Seven for a Secret

by Mary Reed

  Soon he saw ahead the pallid light of the intersecting thoroughfare.

  Again the image of the dead women returned. Agnes. An actress he had never known. A woman of poor repute. Or was she Zoe, the girl on his wall, his confidant and silent member of his household? He could not separate the two, but neither could he force them to merge and take on a single identity.

  They were different shadows cast by the same person.

  There was a scuffling sound behind him.

  His heart jumped. He hardly had time to chastise himself for not being on guard against attack as he should have been when all thoughts ceased.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  John knew he was dreaming, even though he had never before dreamt of Zoe.

  “That is because I was never dead before,” she told him in an annoyed tone.

  They were walking along a path in the grounds of Plato’s Academy.

  John had not returned to the Academy since his youthful studies there. It looked much as he remembered, except that now ancient stone grave markers jutted up between the olive trees shading their way.

  “I have heard that the dead return in dreams,” John replied, “but I never believed it.”

  Zoe wore the same solemn expression she exhibited in the wall mosaic. “Look,” she pointed, “There is Justinian’s tomb.”

  It struck John as remarkable the emperor would have chosen to be buried so far from the capital and on the grounds of the pagan school he had ordered closed. “Is that what you came back to tell me, Zoe?”

  “Why would I want to grow up to be an actress?” she asked, ignoring his question. “I still live in our house, don’t I? I should not want to be a woman like her.”

  “We cannot always choose who we grow up to be,” John said. He found himself looking at the girl more closely. She smiled at him. “You are not Zoe!”

  “Of course I am.” As the girl spoke he saw that she was, indeed, composed of nothing but glass tesserae. “I will give you proof.”

  She lifted a hand to her face and plucked out a glossy eye.

  “No!” John tried to cry out but an impossible weight bore down on his chest, preventing him from forcing out the slightest sound. He reached toward the delicate hand which held out the shining fragment.

  He saw who she was now.

  Cornelia.

  “No!”

  His voice was suddenly shockingly loud as if he had burst up from deep water into light and air.

  He gripped a hand.

  Cornelia’s, holding a damp piece of cloth.

  Sunlight forced him to briefly close his eyes. When he opened them again he saw he was in his bedroom, lying on the bed.

  He remembered he had been sunk in thought while walking down a dark street.

  Cornelia squeezed his hand. “Thanks to the Goddess,” she said. There were dark circles around her eyes. “You’ve been unconscious since last night.”

  John realized his head throbbed with pain.

  “Felix and several of his excubitors brought you home after dark, long after I expected you back. I feared the worst.”

  “Felix?”

  “Didn’t you hear me, John?” Relief sharpened Cornelia’s voice. “When Felix arrived—”

  “I’m sorry. I wanted to finish…what I was doing.”

  Cornelia wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. “Never mind. He said it was just a bump.” She dabbed the damp cloth at a spot behind his ear, causing pain to lance through his head.

  “What happened? Why did Felix bring me back? How did he know where I was?”

  “Someone told him there was a dead courtier in the street. He wasn’t very clear about it. I think he must have been rousted out of a tavern. He reeked of wine. He said when he got to you the City Prefect’s men were already there.”

  “I wasn’t far from the Prefect’s offices in the law courts, the last I remember.”

  “As soon as he saw it was you, Felix took charge. He said you were fortunate some passerby spotted you or else you might have lain there all night.”

  Yet John had been assured that the area was not well traveled at night. He asked Cornelia who had made the report to the Prefect.

  “No one seems to know and I didn’t think to ask Felix under the circumstances. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

  John pushed himself into a sitting position. The movement made his head feel as if it would burst. His vision blurred.

  “Did anyone see who attacked me?”

  Cornelia shook her head. “Felix said it was a simple robbery. Your money was gone. But I think someone doesn’t want you looking into that woman’s death.”

  “Felix is right. It had to be robbery. If someone didn’t want me investigating that murder they would have killed me.”

  “Perhaps it was meant as a warning. Isn’t it just as I said? You can’t go about unguarded—”

  “There’d be no point in trying to frighten me, Cornelia. I could order others to investigate if I felt my life was in danger.”

  “Which is what you should have done, John. Why didn’t you go to Felix about it? He would surely have set some of his excubitors to work for you.”

  “This is a private matter. I want to keep it private.”

  “Is it?” Cornelia snapped. “What is this actress to us?”

  “I’ve known her for a long time, or so it seems. Don’t worry, this had nothing to do with Agnes. It was a common street crime.”

  “Oh, very common, I am certain. It’s common for high officials to stroll around the city in dark corners, all alone, just inviting someone to sneak up behind them and hit them over the head.”

  “Shopkeepers and laborers and clerks walk the streets by themselves,” John pointed out, suppressing a smile at Cornelia’s outburst, realizing her fiery outpouring masked concern for the man she loved. “Besides, I have the advantage of military training.”

  “Much good it did you!” Cornelia replied with a slight smile.

  John put a hand to the tender spot on his skull. It was badly swollen. When he touched it pain brought tears to his eyes.

