Five for Silver: A John, the Lord Chamberlain Mystery (9 page)

They walked through the miniature city of tombs. A bird sang, bees buzzed in the grass.

Crinagoras stared thoughtfully in the direction of the inner wall from which they had just ridden. “If it weren’t for the smoke, it’d be hard to imagine what we’ve just left. All those deserted streets, the endless lamentations reminding us how near we are to death.”

“Not to mention it is right underfoot.”

Crinagoras looked down hastily. “How could I forget!”

Strolling along, they stopped to admire other examples of the poet’s work.

“‘Do you caress my cold stone, tickle my mossy epitaph with your warm fingers? Alas, I know not, for I am dead,’” Crinagoras declaimed.

“I like this one,” Anatolius said. “‘You have journeyed far, now here you are.’”

“It is just as I told you,” Crinagoras declared suddenly, seemingly in response to a conversation he’d been carrying on in his head. “You scoffed at the notion, but you are blessed because Lucretia is still alive. With life there is hope and with the odious senator on his deathbed, you may well be reunited with your beloved after all. Fortuna smiles on you.”

“Yet why on me and not on Balbinus? Am I more deserving?” Anatolius smiled wanly. “That is a question not worth asking, for it is unanswerable.”

“It’s the unanswerable questions that are the most interesting. Besides, I can tell you why you deserve Fortuna’s favor. You are a man of tender feelings, my friend, just like myself.”

Anatolius came to a halt. “I can’t help my feelings, Crinagoras. Yet it’s wrong to wish for happiness at another’s expense.”

“The senator stole her from you. Her family arranged the marriage. She didn’t want it. Would you wish Lucretia to be deprived of her happiness as well?”

“I admit it,” Anatolius confessed shamefaced. “I am hoping her husband will die.”

“Believe me, Anatolius, I know how it is. Lucretia is the sun in your sky. When she married, I feared you might throw yourself into the sea.”

“I try not to recall that time. Not to mention it’s just as likely the fellow who sells me wine threw himself into the sea when I regained my senses and his sales declined so drastically.”

They resumed walking, completing a circle around the lonely space. Not far from the narrow road by which they had entered, a particularly unusual tomb caught Anatolius’ eye. It resembled the Great Church, but reached only as high as his chest.

“Come along.” Crinagoras sounded impatient. “We don’t have time to dawdle over every monument in the place. Remember, it’s some distance yet to Nereus’ estate.”

Anatolius’ gaze slid across the miniature edifice. “You’re in a hurry all of a sudden. I see there’s an inscription on this tomb. It’s one of yours, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, but do hurry up. At this rate it’ll be dark before we even get to the estate.”

“What is it? Why don’t you want me to read it?” Anatolius bent slightly to make out the epitaph carved into the small church replica. “‘I am only a dead dog, but my tomb is more magnificent than the candlemaker’s.’”

***

The muscular, bare-chested man unloading amphorae from a wagon parked outside Nereus’ villa looked up as Anatolius and Crinagoras approached. His hair was cropped to a black shadow, matching poorly shaven cheeks.

“I am Cador, assistant to the master’s house steward. How can I assist?” The man’s Greek was hesitant.

“We’re here to ask a few questions concerning your master’s death,” Anatolius began, trying to remember how John conducted similar interviews. “Could we speak to the steward?”

He glanced toward the doorway, flanked by two massive, elaborately carved columns. The house was otherwise unadorned, a low, plaster-faced structure with a colonnade running down one side. It stood in the shade of a variety of short ornamental trees.

“Calligenes is gone. I am in charge until the master’s legal affairs have been concluded.”

“Your accent tells me you have traveled far, Cador,” Crinagoras broke in.

The man nodded. “You are most perceptive, sir. It’s been a long time since I last saw Bretania’s rocky shore.”

Anatolius scowled in annoyance. He’d taken the man’s stilted speech and hesitancy as indicating he was slow witted. Now he noticed Cador had the reddened, peeling skin of those used to less sunny climes. “How did you come to work for Nereus?” he asked quickly, before Crinagoras could beat him in extracting more revelations.

“I was a tin streamer, sir. The brooks I panned were cold and seemed to get colder every year. Eventually I crossed the water and before I knew it, I was in Constantinople. Master Nereus was engaged solely in the tin trade at the time and gave me a job because of my experience.”

