Six for Gold (9 page)

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.

As Cornelia approached, he called her a greeting, his voice strong and mellifluous.

“Salutations!” Cornelia returned.

When the man stood briefly to offer a hint of a courtly bow, she saw he was tall. He had deep-set eyes, a nose jutting like an escarpment, and black hair that flowed down to broad shoulders.

“I am Zebulon. Welcome to Mehenopolis.”

As Cornelia drew closer she saw that Zebulon was older than he had first appeared. Gray streaked the dark hair, and his enormous hands were veined and gnarled and trembled slightly.

She introduced herself and accepted his invitation to sit down, noting the stone bench had been formed from a broken block of red sandstone, its intact surfaces carved with hieroglyphs.

“It's not often I see a female pilgrim,” Zebulon told her with a smile, “and beyond that, one bold enough to talk to a stranger.” There was the hint of a Syraic accent in the man's Greek. “If you have time to spare, would you care to engage in a board game?”

Cornelia couldn't conceal her surprise. She had received many propositions during her years with the troupe, but never to play that particular sort of game.

Zebulon laughed. “I see you are wondering what I mean.” He leaned sideways and groped behind the bench, finally producing an alabaster board and a cedar box, which he laid on the sandstone between them.

Cornelia examined the heavily incised circular board curiously. If this was a popular local form of entertainment, it wouldn't hurt to know something about it.

“How is it played? I see it looks like a snake coiled on itself with its head in the middle, and that there's segments marked off from the tip of its tail to its head. Is the idea to win by being first to move from tail to head?”

Zebulon nodded. “It's called Mehen and you have described it perfectly.”

He opened the box and set two ivory pieces, one a recumbent lion and the other a crouching lioness, on the tip of the serpent's tail.

“We toss a coin to see how many segments we move. I'll explain the formula as we go along. Now, I believe I have a nummus. Yes, I do. If you would like to take the first turn?”

Soon their leonine markers were racing along the snake's tail, first one getting ahead a few spaces and then the other.

“Do you see many pilgrims here?” Cornelia asked. She grinned as her lioness leapt forward two segments. “And if I may ask, how did that building behind us burn down?”

Her opponent picked up the coin. “That was once my little church. One night a few months ago it caught fire, but unfortunately it could not be saved. I wasn't here at the time, having been called out to administer spiritual comfort to a sick pilgrim, and by the time I arrived back, well…”

He flipped the nummus with a practiced air. “Ah, I see heaven favors me, for I now draw ahead!”

Handing Cornelia the coin he resumed his narration. “I hope to have the church rebuilt in due time, although it seems that day draws ever further away. Until it's risen again I spend most of my time playing Mehen. Melios houses and feeds my old bones from charity and I perform occasional duties of a religious nature for his household and for others who need them.”

Cornelia, catching the sad note in his voice, looked up from the board, hand poised over her lioness.

“No doubt the pilgrims keep you busy?”

“Would that it was so, Cornelia, but the majority are more interested in the maze. Then too, a fair number of them also come to see Dedi's magick tricks.”

Cornelia moved her piece and handed the coin back.

“I've heard the maze mentioned, but nothing about a magician called Dedi.”

Zebulon fingered his board piece. The tremor in his hand seemed more pronounced. “So you are not here to visit the maze or to consult Dedi?”

Cornelia shook her head, saying nothing.

Zebulon settled back, the game temporarily forgotten. “The maze is carved out under the old temple you can see up on the rock. Mehenopolis was once the center of a snake cult. Of course, that was long before the empire became officially Christian.”

He swatted a fly away and continued. “Mehen was the snake god of the ancients, a healing god said to perform many wonders for his followers, provided they could find him in the center of the maze. That's why this settlement is named Mehenopolis.”

“And pilgrims still come here to worship this snake god?”

“Worship? Not exactly, no. They mostly visit because of superstition or from desperation. Some attempt to tread the maze, for it is said the sick will be cured if they can reach its heart unaided.”

Cornelia observed that did not seem such a difficult task.

“You think not? The maze is enormous and being hewn out of solid rock it's impossible to see one's way since pilgrims are not allowed to take torches. They must make the journey on faith alone. Inevitably one of the local residents has to go in and rescue them. I myself have never seen anyone healed in all the years I've lived here. Not that that discourages anyone, it seems.”

He leaned forward, a fierce light in his eyes. “Yes, the sick believe if they can reach the central chamber guided by faith alone they will emerge into daylight healed. But faith in what, Cornelia? A blasphemous snake god, or Dedi, who oversees the maze, not to mention claiming to be one who can work magick and a healer himself to boot? Better to put their trust in heaven, I tell them, not that many listen. This is a battle I have been fighting ever since I was exiled here over twenty years ago.”

“Exiled? How very odd! I recently met a man, a charioteer, who's just been exiled here as well.”

Zebulon smiled benignly. “It may not be as odd as it seems. Consider. If the emperor orders someone to be exiled, wouldn't he send them to such an obscure place that even its name will soon pass from the memories of the exile's friends and supporters? Then too, if Justinian decides to send the next person away to the same place, it's possible he's already forgotten where the previous unfortunate is now living, and which of his courtiers would be brave enough to remind him? Not that one necessarily needs an imperial order to choose exile.”

