Five for Silver: A John, the Lord Chamberlain Mystery (22 page)

He looked up, wiping streaming eyes, as a sudden draft made the lamp flicker.

The study door stood ajar.

John had gone.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

In a cellar hidden at the end of a labyrinth of underground storerooms situated in a remote part of the palace grounds, flickering torchlight gave intermittent life to the sacred scene gracing the wall behind the altar of a mithraeum.

John looked up at it. The familiar depiction of Mithra, Lord of Light, slaying the sacred bull had always been a comfort in times of darkness, but now it merely served to remind him that death was everywhere and none were safe.

He bowed his head, wordlessly pleading again with his god for some revelation, some explanation, of why Cornelia had been taken while he was left behind. He felt numb, as if he had imbibed a poppy potion. Cornelia’s loss was a deep pain felt to the bone and yet seemed far away, shrouded in mist, and hidden from view.

Tears welled as he offered a despairing prayer to Mithra.

“Lord of Light, I have always served you faithfully. I ask no intervention for my sake, but for Cornelia’s, grant I will find her so I can perform the proper rites…” His petition trailed off incoherently.

Staring up at the bas relief he sought a sign, any sign, that his plea would be granted.

The carved figures remained obdurate, unchanged, and silent.

***

“I’m certain they were the travelers you seek. How could anyone forget a trio like that?”

The innkeeper, who introduced himself as Stephanos, stood a pace or two from the doorway of his hostelry, which is to say in the road itself. Very short and very broad of build, his hair, face, and clothing were the same gray as the dust-coated facade of his dilapidated building.

“They put on several performances in the courtyard. Quite comical, they were too, although I will say the red-haired fellow didn’t look very comfortable playing the part of the bull.”

“You have paid their fee?”

“Of course!”

“And the older woman who stayed behind?”

“She’s not here, excellency. Where she went, I cannot tell you.”

An ox-cart piled with household goods rumbled along the road. The hunched driver stared straight ahead over the fly-speckled back of his ox, not acknowledging the two men in front of the inn. As the cart passed John could see blackened swellings on the driver’s arms.

A fog of dust billowed from beneath the cart wheels. John tasted grit.

“I have a small bath-house,” Stephanos offered. “I’ll have my servant stable your horse, if you wish to stop to rest or refresh yourself.”

John shook his head. If he rested, he would never rise. Thanking Stephanos, he remounted and continued.

There wasn’t a muscle in his body that didn’t ache from the long ride. He could feel every rut in the road as clearly as if he had been trudging barefoot along it.

The realization came to him that he had not dared to rest in all the years since he had arrived in Constantinople. Part of him longed for death. Another part, the part who was a follower of Mithra, knew that every day he awoke he had dealt another defeat to the Persians who had captured and mutilated him, destroying the future he might have had.

By the time he had made his way from the mithraeum to the city docks his dark despair had turned to blinding rage. He had hardly noticed the deep waters beneath the prow of the boat he engaged to take him to the Asian shore.

Once on the road he stopped at every inn along the way, in case Cornelia had tried to complete her journey to Constantinople, but found herself unable to proceed.

Proprietors cowered under interrogation from the fiery-eyed palace official.

None had seen her.

Now his anger had drained away. He was no longer certain why he had undertaken the journey.

Had he expected a miracle?

How could he have hoped to find her? Cornelia knew John, knew he would come after her if he discovered the true situation. Of course she wouldn’t have stayed at the inn where Thomas and Europa had left her. If she had wanted John to see her die she would have come to Constantinople with them.

Days had passed. By now Cornelia would be dead.

Perhaps John should not be questioning innkeepers, but rather whoever buried those victims who had no families to do so.

He came to a roadside column, most likely the one once occupied by the stylite after whom Stephanos had named his inn. The perch was not very impressive. Made of eroded granite, it was twice John’s height. Only a few rusted stubs around the edge of its platform remained of what had once been an iron railing.

There was no reason to go on, he realized. What chance did he have of finding Cornelia?

He was needed at his house.

He had better return as soon as he could.

As he coaxed his horse around, a flash of red caught his eye.

