Six for Gold (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

You can deduce much about a man by studying his will.

The realization came to Anatolius as he labored in John’s study, attempting to reduce to legacies and legal phrases the personal and business relationships in the life of Little Nero, owner of bakeries.

His thoughts had been wandering. That notion was the first useful one he had had all day. He laid down his kalamos, picked up the wax tablet he used for taking notes, and went in search of Senator Symacchus’ will.

The Quaestor maintained a depository of legal records in a converted warehouse just off the Forum Constantine. Despite extensive renovations and whitewash, the building still smelled faintly of the wine that had once been stored there.

A pallid shade of a fellow by the name of Perigenes, an assistant to the Quaestor, escorted Anatolius up four flights of stairs to a cavernous space filled with shelves burdened by scrolls, codexes, boxes, and bundles of parchment.

“We keep the testamentary materials up here so they’re closer to heaven,” Perigenes remarked, with such a marked lack of enthusiasm Anatolius guessed he’d repeated the jest a hundred times.

Perigenes climbed on a stool and brought down a box whose contents proved to be a large number of loose sheets of parchment and several small scrolls tied together with red ribbon. Handing the box to Anatolius, he remarked there appeared to be more reading contained in it than the entire
Odyssey
.

A displaced scroll on a shelf near the floor caught Perigenes’ eye. Examining the document, he saw the parchment had been badly gnawed.

“Look at that,” he grumbled, unrolling its remains. “A rat’s eaten some poor heir’s villa. See, right there’s the description and location of the bequest, but the rest of the line’s gone. Even the best legal efforts are no match for a hungry rat.”

He showed Anatolius to a marble table set against a wall. “You can study the documents there, but you can’t take them away with you. As you know, the Quaestor’s handling the administration of the senator’s estate. Or, rather, I am. It’s a difficult task, with so many legacies involved. I expect you’re used to these matters?”

“Actually, I’ve just recently taken up the legal profession.”

Perigenes’ face brightened. “How would you like to be an assistant to the Quaestor? I’d be happy to sell you my job for ninety nomismata. It’s a bargain. I could ask for one hundred. It’s a privileged position.”

“I’m afraid I’m not interested. I just left an administrative position.”

Perigenes’ expression settled back into gloom. He left, muttering about working one’s whole life and all it took was a single ravenous rat to cheat half your heirs out of their inheritances.

Anatolius sat down, placed his wax tablet and stylus on the table, and spread the documents out in front of him.

He began to read.

Senator Symacchus’ will was that of a man who had not been expecting death. To the original document, drawn up decades earlier, shortly after his marriage, there was appended a long succession of carelessly drafted codicils. Evidently the senator had been in the habit of bestowing legacies whenever the fancy took him, which going by the dates seemed to be every other month.

Thus his cook was given a set of pots, a favorite reader his copy of Virgil; the crosses adorning the garden were reserved for a monastery. The doctor who’d treated his fever during the last year of Justin’s reign could expect a silver platter he’d admired during his visits to the ailing senator, if the doctor was still alive.

There were grants of property as well as various sums of money. As far as Anatolius could tell, Symacchus had never revoked any of the codicils. It would be a nightmare untangling the bequests, not to mention tracing beneficiaries mentioned only once, and that years before.

Anatolius read on, scratching occasional notes.

Following the death of Symacchus’ wife, he had bequeathed the bulk of his estate to the church, but it appeared there would be little left by the time the legacies were distributed, meaning that litigation was sure to follow. The church would not be content to pray for what it was to have inherited.

According to what Francio had told him, the senator had surviving relatives, and doubtless in turn they would challenge the church.

It was a legal labyrinth.

What seemed like hours later he was again speaking to the glum Perigenes in his cubicle of an office on the ground floor.

“And what about this man?” Anatolius paused to consult his tablet. “Bishop Crispin. Senator Symacchus refers to him as his good friend and esteemed colleague. He left him a collection of pilgrim flasks, whatever they might be.”

“I’ve had to search out as many as I could find of those listed in the will. Such a vexatious task! I recall the bishop, of course. He resides in the Hormisdas.”

“A monophysite?”

“I suppose he must be, if he’s living there. Everyone knows Senator Symacchus was among those sent by Justinian to preach orthodoxy to Theodora’s crowd. Don’t be surprised that the senator left something to a heretic. I believe he left a bequest to every soul in Constantinople.”

