by Mary Reed
As they turned to leave, a glint from the bottom of the basin caught John’s attention. He descended the steps and picked up the object. It must have fallen from Menander’s garments.
A tiny glass portrait of an angel, similar to the icon in his room full of treasures.
“Menander has left a few of his hours behind,” John observed. “He doesn’t need them anymore. If you have a little time to spare, Anatolius, come up to my study.”
Peter had not lit the lamp on John’s desk so John did so. The bawdy gods on the wall mosaic took up where the ones in the bath mosaic had left off. As usual, as her maker had piously arranged, Zoe kept her dark eyes averted from the lewd activity around her, perpetually innocent.
“I visited to inquire about your health, John. Rumor has it you were almost killed.”
“By tomorrow rumor will have me dead. I’ve got a bit of a headache,” he replied.
“If you admit to so much as a headache, you’re far from well.”
“Please sit, Anatolius. You’ll no doubt want to hear about my investigations.”
John recounted his activities since they had last met at the seaside court where they had talked to Procopius. He spoke about his interviews with Troilus and the actress Petronia and how the latter had belatedly offered proof of Troilus’ innocence. He described retracing the route he felt Agnes must have taken from Petronia’s room to the square on the morning of her death, his visits with Opilio the sausage maker and the inebriated Menander. The attack on his person did not feature in his account.
It took a long time. Peter refilled the wine jug twice before John ordered him to bed.
“An untrustworthy bunch,” Anatolius remarked. “I doubt you’ve got the full story out of them even now. This Troilus seems to be in the middle of it all. Everyone you’ve interviewed seems to know him one way or another. Although it appears he couldn’t have committed the murder since I can’t see how a sundial maker could mistake the time. Do you suppose Helias could have been lying about when he saw Troilus dragging that sack in?”
“Helias doesn’t seem to be connected to this affair, except his shop is next to Troilus’ establishment.”
Anatolius grinned. “Well, he might have lied, given he’s caused trouble for Troilus before. At least according to Troilus. And what about the sausage maker?”
“Opilio was trying to protect his niece,” John pointed out.
“And Petronia was just trying to protect Troilus when she neglected to tell you he’d been to her room the morning Agnes was murdered.”
John’s lips tightened into a thin smile. “Unless they were both actually trying to protect themselves and still haven’t given me the full story. Or even the truth.”
“Rather like my clients. People invariably lie to their lawyers. Now there’s no way of telling what, if anything, Menander was still lying about. This Troilus seems a suspicious sort to me, given he just walked into your house the other day. Plus he was doing business with Menander. Was there a quarrel over money from the sales of Menander’s goods?”
“Perhaps.”
“What about that rumor that keeps cropping up, John? The one about Theodora’s alleged son?”
“I’m not sure what to make of that. Troilus was the first to bring it to my attention. I tried to question Menander about the story the last time I spoke to him but he wasn’t as forthcoming as Troilus. Then again, he was very intoxicated. Menander might have been killed by someone who didn’t want him speaking to me about this rumored son. On the other hand, he might have been killed before he could say anything about one of the other plots everyone talks about but nobody takes seriously.”
“Or he might have known something about Agnes or Troilus and had to be silenced.”
“That’s true.”
“But why go to the trouble to deposit Menander in your bath? Not to mention the danger of being discovered in the act.”
“It’s obvious, Anatolius. To link me to the plotters.”
“You think so? If there really were an intrigue and you were involved you would hardly leave a treacherous co-conspirator lying dead around your house. The sea tells no tales for a start.”
“It doesn’t have to make sense as long as it starts people thinking, particularly when their thoughts turn to subjects like treason,” John pointed out. “That’s when reason leaves the room.”
“By people you mean Justinian?”
John nodded. “More than one Lord Chamberlain has overreached himself. The higher the official the more plausible it is he may be working against the emperor. Don’t worry, it would take more than one body in my bath to turn Justinian against me. But I may have to watch my step.”
Anatolius frowned. “You think the murderer was warning you to give up your investigation? But what about the attack? What if that wasn’t a robbery the other night? What if whoever knocked you over the head was interrupted before he could finish the job?”
“It’s a possibility. My guess is that Menander and Agnes were both killed so they couldn’t reveal to me whatever it is they knew. In which case Petronia and Troilus, and Opilio for that matter, might also be in danger. Perhaps that is was why they all tried to avoid telling me anything useful. Perhaps they feared for their lives. You should warn Crinagoras to be careful. He visited Menander’s room with me. And you might be in danger yourself, Anatolius.”
“And don’t forget Cornelia and Peter.”
“I haven’t. I am beginning to feel as if I am carrying the plague.”
Anatolius took a sip of wine. “Do you think there’s something in this business about the empress having an illegitimate son?”
“Judging from how little people have to say about it and how emphatic they are that it means nothing when they are forced to confront the rumor, I would not be surprised.”
“I’ve always considered it as nothing more than a palace legend. The story’s been around forever. I would have thought if there was any substance to it, we would have known the truth of the matter long ago.”
