Ten for Dying (John the Lord Chamberlain Book 10)

by Mary Reed

  Germanus scanned the vast, smoky space. He could see Narses’ guards looking in his direction, no doubt meeting the gazes of his own bodyguard, exchanging silent challenges, sizing each other up. Which was why he had come here. To engage Narses, to put him on notice if he intended to work against him, in whatever way, for whatever reason, Germanus would push back hard.

  Germanus said, “You mean you hope to make Felix look like a traitorous criminal to blacken my reputation enough that Justinian won’t dare appoint me to replace Belisarius.”

  “So you admit it! Your ambition is to replace the heroic Belisarius!” Narses voice had grown shrill.

  Germanus smiled. “Yes, I admit what everyone in the city knows and what most desire, considering the shambles Belisarius has made in Italy.”

  “Granted, he has been a disappointment. But do you suppose you are the only candidate to replace him?”

  “Who else could?”

  “I could.”

  Germanus stared down at the dwarf-like figure in disbelief. “You? You’re old enough to be my great grandfather, if you were actually a man!”

  After the brief meeting had ended with nothing apparent accomplished and Germanus had returned to his home, he kept thinking in amazement about the twisted little eunuch’s ambition. He had pictured him as a vulture perched on a dead lion. Now he saw a vulture perched on the carcass of a once mighty general.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  A pale figure floated silently through the dark halls at the rear of Antonina’s mansion. Now it paused beside a closed door, listening, now it peered stealthily around a corner, now it eased a door open a crack to see the dim shape of the cook’s assistant sleeping on her cot within.

  Antonina’s servant Tychon, going about his nightly rounds, was certain he had heard a noise, something more than a rat in the walls or a cat prowling the gardens.

  He bent down where two corridors intersected. The dim light from the guttering oil lamp in a wall niche slanted across the floor, picking out what looked like scuff marks. Tychon ran a finger across them, detecting a hint of dust.

  Hadn’t the hallways been cleaned during the afternoon?

  He got to his feet and stood, a pallid apparition. In the nearby rooms the rest of the staff slept. He heard the cook’s muffled cough, the sonorous snoring of the pretty little cleaning girl.

  Nothing unusual.

  Perhaps he had been imagining things. Even after years of working for Antonina she still frightened him, witch that she was. He much preferred the house when she was away on expeditions with Belisarius. At least Karpos was gone. Wouldn’t Antonina have liked to know how her young man had been prowling the servants’ quarters looking for a girl more his age?

  It had created some problems for Tychon, but now that was all resolved, and Tychon knew how to keep his mouth shut.

  He went out into the garden. Is this where the mysterious sound had emanated? Had it been the rustle of bushes heard through open windows? There was no breeze to stir the vegetation. Shrubs, trees, and flower beds were clumps of deeper darkness in the night. Over the enclosure’s high walls the night sky shone with the faint, gray luminescence from the city. The smell of roses filled the humid air, stronger at night than in the daytime.

  There was nothing to see or hear. A few steps away the miniature marble pillars of Antonina’s workshop glimmered. Enough laboring, Tychon told himself, as he strode into the workshop.

  Sufficient light came through the doorway for him to pick his way through the familiar room. Although outwardly it had been designed to look like a Greek temple, inside it resembled a kitchen with a long brazier and heavy wooden tables. Bottles lining shelves gave off faint glitters, captive stars. The acrid stench of the last mixture Antonina had been brewing almost overpowered the dry scents of herbs tied in bundles hanging from the ceiling and a vague, incongruous odor of incense.

  Tychon knew the workshop well. Without needing to search for them, he could put his hand immediately on belladonna, equally prized for enhancing women’s eyes and disposing of enemies, or the walnut infusion favored by ladies of the court for treating blemishes of the skin. There were small pots of soothing emollients tinted and perfumed with rose petals, jars of comfrey leaves, a number of the forked roots Antonina called Circe’s plant, a jug of the elder bark purgative much disliked by the household servants, and a hundred other ingredients for nostrums and potions. He also knew where his mistress kept the excellent aged Italian wine she drank when the brazier filled the workshop with infernal heat.

