Two for Joy (32 page)

Justinian began chuckling himself. His amusement lasted longer than John’s, whose brief merriment ended as abruptly as it had begun when it occurred to him that Theodora at least would certainly be vastly entertained to see him dead. He was absolutely convinced, as if the emperor had just announced it to him personally, that she had been apprised of his disobedience of her orders. It was just as certain that his disobedience had more than a little to do with what was now to be his fate.

Justinian slapped John’s thin shoulder lightly.

“I have always admired your self-control, Lord Chamberlain,” he said, “and now I stand in awe of it. When you heard your death sentence pronounced, your expression scarcely wavered, or at least not until you laughed.” He chuckled again. “But you are not quite so cunning that I cannot follow your reasoning nor detect that hint of relief, however much you try to hide it.”

“Caesar?” John forced out through dry lips.

The emperor looked amused. “Yes, yes, you cannot conceal it. You know me too well. It’s true indeed that ordinarily by now your head would no longer be attached to your body and the rabble would already be praising me for dispatching the treacherous advisor who undermined my efforts to negotiate with Michael.” He paused, contemplating the prospect. “Still, as a man of honor,” he continued, gently nudging the dead fly with the toe of his scarlet boot, “despite the undeniable fact that it would be the easiest and swiftest solution to my dilemma, I find myself reluctant to use it. No, it has been my gracious decision that in view of your long service and discreet laboring on my behalf in many delicate matters you will go immediately into exile. Before the third hour hence, leave the city. Do not linger. My generous mood may be short-lived. After all, my next cup of wine may be sour or I may find, dare I say it, a fly on my plate.”

He turned away. The audience was at an end.

John bowed to the emperor’s back. How tempting a target it presented. But of course nobody was allowed into the imperial presence without surrendering any weapon carried upon their person. And the guards stationed by the doors, out of ear shot but well within sight, would swiftly fall upon anyone attempting to harm the emperor and, quite possibly, upon one who merely appeared to be contemplating doing so.

“Caesar, my felicitations,” he said quietly.

“Goodbye, John,” Justinian replied over his shoulder.

***

“I hope John’s audience with the emperor has gone well,” Isis remarked. “I do think it’s a good omen that Justinian has decided to put his theological studies aside and take personal control of the empire again. Justinian you have at least half a chance of outguessing, but Theodora, well…”

Sunlight splashed over Isis as she sat at the kitchen table eating dried apricots and talking to Peter. It was that quiet time when the midday meal was over and the kitchen not busy with preparations for the evening. Now that she had washed and changed into a modest woolen robe, the madam could have passed for a respectable woman except for the barbaric lapis lazuli amulet suspended from a gold chain around her neck.

Peter commented that she had been fortunate that the bauble had not been stolen in her flight to John’s door. His expression of distaste belied his words, however.

“Ah, Peter, you must give me credit,” Isis replied, finishing the last piece of fruit. “As soon as I realized the possibility I took it off and concealed it about my person.” To spare his sensibilities she did not say where it had been concealed.

Peter complimented her upon her ingenuity. “But tell me,” he went on, “that amulet, it’s a smaller version of that djed object that you have in your bedroom. Is it intended to protect?”

Isis weighed her words. She was well aware of Peter’s faith and did not wish to offend the elderly man. He had been kind to her since her precipitous arrival, cast up on the doorstep like seaweed after a storm in the Sea of Marmara. In fact, Peter had obtained her respectable garment from a matron of his church and, although she did not care much for the hymns which he sang in a tuneless voice as he prepared food over the brazier, she was grateful for his concern.

“Well, it’s Egyptian,” she explained carefully. “Some call it a fertility charm, others the backbone of the god Osiris. Yet others claim it represents the tree in which my namesake discovered Osiris’ hidden body. But whatever you choose to call it, a djed is considered very lucky. I would feel quite naked without mine.”

Peter sniffed disdainfully. “Egyptian, you say? No offence intended, but they do have some very odd ideas. Why, they mummify cats and crocodiles and such and bury them with heathen rites, don’t they?”

With a slight smile, Isis confirmed the truth of his information.