A short, bushy pomegranate, lancet leaves interspersed with scarlet blooms, was growing just behind the deserted column.

John’s chest tightened.

He did not know plants. Not even the ones in his own garden. He only recognized it as a pomegranate because he and Cornelia had spent an afternoon in the shade of one such, lying in the grass sampling its fruit, talking about a life that would never be.

John climbed down from his mount.

In the shadow of the column where a Christian holy man had once stood, John opened his wineskin and poured an offering around the tree sacred to the goddess Cornelia had worshipped. He offered a prayer for Cornelia, thanked Mithra for the opportunity to do so, and rode back toward Constantinople.

***

With his gaze turned homeward, John’s thoughts again centered on Peter and his murdered friend. Considering the puzzle helped push aside the dark cloud of John’s bereavement for a little while.

What had Peter’s angel said? “Gregory. Murder. Justice.”

He would never find Cornelia now, but perhaps he could still find the justice Peter desired.

Reviewing the events of the past few days and his attempts to form a coherent pattern from disparate scraps of information, John recalled his brief conversation with the bear trainers near the Hippodrome, and his subsequent musings about mythological beings.

Neptune’s horses.

The thought persisted and grew stronger.

There was something important, a pointer to the solution, involving Neptune’s horses.

Very well then, examine the conundrum logically, he thought.

Neptune was the god of the sea.

Nereus was named after a sea god.

Triton the same.

The sea.

A connection with the sea.

A link with horses.

Neptune’s horses, beautiful animals with flowing, golden manes and gleaming bronze hooves, pulling the god’s chariot over the surface of the sea.

Yet the thoughts passing rapidly through his mind made no sense, didn’t immediately suggest anything that would lead to a leap of deduction, launch him into the darkness with the certainty that his boots would find a firm surface on which to land.

If he could but apply the whip to his flagging imagination, he would have the solution in his grasp. He knew that to be the case as certainly as he knew his own name.

But the only thing that he could think of right now was that there was, in fact, one witness to Nereus’ will with whom John had not spoken.

The servant Cador.

It was true that Anatolius had conducted an interview with Cador, and in doing so had discovered that Prudentius was Nereus’ lawyer.

Was it possible Cador had other useful information?

John decided he would add a few more hours to his journey and visit Nereus’ country estate on his way back to the city.

***

By the time John arrived at the departed shipper’s estate, the lowering sun cast a pale yellow light across the landscape, lending it the appearance of an ancient mosaic sorely in need of cleaning.

From Anatolius’ description John recognized the muscular man shifting crates in front of the villa.

“Cador?” John proceeded to introduce himself and explain the purpose of his visit. He had to speak loudly to make himself heard over the noise of hammering coming from inside the building. “If we could perhaps talk in private, somewhere quieter?”

“We can step into the kitchen garden if you wish, sir,” Cador replied with a keen look at his visitor.

He led John around behind the house. “We’re crating up the master’s belongings. The estate and its contents are to be sold and the money donated to the church.”

The kitchen garden was yellowed from lack of watering. Cador strode to its far end, where a bull grazed in a pen.

As they approached, the animal greeted them with a loud bellow.

Cador looked admiringly at the animal. “He is a handsome specimen, isn’t he?”

“He certainly is, Cador.”

During his ride to Nereus’ estate, John had gone over the questions he intended to ask Cador, attempting without success to identify some stone he’d not already turned over during his interrogations of the other witnesses. No new line of inquiry had occurred to him.

He therefore concluded he would have to ask his usual questions about the will and its witnesses and hope Fortuna might finally favor him. He sighed and gazed at Apis. “Have any arrangements been made for the bull?”

Cador did not reply, continuing to stare at Apis with a smile on his lips.

John repeated his question.

Still the man did not respond.

John took a step backward and spoke the other’s name authoritatively, demanding an immediate answer.

There was no response.

John placed his hand on Cador’s shoulder. The man turned and looked expectantly into John’s face.

“You are cannot hear, can you?” John said.

***

Darkness fell as John questioned Cador further.

No new revelations were forthcoming. Sylvanus brought wine out to them and departed after greeting John and directing a few fond words at his bovine charge.