“People don’t usually go searching for the truth about legends. I intend to look into it.”
“You can’t question Menander further.”
“No. But he advised me to ask Procopius, which is what I intend to do.”
John picked up Menander’s angel icon from his desk and turned the tiny artifact around in his hand. “Menander hoarded his time, but he should have been more concerned with his safety. Strange that he should end up in my house, surrounded by Figulus’ mosaics. The last time I saw him he broke one of those changeable mosaics and was lamenting how much time it had cost him. I wonder if he sensed how little he had left?”
“Menander owned a mosaic by Figulus?”
“Yes, about the size of a codex. It turned from a simple cross into something quite obscene, to judge from Crinagoras’ reaction.”
Anatolius looked thoughtful. Then a faint smile quirked his lips. “Now I understand the icon at Isis’ place!”
“Isis has an icon?”
“Indeed she has. It must have been one of Figulus’ works. Mithra only knows what that stern old mosaic holy man got up to in the evenings when the light shifted, particularly since Isis mentioned it probably wasn’t displayed in the best light.”
“Figulus apparently does a brisk trade in those mosaics. When I visited his workshop to see him it was clear from his wife’s reaction that she thought I was looking for one, and that such customers were not at all uncommon.”
“It must be a lucrative business. Isis said hers cost a fortune, and you know she’s not averse to spending lavishly on her decor. But didn’t you tell me Figulus is a pious man?”
“Cornelia says he has tried more than once to persuade her to allow him to fix the bath properly, as he put it, or in other words make the mosaic more proper.”
“Isis said he needed the money for a worthy project,” Anatolius mused. “I wonder what it was?”
“Me
nander told me the same thing. I wouldn’t have thought Figulus was in financial straits, busy as he seems to be.”
“People will accommodate Lord Chamberlains,” Anatolius pointed out. “But it does seem peculiar. Was it really a coincidence Menander owned one of those mosaics, and ended up murdered and left in your bath? Or that this whole affair is linked to the mosaic on the wall behind you? Could it be that Figulus isn’t raising money for himself?”
John nodded. “I had thought of the possibility. Could he be aiding the conspirators? Helping finance their plans?”
“Those who have lost their position at court tend to be short of money, given everything they used to own is usually in Justinian’s treasury.”
“On the other hand, they may have required another service from Figulus when they realized he had access to my house. Do you suppose it is too late an hour to speak to the mosaic maker again?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
John and Anatolius waited in Figulus’ workshop for a long time before the mosaic maker appeared. Light glittered off tesserae in the barrels against the wall, and struck sparks here and there on the dark floor where stray bits of glass had fallen.
“Lord Chamberlain! Is there anything wrong? Have my workmen caused some damage?”
The mosaic maker ran a hand over his eyes. Had he been asleep? He wore only a thin, unbelted tunic. The servant who had stayed with the unexpected callers stepped away into the shadows but did not leave.
John peered around. From the little he could make out, nothing looked different from his previous visit. He hadn’t expected to barge in on a band of conspirators. He would not have been shocked, however, to have found the mosaic maker dead.
“I was able to clean a considerable portion of the mosaic today, excellency. In particular I brought out some of the details in the depiction of the Olympian palace of Zeus. If that it is not to your taste—”
“How well do you know Menander?” John cut in.
“Menander? I can’t—”
“Don’t lie, Figulus. It is not advisable. You sold him one of your special pieces.”
“Special pieces?”
“Whatever it is you call those particularly lewd mosaics. I’m aware of that part of your business. My colleague tells me you sold one to Madam Isis.” John nodded toward Anatolius. “I wouldn’t have expected a religious man and a good family man to be dealing in such wares, and certainly not selling them to brothels.”
Figulus glanced around. “Please, excellency. If you could not speak so loudly. My boys…”
“What can you tell me about Menander?”
“He’s a customer. A big, white-haired fellow, isn’t he?”
“He used to hold a position at the palace.”
“Yes, I suppose so. There are a lot of people like that living in the area.”
“Do you do business with such people on a regular basis?”
“Lord Chamberlain, I cannot answer since I don’t question my customers about their background. I suppose some may have been at the palace at one time. Many still are.”
“Including one of your customers who was found dead in my bath after you and your workmen left today. Menander.”
Figulus blinked in bewilderment. The hand holding the lamp shook, and the flame guttered and hissed as oil splashed on it. “Dead?”
“Indeed. I believe the body was taken into my house concealed in one of the sacks or barrels in which you move your plaster and tesserae.”
Figulus protested, asking surely the Lord Chamberlain did not think him guilty of murder.
“I wouldn’t have imagined you were a purveyor of lewd pictures.”
“You don’t understand…I only sell them because…well…”
“To finance a worthy undertaking.”
“Yes…but how did you know?”
“You are in the habit of making apologies for yourself, Figulus. But what exactly is this worthy undertaking? Something a disenfranchised official, like Menander, might approve? An attack on the emperor, for instance?”