“The master lived in Alexandria a long time ago,” Peter went on thoughtfully. “Do you think he would consider it impudent if I asked him to tell me more about it? It sounds like a very exotic and unusual place.”

“No more so than Constantinople, Peter,” was the reply. “We just become inured to what surrounds us. Why do you suppose that we scarcely notice the beggars crowding around the Milion? Sometimes it takes a stranger’s eyes to see what is clearly before us yet to which we are blind.”

As she finished speaking Darius came into the kitchen, escorting Hypatia, who was carrying a basket of leeks. She set it on the table and smiled at Isis. “Salutations, my lady. I am Hypatia.”

Isis’ drawn face lit up at the sound of her voice. “You’re Egyptian! How wonderful to hear that accent again! Sit down, my dear. Tell me what is happening there. Have you been in the city long?”

Hypatia blushed. “You are too kind. I have been here only three or four years. Peter and I served the Lady Anna. Perhaps you knew her? When she died, we were both freed.”

Darius had pulled a stool forward for the girl. She frowned at him, shaking her head slightly, apparently uneasy about taking it. Darius shrugged and left the room. Peter busied himself sweeping the kitchen floor.

“Sit down, my dear, sit down,” Isis urged again. “It is a long time since I left Alexandria. A lovely city indeed. Not to say that Constantinople is not also a city of beauty.” Her professional eye had already noted the girl’s unblemished tawny skin and regular features. What an asset to her establishment she would be, if she was ever able to rebuild it.

At Isis’ urging Hypatia sat and talked about her work in the imperial gardens and her continuing studies of herbs and their uses, both for medicinal purposes and as beauty aids.

“A herbalist?” Isis was thoughtful, thinking of several ways such knowledge would be useful in her house. She really must try to persuade the girl to work for her.

“Now tell me, Hypatia,” she said with a smile, “are you open to persuasion concerning a change of occupation? Are you contented with your work, despite being constantly exposed to the elements and ruining that pretty skin? Perhaps you might consider employment with a private individual? Though few will admit it, not everyone enjoys working at the palace.”

Hypatia looked surprised at the other woman’s blunt manner of speaking. “Well, at the moment, yes, I am quite happy where I am, thank you. It is good to work in the sun and leave the rest to those who know more about the ways of the world than I do. Besides, for the next few weeks I have agreed to serve the Lord Chamberlain.”

Isis chuckled. “Well, if you reconsider and decide you would like to work for me, Peter can tell you where I can be found, if I am not still in residence here. Now I must go and see if I can find something to do. Perhaps I shall go and sit in the garden with Darius for a while. You were very brave to come here unaccompanied, Hypatia.”

“I live on the palace grounds and there is safety here, at least in daylight,” the young woman replied.

Isis nodded and bid her farewell. Getting up to go, she knocked the basket and several leeks fell to the floor. Hypatia hastened to pick them up for her and, with a quick word of thanks, Isis left the room.

***

“Peter,” Hypatia burst out. “About that lady. I was wondering what a respectable woman would be doing wearing that amulet. But when I picked up the leeks, I couldn’t help but see the djed tattooed on her ankle. She’s a member of the Order of the Penitents of Mary of Egypt!” Her dark eyes were wide with amazement.

Peter looked puzzled. “Isis? A lady? And a member of a holy order? Where do you get such notions?”

“Because all the penitents carry that mark!”

Peter was astonished at this revelation. Surely this explained his master’s continued acquaintance with the woman. And now his faith in her essential goodness might very well be borne out. “This morning Isis was talking about going home to Alexandria, Hypatia. I wonder if John has been urging her to resume her former life? Perhaps she will return to carrying out good works, comforting the poor, visiting the sick, whatever it is these penitents do.”

Hypatia smiled, mischief dancing in her dark eyes. “Perhaps she will, but it’s somewhat unlikely. You see, Peter, the penitents are not nearly as penitent as their alleged patroness. They belong to houses of the sort that Michael has promised to close and shutter.”

Peter looked disappointed. “Then that tattoo isn’t surprising at all for Isis owned just such a house, I’m sorry to say. But now that her establishment has burnt to the ground, perhaps she will lead a more chaste life.”