Cador spoke as if he were weighing every word. The hard stare he directed at his visitors made it obvious to Anatolius that the man was highly suspicious. Extracting information would be as difficult as panning tin from a stream.

“Well,” Anatolius said, thinking flattery might work and drawing on the few comments John had made about his sojourn in that distant land. “I have never been to Bretania, although a friend of mine was there many years ago. He described it as wild but beautiful.”

“He was correct,” Cador replied, his gaze never wavering. “Too cold, though. But that is enough reminiscing. There is too much work and too few hands. I have my own tasks and all the tasks my superiors left undone besides.” He pulled another amphora off the back of the wagon. The brilliant sun glistened off rivulets of perspiration running down his sides.

“We just want to ask a few questions about your master’s final hours,” said Crinagoras. He was sweating too, or perhaps, more correctly, stewing. Swathed in his heavy toga, he didn’t appear to be enjoying the heat as much as Cador. “What exactly happened?”

Cador set the amphora down. As he looked up at Crinagoras his eyes narrowed. “My apologies, sir. Now I recall, you were at the master’s bedside. I did not recognize you in that strange garb.”

Crinagoras bit his lip and flapped the folds of his toga sorrowfully.

When Cador didn’t deign to actually answer the query, Anatolius took the chance of asking again. For a moment, caught in Cador’s insolent glare, he was sorry he had.

Then, however, perhaps remembering his station, Cador nodded and spoke. “I can’t tell you much about it, sir. The master was sinking fast, but insisted on seeing all his callers. There was a seller of antiquities and oracles. The master had done business with him before. This time Aristotle arrived with a very large oracular head.”

Anatolius expressed surprise.

Cador allowed himself a slight smile and then continued. “The master asked it what course his illness would take. He was told, ‘By tomorrow it will be forgotten.’”

“A delightful bit of ambiguity,” pointed out Crinagoras. “How did this strange oracle make its predictions?”

“It was a hollow brass head of hideous visage,” Cador replied. “The method used was placing a lantern inside the head and then interpreting the shadows it cast on the wall.”

“An interesting notion,” Anatolius put in. “What happened next?”

“Less than an hour later, the master took a turn for the worse.”

“That was when he decided to execute an oral will?”

Cador nodded. “First he asked for Calligenes, the house steward, but he was ill also. We couldn’t rouse him, so I served in his stead.”

Crinagoras looked puzzled. “Calligenes was the first witness your master specifically requested?”

“Actually, sir, as you know from being present, there were already—”

“He must have trusted this Calligenes fellow then,” Crinagoras mused. “Unduly, perhaps. What do you make of that, Anatolius? Something doesn’t seem quite right. A fascinating problem, one to consider carefully, over a few cups of wine, in the shade of my garden.”

“Excuse me,” Cador interrupted, “but Calligenes was a loyal employee who had served Nereus well for many years. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

Crinagoras glanced at Anatolius and raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

“I know how valuable he was to the master,” Cador went on. “I’ve been trying to complete all the work he left unfinished. The correspondence alone…well, before traveling here I trudged around half the city, delivering missives Calligenes had drawn up. He left a mountain of them on his desk, sirs. Letters, contracts, who knows what, all addressed in the fine hand on which he prided himself so much. In the course of carrying this out, I met bakers and bankers, importers and exporters, shopkeepers of various sorts, a perfumer, a lawyer, a bookseller—”

Anatolius broke in. “A lawyer? Can you tell us who this was?”

“Well…if I can remember…yes, it was one Prudentius to whom I delivered a letter.”

Crinagoras clapped his hands. “There! You’ve discovered what we need to know, Anatolius. The murder has to do with the will. Where there’s a will, there’s a lawyer. This particular lawyer will settle it. Just in time, too. I’m famished and we still have our homeward odyssey ahead of us.”

Anatolius had the impression that Crinagoras might begin to tug at his tunic and whimper if they didn’t soon leave. Besides, he was right. Nereus’ lawyer would certainly be able to shed light on the shipper’s affairs. He thanked Cador for his help. “One last thing. Did you notice anyone following Gregory when he left?”