“I’m sorry I have nothing useful to tell you, sir. Most people don’t realize I cannot hear because I can follow their words by their lip movements. If they happen to notice me apparently rudely staring at them, a few get aggravated until they grasp why I must do it. On the other hand, some people will get angry no matter what you do.”

“Anatolius mentioned you were from Bretania. I imagine you had difficulty learning to interpret Greek since it is not your native tongue?”

“It took more than a little time. The master was never impatient. There were those who laughed at him because of his great interest in oracles, and though he will never admit it, Sylvanus more than once got into fisticuffs with the other servants, although he never told the master why he had been fighting. Some would have dismissed him immediately, but not Nereus. He treated us all very well. He had a kind heart, sir, and did not deserve to have such an ungrateful son.”

“Indeed. You mentioned all of Nereus’ possessions are to be sold. Is Prudentius handling that?”

Cador looked puzzled. John wondered if he were having trouble reading his lips in the dim torchlight flickering into the garden from the kitchen windows.

“Is Prudentius, his lawyer, handling the sale of your master’s possessions?” John tried to form the words clearly.

“Oh, no, sir. Prudentius is not the master’s lawyer. He employed a young fellow with offices not far from the Great Palace.”

“I understood that you had delivered a missive to Prudentius.”

“That’s true, sir. I don’t know what it was about. After Nereus and his steward died, it was my duty to do what I could to put the master’s affairs in order, so I did what I’d seen Calligenes doing, sorted through the papers on his desk, put aside bills waiting to be paid, that type of thing. There was a letter addressed to Prudentius, so I delivered it when I took a number of other missives here and there.”

John stared into Apis’ pen.

The bull lay in the shadows, a darker shape identifiable by the odor of dung and hay.

John wasn’t looking at Apis.

It was Prudentius he saw, sitting at his ornate office table, explaining to John the law of wills.

A person who could not hear was among those legally barred from serving as a witness to a will.

Nereus’ oral will was therefore invalid.

Chapter Thirty

John let himself into his house in the middle of the night.

He had instructed Hypatia not to attend to the door. She would be asleep, exhausted after another day helping at the hospice. Peter and Europa must be sleeping also, while Thomas was no doubt performing guard duty for Isis.

Perhaps Anatolius was correct and John should engage a few more servants. It was unseemly for a Lord Chamberlain to carry a key, not to mention dangerous to maintain a residence so unguarded.

He trod lightly up to Peter’s room.

From behind its closed door came the ragged sound of labored breathing.

John turned away and visited the kitchen.

Having filled a plate with bread and olives, he went to his study, lit the lamp, filled his cracked cup with wine, and sat down to his frugal repast.

No one in the house had stirred. If he’d been a thief he would have come and gone unchallenged.

He stared at his mosaic confidante, Zoe.

Tonight her normally expressive eyes appeared nothing more than polished glass.

If he’d been able to seek out Cornelia at once, perhaps Gaius could have saved her.

The thought he had failed his lover was unbearably painful.

On the other hand, his practical side argued, had he not been heavily distracted by the upheaval all around?

Still, the thought of Cornelia dying alone beat at the edge of his thoughts, a black-winged demon tearing at his vitals.

Wiping away tears, he forced himself to focus his thoughts on the puzzle confronting him.

Why had he so readily accepted Anatolius’ account of his interview with Cador? How could Anatolius have failed to realize the man could not hear?

More importantly, if the oral will was invalid, then Nereus’ estate had passed to his wayward son, Triton, since he was no longer disinherited.

Very well. Then how did this relate to the labyrinth he was attempting to navigate?

Well, since Triton was dead, the estate would have devolved to his heir or heirs.

That was John’s understanding of the position.

But did Triton have any heirs?

It was a question John had not hitherto pondered at length since he had believed from the beginning that Triton had been disinherited by Nereus’ oral will.

“No wonder you appear so uncommunicative tonight, Zoe,” John muttered into his cup. “These endlessly complicated legalities…”

Was there any reason to pursue Triton’s connection to the will further, now that that young man was beyond questioning and further had died with no apparent family?