A look of terror crossed the mosaic maker’s face. “Nothing like that, Lord Chamberlain.”
“What then?”
“I’ll show you.” Figulus walked hurriedly to the barrels of tesserae against the wall. Setting his lamp down on one, he pushed two others aside without any sign of exertion. They must have been empty, the pieces of cut glass piled on a false top to give the impression they were full.
The action revealed an opening half the height of a man in the wall.
“Please, excellency, follow me.” Figulus ducked through the aperture.
“Be careful, John,” whispered Anatolius.
But the Lord Chamberlain was already following the mosaic maker.
He found himself in a cramped vault sided with crumbling concrete. Underfoot were broken bricks of the sort used to fill up the interiors of walls.
A ladder extended from an uneven hole in one corner. Figulus scrambled on to the ladder and vanished downward, obviously used to the procedure. John followed, cautiously, and Anatolius came after him.
Below, a gloomy chamber led to another, similarly bare.
Then they emerged at their destination.
John was not certain of the original use of the space, which was too narrow for a cistern or warehouse but too wide to be a corridor, with a curved roof perhaps three times a man’s height. It bore a resemblance to the huge corridors leading down into the storage areas beneath the Hippodrome. The far end of the place was lost in darkness.
Here and there scaffolds hid the walls. Nearby, where there was no scaffolding, John could see mosaics.
Even in the poor light of Figulus’ lamp, it was obvious that they were as finely wrought as those in the Great Church, and they would not have been out of place there. So far as he could tell they depicted scenes from the Christian’s holy book.
A garden which looked remarkably like parts of the grounds of the Great Palace, but even lusher—the foliage so thick as to practically conceal the two figures entirely, let alone expose any of their nudity—represented the paradise from which mankind had been expelled. There was a ship, not unlike the merchant vessels to be seen in city harbors any day, but far larger, to judge from the tiny size of the animals shown on board. A weird tower, reaching up into cut glass clouds, might have been the lighthouse visible from one window in John’s house, but as seen in a nightmare. The stars scattered across the curved vault overhead would have made it resemble the ceiling of a mithraeum, except for the hovering angels.
“You see, excellency,” explained Figulus, “tesserae are expensive. I could not afford this except for those evil pictures. It is a torment to me to make them. But I am not responsible for the lusts and sinfulness of other men and here their vices are transmuted into a tribute to God’s glory.”
“This is magnificent,” exclaimed Anatolius. “But no one can see it down here.”
“The Lord sees it,” Figulus replied. “That is enough, isn’t it?”
“You should be working in one of Justinian’s new churches or at the palace,” Anatolius told him.
“Alas, I do not have the proper connections to obtain imperial contracts even though many from the palace are well satisfied with the lesser projects I have undertaken for them personally.”
“Do you know the original purpose of this room?” John asked.
Figulus shook his head. “I discovered it shortly after I bought the workshop, which was badly in need of repairs. I explored the area carefully. This room appears to be completely sealed off on its own. I took it to be a gift from the Lord. It extends for a long distance. Before I leave this world I hope to have shown the whole of the events related in our sacred writings.”
It occurred to John that given the scope of his ambition, Figulus must be hoping for a very long life indeed.
Anatolius meantime had walked up and down, inspecting the walls. He paused for a time in front of a larg
e space where there seemed to be nothing on the wall but shadows.
Figulus bought his lamp to where Anatolius was standing. “I see you are admiring my best work, sir. This was the most difficult scene yet. I labored over it for years longer than the Lord labored over the real thing.”
“But there’s nothing here,” Anatolius replied.
John, moving closer, saw that the apparently blank wall was in fact covered with tesserae, but they appeared uniformly black.
“This is the beginning,” Figulus explained. “The darkness out of which was formed light and the world.” He began to move the lamp. As the light shifted the wall became alive.
It seemed to John that black shapes coalesced and evaporated. Vague, shadowy possibilities of men and animals and vegetation swirled and flowed across the glass. Dark smoke in a starless night.
Or perhaps it was nothing but shadows and John’s imagination.
“Mithra!” The admiring oath escaped before he realized it. He looked away from the wall, toward Figulus. If the mosaic maker had heard, he gave no indication.
Chapter Thirty-Three
When John returned home he could not sleep. Every time he began to nod off he dreamed about the strange, living darkness in Figulus’ wall and came fully awake with his heart pounding.
Words came back to him that he had heard once, during an official ceremony he could not recall, in a church he could not immediately place. Something moving upon the face of the deep. What did that mean? Had it been Figulus’ intent to capture that?
The face of the deep.
The very phrase made him shudder.
He needed to walk, to think.
He left the house without waking either Cornelia or Peter. He had learned to move in quiet fashion as a mercenary patrolling the empire’s border and had maintained the skill. He was naturally quiet in his movements. He startled people without meaning to do so by appearing at their elbow as if springing up from the underworld. However, he reminded himself, if palace residents feared the Lord Chamberlain might be with them before they knew it, that was to his advantage.