Cador shook his head. “I don’t recall seeing him leave, sir.”

As they walked back to their horses, Crinagoras suddenly spoke. “I wish I’d continued to escort Gregory after he left Nereus’ house. If I had, he might still be alive.”

“Or you might also be dead.”

Crinagoras came to an abrupt halt. His eyes widened with alarm. “Why, I hadn’t even considered that. You don’t think we could have been followed here, do you?”

“What I think is Gregory was killed during a robbery. If not, John will surely find the culprit. Now we’ve discovered the name of Nereus’ lawyer, once John has the information, he’ll know best what to do next.”

Chapter Ten

The mud-spattered apparition arrived at John’s door well after dark. Peter, who had answered its frantic knocking, stepped backwards with a cry of horror.

“Anatolius!” John called from the top of the stairway. “You look as if you’ve been—”

“Buried and dug up,” Anatolius said ruefully. He stepped into the atrium, dripping on the tiles.

Peter returned upstairs, looking reproachfully back over his shoulder.

Anatolius’ gaze followed the elderly servant. “I know I’m not exactly a sight for innocent eyes, but surely Peter knows me well enough not to take fright at my appearance?”

“He’s not himself right now. Come up to my study.”

Anatolius looked down at his waterlogged garments and shook his head. “I think I’d better not. I’m making enough of a mess as it is. Besides, I need to get home and change.”

John came down to the atrium. Heavy rain rattled impatiently into the impluvium.

“Crinagoras and I rode out to the countryside today. We were only half way back when the skies opened,” Anatolius explained. “Crinagoras had composed ten new epitaphs for himself by the time we’d reached the city.”

“I can imagine, but frankly I’d rather not. Be careful, Anatolius, you’re dripping water on one of Hypatia’s pets.”

Anatolius stepped away from the clay scorpion stationed near the door.

“They make Hypatia happy,” John said in reply to the unspoken question. “I consider myself fortunate my servants haven’t deserted me for the safety of the countryside.”

“Speaking of those who flee the city, Crinagoras and I were searching for just such a household. We made a discovery you might find interesting.”

“That explains this late-night visit. I was afraid someone had died. Senator Balbinus, perhaps? Usually only bad news comes calling well after dark.”

“No, there’s no such bad news.” Anatolius ran a hand through his sodden curls. “Have you learnt anything further about Gregory?”

“Nothing that would help me find the person I seek.” John had not mentioned Peter’s misconceptions about his friend to Anatolius. The younger man had a loose tongue and might let the knowledge slip. John was more guarded or possibly less straightforward, a thought that made him uneasy.

“Then I’m having more success than you are! I’ve found out the name of Nereus’ legal advisor.”

***

Prudentius’ house sat behind the Hippodrome, just beyond the row of dilapidated wooden tenements piled at the base of the arena, like shipwrecks against a line of rocks.

John knocked and waited.

He seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time standing on doorsteps of late.

The house front presented the anonymous facade common to Constantinople’s dwellings. Its door displayed the usual nail studding and metal strapping. Here in the city, even the homes of the well-to-do resembled crates stacked in a ship’s hold, all identical from the outside, but each holding…what?

Which door would open to the solution he sought?

This particular door opened on an unexpected cacophony—shouts, the buzz of conversation, a snatch of laughter, the clatter of a pan, the thump of a heavy basket. It was as if Constantinople had been turned inside out. The quiet of home lay in the street, while the bustle of the byways had come into Prudentius’ house.

The young servant girl who opened the door carried a squalling infant in her arms. The girl ineffectually tried to shush the child. “I’ll tell him you’re here,” she said in reply to John’s inquiry. “Hurry up and come inside. Otherwise the geese’ll get out.”

John followed her into the atrium. She was short, her brown hair pinned up securely. A loose, undyed tunic revealed a slightly built frame which was nevertheless broad in the hips. Her face was an attractive amalgam. She had the aquiline nose of a Roman, but full lips and dusky skin spoke of the empire’s eastern fringes. The exotic effect was somewhat diminished by the number of teeth her smile revealed as missing. John could see no geese, but stepped carefully around the evidence on the atrium tiles that proved their presence in the house.

Inexplicably, the atrium resembled nothing so much as a public square. An assortment of people wandered through it or stood about talking. Others sat leaning against its walls. They could hardly all be servants.