“Except for yourself?”

“Not at all. To me he left the hellish task of administering his damnably generous will! Do you know, he left a jeweled cross to a one-legged beggar with a residence whose address is given as somewhere along the Mese not far from the Augustaion?”

Perigenes sounded on the verge of tears.

“I can help you out with one task at least,” Anatolius said.

“Do you think so? Then I’ll lower the cost of my position to eighty-five nomismata. You won’t find a better legal job, not at that price.”

“I can’t accept your offer, but I’d be happy to deliver the pilgrim flasks to Bishop Crispin.”

Perigenes drooped. “I suppose at least that would be one less thing to worry about. I’ll draw up the appropriate authorization to obtain them from his servants. Do you know where to find the senator’s house?”

Before Anatolius could reply, a ruddy-faced young man strolled into the office.

“Working early, Perigenes? I just got in myself. I’m afraid Bacchus kicked me in the head again last night. Have you heard the dreadful news? It’s all over the—” Noticing Anatolius, the newcomer stopped abruptly.

“Never mind him, he’s just a lawyer,” said Perigenes. “What dreadful news?”

“Oh, well, if you say so. It’s dreadfully dreadful. You know Francio and his recreation of Trimalchio’s feast? The one everybody’s been invited to?”

“I wasn’t!” Perigenes sounded hurt.

“Never mind. You won’t be missing anything. No one will be missing anything, except poor Francio, that is.”

“What do you mean? What will Francio be missing?”

“No, no. I meant we’ll all be missing Francio, but now that you mention it, Francio will be missing everything too.”

“What are you talking about?” Anatolius demanded. His tone was sharp. “What’s happened?”

The visitor looked startled. “Then you have not heard? Francio’s been murdered! Strangled with an eel!”

***

“Soup?” said Anatolius.

“That’s right, eel soup. If you spill a bowl, don’t step in it. It’s slippery stuff, especially after you’ve had a cup or three of wine.”

Francio gingerly patted the bandages swathing his head. He sat on his bed, propped up on huge cushions embroidered with pictures of the geese whose feathers filled them. Compared to his usual finery, his plain, pale green tunic made him appear more naked than he did at the baths.

Felix stood beside the bed. He had been at the house to question Francio when Anatolius arrived. The servant Vedrix lurked at the doorway, looking distraught.

Anatolius explained he had been given to expect much worse.

Francio laughed, then grimaced in pain. “Amazing how these rumors grow, isn’t it? You fall down in your dining room and by the time three people have passed the story on, it’s become a wonder. By tomorrow I shall have risen from the dead.”

He tapped his squashed nose. “Alas, if I’d fallen on this it might have fixed it.”

“You can jest now, but you’re lucky to be here,” Felix told him. “And I don’t mean because you were attacked by a bowl of eel soup.”

Turning to Anatolius, Felix explained. “In the middle of the night, two ruffians got in. Fortunately Vedrix there has sharp hearing, woke up, and sounded the alarm. They departed in great haste.”

“That would’ve been the end of it,” Francio said, “but after all the excitement I felt more hungry than tired. Vedrix brought me the soup and you know the rest. I’ve never had any trouble with intruders before. Do you think they were looking for—”

“Valuables? Yes! What else?” Anatolius interrupted hurriedly, at the same time warning Francio with a glare he hoped Felix didn’t notice. He had made it clear to Francio it would be wise not to tell anyone Thomas had stayed with him. Was it some slip of the tongue by Francio or his servants that had brought the intruders to his house?

“I’ll drop in again tomorrow,” Anatolius said. “Meantime, make certain the doors are kept locked.”

Anatolius accompanied Felix into the atrium. He resolved to say nothing about Thomas to the excubitor captain. Keeping secrets from a friend made him uneasy, yet John must have had good reasons for not telling Felix about Thomas’ presence at the Hippodrome on the night of the murder.

“The city’s gone mad since the plague arrived,” Felix remarked. “Thieves are getting used to finding houses unoccupied. When they discover someone’s at home they go ahead with their business anyway.”

“Have you made any progress in your investigations?” Anatolius asked abruptly.