  He retrieved a cup he kept hidden behind empty amphorae in the bottom of a cupboard and filled it from the enormous lidded earthen jug sitting beneath a tall, narrow window at the end of the room. He would never have dared drink from any unfamiliar container from the workshop, no matter how well cleaned. Seated on a stool he could just see through the window into a black tangle of rosebushes.

  He took a sip of wine. It was the sort meant for the lips of emperors. Not servants. Which was what appealed to Tychon more than the taste. To his palate it hinted at mold. The effects the wine had, on him at least, were no different than those of the near vinegar one could buy for a couple of copper coins at the lowest tavern. Did the aristocrats who imbibed such rare ambrosia as Antonina kept in stock experience some heightened form of inebriation in keeping with the cost? Tychon doubted it.

  He sat drinking contentedly. He deserved this bit of extra compensation, didn’t he? The difficult job he had been entrusted with had gone as planned. As far as he was concerned, it was over. He had been understandably on edge since that night, startled more than once by half-glimpsed shadows and stealthy noises such as he had been hearing earlier. Just deranged humors and imagination.

  Again he dipped his cup into the jug, took a gulp, and contemplatively smacked his lips. This was different than usual. Did he detect a hint of bitterness? Perhaps it had been a bad year, a less than stellar vintage. Had Antonina brought a new batch back from Italy with her? It had been a bad year for generals, why not for grapes also?

  Suddenly he was very tired. It was all catching up to him. More wine would help.

  The tangled rose bushes beyond the wind moved, as if in a breeze.

  Had the wind risen? There might be another storm on the way.

  The bushes writhed like a nest of entwined snakes.

  Was something hiding there?

  Tychon put his cup back behind the amphorae, turned, and banged hard into the edge of the nearest table. Strange. He knew the workshop like the back of his hand. Actually the back of his hand was trembling. He ran toward the door, stumbling, feeling as if he were inexplicably going down hill.

  He burst out into a nightmare landscape of looming grotesques. Shadows were swaying, crawling through the dark pool of night caught between the house and the garden walls. No, they were only trees and shrubs. For all their apparent movement they remained anchored to their spots. Except…

  One shadow darted away from the side wall of the workshop.

  Tychon gave chase.

  A street urchin who had managed to creep in, judging by its size.

  Yet the proportions seemed all wrong. And the loping gait was unlike that of a child.

  An ape, Tychon thought. It’s an ape!

  Sure enough, as the creature came to the garden’s perimeter it clambered up into a yew and then vanished over the top of the wall.

  Some part of Tychon’s mind begged him to pause and consider the likelihood of Antonina’s garden being invaded by an ape. But it pleaded to no avail with the irrationality that had taken hold. He was to the gate and out into the street before the guard could react. He raced along parallel to the wall. His mouth was filled with the weirdly bitter taste of the wine.

  There was the ape, blocking his path. staring straight at him.

  No, a short creature with a hideous face, a mouth moving
like that of a landed fish.

  “Demon! By the Goddess of the Frogs, I command you!” The monstrosity waved its arms.

  Demon. Yes, that’s what it was! “No,” Tychon cried. “I meant no harm!”

  The horror came hopping at him, reaching out with clawed hands. Now Tychon saw that every shadow in the street had come to life, waving phantom arms, slithering through the gutters. Was this the way an angry god dealt with malefactors?

  He screamed and ran.

  Reason, locked deep inside his panicked mind, pounded helplessly, unheard, at the door of its dungeon as he fled through the streets, alleyways, and squares pursued by a shape that was part Fury and part avenging angel.

  He burst into an open promenade overlooking the water. The last thing Tychon saw were city lights reflected in the water far below the sea wall.

