by Mary Reed
By now the carriage bearing Cornelia away would have passed through the Golden Gate at the southern end of the city on its way to Zeno’s seaside estate. He wondered how his daughter Europa was faring, if Peter would find an acceptable swordfish, then chastised himself for permitting his thoughts to wander. Cornelia would send news in due course, Peter would doubtless find what he sought, and meanwhile he must at least organize a plan of attack for his investigation.
He couldn’t very well investigate everyone at court who had nursed a grievance against the empress, let alone everyone in Constantinople.
Who had access to Theodora’s sickroom? Not many, so that might be the place to start. But what about those who had some connection with those who had been granted access? A servant, for example, might be working for anyone at court or in the city.
Time slid away as he sank into thought. He was sitting at his desk, still pondering, when a thunderous knocking brought him to his feet. He hurried downstairs. It was Peter, laden down with a swordfish and a basket of produce.
“Thank you, master. It is hardly proper for you to let me in. I was on the wrong side of the door to open it.” Peter said as he followed John upstairs.
John was about to reply when Peter gasped. Before John could turn to catch him, Peter fell backwards. He went crashing down the stairs, coming to rest surrounded by pears and several surprisingly intact pots of honey. A large cabbage had rolled into a corner of the atrium and the swordfish reclined next to Peter’s out flung arm.
Although he lay flat on his back with his legs stretched straight toward the door, the toe of his left boot pointed at the wall. The sickening angle made it obvious that, unlike the pots of honey, Peter’s left leg was broken.
Chapter Seven
“Get hold of his leg above the knee, John. When I tell you, pull as hard as you can.”
The speaker, Gaius, the palace physician, had helped John get Peter up to his third floor room. Peter was positioned with his left leg extending past the edge of the bed. John clasped his servant’s upper leg while Gaius grasped the ankle.
“Pull!”
The physician was a stout, bald man. His big forearms corded with effort. John leaned backwards as he pulled in the opposite direction.
Gaius’ rubicund face grew redder. With a grunt he twisted Peter’s leg until the grotesquely misplaced foot returned to its normal position. “I think we’ve got it. Let go.”
John thought he could hear bones snap back into place, but surely that was his imagination. He looked with concern at Peter, whose face was calm but as waxen as that of a corpse.
The servant smiled weakly. ““Don’t worry, master. For all I can feel, my leg might have been amputated.”
“You still have your leg,” Gaius said gruffly, positioning the splint under it. “The tibia and fibula were both broken right through, but cleanly and that’s fortunate for you. Help me with these bindings, John.”
“I am sorry for the trouble, master,” Peter said.
“You’ll be back on duty in a few months,” Gaius told him. “Your leg will be good as new.”
The servant sighed. “Can you make the rest of me new as well?”
***
Seated at John’s kitchen table, Gaius looked up from his cup. “I’m grateful for your assistance in helping me set Peter’s leg, but not for this terrible wine of yours. Not that I would ever refuse to drink it,” he added truthfully. The physician had spent so much of his life with his bulbous nose buried in cups it had taken on a wine-dark color. “You’ll have to tie Peter to his bed for several weeks.”
“That will be difficult,” John replied. “He’ll try to get up before you’re out of sight.”
“For now, the draught of poppy potion I gave him will make him sleep. He may not be as difficult as you anticipate. After you left us alone I frightened him into agreeing not to get out of bed until I give him permission.”
John asked how this remarkable feat had been accomplished.
“Oh, quite easily. I told him he would probably faint if he did and if we found him apparently dead on the floor I would have to establish if he was still living by extreme methods, such as thrashing his chest with nettles or pouring vinegar into his mouth. According to Peter, vinegar tastes no worse than your awful wine. So I went on to the possibility of onion juice squirted into the nose and horse-radish rubbed on the tongue. That got his attention. I didn’t have to mention any of the more stringent invasive tests. If the healing goes well, his leg should remain much the same length as it always has been. If not, it’ll be shorter than the other and he’ll limp.”
“He’s already does, but thinks nobody’s noticed.”
“It’s age gnawing at his joints. I’ll bring something for that tomorrow.”
John nodded. His own joints ached on damp mornings like this. “You’ve heard Justinian has ordered me to find out who poisoned Theodora?”
“Yes. Word gets around fast. I’m under suspicion, needless to say.” The physician drained his cup and reached for the jug. “I attended Theodora until the day before she died, and it was not an easy illness. That last week she was asking for more and more poppy potion and yet it hardly seemed to lessen the agony.”
“Could anyone have poisoned it?”
Gaius considered the question. “No. I make it myself from tears of poppy and it never left my hands between completion and delivery to the sickroom. I’ve served as palace physician long enough to know it’s the only way to avoid problems.”
“Do you think she was poisoned?”
“No. She was gravely ill. I saw no signs of poisoning. It would have been impossible. Who could have poisoned her? It’s not like anyone could walk in and invite her to have a drink or eat a honey cake. No, I’m certain it wasn’t that, despite what Justinian says. Though if the emperor says a thing is so, as far as we’re all concerned it is so.”
