Two for Joy (19 page)

Gaius waved away his offer of payment. “Never mind. Put them towards buying yourself a jug of wine. In a couple of hours you’ll need it. You’ll think Cerberus’ teeth are chewing on that bone,” he replied cheerfully. “Pain isn’t so bad. Just think of it as a sign you’re alive.”

Gaius shook his head when the man had departed. “That poor young man is a plasterer, John. He was working on the new banqueting hall’s ceiling when the scaffolding gave way. Fortunately an excubitor was passing by and brought him here immediately.”

“He will recover full use of his arm?”

“Oh, I have set the bone well, John. It will certainly heal well if he follows my instructions. But until it does, how he will feed himself and his family, if he has one, with just one good arm, I cannot say.”

Gaius wiped unguent from the leaf-shaped blade of the spathomele lying next to the clay pot and bustled off with both through an archway into the small storeroom opening off his surgery. Glancing into the other room, John noted two walls of shelves crowded with pots, jars and wooden boxes. A large, low table holding trays of probes, forceps and scalpels and a selection of basins of various sizes stood against the third wall.

“That was a foul smelling concoction you were using, Gaius,” John remarked, following him into the storeroom.

“Cerate, that’s what it was. It’s compounded mostly of lard and wax. Marvelously effective for dressings.”

John picked up a mortar partly filled with pulped leaves.

“Comfrey,” Gaius told him. “Another excellent medication for knitting together broken bones, but in fact when that young man arrived I was preparing it for burns.”

“You are expecting to be treating them, then?”

“The entire city is expecting fires, I would imagine. If not of the supernatural sort, then the kind set by the sort of fools driven to violence by superstitious fear.”

John set down the mortar and fingered a stoppered jar containing a dried herb he could not identify. “I suspect many of your ingredients are poisonous?”

“Practically everything in this room is poisonous, if you do not administer it correctly,” Gaius confirmed, “or if you mix it with another ingredient or two. Take hellebore for example, which is what you’re fiddling with, by the way. Hypatia brought me that from the palace gardens only last week. She says the empress always stops to admire its flowers, which is rather amusing since we both know the plant is poisonous and doubtless so does Theodora. I’ve asked Hypatia if she can supply me with rue. I’m beginning to run out.”

John, grasping his opportunity, asked about the course of treatment the physician had prescribed for Aurelius.

“When he first came to me with his bladder complaint I prescribed warm naphtha, the usual thing for that sort of discomfort. But when that didn’t heal him, I realized he was suffering from a bladder stone.” Gaius’ expression darkened. “John, why are you questioning me so closely?”

“Simply put, the senator was poisoned—and here is a room full of poisons.”

“He hadn’t taken naphtha for three or four days, if you’re implying that I tampered with his medication. He was fasting, or at least he should have been, because had he not passed the stone, I would have had to resort to surgery.”

“He was telling everyone at the banquet he had been cured by Michael’s blessing.”

“I heard him,” Gaius said shortly. “Regrettably, it resulted in heated words between us. Strange how it hadn’t occurred to him that his miraculous cure may have simply been my ministrations taking effect. As I pointed out to him, unlike miracles which are instantaneous, medical treatments often take some time to work their full effect.”

“However unfair he might have seemed by crediting your cure to Michael, still, it’s undeniable that the two of you argued before he was murdered.”

“That was the wine talking.”

“If wine can talk, doubtless it can also wield a weapon, and while some men find Lethe in their cups, others find the Furies. Did you think I would not notice your servant’s face the other night? Her bruising was as purple as your nose and its cause was the same.”

Gaius looked ashamed. “I regret striking the girl, John. I have apologized to her. But surely you don’t really think I murdered Aurelius?”

“You informed half the guests at the banquet that he was bent on ruining you by telling everyone they could be cured immediately by going to visit Michael. Your devotion to Bacchus is common knowledge, Gaius. It’s already cost you a number of your patients. You can’t afford to lose the rest.”

“That’s ridiculous, John! To murder a man, a senator, because—” Gaius’ face reddened with anger.

“Too much wine makes men do ridiculous things. Or murderous things,” John pointed out.

