Six for Gold

by Mary Reed

  John’s host had the leathery skin of a desert ascetic stretched over the plump body of one born to privilege. A helmet-like wig of traditional cut framed the headman’s face and thin lines of kohl drew attention to brown eyes, one clouded by that affliction Egyptians called a rising of water. However, the spotless white linen he wore might have been stolen from the back of an ancient Greek sculpture.

  To John, Melios appeared to be a man with his feet planted, unsteadily, in two cultures.

  “As you see, the emperor has sent me here to look into the matter of your sheep,” John said.

  “Why would the emperor be interested in my flock? It was declared and taxed accordingly last year. Is there an accounting problem, some difficulty of that kind?”

  “Nothing of that nature.” John wished the knot he had to untie was as mundane as correcting tax rolls. “What interests Justinian is the strange way they’ve died. It should be explained in my introduction.”

  Melios unrolled the scroll again and peered at it. “The writing is minuscule. I fear I do not see so well in this light. To think that my poor beasts, scratching out an existence almost beyond the very border of the empire, would be discussed in the Great Palace. They are such humble animals compared to the tigers and peacocks gracing the beautiful mosaics lining imperial corridors! I suppose I should not be surprised. There must be little that escapes Justinian’s attention.”

  “Where did these deaths occur?”

  “There was only one, excellency, but that was quite enough for me. Furthermore, it cut its own throat rather than decapitating itself, but these reports do gain in the telling and retelling, don’t they? In any event, the unfortunate animal killed itself in its pen.”

  “I wish to examine where it happened.”

  “Certainly. I’ll show you the gardens on the way.”

  John followed Melios outside and around the back of the house. Moonlight silvered the path.

  “My servants must labor ceaselessly to maintain these gardens,” Melios said. “As Horace put it, you may force out nature, yet she’ll insist on running back.”

  He indicated a curved planting of cornflowers. “I realize this garden is as dust compared to the palace grounds, but I flatter myself that here I have created an inferior mirror of the lush greenery which our exalted and blessed rulers traverse in the coolness of evening, despite the constant problems we face here in maintaining sufficient irrigation.”

  The identification of plants was a skill which eluded John, although he could see the array was well tended. “In Egypt water is wealth, and here it is obvious you have spent it wisely.”

  Melios smiled. The palms bordering their path gave way to shaggy trees with thick, gnarled trunks.

  “Sycamore figs,” explained Melios. “And those bushes with the big red blossoms are Paion’s flowers, named after the physician who used them to cure the gods of their wounds. You will know that, being a man of learning. I had them imported to protect my livestock, having heard they have that power. I regret to report the blooms do not glow in the dark as common gossip has it, although if they did we could set tubs of them indoors and save a great deal of the money spent on lamp oil.” He chuckled. “But then I am a Christian, so perhaps the plants refuse to work their pagan magick for me.”

  “I suspect you would enjoy talking to my gardener, Hypatia. She has a vast knowledge of herbs.”

  “Is that so? My head gardener is just the same. For example, see that bed of squill over there? He concocted a mixture from them for a persistent cough one of my house staff had last winter, and it cleared it up right away. He’s currently treating my rheumatic knees with the same useful plant, although so far all it’s done is make patches of my skin raw. Still, I shall persist. If it should become too painful, he can make poppy potions to alleviate my misery.”

  They came to an open area graced with a small pond, around which were scattered an assortment of outbuildings. A hobbled donkey lay near a stack of straw, not far from a long, low barn built of mud bricks. John noted light wavering from the building’s narrow windows, which were hardly a hand wide and set high in the walls.

  The barn was guarded by a man who wore no armor and was protected only by a loincloth. However, the spear he carried announced both his authority and intent.

  “That’s where the sheep are penned at night,” Melios said. “I keep all my livestock in this part of the estate.”

  He motioned the guard to slide back the barn door’s iron bolt. “The building is secured after nightfall and watched over until dawn.”

  Melios’ voice trailed off as he stepped into the barn and picked up the clay lamp sitting on a shelf beside the door.

  “I see you have taken every precaution to prevent unauthorized persons entering,” John said.

  Melios swung the lamp around. Its diffused light flowed across lines of low-walled pens filled with sheep. There were a few bleats of protest.

  He walked to the far end of the barn and tapped the wooden gate of a small enclosure. “This is where we found the animal that died, excellency.”

  John noted the pen was empty.

  “We don’t use it any longer,” Melios explained. “There is talk among the servants it is accursed. I have no opinion either way.”

  “I will need to examine this barn in daylight.”

  “Of course you are welcome to search any part of my estate or any of its buildings at any time you choose, excellency.”

  They returned to Melios’ house, a building whose walls featured foundations of red sandstone with the rest of the structure constructed of the omnipresent mud bricks.

  Melios showed John into the reception room. “I realize you will want to join your family in my guest house, but first, if you would not mind remaining a little longer…”

  He indicated a well-cushioned chair crouching low to the floor on carved lion paws. John accepted the seat and a cup of wine.

  “I regret the liquid essence of our dusty vines cannot match the wine you are accustomed to imbibe, excellency.” Melios poured himself a generous libation.