  He noticed Peter standing in the doorway. There were two of him. Both frowned with disapproval. Both retreated into the hallway when John glared in their direction.

  John squeezed his eyes open and shut several times, trying to clear his vision. “If people could creep up behind my back without my realizing it, I would’ve been dead long ago,” he argued.

  “You’re not as young as you used to be, John.” Cornelia leaned over and kissed his forehead. “We have spent most of our lives apart. I would quite like for you to stay with me for a while. And don’t forget Europa. It’s time we went to visit her. She’s more important than a mosaic girl, or an actress, or whoever’s death it is you want to avenge, because I can see clearly that’s your intention.”

  “It is part of putting things in order, in the world, in my own mind. But I do think of our daughter.”

  “Not as much as you’ve lately been thinking about this Agnes.”

  John made no reply because she was right.

  He saw that Peter had returned to the doorway, looking alarmed. “Master, I told him that you—”

  A figure decked out in garish orange robes brushed past the servant.

  It was Francio.

  Before anyone would remonstrate, he yanked a cloth off the basket he carried, revealing a heap of coiled sausage links. “I heard about your accident, Lord Chamberlain. It’s all over the palace. I immediately thought how disappointed you would be if you were unable to come to my banquet so I have brought the banquet to you. Or rather the sausages at any rate. Lucanian sausages, no less. You can’t find them just anywhere. They’ll have you up and about in no time.”

  Cornelia thanked him without mentioning the household had recently dined on the same hearty fare.

  John threw off his cover and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The room whirled aroun
d. “Lucanian sausages? Where were they purchased, Francio?”

  “Where…?”

  “Was it from a man called Opilio?”

  Francio glanced around in confusion. “Opilio? It might have been. The name sounds familiar.”

  “Did he deliver them while Crinagoras was reciting his verse in your kitchen?”

  “I’m not certain. It’s possible. He made more than one visit to bring his wares. Now, John, make certain Peter cooks them well. Even eaten alone, they are perfection, and I am certain my guests—”

  “Mithra!” John burst out. “That’s where the sausage maker must have heard Zoe’s name. Apparently Opilio still hasn’t told me the whole story.” He stood up and staggered.

  “You’re not fit to go out,” Cornelia told him.

  “Master,” Peter cried, “let me fetch a physician.”

  “No need to consult a physician, John,” Francio said. “Try these delightful morsels. They’ll build up your strength in no time.”

  He thrust the basket toward Cornelia, who pushed it back sharply.

  Francio lost his grip and the basket fell to the floor. He stood blinking, looking distressed, chains of sausage looped at his boots. “I was only trying to make you feel better,” he said in a hurt tone.

  But John was already out the door, closely followed by Cornelia and Peter.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A crowd under the colonnade almost within sight of Opilio’s shop brought John to a halt. He paused and waited for the pavement to stop tilting under his boots before attempting to plunge ahead through the closely packed bodies.

  By the time his dizziness passed, Peter had managed to catch up again, not that the old servant would ever admit to finding it difficult to keep pace with John’s loping stride. “Are you feeling unwell, master?” he panted.

  John reassured him.

  Cornelia had been furious when John insisted he interview Opilio immediately. He’d practically been killed and hardly had he opened his eyes when he was off to let the ruffians finish the job, she declared, although at great length and much more colorfully. She had been only slightly mollified by the prospect of Peter going along to keep an eye on things since if fisticuffs developed he would be there to summon help.

  It was as well Peter had not heard her comment, as he would have been mortally offended.

  “Master,” Peter was saying, “it must be providence that brought us this way just now. Here is exactly what you need. One of Zachariah’s melons.”

  John looked in the direction Peter indicated, toward the front of the crowd. He realized he had been so intent on simply forcing himself along that he had hardly taken note of his surroundings. That was dangerous in Constantinople, but how else could he have missed seeing the man who was lying on his back on the ground, juggling melons with his bare feet?

  A young woman sold melons from a crate nearby. She caught sight of the Lord Chamberlain, whose height made him visible above most of the onlookers and whose expensive garments distinguished him from the others.

  “Are you in need of a cure, excellency? Who among us does not have something that needs attention?” she asked. “And who is to say that these melons are not as miraculous as the ones which healed Zachariah?”

  John glanced at the prone juggler, who was keeping three melons aloft. His legs worked frantically. The fist-sized melons barely touched the man’s filthy soles before they were sent back into the air.

  “The ones Zachariah juggles cost more,” the woman remarked. “They are even more efficacious.”

  “I would like to buy you a melon, master,” said Peter in an eager tone. “I’ve bought them before now, on my way to or from the market. They are always refreshing, and I hear their curative powers are undeniable.”

  “Certainly you’ve always had strength to return home from the market, however heavily laden,” John replied. “I will buy one for each of us, but not the sort that has been juggled, if you don’t mind. I shouldn’t have made you rush out to accompany me.”

  John moved through the knot of spectators and completed the transaction with the melon seller.

  “Look, all of you,” she said loudly. “If our wares are good enough for this fine gentleman from the palace, why should you hesitate to buy them?”

