carts piled with vegetables, there were men leading cattle and sheep. A slightly built middle-aged woman marched resolutely along, weighed down by a big crate of squawking chickens, leaving a trail of feathers in her wake.
John strode up to her and took hold of the cage. “That must be heavy. Let me help you.”
For a moment the woman looked alarmed, fearing a robbery, but she relaxed when John and Julius fell into stride beside her. The bored guard at the camp entrance paid no attention to a farm family delivering chickens.
John wandered through the crowd of soldiers and farmers haggling and unloading goods. In many ways life in Italy went on normally—that is to say normally, as established by more than a decade of continuous war. By now the unpredictable movement of armies was simply endured like bad weather.
Julius’ gaze darted back and forth, taking in Goth soldiers. His fists clenched, he looked barely able to contain his anger. “How will we find the kitchens, sir? Will you force it out of someone?”
“We’re almost there, Julius. Notice the smell of cooking?”
Not far away, cooks worked over rows of huge braziers. John asked a fellow who seemed to be overseeing the work about Gabriella.
“That one! You won’t find her here. She didn’t like getting her hands greasy. You might try Captain Oduulf’s tent. She took up with him shortly after arriving.”
No one challenged a tall, rustic fellow with a boy as they tramped past tents, stopping occasionally to ask directions. Totila’s army had nothing to fear from Roman farmers and the farmers were happy to trade with either the Goths or the Romans as they alternated control of the countryside. Whether Rome fell to the Goths again was a matter of indifference to farmers who had no inclination to move to the city. The outcome of the war, John thought, mattered mostly to Totila and Justinian and the fighters in their pay.
When they found Oduulf’s tent John realized there was no good excuse for a strange peasant to burst in on the captain, so he sat on the back of an empty cart and waited. Julius produced a handful of bacon he’d somehow stolen without any of the cooks or John noticing.
John accepted some to the boy’s apparent surprise. “If only you’d pilfered some wine.”
“If you want, sir, I’ll—”
“I was jesting, Julius.”
John thought it would be ironic if this bacon had come from one of the swine Marius and he had been hauling to the city when the Goths apprehended them.
Before long the tent flaps opened and a young woman dressed in fine silks emerged, a vision from a jumbled dream. She might have been transported from the imperial court by a playful pagan god and set down here amidst rough tents, dirt, smoke, and the stink of horse droppings.
John sprang up and went over to her. “Gabriella?”
Her eyes widened in terror, her face turned white. John blocked her path back to the tent.
“Don’t worry,” John said. “I haven’t come to harm you.” The coin in his hand vouched for his truthfulness. But it was also a denomination a man of his current appearance would never have glimpsed in his lifetime, much less carried on his person.
“Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter. You recently cooked for General Conon?”
“Who says so?”
“As I said, I’m not here to hurt you or take you back to Rome.”
Gabriella turned the gold coin around in her hand. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed. The coin gradually soothed her. “They killed all the servants when they came for the general. I was afraid…”
“The rebels have all been dealt with, Gabriella. You don’t need to fear them. How did you escape?”
“By the grace of God. Only by the grace of God. They crept into the house in the middle of night. Normally, I would have been sleeping so I would never have woken up. Or do you wake up for an instant when your throat’s slit? Anyway, there was a terrible yowling. Cats fighting in the garden. I got up to chase them away and spotted the intruders before they saw me. I laid down in the bushes in the dark and stayed hidden until they were gone. What I heard…the screams…sounds I never thought a person could make, it was like someone had cracked open the door to Hell. Afterwards, I went into the house to see what had happened. I wish I hadn’t. I’d pay this coin, pay a whole bag of gold, if I could forget what I saw.”
John questioned her gently. She had fled and never returned. She knew nothing about what had transpired at the house after the slaughter, nothing of Felix. All the servants except for herself had been murdered, even James, whom she described as elderly and crippled.
“He had less chance to escape than anyone,” she went on. “He was our steward, and his room was apart from the rest of us. The noise must have awakened him because I came across his body in his doorway. There was no reason for them to do to him what they did.”
“But surely the steward was Eutuchyus and he escaped death?”
Gabriella frowned. “Who?”
“Eutuchyus. A eunuch.”
“No. I never heard of him. Oh, James limped badly and was forever losing his balance and clinging to us, his poor old hands flying everywhere. Terrified of falling, or so he pretended. None of us girls could be angry with him, he was so pitiful, but certainly not one of those creatures.”
Chapter Thirty-one
As she strode toward the tavern Cornelia’s fingers momentarily brushed the hilt of the dagger concealed beneath her clothes. The whitewashed building displayed a badly rendered eagle indicating that hospitality was available within. However, the stout red-faced man who emerged from the doorway was demonstrating a decided lack of hospitality to the struggling girl in his grasp. He threw her to the ground and kicked her in the ribs.