Felix shook his head. “It’s a complicated affair, Anatolius. Look at it from my position. John was exiled by Justinian. There are hints all is not as it seems. Theodora is involved in this in some way and I’ll tell you why. She ordered me to withhold the funds Justinian intended to provide John when he was sent away.”

“So she forced you to disobey Justinian’s orders? Well, if you’ve done it once—”

Felix gave an exasperated sigh. “You don’t see the point, do you? John can fend for himself. I couldn’t afford to make myself a target for the wrath of the empress.”

“I’m not surprised she interfered,” Anatolius replied. “I told you about my little discussion with Hektor, and wherever he is, Theodora’s shadow isn’t far away.”

Felix laughed. “True enough. She’s had him running her errands since he was knee-high and she heard about him mutilating a dead chicken for the edification of the other pages. I hope I don’t have to remind you to be careful, Anatolius. You never know what to expect with Hektor. However, since you asked, I’ll try to make further inquiries without attracting the attention of the imperial couple.”

Anatolius smiled. “Thank you, my friend. Now, I’ve discovered something you might find useful. The senator had connections to the Apion family, and he also hosted a stream of guests from Egypt. Some were relatives and others apparently came to the city for business reasons. It might be helpful to learn more about as many of these people as possible.”

Felix tugged his beard. “I take it you imagine the senator’s guest list might have something to do with his murder?”

“Well, after all, the country played such a large role in his life, why not in his death as well? Then too, consider that of all the places he could have been exiled, John was sent to Egypt. There could well be a connection, and he may already have found it.”

Chapter Twenty-five

John finished his walk around the barn where Melios’ sheep had died. The sun beat down with such ferocity even the shadows seemed to have taken cover.

He examined the structure’s heavy wooden door, noting its strong, iron bolt. The barn’s window slits were too narrow to admit a person. On the other hand, the roof consisted of a mat of branches. Could they have been moved aside to allow an intruder to gain entrance?

“It wouldn’t have been possible, excellency. There were guards posted all night and the area was well lit to boot. Any intruder would have been seen immediately.”

Huya, the man who addressed John, was lean and dark. Like the guard on duty the night before, he was clothed only in a scrap of cloth, the working attire for so many in this land—a far cry from the robes men wore to work in the great palace.

“And the door remained locked all night, according to Melios. Is it possible someone might have heard a suspicious sound from inside and decided to peek in? Or perhaps it was suggested that the door be relocked, just to make sure it was secure?”

“No, excellency.”

John entered the barn. The interior consisted entirely of a corridor flanked by rows of identical low-walled pens. He looked into the nearest, then scanned the rest of the building. So far as he could tell, each enclosure had a shallow stone trough. Aside from that, they were featureless boxes.

The sheep nearest the door began to bleat plaintively. Its neighbor joined in. Soon the whole place was in an uproar.

John questioned Huya further.

It was from him that he learnt Melios had not related the complete story.

Dedi, it seemed, had not only predicted the death but had also issued a challenge. He would demonstrate his power by forcing the animal to kill itself, despite any precautions Melios undertook to protect it.

“Apart from the guards,” Huya said, “the master ordered charms hung in the pen as well as a protective garland for the animal. Zebulon also blessed it before it entered the barn.”

“And how did it manage to slit its throat? I see nothing here sharp enough.”

“Dedi brought a sword wedged in a split post. It was tied to the gate of the pen.”

“Who put it there?”

“He did, but he was escorted in and out by two guards. Nobody else went inside before the building was locked. We had been on watch for a while and then suddenly we heard a terrible sound. We rushed in but we were too late. The sheep lay dying, blood gushing from its neck and staining the sword blade.”

“Is there something else, Huya?” John asked. “You’re obviously uneasy. What is it?”

“Excellency, it’s Dedi. There are evil powers abroad in the world, and his magick is stronger than iron bolts. What if he finds out I have been speaking with you?”

John assured the guard there was a reasonable explanation, one that in time would be revealed.

The solution would doubtless shed light on matters more vital to the empire than a lost animal.

However, he felt disappointed. He had half-hoped the extraordinary story related by Justinian might, upon investigation, prove to be nothing more than common trickery on the part of Melios. Yet what reason could there be for the headman’s actions, if such was shown to be the case?

On the other hand, demonstrating Melios’ untrustworthiness could well have been vital in discovering the plot Justinian feared.

It was time to interview people other than those directly involved in events on the estate.