  The woman and the juggler looked well dressed for street performers. John imagined the juggler must be young also, though he had not managed a good look at his face, his muscular legs being more visibly presented.

  John moved away.

  “Do you want to wait for Zachariah’s homily, master?” Peter asked.

  “I think not. There is some urgency in talking to Opilio.” John took his blade from his belt, cut a melon in half and handed it to Peter, then sliced his own. It was sweet. Whether it possessed miraculous powers was not immediately evident. “Why does anyone suppose these melons have special virtues?”

  “Because they cured Zachariah,” Peter replied. “Or at least ones like them did.”

  “From what affliction did he suffer?”

  “He was born without the use of his legs. He grew up a helpless beggar, sitting in doorways. It’s true, for I passed by him many times, before the miracle.”

  John inquired if the miracle had involved a melon.

  Peter wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “It was a whole cart load of melons, master. It was early in the morning but Zachariah had already taken up a spot at the edge of the market where he had been eking out his living for some months. The place was filled with merchants and farmers. Many had come to know the poor crippled man who was not blessed as they were with the ability to labor long hours for his sustenance. A rickety old cart, too heavily laden no doubt, hit a rut as it passed where he lay against the wall. The axle snapped, the cart tipped, and an avalanche of melons came rushing directly at Zachariah.”

  John hefted the remains of the melon he had been eating. “I would hardly think even a cart load of these would pose much danger.” He tossed the rind into the gutter.

  Peter frowned. “But master, imagine the shock of seeing them all rolling at you if you were unable to escape. But that is when the miracle occurred. Without even thinking about it, Zachariah leapt up and raced to safety. He’d been healed. It’s true! There were many in the market who witnessed his cure.”

  “I see.” John recalled the story the mosaic maker Figulus had related concerning the spilled tesserae. “The streets of the city must be filled with miracles for those who can see them. I would never have thought produce a convenient means of divine intervention.”

  “The hand of the Lord is everywhere,” Peter replied. “You have perhaps heard about the glass manna?”

  John indicated he had not.

  “An amazing tale, master!” Peter beamed. “A starving beggar, searching near the palace walls for scraps to eat, came upon baskets full of the finest banquet fare. There was fish and bread and fruits in endless variety, or so he thought. Ah, but on closer inspection he discovered this food was like none he had ever seen before. It was made entirely of glass. The man immediately fell to his knees and gave thanks.”

  It must have been the fruit Michri had mentioned, John thought. He didn’t tell Peter it had been Theodora, and not the Lord, who was responsible for its appearance outside the palace. “And why did a starving man give thanks for baskets of glass food? Perhaps he was thankful he hadn’t bitten into it before he noticed what it was?”

  “But this food was beautifully made and highly unusual! He sold it off piece by piece to dealers in such things, and so the glass food filled his belly for far longer than the same amount of real food would have.”

  Peter might well have had many more miracles to relate, but they had arrived at Opilio’s shop and John left the old servant to stand guard beneath the wooden sausage.

  ***

  Opilio was rearranging baskets of links that sat on the floor in front of the counter.

  “You lied to me again.
” John said without preamble.

  Opilio raised his balding head in alarm. “Lord Chamberlain! How good to see you once more!” His expression gave lie to the words.

  “I seem to be meeting with you more often than with Justinian, Opilio. Unfortunately, it is because you persist in refusing to tell me the truth.”

  The stout sausage maker straightened up with a grunt. “I can’t imagine what you mean, excellency.”

  “You said you hadn’t seen Agnes for a long time after you banished her from your house. In fact, you saw your niece less than a month ago.”

  Opilio gaped at John. “But how…”

  “Because less than a month ago you made a delivery to a courtier named Francio.”

  “Yes. I’m helping to provision a large banquet.”

  “While you were in his kitchen you overheard a piece of gossip. It concerned a certain chamberlain.”

  Opilio rubbed the bristles on his chin. “Something about a chamberlain…a Lord Chamberlain…” His face sagged into a look of horror. “Not about you, excellency? You aren’t the Lord Chamberlain who…who…?”

  “Who what, Opilio? Who talks to the wall? This is the third time I’ve spoken to you. Your refusal to be truthful suggests I’m now talking to the wall in this shop. I will have some answers now.”

  “Please, we should speak in private.” Opilio gestured toward the archway behind the counter.

  The room beyond smelled of herbs and spices, of savory, rue, and coriander. Bundled leaves and lengths of stalks hung from its ceiling and walls. It was a short time before John became aware of another underlying odor—a repulsive stench which came from stained and scarred wooden tables laid out with an array of sharp-edged devices such as might be seen in a surgery or a torturer’s chamber, the skinned carcasses dangling from hooks, the iron pans brimming with offal. The work room opened on to a courtyard which contained fire pits and crude smoking sheds made of planks. A pair of plump pigs lay in a small pen.

  The large gold painted cross nailed to the back wall of the courtyard struck John as incongruous. If sheep and goats and pigs envisioned an afterlife they must believe themselves destined for a heaven quite different from this sausage manufactory.