“Your master’s given shelter to his family?” John ventured.

“You might say so. Prudentius says everyone is his family.” The infant in her arms seemed to find this information highly disturbing to judge by the increased strength of its cries. Answering wails from elsewhere revealed that the girl was not alone in her efforts to increase the population of the house.

John followed her past two men squabbling over a basket filled with vegetables. The house might almost be termed the Forum Prudentius, he thought.

As he went up three wide steps leading into Prudentius’ office, John felt a tug at his cloak.

The beggar squatting on the bottom step looked up at him. “Please, excellency, a nummus or two. My family is hungry.”

The girl slapped the ragged man’s hand down. “You’re no hungrier than the rest of us! Does Prudentius have to tell you again? No begging is allowed here at any time and especially not from prospective clients.”

The beggar mumbled a number of obscene comments concerning the girl taking advantage of being the master’s favorite and her arrogance in assuming this allowed her to order everyone around, especially honest workers and decent folk who had unfortunately fallen on hard times. Such as himself.

John followed her through the lawyer’s office and out into the garden. He was not surprised to see several crudely constructed shelters propped against the pillars of its peristyle. Numerous people were lying in the shadows. The garden itself resembled a long-abandoned field, overgrown with straggly bushes and spindly saplings sprouting from beds of weeds. Ashes filled the basin of the dry fountain.

“It seems he must be out somewhere.” The girl stroked the scarlet-faced baby, whose keening now turned into huge gulping sobs, soon quieted by the brown breast she popped out from her tunic. “I would be happy to take a message. He’s likely looking for more mouths to feed.”

The baby’s puckered mouth moved contentedly.

“Who are these people?”

“I don’t know all their names. Mine is Xanthe, by the way. They’re unfortunates such as beggars, out-of-work stone masons, orphans, impoverished widows, even a few whores, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

There was a rustling and a huge black cat exploded out of a patch of weeds nearby, collided with John’s boot, did a somersault, and raced away, pursued in an instant by a much smaller, tortoise-shell kitten.

“As you see,” observed Xanthe, “he also takes in stray cats. There’s a not a finer Christian in the city. He took me in off the street. I’ve served in his household for years and he’s been like a father to me.”

“Giving up so much space in his home must be difficult. Most would choose to donate to a hospice or some similar institution rather than fill their houses with the destitute.”

“Not Prudentius! He likes to do heaven’s work with his own hands. Needless to say, we have regular visits from a prelate, who reminds all these fortunate souls where their aid really comes from.”

John produced a handful of coins. “Give these to your master and this one is for your baby.” John had found coins unlocked tongues more quickly than wine. “Do you know when he might return?”

Xanthe gazed down thoughtfully at the nursing infant as if it might have the answer. Then she looked up.

“Ezra!” She accompanied her cry with an energetic wave of her arm, which dislodged the baby’s mouth and set it instantly screaming.

John followed her gaze. A thin, half-naked man with a wild beard and straggling hair sat hunched near the peak of the roof.

“Ezra! Did you see Prudentius go out?”

“He visited the sick in the garden just after dawn. Haven’t seen him since.” The man’s croaked reply was scarcely audible.

Xanthe turned back to John. “Sorry. You may have to come back tomorrow. Prudentius doesn’t often go out these days. Just as well, really, since every time he does, there’s yet another mouth to feed.”

“The man on your roof…”

“Ezra’s been here for months. He used to be a stylite. Prudentius found him lying at the base of his column. Fortunately for him it was not very tall. The master hired a cart to bring him back here. The poor fellow’s legs are like sticks. You could use them for skewers. It’s a sorry state of affairs, when stylites are falling off their columns like so many poisoned crows.”

“I gather he stays on the roof because that’s the only place he feels comfortable?”

“That’s exactly right! How did you know?”

John smiled enigmatically.

***

“Tell your master he can preserve his bacon in a dark place. I’ve got no dill left. None.” The vegetable-seller leaned over a display of limp greens of other descriptions to deliver her emphatic message.

“I can pay—”

“You can see what I have to offer, you old fool. Can you see any dill? No! So no matter how much you say you can pay, I still can’t sell you something I haven’t got.”