  “The wines of Egypt are my favorites, although I regret few appear to believe it,” John replied with a smile.

  Melios beamed, took a few hasty gulps, and adjusted his heavy wig with a pudgy hand.

  John glanced around. The room was sparsely furnished with a few stools and unpadded chairs. His was the only cushioned seating. Other than that, the room contained an alabaster chest and another with polished wooden panels. An unlit bronze, three-legged brazier stood in the corner, reminding him Egyptian nights could be surprisingly cold.

  The walls, by contrast, were crowded with frescoes depicting scenes in Alexandria and Constantinople.

  Melios saw the direction of his gaze. “You must go past the Great Church every day, excellency. You may be surprised to hear I have seen it myself. I once visited Constantinople, like my father before me. It is a wonderful city.”

  “When was this journey?”

  “A year or so ago, before the accursed plague struck. I had to travel there on business. Such a huge place! The noise! And the crowds! I’ve never seen so many people in one place at once. No, not even in Alexandria! It seemed to me there were enough people in the Hippodrome alone to fill all of Egypt.”

  Melios looked with obvious fondness at a misshapen representation of the Hippodrome, whose fresher appearance suggested it had been more recently painted than the rest of the fresco of Constantinople. “I’ll wager the sight of the Hippodrome in such an unexpected place must have brought back pleasant memories?”

  “Vivid memories at least,” John admitted.

  “I was even fortunate enough to see the imperial couple in a procession,” Melios went on. “What a marvelous sight! All those silks and jewels and the emperor so handsome and the empress exceedingly beautiful, although I must admit it was difficult to see them very well with the excubitors surrounding them, and all those palace officials and
courtiers hovering about like butterflies. I have penned many verses about that glorious day.”

  He leaned forward. “And even more surprising than that, I have met Justinian. Yes! Few can say that, eh, Lord Chamberlain? I was ushered into his august presence!”

  John nodded. “The emperor mentioned that meeting to me when I last had an audience with him.”

  Melios was thunderstruck. “He mentioned me?” He chuckled with delight. Then his expression became serious. “That explains how he knows about my misfortune. He has had his eye on this humble settlement ever since our meeting.”

  “That I cannot say, Melios. I know he is interested in learning how a sheep might kill itself while locked in a barn. You have no explanation?”

  “I think…” Melios began to speak, but stopped.

  For a heartbeat John was convinced he would be offered a hint or an indication of a way to a solution, but his host instead concluded: “…If I may say so, Lord Chamberlain, the animal cannot be brought back to life and so I believe the event is best forgotten as soon as possible.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  From somewhere above Francio’s dining room came a booming oath followed by the heavy thump of running feet. Alarmed, Anatolius looked up into the painted vines on the ceiling. A few flecks of paint floated down like tiny leaves.

  “That’s just Thomas chasing the intruder.” Francio plucked another poppy cake from the silver platter on the table. “Don’t get excited. The enemy is smaller than a mouse. It’s black-haired and moves fast. It got in from the garden. How it arrived in the garden in the first place I can’t say.”

  He brushed away crumbs which had become trapped in the elaborate tracery of stitching that decorated the front of his robe. “I’m certain Thomas can handle such an adversary, especially considering how deftly he’s dealt with all the pirates and thieves and murderous mercenaries who’ve had the misfortune to cross his path.”

  “He’s still entertaining you with his farfetched stories, I gather?”

  “Indeed he is. He’s as well traveled as Odysseus. I must admit, however, since our small visitor has been racing about for a day or two and he still hasn’t caught it, I’m not surprised the Holy Grail slipped through his fingers.”

  Anatolius grunted. “And what happens if Thomas catches the little intruder? Don’t tell me it’s bound for the cooking pot?”

  Francio wrinkled his nose. “What? Dine on something resembling a stunted rat’s cousin? Come now, my friend, what do you take me for? And yet, you have a point. Perhaps I should sample just the tiniest morsel, cooked to perfection with a delicious sauce, just to say I’d dined upon it, hmmm?”

  “Why don’t you keep a list of your culinary triumphs? You can engage an artist to add the poor creatures to the fresco on your dining room wall.”

  “What a splendid idea! Your creative genius is wasted on the law, Anatolius.”

  “I haven’t had much time to waste on the law or anything else the past couple of weeks.”

  Francio started to pick up another poppy cake, then put it down. “I can see from the cloud that just passed over your face you’re about to broach this murderous business again. Before you ask, no, Thomas hasn’t left the premises since he arrived nor has he remembered anything useful to you. Nothing suspicious has happened either.”

  “I see. Well, I’m also here for another reason. I’m looking for information. Do you happen to know the former court page Hektor?”

  Francio puckered his lips as if he’d bitten into a bad olive. “Yes, I know that odious little monster!”

  Anatolius described Hektor’s visit to John’s house.

  “Since Hektor’s regrettable accident—I say regrettable since it didn’t kill him—he at least now looks exactly what he is,” he went on. “Since he can’t make a living from his pretty face any longer, he’s making one from his and others’ souls.”