***

John found Apollo in the garden near the edge of the estate, keeping watch over his temporary apiarium. The cylindrical clay beehives were lined up in horizontal piles of six along the boundary wall next to a bed filled with exotic flowers. Bees buzzed in and out of the small holes at the front of their homes, and looped intricate paths among the showy blossoms nearby.

The dark-skinned beekeeper was dressed, like Huya, in nothing more than a scrap of cloth around his loins. It occurred to John that were he in charge of bees he would have preferred to keep more of himself covered.

“That’s right, my beauties, make haste to gather your harvest,” Apollo admonished his bees. “Lord Chamberlain, salutations! And the same from my charges here. I know many find it comical that I talk to them, but they are just showing their ignorance. Quite a few people tell their bees of all household happenings, good or bad.”

“I’ve heard of the custom. However, I’m hoping you can tell me about certain matters relating to imperial business.”

Apollo gave a low bow. “I would be honored to assist in any way I can.”

“You journey with your beehives to Mehenopolis each year?”

“Yes, excellency. I travel along the Nile so my bees can enjoy the spring flowers as they come into bloom. Melios allows me to stay on his estate, as you see. I’ve been coming here for at least ten years. He charges no rental, but I always give him a gift of honey before I leave.”

John studied the profusion of colorful flowers. Alive with bees, the flowers bobbed and swayed as if stirred by a brisk wind. “I’m partial to honey cakes myself,” he admitted with a slight smile.

“My beauties’ gold has medicinal use too,” Apollo boasted. “In fact, Melios is treating that cloudy eye of his with a concoction of honey and tortoise brains. Last year I suggested he keep bees himself. He agreed it would be a fine plan were it not for the fact he’s terrified of them. That’s why my hives are set as far from his house as possible.”

John asked the beekeeper if he had been on the estate the night of the incident in the barn.

“No, excellency. I wasn’t. In fact this is the first time I’ve been here since it happened.”

He paused. “I have noticed one thing that’s different this year. Melios seems to be afraid of Dedi. The last time I was here he was just angry with him. However, I’m not surprised he should fear the magician, after that strange business. Next time it might be Melios’ neck. I advised him to obtain a protective charm for himself. Some dismiss them as superstitious folly, but what I say is if their use brings comfort to the troubled, can it be so very bad?”

John recalled the children he had seen in Alexandria who wore little except amulets. “The people here still put great store by magick, it seems. Zebulon must consider such beliefs as distressing as Melios finds Dedi.”

Apollo snapped off a large, globular, red blossom and held it out on his upturned palm. Almost immediately a bee alighted on the flower.

The beekeeper peered at his charge fondly as it busied itself. “Zebulon has labored here for years and as diligently as my little friends, but he finds his efforts fall on stony ground. As I’m sure you’ve learned, Zebulon fled from Antioch many years ago. The orthodox can unfortunately be most intolerant. Here Zebulon has food and lodging and a ready audience for his sermons, although I believe Melios recently had to speak severely to him about wasting the servants’ time with that strange game of his.”

The bee flew away and Apollo dropped the red blossom as he glanced over John’s shoulder and along the path.

Peter approached, carrying a rush basket brimming with greenery.

“Master, I’ve just harvested some fine vegetables for the evening meal, and I was hoping Apollo could spare some honey.”

“Certainly,” Apollo replied. “However, I’ll need your help, with your master’s permission.”

John agreed. He’d intended to question Apollo further about the denizens of Mehenopolis. Often someone who visited a place only occasionally could see it more clearly than a permanent resident. However, that could wait.

Apollo picked up a torch lying beside the stacked hives. At the touch of a striker it produced a billowing plume of smoke.

He handed the torch to Peter. “Hold that to the rear of the hive when I remove the back. As soon as the smoke gets in, the bees will retreat through their front entrance, and then I can reach inside and steal their wealth.”

At close quarters, the piled hives emitted an almost palpable humming. Peter leaned as far away from the chosen cylinder as he could and extended the smoking torch.

“Don’t worry,” Apollo assured him. “Bees know nothing of leisure. Unlike the faithful, who are instructed to work only six days for their gold, my beauties labor every day. In fact, their sole joy is work. They’ll happily replace what we take. Just think, if we were bees, the emperor’s tax assessors would bring us immeasurable pleasure.” He deftly detached the back of the hive as he spoke.