Peter turned away, his face flushed with anger and frustration. A fine thing for a Lord Chamberlain to eat boiled bacon prepared with insufficient dill. What did that silly girl Hypatia know about cooking? Running out of dill, indeed! It was intolerable.

He’d been to the stall of every vegetable seller between the Great Church and the Golden Horn, or so it seemed. None offered so much as a stalk of dill. Other households had probably stocked up on herbs as a precaution against hunger while he’d been brooding over his poor friend.

He had failed his master.

It was true the Lord Chamberlain had ordered him to take time off from his duties, but now see how it had turned out? Why should he make matters worse by heeding his master’s order not to venture into the streets? Especially when there was no dill in the house.

“Old man! Are you all right?” The seller called after him as he walked away.

He ignored her. His heart thumped in his chest. If only it weren’t so hot. The sun seemed to beat all strength out of him. The colonnade he was walking toward kept moving sideways.

He stared out at the harbor. Across the Golden Horn, pillars of coiling black smoke rose into the bright air, reminding him of pillars holding up the ceilings over the flaming pits of Hell.

He knew of one last market he could try. He forced his heavy feet to keep moving, just as he had when he had been marching though the rocky passes in Isauria. When he had thought he could not lift his boots again, even though the sun had not even begun to slide down the slope of the blazing afternoon sky. Somehow he had taken another step, then another, until he lost count of the number of impossible steps he had taken. He and Gregory, he thought, reminding himself he was blessed he could still march through the city, however reluctant his aging legs might be.

Gregory could not.

He became aware the sun had stopped torturing him and looked up, expecting to see gathering clouds. Instead, he saw tenements leaning drunkenly over a street as narrow and winding as a dry stream bed.

An unfamiliar street.

He did not remember taking a wrong turn, but now he might as well have been in Antioch. Was it because the street was so silent? When had it become deserted? There had been people in the market he had just left, although not the usual jostling crowds. He had passed others going about on the first street he had turned down. Where had they all gone? To what sort of place had he found his way?

Peter forced himself onward. He felt dizzy. A low humming filled his head. He began to sing a favorite hymn, “Though Thou Didst Descend into the Tomb.” It failed to lift his spirits. The buzzing in his head increased. Then he turned a corner and found his way blocked by a pile of dead, overhung by a thick, swirling cloud of flies.

He hastily retraced his steps.

The dim way was no longer deserted.

A lone figure approached.

Peter could not make out its face.

Suddenly the figure broke into a loping run toward him.

Peter fled as best he could.

He veered into an alley, staggered briefly against a wall, stumbled onward.

It was not so much an alley as a narrow space between two buildings whose walls almost touched overhead, blotting out light. In near darkness he trod on as best he could. His chest felt on fire. He prayed for strength, but slowed and stopped.

He bent, gasping for breath.

There was no sound of pursuit.

Had he managed to elude the strange man?

Unfortunately, he had not.

A black figure floated silently toward him, seeming to draw nearer without actually traversing the filthy ground. Rather than growing more distinct as it approached, the figure grew blacker and more impenetrable, a vortex of darkness in which Peter perceived only shifting shapes he could not name.

It stopped in front of him.

With relief, Peter saw that it was just a man in a black cloak.

But where was his face?

Peter trembled. He felt a terrible cold emanating from the approaching figure. The cloak flapped like a raven’s wing and a tremendous blow to the side of his head sent Peter sprawling in the slops and debris littering the narrow space.

In an instant Peter knew, it was death come for him, as it had for Gregory.

He lay almost insensible as the dark shape leaned over him.

Another shadow appeared.

Demons, Peter thought in terror. Had he not been a good enough Christian? He waited for the claws, the razor-sharp teeth.

He awoke, propped up against a wall.

Someone crouched beside him.

He tried to turn his head to take a closer look. The pain in his neck brought tears to his eyes.

“You were attacked by a thief.” The voice was sibilant. “It is fortunate I happened to pass by just now. Although I have a way of happening to pass by at the right time. You will not die, Peter. Assure your master of that.”

Peter tried to respond, but could not.

His rescuer patted his shoulder. Peter glimpsed the face. A face across which countless years and endless roads had scrawled a palimpsest of wrinkles in which everything was written, but nothing could be read.