Yes, John concluded, it seemed he had taken the correct course in concentrating on those connected to the will who were still alive and able to divulge information about its provisions and each other.

Although, he ruefully admitted, they’d failed to do much of either.

Then too, John had been ever mindful of Peter’s request and the limited time that appeared available to honor it.

Perhaps it was that realization that had caused John to make the wrong deductions.

Cador had mentioned delivering a letter from Nereus to Prudentius, leading Anatolius to leap to the conclusion that Prudentius was Nereus’ lawyer.

On the other hand, Prudentius had not disabused John of the misconception. Had Prudentius realized that John was under the impression he was Nereus’ lawyer, or had he decided to be circumspect when confronted by a high-ranking official from the palace?

Or had Prudentius lied?

If Prudentius did not serve Nereus in a legal capacity, what exactly was the connection between the two?

Anatolius had been guilty of making an unwarranted assumption, but as John thought back over his interviews he wondered whether he had not unknowingly committed the same mistake.

There was someone he should speak to again as soon as possible.

He slumped back wearily in his chair.

His gaze went to Zoe again, but all the life seemed to have gone from her.

His thoughts returned to Cornelia. Why did the world seem so empty now that he knew she was no longer part of it?

He drained his cup and his fingertip found the familiar crack in its rim.

Drawing back his arm, he threw the cup against the wall.

***

Glykeria’s wizened visage peeked around her half-opened door.

She peered at John with sightless eyes. “Ah, the man from the palace who favors vulgar wines has honored me with another visit. Out and about early, aren’t you, excellency? Still looking for new accommodations?” She let out a thin cackle, akin to the squawk of a sick crow.

“I wish to question you further about your tenant Triton,” John replied.

“Come inside, then. There seems to be a bit of a chill in the air today.”

To John, the weather felt oppressively humid, but he was happy to escape the ripe stench emanating from the rotting heap of pelts still lying across the street.

Inside, the kitchen sweltered. The only light came from a dusty slit of a window and a glowing brazier on which a pot bubbled and steamed.

Glykeria made her way without hesitation to a bench beside the brazier. John sat down next to her, wiping away the sweat already beading on his forehead.

“In case you’re wondering, I’ve heard nothing further about the so-called actress friend of his either,” Glykeria informed him.

Whatever was boiling in the pot carried a strong odor of herbs, bundles of which hung haphazardly from nails in the walls. Herbs were a perfect decoration for someone who lived largely by her sense of smell, John thought.

“I’ve been trying to recall the details of what you told me about Triton’s death,” John began, “and there are one or two points I would like you to clarify.”

“If it’s the exact day you want, I can’t remember. As I said, so many of my tenants have died…”

“You mentioned you thought Triton’s death was the most terrible of them all,” John prompted.

Glykeria nodded. “It was heaven’s justice, excellency.”

“You also mentioned he suffered a great deal of pain, in fact, more than most plague victims.”

“A lot more, yes. However, that’s not surprising since he didn’t die of the plague.”

John patiently asked her what had caused Triton’s death.

“That I can’t say. I’m not a physician.”

“Then how do you know it wasn’t the plague?”

Glykeria tapped her nose. “Didn’t I explain? I can smell the pestilence on them. Be happy you’ve not been blessed with such a talent. No, Triton most certainly did not die of the plague.”

She leaned forward and reached unerringly for the handle of a ladle propped up in the bubbling pot and stirred the mixture briskly, sending a fragrant cloud into the dim air.

“You mentioned Triton had a number of visitors?”

Glykeria emitted another grating chuckle. “A steady stream of bill collectors. He was never lonely.”

“Could you identify any of them? I’m particularly interested in those who visited him during his final few days.”

“Now there I can be of assistance, excellency, strange though that may seem. The very last visitor he entertained was a cheesemaker. I remember the fellow very well, because the smell wasn’t just faintly clinging on his clothing. He must have had a whole basket of his wares. I only hope he obtained payment before handing it over.”

“Do you know who it was?”

Glykeria shook her head. “No, excellency, but if I passed by his shop I could identify it right away. The cheese was most unusual. Smoky with a more than a hint of herbs.”