“He expects me to prove it.”
Gaius shook his head. “It was a wasting disease, John. There were all the characteristic signs as illness ran its course. Marked loss of weight, yellowing of the skin, increasing pain.”
He shook his head and took a gulp of wine. “The pain was unimaginable. Several times Justinian summoned me, begging me to give her something stronger. You could hear her screaming all the way to the end of the corridor. I tried to explain to him that there was a limit to the amount of painkiller I could administer and that it could only deaden the agony so far. He was frantic.”
“The emperor is used to having his own way.”
Gaius nodded. “By a week ago it was obvious she was not long for this world. At the very end the pain subsided, mercifully. The last time I attended her she was drowsy. Until I got close enough it was hard to tell if she was still alive, her breathing was so shallow. Her pulse was strong but slower than it should have been, her pupils contracted. She seemed rational, but kept falling asleep. Most likely she slipped into a coma during the night and never woke up. I’ve seen it before. I knew what the outcome would be from the beginning.”
“I take it no one would have considered the possibility of murder if she were a shopkeeper or a minor functionary?”
“Or even if her husband were rational.”
***
After Gaius departed John visited Peter, finding him half asleep in his whitewashed room. Sunlight poured through the window across floorboards polished by wear and touched the large wooden cross mounted on the wall above the bed.
“I have instructions from Gaius that you must remain in bed for some time.” John told him. “It would please me to know you will follow them. That being so, you are going to need help for a few weeks.”
“Yes, master,” Peter replied in a faint voice. “It was my own fault for not scraping the mud off the soles of my boots at the door. Slipped on the stairs, you see. Careless
.” He rubbed his forehead where a large bruise was beginning to swell. “What happened to the swordfish?”
“I rescued it and I shall grill it,” John replied. “I don’t know if you’ll feel like eating? Soup perhaps?”
The elderly servant looked horrified. “But master, it is not fitting for you to cook or wait on me!”
John pointed out he had cooked his own meals many times in his days as a mercenary and there was nobody else to care for Peter with Cornelia away.
“If I may suggest it, master, would it not be possible for Hypatia to return until I get back on my feet? If someone else must work at my brazier, well, admittedly she over-spices the food but after all, she is from Egypt. She is familiar with the household. We’ve known each other a long time, and she takes directions well.”
John concealed a smile. Peter had chosen the person he already had in mind, a young woman who had worked in the household in years past. Actually, not quite so young now, he reminded himself. In her mid-thirties. Since leaving John’s employ, she had been working in the imperial gardens. “An excellent choice, Peter. I’m certain it can be arranged.”
“Thank you, master,” Peter closed his eyes. “I hope she will not be too irritated with me for not cultivating her herb beds as well as I should. I am afraid our garden is not as beautiful as it was when she looked after it.”
“It will soon revive. Now you should worry about your own health. Try to rest.”
John went back to his study.
It did not occur to him that anyone might think it odd for a high official to be caring for a servant. Over the years Peter had become part of his family. He was certain Hypatia would agree to help.
If only his investigation could be resolved so easily.
Chapter Eight
John did his best to ponder the task Justinian had set before him but he was preoccupied with other matters. He ended up wandering the house, hoping he would not be summoned by the emperor, and looking in on the sleeping Peter.
Late in the afternoon he opened his eyes, realized he had fallen asleep at his desk, and went to the kitchen to prepare the swordfish Peter had purchased.
Though not as tasty as it would have been had Peter been able to cook, the meal was passable. Unlike many men in his position John knew how to clean and braise a fish. Peter could barely keep his eyes open. He dozed off after a few bites and several slurred compliments on John’s culinary skills.
When he was certain Peter was sleeping soundly John left the house to look for Hypatia in the palace gardens. Hours later, as sunset approached and golden-red light gilded the western sides of trees and bushes, he wondered if he had begun his search too late in the day. The gardens were extensive. They sloped down to the sea on terraces, a vast, bewildering array of vegetation—lawns, shrubbery, copses, meadows, beds of flowers and herbs—strewn with fountains, decorative buildings, covered walkways, benches, and statuary.
Had he been overly optimistic in expecting to find Hypatia tending to one of the larger flowerbeds now in full bloom? Another hour and it would be as dark as despair.
One more place to look and then he must return home. He passed under a low archway and entered an enclosed garden that had once contained a sunken pool. His then future son-in-law Thomas had stumbled into the pool while creeping around the grounds one night years earlier. Thomas had arrived in Constantinople claiming to be a knight from Bretania. John had been inclined to consider him a fraud. He would never have imagined the big barbaric redhead settling down to the life of an estate manager or fathering John’s grandchild. Thinking of Thomas made him think of Europa and Cornelia. He sighed. Waiting for news was like waiting to go into battle, except others were fighting it and he could only observe from a distance.
As John grew older he no longer saw places simply as they were, but also as they had been, as he had seen them through younger eyes, as settings for the events of his life.