Now it was Hypatia’s turn to be surprised. Her lips tightened in outrage. “Do you mean she has been running a brothel? She was asking me to work as a whore? And I thought… Well, I wondered why such a grand lady was inviting me to sit beside her. Evidently I mistook the garment for the person!”

Chapter Twenty-five

“Exiled? But why? You are Lord Chamberlain!”
Darius spoke much too loudly and John
gestured him to be quieter. The sunlight sparkling cheerfully on the water trickling into the pool in John’s garden provided a poignant contrast to the suddenly bleak outlook of its owner.

“Even Lord Chamberlains are not safe from Justinian’s whims. You’ve lived in Constantinople long enough to know that.”

“I’m sorry. Truly I am. Is there anything I can do to assist?”

“There is something I wish you to undertake, yes. I must leave before the emperor changes his mind and sends a detachment of excubitors to escort me into an unmarked grave outside the city. Or possibly in this very garden, for stranger things have happened. Peter and I will be departing soon and therefore I am leaving the safety of this house and its occupants in your capable hands.”

“I could come with you and help guard Peter, since he insists on accompanying you,” Darius offered. “He’s an old man and hasn’t been well. How will he survive exile and all its dangers?”

John looked at Darius, pondering how strange it was that a well educated man such as Philo could have so casually and cruelly dismissed Peter as a bumbling old fool, while the unlettered guardian of a brothel would show immediate concern for a man forced into a dangerous situation through no fault of his own except, perhaps, loyalty to the wrong person.

“Peter is thinking of the old days when he was on campaign and there’s no time to argue or persuade him otherwise. Were I to order him to stay here…well, he’s a free man and would follow me anyway and so pose a danger to us both. This way I can keep an eye on him until we get to a hospice far enough away where he can be left and safely cared for.”

Darius bid a quick farewell and John went back inside, wondering if he would ever talk to the doorkeeper again. As he went upstairs he could hear Peter clattering around, gathering up a few necessities for their flight. John’s preparations were simple. Having provided himself with money, he left a pile of coins on his desk for Darius.

John looked around his study. He had left more than one place forever, as well as one life. Now he was leaving another place and a second life. He would miss its sunny austerity and his conversations with Zoe.

With a sigh, he sat beside Philo’s shatranj table and let his gaze wander over the mosaic girl. He considered chipping out a bit of the colored glass to take with him as a memento. But Zoe’s steady, strangely unworried gaze seemed to be telling him that that would not be necessary. He would see her again. Indeed, he would see his friends again.

“I do not know how that can be,” John whispered to her, “for that would require that I be reconciled with the emperor. And as to Anatolius…I will be able to look for answers and save him only if I first preserve my own life.”

It felt strange to be talking to Zoe while sunlight was still streaming in, but he did not care.

Zoe’s steady gaze did not waver. She seemed to be looking not at him but at Philo’s game board.

“Have you developed a fascination with this foolish game then?” he asked her.

The carved pieces on the board were arrayed just as Philo had left them. John could almost see the philosopher’s hand picking up the one he had called an elephant. It stood there on the board, as still as the hand that had last touched it. Gaius would have to arrange Philo’s last rites, for that was beyond John’s power now.

And remembering that, John could not help thinking about the gashes on the dead man’s hand, reminders of his attempts to avert death. It was a poignant last memory of a man who had loved an orderly world, who had talked so often about patterns and keys.

Yes, he thought, Philo waxed very enthusiastic about patterns and keys. Always. For what was hidden to most men might, to a philosopher, appear perfectly straightforward, since such scholars viewed the world in terms of what truths it hid.

The arrangement of the gashes was as deeply incised upon John’s memory as into his former tutor’s flesh. Five slashing cuts, the first three parallel, the last two slanting inward toward each other, like numerals. Three and five or two and four.

“Mithra!” John breathed.

Stepping briskly along the hall to Philo’s former room, he retrieved and quickly re-examined the disorderly and rambling letter Philo had left behind.

Was it possible that Philo had left a hastily written coded message for John before setting out for his fatal appointment? Perhaps it was less his secretive nature than fear of possible derision that had kept him from voicing his suspicions. But if there was indeed a cypher, did those numbers, a message he had carved into his own flesh as he lay dying, refer to words, lines, sentences, words within sentences?