Six for Gold

by Mary Reed

  Anatolius suddenly felt queasy. He couldn’t help wondering whether Francio, the universal gourmet, might not have taken the opportunity to sample the flesh of a Hippodrome champion.

  “More than one person has remarked to me that fewer people seem to be dying,” he replied. “The emperor and empress have returned to the palace, as you know well enough. Would they put themselves in danger if it were not true?”

  “Fewer people are dying because there’s hardly anyone left to die,” Felix pointed out.

  It was possibly true, Anatolius thought uneasily. The plague seemed determined to linger until Constantinople was deserted.

  “Felix, I know there is no official investigation, but have you found anything out about the murder of Senator Symacchus? Anything to free John of suspicion?”

  Felix tugged at his beard. “No. Not a thing. What could there be? John was there when we arrived. I saw him myself. He was standing over the body.”

  “But he denied killing the senator.”

  “He didn’t deny it when we arrived at the Hippodrome. Took one look at us and ran. It’s not like John at all. What in Mithra’s name does it all mean? That’s what I want to know. It’s a puzzle. A puzzling puzzle.”

  Felix attempted to pick up his partly filled cup and knocked it over. The proprietor lumbered over with a rag almost before the rosy stream hit the straw on the floor. Anatolius’ glare forced him away again.

  “And why did you happen to be at the Hippodrome with so many men at that specific time, Felix?”

  “I’ve explained already.”

  “You haven’t.”

  “I haven’t?” Felix frowned. He looked genuinely perplexed. “But why was that?”

  “Felix, I can’t tell you why you didn’t tell me. Just tell me now, would you? Why were you there?”

  “A fellow came and told me,” Felix explained. “Said a senator was being murdered in the Hippodrome.”

  “A fellow?”

  “A man. A stranger. Came into my office. And he was right. I raced over with my men, but Symacchus was already dead.”

  “Wasn’t that a bit unusual?”

  “I wouldn’t say so. Once the cord was around his neck he didn’t have a chance.”

  “I meant wasn’t it unusual for someone to go to your office to report an impending murder? Most people would rush to the nearest barracks, don’t you think? Or stop a guard on the street?”

  “Perhaps he worked at the palace and naturally thought of the excubitors first?”

  Anatolius nodded eagerly. “Good! Now we’re on the track of something useful. What makes you say that? Think? Was it the way he dressed? Was the face familiar because you’d passed by him in a hallway or seen him on the palace grounds?”

  Felix shook his big head like a petulant child. “I can’t say how he was dressed. What do you take me for, one of Theodora’s ladies-in-waiting? An expert on sartorial elegance? Yet sometimes I wonder at that, considering the type of tasks Justinian orders me to carry out.”

  Anatolius stood. It was obvious he wouldn’t get anything useful out of Felix in his current state. His immediate problem now was seeing the captain home in one piece. “Come on, Felix.”

  The dim room darkened further. He noticed the proprietor had blocked the doorway with his considerable girth. He flipped him a coin and the man moved aside.

  Felix remained seated. “You go ahead. I need another cup of wine. Or two. Or even more.”

  Anatolius sighed. Trying to shift the big excubitor from his chair would be like trying to move a boulder with a twig.

  “Here’s something you’ll like, Felix,” he said with a grin. “I’ll wager you can’t get from here to your house without falling into the gutter.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “The next thing I knew I was lying in the alley and…” Peter’s voice cracked as he forced the words out. “…The last few coins were gone, master.”

  The servant hid his anguished face in his hands.

  Peter, Cornelia, and John sat in a wide doorway on a street not far from the hostelry where they had spent the night.

  The sun had passed its zenith, but heat still lay honey-like upon Alexandria. The city seemed quiet, John thought. Had they already become accustomed to its raucous patchwork of sounds—the rattle of carts, the cries of hawkers, the screams of dusty children who wore amulet necklaces and little else?

  John looked at Peter appraisingly. “You’re not hurt?”

  Peter picked a flat, oval seed from his scanty hair and tossed it into a rut nearby. “Fortunately I fell into a heap of rotten melons.”

  A brown bird dropped from nowhere and flew off with the discarded seed.

  “It was better than I deserved for my carelessness,” Peter went on. “I don’t think the thief meant to harm me, and he left my satchel. Except…” His voice trailed off again.

  “Never mind, Peter. It was an excellent idea to bring silks to sell. Let’s see them,” Cornelia told him.

  With obvious reluctance Peter pulled the satchel open.

  The shriveled head of a mummified cat glowered out.

  “The thief took them, mistress, and left this as payment. I was going to throw the nasty thing away, but somehow the way it seemed to look at me…”

  Cornelia chuckled. “It’s adorable, Peter. I won’t let you abandon the poor thing. What should I call him? How about Cheops?”

  “It’s clear who’s responsible,” John said. “Show me this emporium, Peter. I will resolve the matter with Pedibastet quickly enough.”

  John began to stand. Cornelia placed a hand on his arm. “This isn’t Constantinople, John. You have no authority here.”

  “I’m certain I can do a good enough impersonation of a high official to frighten Pedibastet into returning Peter’s coins!”