  “You may well be right, Anatolius. I’ve heard he’s been shuttling back and forth between the Patriarch and those heretics Theodora has lodging in the Hormisdas. It seems Hektor is trying to help find some common theological ground between them. What a task!”

  “What does Hektor know about theology? He was a court page. You might as well take religious advice from one of Madame Isis’ girls. It’s absurd!”

  Francio chuckled. “You’re a fine one to begrudge a man the right to change his profession! However, as I told you, I am well informed, and I gather the idea is he brings a fresh eye to the situation, one that’s untainted by years of blind faith. What’s more, he’s a man who was specially chosen by the Lord for the task, as evidenced by his miraculous salvation!”

  “I wouldn’t call it a miracle. He was mistaken for dead, but, unfortunately, wasn’t.”

  “If Theodora thinks it was a miracle, so do the rest of us. I understand she’s given him a corner to live in at the Hormisdas, and—”

  There was a crash, as if furniture had been knocked over at the far end of the house.

  “It sounds as if Thomas may be doing more damage to your house than your strange intruder,” Anatolius observed. “How do you find out all this interesting information?”

  “It’s quite simple. I’m fascinated by whatever it is people have to tell me. Genuine interest can loosen tongues better than wine.”

  “An interesting theory! Do you know anything about Senator Symacchus?”

  “Symacchus? You are more knowledgeable than you pretend, Anatolius.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re going to ask about his employing Hektor, are you not?”

  Anatolius shook his head. “I had no idea he had.”

  “Oh? Admittedly it was a few years ago. Hektor did some reading for the senator. They didn’t get along, needless to say, Symacchus being a devout man and Hektor being…well…what he was then and now claims not to be.”

  “Was there any communication between them more recently?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. Did you know the senator has been employed for a long time by Justinian to lecture Theodora’s tame heretics on orthodoxy?”

  “Strange, that a man like Symacchus would have engaged Hektor,” mused Anatolius.

  “Not really. Symacchus liked to employ court pages who’d become too old for their particular line of work. It was one of his charitable gestures.”

  “Yes, that’s right. That’s what his latest reader told me. But Hektor…?”

  Francio pondered for a time. “The senator’s only vice, if you’d call it that, was a weakness for classical literature. Especially Homer. He named all his servants after characters in the Iliad. How could he have resisted employing a boy whose name really was Hektor? Unfortunately, once you get to know our Hektor you realize how richly he deserves to be dragged around the walls of the city.”

  Anatolius let his gaze wander to the ceiling. The sounds of the pursuit upstairs had receded. Achilles had been the senator’s servant and Diomedes his reader. He should have made the literary connection immediately, he chided himself.

  “The senator’s reader told me Symacchus was connected with the Apion family through his late wife.”

  “Yes, he was. He made quite a show of the connection. He always seemed to have some guest or other from Egypt lodging in his house, even after his wife died.”

  There was an outburst of frenzied squeaks from overhead, followed by quick footsteps, first directly above and then on the stairs. A tiny black shape rolled across the dining room and out into the garden as if it ran on wheels rather than legs.

  A panting Thomas appeared in the doorway. “That cursed creature’s possessed by demons,” he gasped. “I’ll pursue it to the ends of the earth if I have to, but I’ll get it before too long, you’ll see.” He leaned against the door frame as he wheezed and gulped down air.

  “You’d better sit down and catch your breath,” Anatolius told him. “You’re going to need it. I’ve learned from no less a person than
that vile Hektor that an assassin has been sent after John. You’re going to Egypt to warn him.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Cornelia slipped out of the guest house shortly after dawn.

  Their temporary lodging was one of several mud brick dwellings in a tightly packed row near the edge of the estate. The facilities consisted of a reception room from which a narrow corridor led back to a pair of cramped bedrooms. At the end of the corridor a steep flight of wooden stairs led to a trapdoor opening on to a flat roof. The ceilings were low and the floors composed of packed dirt. The cooking and bathing facilities were behind the house, as was the custom.

  Though sparsely furnished, it was more comfortable than the tents and inns where she’d lodged with the troupe. To Cornelia, who had led a life of constant travel, home was whatever village or city she happened to find herself for a day or a week. She had discovered that the best way of learning about each new place was to explore the area and speak with anyone inclined to talk.

  Which is what she intended to do.

  She soon realized this might prove more difficult than she anticipated. The few women carrying baskets and several vendors setting out produce for sale eyed her warily. Could it be because she was so obviously not Egyptian, and furthermore apparently had nothing to do first thing in the morning except stroll around?

  Bees droned sleepily as she made her way along the path. She wondered if any were Apollo’s charges.

  She had left Melios’ estate by way of the gate near the guest house. Before long Mehenopolis itself came into view. It was not large, and its disorderly clusters of small houses straggled out to the boundaries of cultivated land.

  At the edge of the settlement she came to a tumbled pile of smoke-blackened rubble. Nearby, shaded by the ubiquitous palm trees, was a wide-mouthed well surrounded by a low parapet. A short spiral staircase clinging to the well’s inner wall led down to its dark pool of water.

  Next to the well a man in a rumpled, undyed robe sat half-asleep on a stone bench, waving his hand now and then to disperse insects buzzing around his head.