Several bees emerged and flew towards Peter.

The servant stumbled back a step, lost his balance, and fell against the stack of hives behind him.

Dislodged, the topmost rolled down and hit the ground an arm’s length from Peter. On impact its back popped off.

Peter’s eyes widened in horror.

John leapt forward to pull him away from the angry swarm of bees.

Except none appeared.

Nothing spilled from the opened hive except a bundle of dirty rags.

John bent and picked it up.

A yellowing bone fell out.

He yanked at the string tied around the bundle. A medallion hung from it.

John glared at Apollo. “That’s an ecclesiastical seal. What are you doing with a hive full of relics?”

Apollo looked astonished. “Excellency, I have no idea. Someone has taken advantage of me. Alas! What did the villains do to the poor bees that were in there? For all I know my beauties are wandering Alexandria, homeless!”

***

Since Apollo continued to profess ignorance about the surprising contents of his hive, John decided to ask Melios how much he knew about the itinerant beekeeper who took advantage of his hospitality every year.

As he reached the row of palms shading the side of the headman’s house he heard his name spoken.

There was an argument going on inside the building.

On further listening, it seemed he was mistaken since the subject under heated discussion did not involve him.

“As for your assessments, Scrofa, I have declared everything!”

The voice belonged to Melios. It came through an unshuttered window a few paces away.

“Anyone who claims I have hidden anything can be brought here to accuse me to my face!” Melios went on. “In fact, I insist upon it! People better have proof of their outrageous claims! Hidden assets indeed! I wish I had assets to hide! I told your predecessor the same thing last year when Dedi, that miserable charlatan, tried to get me into difficulties with the authorities.”

“Yes, so I heard. In fact, I was instructed to closely examine this Dedi,” came the reply in quiet Greek. “However, I always begin my work of assessment with the headman of a settlement. After all, isn’t he the most important person in the area?”

“Certainly!” Melios sounded mollified by the tactful reply. “I shall be happy to open my accounts for your inspection first thing tomorrow morning if that would suit you. I’d have had them available immediately had you not arrived early this year.”

“That will be acceptable, Melios.”

The scrape of a stool and closing of a door announced the tax assessor was leaving.

Egypt was a simple country as well as a superstitious one, John thought. In Constantinople wise men did not conduct personal business beside open windows.

He lingered outside, looking after the departing man before entering the house. Though many who toiled in the imperial administration tended to be thin of frame, Scrofa was broad-shouldered and well-muscled. He was obviously a man in excellent physical condition, one who would be difficult to intimidate and doubtless chosen specially for the job when the time came around to undertake the highly unpopular task of yearly tax assessments.

Melios was in the reception hall where he had entertained John before. He appeared agitated, but he greeted his unexpected visitor warmly enough. “Lord Chamberlain, I was going to seek you out. What brings you to my door?”

“I wish to question you about the beekeeper.”

“Apollo? He’s been visiting me for some time now. He supplies me with honey in return for allowing him to keep his bees here for a few weeks every year. It’s a simple arrangement, one with which we are both happy.”

“A few pots of honey are not much of a fee for the privilege of staying here,” John pointed out. “Given the tax problems you’ve mentioned, I’d expect you to charge more.”

Melios’ womanish mouth tightened. “Well, I don’t. May I ask you the reason for your interest?”

“I have just discovered that Apollo appears to be smuggling religious relics in his hives.”

Melios did not seem either shocked or offended. “Is he? It’s nothing to do with me, excellency! For all I know he’s decided to start selling them to Dedi’s pilgrims. After all, my own head gardener sells flasks of sacred oil to visitors. That sort of transaction is commonplace here and in many other places, Lord Chamberlain.”

Melios paused. His gaze turned to the depictions of Constantinople scenes adorning the walls. “You are a cosmopolitan man, Lord Chamberlain. I am deeply honored you and your party are my guests. Such men as yourself are always welcome in my household, but I see so few of them. We two are men of culture and learning, students of philosophy, and lovers of the arts, isn’t that true?”

“You flatter me, Melios.”

“I only speak the truth. I mentioned I had been about to seek you out. I wished to inform you of a small gathering I’ve planned in your honor. At least we can put this nasty business of the sheep behind us for an evening.”