He tossed the coin lightly into the air and clapped his hands with delight when he saw how it fell. “Ah! Speaking of Justinian, I see the emperor is uppermost, so that means my piece is due three times your last move, that will be, let me see, six, yes, and…” His hand rapidly tapped the miniature lion around the remaining segments to land triumphantly on the snake's head. “…This time I win!”

Cornelia would not have expected a religious man to sound quite so gleeful about his victory.

Zebulon noticed her expression. “Forgive me. It's just that no matter who I play, I always seem to lose. I shall mention this victory to Dedi next time we speak. He may take it as a sign the church is still powerful and then perhaps I can use it to persuade him to give up his pretence of being able to work magick for the ignorant.”

Cornelia lost the snake game to an effusively appreciative Zebulon twice more before she managed to extricate herself from its coils to return to the guest house.

Peter would soon be preparing the midday meal and if it went uneaten it would upset him, for the elderly servant had been doing everything in his power to maintain the usual routine of John's household.

***

As she hurried along, Cornelia wondered just how skilled a magician Dedi might be. Preoccupied with her thoughts, it was a little while before she realized the big, dark-robed man approaching along the road was staring at her. Usually she sensed the interest of strangers immediately.

She was also able to tell, as she could now, when they intended to accost her. There was something in their posture that alerted her before they spoke. It was a skill she had soon developed as a woman who performed in public and thereby often drew unwanted attention.

She picked up her pace, meaning to pass the man quickly, but he stepped forward and blocked her path.

“Aren't you the woman traveling with the Lord Chamberlain?”

The man was wide-shouldered and had the battered face of a pugilist. A scar bisected one cheek. His heavily embroidered garments would have been suitable at the court in Constantinople.

“Let me pass,” Cornelia ordered.

“My apologies,” he replied. “I should have introduced myself. I am Scrofa, one of the emperor's tax assessors.” He bowed.

Cornelia realized the man's profession explained the grand clothing. “Is there a tax on exile now?” she asked.

“Certainly not.”

“Then what do you want?”

“An audience with the Lord Chamberlain. I believe you are staying on Melios' estate?”

“Anyone in the settlement can answer that question. No doubt John will be happy to talk to you if you request it.”

“I wish everyone were as happy to talk to me. Being a tax assessor is quite a challenge. To think of such ingratitude, when the emperor asks so little for the beneficence he returns.”

“His beneficence is hardly in evidence in Mehenopolis,” Cornelia observed. “There's a church that was burnt down a while ago, for example, and it's still—”

Scrofa scowled. “Pardon me, but if it was not for the grace of Justinian and the presence of imperial troops within a few days' travel, Melios would be up to his neck in trouble dealing with raids and attacks on the pilgrims coming here.”

“By the sound of it, am I to understand that Melios did not give you much of a welcome?”

Scrofa sighed again. “It is ever the lot of the tax assessor to be treated with scorn, if not worse, and Melios was most impertinent. However, since the Lord Chamberlain is a powerful man, and one who moreover is close to the emperor, if he were to give instructions to Melios, I am certain there would be less obstruction to my carrying out my duties.”

Cornelia stared at the assessor. She felt heat rising in her face. When she spoke her voice was cold. “I fear John is far removed from the emperor right now. Further removed even than you, in fact. You might better seek to have a word with your imperial master on John's behalf.”

Scrofa made no attempt to follow when she strode away.

***

Melios frowned. “You wish to know about Dedi? Where did you hear the name of that rogue? I fear I can find little good to say about him, Lord Chamberlain.”

John briefly outlined what Cornelia had related about her conversation with Zebulon.

They sat in Melios' reception room. From John's perspective, the fresco of the Great Church looming over his host's shoulder was an unpleasant reminder of all he had left behind, undone. The headman had eschewed his wig this morning, revealing a glistening scalp that boasted a few unruly patches of hair.

“It appears Dedi is someone few praise,” John observed.

Melios chewed unhappily on a handful of almonds before answering. He was obviously choosing his words with care, but his feelings were evident in the tone he used.

“Dedi is the cause of my being in a difficult situation, excellency. He arrived from who knows where several years ago. At the time I had been headman for over ten years, and I'd always carried out my duties in a fair and just manner. Oh, you might hear the occasional complaint. That's just human nature.”

“Even the emperor has his critics,” John observed.

“Yes, that's it exactly! Anyway, before Dedi appeared we did not have as many pilgrims as we see these days. One or two travelers would make their way here every so often to visit the ruins, which have some interest to those who study antiquities, but that was about the extent of it. Now it's sometimes difficult to feed all our visitors, not to mention there's definitely been a rise in thefts and assaults.”

John sympathized, mentioning the latter problem was akin to those experienced in Constantinople as the capital's population had grown.

“It is evident you understand my position completely,” Melios replied. “This sort of thing will always become a problem as residents increase in number. However, in Constantinople the pilgrims come to worship at the Great Church or to pray before sacred relics. Here, however, we have been saddled with a man who claims to perform magick and one who, furthermore, attracts crowds which are dangerously close to worshipping a snake god.”