“Indeed? And did the senator’s most excellent wine also make me set fire to that poor girl from Isis’ house? I was certainly not responsible for either death. You’re grilling me like St Lawrence or a street vendor’s fish,” Gaius concluded plaintively, “and I considered you a friend.”

“I am your friend,” John replied quietly. “But as a physician you will know that cures necessitate investigation and investigations are not always painless.”

Gaius turned away. Grabbing a heavy pestle, he angrily pounded it down into the mortar.

“You misunderstand, Gaius,” John assured him. “I must speak to all who attended Aurelius’ banquet. I am going now to question Isis further.”

“Good!” Gaius did not look up as he ground the mixture in the mortar to smoother consistency. “And while you’re there you can inform her that her girls will have to soak their contraceptive pessaries in olive oil for a while, since I can’t spare lead ointment for them right now. On the other hand, I soon should have rue enough to mix into abortion potions. That’ll certainly please her.”

***

Madam Isis was outraged. “Soak them in olive oil! As if that would do any good! What’s he trying to do, ruin me?” She paused, reflecting for a moment. “Ah, I have it, John. There’s a honey seller just off the Forum Tauri. Honey can be got a lot cheaper than Gaius’ services, and it’s better than olive oil for the intended task. Since the honey seller visits my girls often, I’m certain we could arrange to exchange services. I’ll send Darius around to ask about that right away. Now why didn’t I think of this before? Think of the money I’d have saved!”

Isis was about to sweep out of her luxurious sitting room in her usual maelstrom of colored silks and exotic perfume when John stopped her. “There was another guard at the door when I arrived.”

“I sent Darius out to purchase stronger locks and more bars for the windows. Iron bars. If he’s back, he’ll be outside further securing the house.”

The madam left the room long enough to give instructions.

“Not that there haven’t been one or two of my girls who, honey or not, have been rather careless,” Isis told John upon her return. “And then there’s poor Darius, he’s absolutely distraught about Adula. Confidentially, John, he’d become very fond of the girl. Of course, she doted on him. And it was a terrible death.” She glanced down at the burns on her hands, mute witnesses to her fruitless attempts to save Adula.

John moved uncomfortably in his chair. It was padded much too amply for his spartan tastes. “Isis, I’m here to speak to you about that very girl. You say her name was Adula?”

“Yes, or at least that was what we called her. What she was called by her father, or in any event the man who claimed to be her father when he showed up at my door trying to hawk her for twice as much as I was willing to pay, who can say? He never told me.” Isis half reclined on her couch. The delicate table beside it bore its customary jug of wine and silver bowl filled with fruit. On this occasion, she did not seem inclined to sample either.

“You mentioned Darius was very fond of the girl. There was a special relationship with her, perhaps?”

“Special?” Isis laughed. “Darius frets over all of us. He’s a regular mother hen. He did admit to taking some liberties with Adula, but there’s nothing unusual in that, men are men and always will be. If it were otherwise, I’d be out of business. He’ll recover his spirits soon enough.”

“Can you tell me anything about Adula’s background?”

Isis shook her head. Her cheeks were hollower than John had seen in the years he had known her. While it was true that her thinner features hinted at the finely chiseled face that had made her a rare beauty before she “retired to a desk post,” as she liked to put it, they more strongly suggested incipient exhaustion.

“She was from one of those peasant families scrabbling to survive, or so said her father or whoever he was.”

“Did she entertain any regular clients? Any particular favorites?”

“Favorites? Well, Senator Aurelius has never frequented this house, if that’s what you’re thinking. As for his son, I’m not aware he ever visited with her. Everyone knows he’s attracted to the aristocratic type, and he’s quite willing to put down an extra coin or two for one who can play the part well,” she concluded.

John nodded, embarrassed that Anatolius’ private preferences in such matters were a well known matter of commerce in Isis’ house. “So there was no particular reason you chose her to be among those accompanying you to the senator’s banquet?”

“Nothing beyond talent and enthusiasm. Besides, it is good for a country girl to see how wealthier citizens live, don’t you think? It gives them an indication of what is possible in Constantinople. After all, we all know what Theodora was before she married Justinian, don’t we?”