The original ornamental pool and fountain were gone, replaced by graveled walkways radiating away from a circular plot in which clipped yews reproduced in miniature the landmarks of the city. A dark-leafed Great Church grew next to a recreated Hippodrome, while nearby the open Chalke Gate of the palace was just tall enough to admit a column of marching rabbits if such a squad had decided to trample through the box-edged beds edging the walkways.
White and purple-red poppies filled the beds, each mass of blooms growing round a yew in a pottery container. Each tree was trained into the shape of an animal. Some were familiar denizens of this world, others had stepped down through the centuries from mythological days to amaze and delight visitors. A bear, a horse, a centaur, a gryphon were among them. The reddish light crept in among the dark shapes, adding long shadows to the advancing twilight.
The garden had been another of Theodora’s whims.
Hypatia often worked here and John thought he might find her trimming stray twigs, bringing order to the green menagerie.
She was not there.
John began to walk around the perimeter of the enclosed garden, then stopped. He heard rustling in the foliage, yet saw no one.
He looked around.
There. Crouched behind a plane tree at the edge of the garden. A diminutive figure in green. A triangular, frightened face peeked around the trunk.
“Come here,” he ordered.
The girl advanced slowly, hands to mouth, shoulders hunched, as if expecting a beating. She stood hardly as high as John’s chest. He found himself looking what seemed a long way down at the top of her auburn hair.
“Excellency?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was just walking, excellency.”
John studied the girl. He recognized her. “Kuria.”
She looked at him in amazement. “You know my name?”
“Naturally. You are one of Theodora’s closest personal attendants. Have you seen the gardener Hypatia?”
Kuria shook her head and suddenly burst into tears. “Nobody has said a word to me since yesterday,” she sobbed. “Where am I to go now my mistress is dead?”
“A new post will be found for you,” John reassured her.
“Oh, but I think not,” she replied with a flash of venom that surprised him. “I did not want to work for the empress. She only ordered me to serve her because I was from the brothel. She rescued me, she said. She used me as an example of her good works. There will be no other post here for such as me.” She snuffled and wiped her pug nose with the back of her hand. “Begging your pardon for saying so, excellency.”
It was probably true, John thought. Theodora had taken delight in pointing out her efforts to reform such women, especially when she granted an audience to a representative of a patrician family, someone she could horrify with lurid details. The girl was right. No one at court would employ her. The girl’s grief for herself had overcome her caution, for otherwise she would not have dared to speak to an official in such a fashion.
John decided to abandon his search for Hypatia. Perhaps fate was prodding him to begin the task he had been delaying. In which case, Kuria might well know something useful.
The late empress’ attendant followed him obediently to a marble seat positioned to give a good view of the poppy garden.
Kuria confirmed she had attended the empress during her final days. He asked her about Theodora’s visitors at that time. Had anyone been to the sickroom frequently?
Kuria’s face bunched in concentration. “There was the fat physician, and an old churchman. They both visited every day. The emperor only left the room when they were there. Oh, excellency…” Her voice cracked and tears flowed afresh. “He was devoted to her. He insisted on feeding her himself, though she ate so little and rarely kept it down.”
The comment suggested a possibility. “Who brought the empress her meals?”
; “Her personal cook. When she took to her room he brought them to the door. One of us attendants took them in and Justinian would feed her, like I said.” Kuria dried her wet cheeks with the bright green sleeve of her tunic.
“You say she ate little?”
“Mostly broth.”
Poison and soup went well together, John thought. A natural pairing from a demon’s kitchen, as many knew to their cost. On the other hand, the imperial couple’s personal cooks answered with their lives if there was the slightest suggestion of tampering with their food. He remembered one occasion when Theodora had become ill after eating fish. The unhappy cook was roasted on his own brazier as a lesson to all.
Fish had not been served at the imperial table for some weeks afterwards.
The memory unsettled his stomach. He found himself tasting the swordfish he had consumed earlier. He swallowed hard.
Kuria continued to snuffle. Somewhere in the twilight a bird called but received no answer. As night fell the creatures sculpted from shrubbery solidified into dark menacing forms. Did the wings of the gryphon stir with life or was it only the effect of wind off the sea?
John wondered if the murderer could have paid Theodora’s cook enough to risk his life. It was highly unlikely. An imperial cook already lived a life of privilege and luxury in the inner sanctum of the empire. If caught, the consequences would be terrible to contemplate.
“Who else was permitted to visit the empress?” John asked.
“Nobody, really. The empress even refused to see Antonina, her closest friend. She didn’t want people to see how she was. All shrunken, her poor face like a skull. And she had times when the pains would grip her and she’d cry out. She didn’t want anyone seeing. I think it hurt the emperor even more than it hurt her. His face would turn a ghastly white. Not that I was there all the time, excellency.” The girl looked up at him. Her wide frightened eyes gleamed in the dying light.
“You couldn’t have been always on duty. But, as far as you know, only the physician and the clergyman—a spiritual advisor, I assume—were regularly admitted. You mentioned attendants. Who were the others?”