  “Dressed in those rags?”

  John looked down at his threadbare, stained tunic. “You’re right. It’s a pity I don’t have one of my ceremonial robes.”

  “If you did, we could sell it for more than enough for our boat fare to Mehenopolis,” Cornelia said.

  The trio fell silent for a time.

  “But master, why would the emperor order you to a place on imperial business with no means of getting there?” Peter finally asked.

  “A good question,” John replied with a thin smile. He did not care to mention that Theodora was responsible for their lack of funds. The change in arrangements ordered by Justinian worried him. It would worry Peter and Cornelia even more.

  Cornelia soon spoke sharply. “It seems to me Justinian does not care how you arrive at Mehenopolis. In fact, it’s entirely possible he didn’t want you to arrive at all.”

  It was true. Theodora’s interference in John’s exile had been peculiar. Was it possible she had acted with Justinian’s blessing?

  John put the thought out of his mind. “More importantly, at this point we have to find our fare to get to Mehenopolis. They always need workers to load wheat on the docks. I can do that.”

  “Master!” Peter burst out. “The Lord Chamberlain should not be carrying sacks about like a common laborer! I would be—”

  “By the Goddess!” Cornelia interrupted. “John, don’t you remember how we earned our keep the last time we were in this land?”

  “I haven’t forgotten. You were part of a bull-leaping act and I helped guard the troupe.”

  “Not just bull-leaping. Remember there was also a magician called Baba? An engaging rogue, but always a crowd pleaser.”

  “We don’t have a magician with us, mistress,” Peter timidly pointed out.

  “Baba taught some of his knowledge to the other performers,” Cornelia replied. “He said a magick trick is like a coin in the hand. You’d never go hungry with something of the kind to entertain and astonish people. I could teach you and Peter one or two of them.”

  Peter looked alarmed. “My apologies, mistress, but I am not certain such an act
would be a Christian thing for me to do.”

  “We don’t have time to learn magick,” John added.

  “That’s so,” Cornelia admitted. “What about a bit of play-acting? We sometimes did that, you’ll recall, and you could easily—”

  John raised his hand imperiously. “Cornelia, I’m not a performer.”

  “How can you say that? You take part in all those elaborate processionals to the Great Church and the Hippodrome and other such tedious ceremonies without looking bored. Of course you can act!”

  ***

  “I am Empress Theodora, and I demand you fetch the Lord Chamberlain immediately! There is an extremely delicate problem of great urgency that requires his immediate attention!”

  The visibly trembling old man thus addressed bowed obsequiously and scuttled off.

  The imperial speaker peered up toward the tip of the obelisk beside which she stood, and slowly stroked the monument’s warm sandstone. “I’m glad to see Egypt, and it seems Egypt is glad to see me.”

  A few onlookers guffawed. Cornelia adjusted her crown, which John had cut from a dried melon rind. Although she spoke Coptic nearly as fluently as John, she had chosen to speak in Greek, realizing that in this part of Alexandria, so near to the docks, most passersby would speak that language.

  “Now that I’ve traveled all the way from Constantinople,” she continued, “what would my loyal subjects like to hear about? My charitable works on behalf of former prostitutes? Or would you prefer I relate my theological discussions with the Patriarch?”

  “Tell us about the chickens and the grain,” someone yelled.

  Peter, playing the empress’ aged servant, had returned and now held his hand up to the side of his mouth and addressed the growing audience in a loud whisper. “Don’t insult the empress by mentioning her past indiscretions! She’s a good Christian now, you know.”

  Then, his orthodoxy offended by the line he had spoken, he added, “Even if she does believe the monophysite heresy that Christ has not two natures, but only one, and that fully divine.”

  “We all agree with the empress here, old man,” retorted one of the now considerably larger crowd.

  “And knowing Theodora, if He really had two natures she’d bed them both,” offered another.

  A flurry of other remarks followed.

  “How many bishops has she got hidden in the Hormisdas Palace now?”

  “At least she claims they’re bishops…”

  “I wonder what kind of services they offer her?”

  Peter covered his ears in horror.

  The shouted demand came again. “Tell us about the chickens and the grain, empress!”

  Cornelia stamped her foot. “It’s always that wretched matter! Do you really believe that in my youth I would strip off my garments, lie on the ground, and allow chickens to peck grain from my private parts? I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  Peter stood silently by, until he noticed Cornelia glaring at him. “Ah…” he muttered, “…er…Highness, I just heard the chickens…ah…talking.”

  “Talking chickens?” Cornelia clapped her hands. “This is truly a miracle! And what did these remarkable fowl say?”

  “Dinner’s on the empress!”

  This brought forth coarse laughs and applause.

  “Highness, here is the Lord Chamberlain!”

  The crowd began to titter as a tall, thin figure in a tattered tunic approached with obvious reluctance from behind the obelisk.

  A few wits continued to add their comments to the performance.

  “If that’s a Lord Chamberlain I’m a pharaoh.”

  “What cave did you drag him out of?”

  “In Constantinople they starve their Lord Chamberlains and dress them in rags, didn’t you know?”

  “What is this most urgent problem, highness?” asked John.