John agreed, adding, “Of course, there were many men at that banquet who might have been here at one time or another, even though they all professed ignorance of your house when questioned.”

Isis waved her beringed hand. “Please, John. You know I cannot answer the questions you are about to ask. My livelihood depends upon my being discreet even when my clients are not. But I will tell you this,” she continued. “Just looking over the guests I recognized enough familiar faces to keep you busy interviewing for, well, for much longer than I suspect you have available to solve the matter.”

John asked her to recount whatever she had observed of Adula’s death. Unfortunately, Isis had been too intent on her flute-playing to notice anything until the screaming began. John made a mental note to request that one of the Prefect’s men interview the other girls who had been present. Suspecting such questioning would be fruitless, he did not wish to waste his time on it. People tended to see what they expected to see. And unexpected events, catching them unready, were seldom carefully observed.

He asked Isis once more if she were certain she had no information to offer.

She shook her head. “Nothing except that I hear that around the city it’s being said she was struck down because of her evil ways. If that’s true, I might well be next.”

John murmured that he doubted it, the sins of her house were not the worst in Constantinople by any means, and concluded with a slight smile, “Indeed, compared to some, your girls are still innocents.”

Isis leaned forward intently. “At least, they are innocent of anything but quenching the natural fires of the fleshly sort. Personally, I don’t believe those other fires had anything but a human origin and I suspect that you agree with me.”

“Of course I do, but then neither of us are Christians.”

“But how do one’s religious beliefs change deductions arising from the facts?” A shadow passed over her face. “To tell you the truth, I blame myself for it,” she said, dabbing at her suddenly wet eyes.

John looked at her questioningly.

“Isn’t it obvious what happened? There were torches everywhere, in the corridors and rooms, along the colonnade. And I insisted my girls wear those elaborate costumes. A spark must have fallen into the folds of Adula’s clothing and smoldered there until it burst into flame. And now those zealots are taking credit for what was nothing but a terrible accident!”

Before John could reply there was a brisk rap on the door. A blonde girl dressed in a softly folded, short linen skirt and little else padded barefoot in. Her sapphire colored eyes betrayed lively interest in this richly dressed man in her owner’s private sitting room.

“I found Darius and he has departed to the honey seller’s shop as directed, madam,” she said respectfully.

“I shall have to talk to Darius at some point, Isis, but for now I must be away myself, since I have others to consult upon this matter,” John said, concealing a smile at the girl’s obvious curiosity. “Besides, you are becoming too philosophical for me, especially since there is a talkative old Greek philosopher living under my roof at the moment.”

Isis laughed. “Come and see me again soon, then. I promise you I shall have some of that awful Egyptian wine you love and we’ll talk only about the old days in Alexandria and the latest palace gossip.”

John nodded gravely. It was a long standing jest, for although years before they had both lived in Alexandria at the same time, their paths had never crossed in that huge city.

On their way down the hall, the barefoot girl giggled nervously. He glanced quizzically at her, asking what was amusing her.

She looked at him in panic. “Oh, sir, excellency, I mean, I beg your pardon. It is just that, well, there’s an old Greek philosopher visits me every market day, as regular as the sunrise, and I couldn’t help laughing, thinking about him. I shouldn’t say anything. Madam will be furious that I talked about one of my clients. It’s against her rules.”

“I won’t betray you, don’t worry. But what makes you think he is a philosopher?”

The girl looked nervously back at the door of Isis’ sitting room, caught between the known perils of her imperious employer and the possible dangers that could emanate from angering this obviously important stranger.

“I would not offend you,” she began hesitantly.

“I doubt you could offend me. I’m just curious,” John assured her with a slight smile.

“Well, it’s this, excellency. When he comes up to my room he watches while I get undressed. But after that…well…he has me pose, like a statue, this way and that.” She demonstrated, flapping her arms, looking more like a small, ungainly bird than any classical sculpture John had ever seen. “He keeps me at it until the last drop runs out of the water clock. After an hour, or sometimes two, my arms feel ready to fall off.”