  DAY SIX

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Peter lay stretched out on his sleeping mat, eyes closed, hands clasped peacefully on his chest. As if he sensed John looking at him, he opened his eyes. “Master? What is it?”

  “I didn’t mean to wake you, Peter. I wished to question you again, in case you recalled anything more.”

  Peter propped himself up on his elbows. “I tried, master, but my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  On the mat next to his, Hypatia stirred and sat up. She looked at John crossly, but addressed Peter. “Your recollection has nothing to do with age, Peter. Why would you remember every single thing you saw and did right before? You weren’t expecting to be thrown into the sea!”

  Peter looked in distress from John to Hypatia and back. “I’m sorry—”

  “Never mind, Peter. Hypatia is right. Go back to sleep. It’s barely dawn and you need to rest.”

  “Really, master. I’m all right. I can swim, you know. And thank the Lord, I also had the protection of Hypatia’s charm.” He lifted his arm to display the knotted bracelet around his wrist. “It was just the shock of it. When you’re standing there minding your own business and someone grabs the back of your—”

  “Yes, I understand.” John did not want to contemplate what it would be like to be grabbed from behind, hoisted over the rail, and dropped into the bottomless waters. Which is what had happened to Peter, as he had already told John.

  He had also told John several times that, no, he had not managed to see the culprit. All he had time to notice was the water rushing up at him.

  No, he couldn’t say who had been on deck when he emerged from the captain’s cabin. A few crew members no doubt. He had no reason to take note. He’d just wanted to get a breath of air while the pot on the brazier came to a boil.

  No, he hadn’t heard his attacker approach.

  The captain’s cabin had been empty when he arrived so he fanned the brazier’s embers to life and began cooking stew. He had had to search for a knife suitable for slicing onions. Cooking utensils were jumbled on the shelves with hammers and files and the like. Jars of olives were mixed up with jars of ointment. Much of what Peter needed was hidden under a stack of packages, pouches, and navigational charts. The disarray was shocking.

  John was amazed Peter seemed more upset by the disorder in his adopted kitchen than he was about his near encounter with Poseidon.

  He went on deck to search for the captain and found the plump, red-faced man at the stern where the huge, iron crosses of the anchors had been winched on board.

  “Are the repairs completed?”

  “Patched up well enough to reach the shore. Needs a new rudder, among other things. Hope you’re not in a big hurry.” There was a sneer in his voice.

  John wondered if he had been apprised of who the tall Greek and his party were and the reason for their journey.

  “I’m not concerned about that. Did you find anything out about who tried to murder my servant?”

  “Been a little busy as you might have noticed.”

  “Too busy to question your crew about attempted murder?”

  The captain screwed up his features and scratched a pink, bristly chin as if pondering the question. “Questioned my men. None of them seen anything. Merchant ship’s no place for an old relic like that one. Standing around, always in the way. Someone brushed past him, busy, concentrating on his job, and the old man loses his balance and over he goes. Or perhaps he had one of them falling spells as them that’s his advanced age often has and just imagines he was pushed. He wouldn’t be much of a loss, if you ask me.”

  “You like his honey cakes well enough. You and your traveling companion.”

  “I’d miss those cakes, certainly. As for the passenger you’re talking about, you won’t get nothing out of me. It’s no one’s business who takes ship on the Leviathan. All I want to know about my passengers is they put the proper number of coins into my hand. I don’t know who they are. And even if I do know, I don’t know. And now, if you don’t want us to drift back onto them rocks…” He turned and waddled off, barking instructions at the crew.

  Before long the sails billowed and the Leviathan began to move with much groaning of timbers, like an old man trying to get out of a chair.

  John had spent hours after Peter’s rescue interrogating the crew without the slightest result. Even when he expressed his gratitude and offered them coins as a reward, they remained suspicious and close-mouthed. Not surprisingly. On board the only person they needed to fear was the captain and it seemed clear to John he had ordered them to remain silent.