“Don’t let me catch you coming in here again taking my trade away.” He kicked the girl in the face before going back inside.
Furious, Cornelia rushed to the girl’s side and helped her up. If she hadn’t come here on other business she’d have been tempted to use her dagger on the red-faced bully.
“Don’t try doing business in there,” the girl mumbled through a bloody split lip. “Got his own girls, deny it though he may. He must make more from them than his watered-down wine. You’ll have better luck on the docks, chickpea.” She turned and walked in their direction.
A burst of screaming and coarse laughter drew Cornelia’s attention to the open door. She could see another girl being manhandled and then pulled out of sight under a table while patrons offered oaths and filthy suggestions.
She hesitated before entering. It wasn’t that she feared for her safety. She’d traveled the empire’s roads for years with a troupe of entertainers. She was used to inns and taverns like this and much worse. She co
uld take care of herself. And yet the thought of entering into that vile atmosphere, dirtying herself, repulsed her.
How fastidious you’ve become, she thought, stepping through the doorway.
No one was paying attention to her because the tavern owner had just swooped down, reached under a table, dragged a man out, and flung him into the sunshine. “Too bad you didn’t get your money’s worth!” he shouted. “And you won’t get it back either. Next time, drink after you’ve used a girl!”
A fat man sitting half-concealed by the open door leered in Cornelia’s direction. “These Greeks are a rude race,” he croaked. “They could learn the finer points of etiquette from the lowest beggar in Rome.”
“You’re not Greek? You’re from Rome?”
“Born there. Would you like to hear the latest scandals, pretty lady? I’ve just come from there. I’m on my way to Constantinople on important imperial business.” He winked at her.
Cornelia sat down on a stool next to him. The way he looked at her made her feel like a freshly cooked leg of lamb. Or maybe a big, succulent fly considering the fellow’s resemblance to a bloated toad. “More wine,” he cried out, “for me and my lovely lady friend.”
Cornelia had guessed correctly that it wouldn’t be difficult to find the braggart Hypatia had described. She again felt for the dagger concealed in her clothing, reassuring herself it was still there. “I hear the situation in Rome is not good.”
He shook his head, waggling his jowls. “Who can be sure? The Goths are at the gates, it’s true, but General Diogenes is a shrewd man. Did I mention I am going to Constantinople on his behalf?”
She gritted her teeth and let the loathsome creature paw her arm. After all the villains John had brought to justice, after emerging unscathed from Justinian’s court, that gold-and jewel-encrusted den of vipers, was he to be brought down by this intoxicated fool?
It was possible, for the fool was on the way to the capital, on what he described as important imperial business involving a general in charge of the garrison. A general John would have had to meet.
She accepted the cup he thrust at her and pretended to sip.
The noisy tavern stank of stale wine, sweat, and vomit. Time and dirt had long since obscured most of the frescoes on its walls. Cornelia stared at the painting behind them. Here a bare leg emerged from the grime, there a bare arm. From what little could still be seen the fresco was of the sort usually found in brothels.
“The general trusts me, you see, because I have worked for him in the past.” The man’s chubby hand continuing to run up and down Cornelia’s arm. “Drink, drink,” he urged. “I can feel you’re tense.”
She debated whether she should stab him. Where they sat was shadowed enough she might be able to do so without being noticed. Or should she lure him away, give her a better chance at escape by eliminating him in private? What if something went wrong and she never got the chance? Now, while seated within arm’s length she had the opportunity to make sure he never reached Constantinople, let alone return to Rome with John’s death sentence.
She grasped his roaming hand. “There’s talk you are going to Constantinople to unmask a fraud.”
“What’s that?”
“A man arrived in Rome, claiming he’d come from the emperor.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“And General Diogenes expects Justinian will deny sending him.”
“Yes. That’s what is being said.” He leaned toward her, breathing noxious fumes in her face. “Perhaps we could discuss the matter in a less public place?”
All around inebriated patrons talked, quarreled, arranged assignations. Who would have noticed her arrival, or remember later what she looked like? Who could even vouch afterwards that she had been sitting beside this particular man when he suddenly collapsed? Who, in fact, would even notice that he had slumped forward, head on the table, like any other intoxicated man, while blood from his lacerated heart leaked out into his voluminous clothes and ran down his legs to the filthy floor?
By the time he was discovered Cornelia would be back on the estate. Who would believe she was the kind of woman who frequented low taverns, let alone murdered strangers in them?