  “A most intimate matter, Lord Chamberlain. It concerns the emperor’s heir. I wish you to arrange for the child to be presented to the court with appropriate ceremony.”

  “Heir? But surely everyone knows there can be no heir?”

  Cornelia gave John an exaggerated scowl. “I do not understand your meaning. Make yourself clearer immediately.”

  “Highness, everyone knows the emperor is not a man, but a faceless demon and therefore incapable of siring children in the usual fashion.”

  “True,” Cornelia purred, giving the obelisk a tickle, “but I am an unusual woman. Servant, bring the imperial infant here at once.”

  Peter bowed and presented his satchel to Cornelia. She pulled out a diminutive figure wrapped in what might have been swaddling clothes, but when she held it aloft the withered, whiskered face of Cheops the mummified cat glared reproachfully at the audience.

  The first coins landed beside John’s boots.

  Chapter Twelve

  Anatolius stopped halfway up the steep incline. He bent over and stood, staring down at his boots and catching his breath. His destination, the house of Senator Symacchus, sat atop the ridge overlooking the Golden Horn. It was all but invisible from below, hidden by apartment buildings, warehouses, workshops, and bakeries piled in a jumble of brick and mortar along the hillside.

  After his heart stopped pounding, Anatolius took a deep inhalation and continued the climb. He cut from one precipitous street to another, navigating by the only part of the senator’s dwelling he could see—the monumental rooftop cross that towered above everything else.

  Except for this ostentatious declaration of religious belief, the late senator’s home turned out to be as modest as many of its neighbors. The unremarkable brick facade offered no clue to the high status of its departed owner.

  At Anatolius’ rap, the sturdy door opened a crack.

  “Can I help you, sir?” A wan face peeped out.

  “I’ve come from the palace on a matter of business.”

  There was movement behind the narrow gap, a chain rattled, and the door swung open. “If you have an appointment with the senator, I fear he will not be able to see you.” The deep voice didn’t match the young man’s slight frame.

  “I’m aware of your master’s tragic passing. I’m investigating the matter.”

  The young man gestured Anatolius into a long, dim vestibule and shut the door. “From the palace, sir? For a heartbeat I was afraid…but never mind. One has to be very careful these days, and of course with the senator so recently departed…”

  The servant’s boyish face was exceptionally pale and framed by long fair curls. He looked familiar but Anatolius couldn’t recall any previous meeting.

  “I will be reporting to the captain of the excubitors,” Anatolius said, truthfully. “I wish to ask the servants a few questions, in case they can shed light on this recent tragedy. And you are…?”

  “My name is Diomedes. As to whether I can help, I will try, but I was merely the senator’s reader.”

  Diomedes led the way into the atrium. The spotless black and white floor echoed similar tiles lining the ornamental pool gracing the airy space. A cross hung on a whitewashed wall, while an alabaster statuette of a crocodile displayed on a pedestal looked strangely at odds with the general impression of stark Christianity.

  Light spilled down from the compluvium and through the open entrance to an inner garden, visible beyond an austere office.

  The light accentuated the heavy powder on the young man’s face. Anatolius now remembered where he’d seen the servant before. It was in the halls of the Great Palace a few years earlier, among the band of similarly made-up and ubiquitous court pages.

  Now, however, Diomedes was too old to serve as a decorative object.

  “First, I wish to talk to the senator’s head servant,” Anatolius said.

  “Achilles? I fear he is not here.”

  A faint smell of herbs and flowers filtered into the atrium.

  “Then we shall talk in the garden.”

  Anatolius selected a be
nch shaded by a stunted fig tree. The location had the benefit of keeping their conversation private as well as allowing it to be conducted out of sight of most of the crosses sprouting from flower beds set around the edge of the green, quiet space.

  He indicated they should both sit. “My understanding is that the senator lived alone, apart from his servants?”

  Diomedes confirmed this had been the case. “His wife died many years ago. She was Egyptian, and distantly related to the Apions. You may have noticed the household still reflects her influence.”

  He directed Anatolius’ attention to a statue of the jackal-headed god Anubis which squatted in a patch of herbs.

  “That explains the crocodile in the atrium,” Anatolius observed. “And so the senator had connections by his marriage to a very influential family?”

  “Indeed, sir. The master also had extensive holdings here and in Egypt.”

  “In view of his death, presumably you will be looking for other employment and lodgings?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t think so! The senator had no children, but he had an estranged brother, not to mention a half-brother, and a number of more distant relatives. More than a few of them live in Egypt, and doubtless they’ll all journey to Constantinople to pay their respects now that he’s gone. The Quaestor’s office is overseeing the estate until everything is straightened out. They’re moving as fast as the law allows. Since the senator’s family will be staying here while they visit, and many visits may be necessary, I might well grow gray here.”

  He brushed a stray curl out of his face. “Not that I care to go gray.”

  “What was it you read for the senator? Religious works? I understand he was widely known as a devout man.”

  “He was of the opinion it was one’s duty to read the scriptures oneself, sir. To commune directly with the Word, as he described it. No, I read the classics for him. He loved Homer especially, and especially the way I read it. He used to say my voice could bring the dead back to life. If only it were true…”