  He talked to the other passengers.

  The farmers, as John supposed they were, spent most of their time below deck, sitting in the shadows, sullenly throwing knucklebones. Both apparently lost with every throw, to judge from their sour expressions. It strengthened John’s impression they had traveled to Constantinople to petition the emperor on a matter involving land or taxes, and had not been satisfied with the answer.

  “We might’ve heard a yell, then feet stamping around overhead,” one of the farmers admitted. “But after staying two weeks in that inn behind the Hippodrome we were so used to hearing fights in the alley under our window we thought nothing of the noise.”

  Cornelia, Peter, and Hypatia had been intent on making charms. None of them could say whether the farmers had, truly, both been occupying their usual dark spot at the time. The pilgrim and her companion claimed they had been on deck and had heard and seen nothing.

  “You were nearer than I was to where Peter went overboard,” John had noted.

  “But we were on the opposite side of the cabin, contemplating the sunrise. As it says in the Scriptures, the sun emerges to run its course with joy.”

  “That would be the eastern side of the ship, where Peter went overboard.”

  “Don’t you remember, Egina?” the companion put in. “The sun was well up by then and we had moved around to the other side to see if it was clear enough for us to glimpse the shore.”

  “Oh, that’s right. She is correct, sir. I had forgotten that. All this excitement has been too much for me.”

  As for the nameless passenger, he haughtily informed John that although it was none of his business, he had been making a round of the ship but had seen nothing. “Consider with whom you are dealing. The boys who crew this ship are nothing but the lowest of ruffians. One saw that old scarecrow leaning out over the rail and thought it would be a good joke to introduce him to the fishes. Boys like that don’t think past their impulses.”

  The speaker was nothing but a boy himself, John noted, though he certainly did not give evidence of being prone to impulses. At least not the impulse to talk out of turn.

  “I don’t like that young man, whoever he is,” John told Cornelia when he found her standing in the prow, contemplating the sparkling wavelets rippling past the moving hull. “Not that he would have any reason to drown Peter. This journey must be very hard on Peter, although he will never complain.
The sun beats down so strongly, exhausted, coming out of that dim cabin into the sun, he might have become dizzy—”

  “You know that’s not the case.”

  John shrugged. “No one on this ship has any reason to hurt Peter.”

  Cornelia looked in the direction of the as yet invisible coast. “Did you consider whoever did it wanted to hurt you?”

  “Hurt me? Are you imagining an assassin again? Surely he would target me, not Peter?”

  “But only after you have watched your family pay, murdered one by one, for whatever your crimes are supposed to be.”

  “But…who could be that full of hatred? Except one person we both know is lying dead in a mausoleum at the Church of the Holy Apostles.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  “A team of laborers unloading a grain ship say they heard Tychon yelling about demons. His screams carried all the way down to the docks. When they looked up they saw him come flying over the sea wall. Not that he flew far. It took a while for someone to get up on the roof of the warehouse, but judging from the shape Tychon was in he must have died the instant he hit it. Antonina is extremely upset.”

  Anastasia let her silk tunic drop onto the tiles beside the bath and stepped down into the water to sit beside Felix, Aphrodite, descending into the sea. Looking at her made Felix ache in a way that almost drove the ache of his injuries out of his mind. Almost.

  “Why should Antonina be upset? You told me she’d drugged the wine to teach the thief a lesson. So she not only did that, she also executed him.” Felix leaned back against the rim of the basin and watched tendrils of steam climb up toward the round patch of sky visible through the aperture overhead. He had ordered the water be made much hotter than usual. Anastasia’s skin had already turned rosy.

  “She didn’t want anyone to die! The potion is supposed to cause visions. She meant to give the culprit an unpleasant experience. She suspected Tychon. An unruly sort. Ran with one of the racing factions at one time, she claims. Capable servants are difficult to replace.” Anastasia shifted, pressing her hip against his.