With one hand she withdrew her weapon from its hiding place. With the other she grasped the man’s tunic near his shoulder and pulled him forward, so she could whisper in his ear before driving the dagger upwards into his heart. “You expect the emperor to tell you this man is not in Rome on his orders and then you intend to take this information straight back to Diogenes?”
“Tell me? Not me! I’m no messenger. I only heard the rumors.”
Cornelia held the poised blade in check. “You weren’t sent to see the emperor?”
“Perhaps we should talk about this in my cabin?”
“Then what’s your business in Constantinople?”
“Well…boots, actually. I have a supplier, you see. He gives me a good price and Diogenes’ men have been wearing the same boots for a long time. There’s a fortune to be made! I only hope the Goths don’t overrun Rome before I can return.”
Cornelia pushed him away. “So that’s why you’re in such a hurry?”
She got to her feet, feeling light-headed. She had almost murdered a man for no reason. Now she wouldn’t need to kill.
Nor could she save John.
Chapter Thirty-two
Eutuchyus had not been Conon’s steward. He had arrived at the house after Felix was in residence, posing as the former steward. Why had he lied?
John and Julius sat in a pine copse outside the Goth camp, roasting a chicken which, according to Julius, had happened to cross the road to place itself in his hands. The boy had a knack for finding food and under the circumstances John was not about to complain.
They were waiting until dark to recross the river. After eating, they rested. The day was warm. There was a soft cushion of fallen needles beneath the pines.
“Why do you care so much about Eutuchyus to risk coming here?” Julius asked.
“A good question. There’s something about him that bothers me.”
From the start there was something that didn’t ring true. John had an instinct for such things. He could feel the need to investigate a person further without understanding why.
Or was John only flattering himself that he had been suspicious from the start? Wasn’t it that he had taken a dislike to the creature immediately, for reasons having nothing to do with suspicions?
It didn’t matter now, though. John knew Eutuchyus had insinuated himself into Felix’s household under false pretenses. Why? Had Diogenes put him there to spy on Felix? The general was fond of spying on presumed enemies. Had Felix been involved in a struggle for power? Was that why he had summoned John?
John had wracked his brain over the mysterious list and the church artifacts. It was possible that Felix had indeed been seeking the latter but that it had nothing to do with a different problem. His friend was perfectly capable of getting into more than one scrape at the same time. Had John erred in attempting to conflate separate situations?
He realized Julius was sitting with his back to a tree, chewing on a long piece of grass, staring intently at him.
“What is it, Julius?”
“Well, sir, you think harder than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
John let his clenched features relax and smiled. “You should have seen the lecturers at Plato’s Academy.”
A raven called from the top of a pine. Since he’d been thinking about philosophers he remembered the raven perched on the statue of the philosopher he’d seen in the square. And having just been pondering Felix’s list and the hidden valuables, it came to him what had been nibbling at the edges of his thoughts since then.
The key to the list.
Again John realized that while it was necessary to think hard, revelations often came only afte
r one was done thinking.
That night John and Julius overslept. When they woke, nearer to dawn than John had planned, they slipped away to the boat concealed in the reeds. Wading through the muck they freed it and pushed it toward open water. John feared deep water, and as the reeds thinned and the river rose past his ankles, past his knees to his waist, he felt his heart start to pound and decided they were sufficiently to the river’s main channel to get aboard.
It was a mistake.
There was a screech and the boat rocked as it grated against a rock.
Then they were free and being carried downriver in the current.
“My oar! I’ve lost my oar!” Julius stared over the stern. The water glimmered faintly in the light of the newly risen moon. John could make out the bobbing oar rapidly receding.
He looked down to see if there was another oar and realized the boat was leaking. The rock must have pierced the hull.
He cursed himself for allowing his fear to cloud his judgment. There was no enemy more deadly or treacherous than one’s own fear.
But knowing that didn’t stop the panic from rising in his chest faster than the water rising in the boat.
He and Julius leaned over the sides and paddled at the water with their hands, trying to direct the boat toward the shore.
In truth, Julius was doing more than John.
As John put his hands into the water he could see the moon reflected a hundred times in the ripples and he could sense, beneath the bejeweled surface, the darkness, deep as death, waiting to embrace him. “Mithra!”
Julius glanced at him, puzzled and alarmed, but kept paddling.
The boat sank lower and lower and finally ground to a stop on the river bottom, where the water was shallow enough to wade ashore.
White eddies of mist had begun to rise over the river as John and Julius emerged from under the bridge connecting Hadrian’s tomb to the city. A trio of armed guards met them. Fortunately for the bedraggled pair their leader was the grizzled veteran whom John had consulted on his previous visit.
