Nine for the Devil (10 page)
Peter was awakened by the banging of a door.
He turned his head to look at the window. Movement was difficult. His skull seemed to weigh as much as the dome of the Great Church. In the darkening sky above the dome he could make out a star.
Had the master returned home?
Peter thought about stars. Some said they were angels but there was nothing angelic about those cold, hard, sharp points of light. They were jewels on a rich man’s robe, caught in the church lights during a night vigil.
The pain in his broken leg waxed and waned like the unseen moon. A throbbing pain, as deep and intense as pain could possibly be. It brought tears to his eyes.
It wasn’t time for him to die. He must remain to see the master through this latest trial. He didn’t like to think about him going around the palace, questioning powerful people, any one of whom would not suffer for having him killed if it suited them. The master was a powerful man himself, but an outsider. Not to mention a Mithran. What would the Lord think about Peter having spent so many years serving a Mithran?
“Please, Lord,” Peter muttered. “Keep the master safe. His beliefs may be wrong but you should know him by his works, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
A noise interrupted his thoughts. Or had it awakened him? What had he heard?
“Hypatia?” He was startled at how weak his voice sounded.
There was no answer.
He had the impression Hypatia had opened the door a crack, peered in at him, and shut the door. It might have been his imagination. The girl was always underfoot. He ought to make it plain to Lady Anna that Hypatia was not to interfere in his kitchen. Her duty was to grow the herbs Peter needed. She was not a cook. It would not do for her to be in the way while he was standing watch on the pot boiling over the hot coals.
No. That had been years ago. Both he and Hypatia had been Lady Anna’s slaves before her death freed them and they came to work for John.
The potions Gaius had given him were making Peter light-headed.
“How can I manage in such a state? What was the scoundrel thinking of? Does he imagine I can lie around like the idle aristocrats he treats?”
He closed his eyes.
He remembered a young servant he used to meet at the back of a garden at the house he worked in years ago. He could feel the soft flesh of her rounded arms and her warm breath.
She would be an old woman now. He felt a sadness deeper even than the agony in his leg. What kind of a world was it where such beauty withered away?
Peter had never known a woman for long. For much of his life he had been on the move, as a camp cook, constantly on the march, as a servant moving from one household to another. He had always thought that some day he would find himself in the right situation and the right woman would present herself. But it had never happened. And without ever being aware of it, he had finally stopping thinking about it.
Now he was an old man and it was too late.
“Too late,” he whispered. Yet there was nothing one could miss in life that meant anything compared to the glories waiting in heaven. “I have always served you, Lord, to the best of my ability.”
Peter felt himself drifting. His bed might have been floating on the Marmara. How long had he been in bed? He was useless, and just when the master needed him. The least he could do was make him a decent meal. Hypatia would insist on overspicing the dishes.
His leg didn’t pain him as much. He shifted, experimentally, and found his body no longer felt as inert and heavy. He pushed the coverlet down, took a breath, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The splinted leg stuck straight out, which made it awkward when he stood, bracing himself against the wall with one hand.
He hobbled toward the door. Obviously Gaius had overreacted. Peter was perfectly able to put weight on the supposedly broken leg.
He was standing next to his cooking brazier before he knew it.
“Let’s see,” he clucked to himself. “A dish needing only one pot. I can’t be standing too long. What’s on hand?”
He found several eggs lined up on the windowsill and a basket under the table containing a cabbage. The wine jug was full and neither the master nor Hypatia had eaten any of the cheese intended for breakfast.
He sang a hymn. His voice was the creaking of a cart wheel.
“Why do you veil your faces?
“Let your hearts be uplifted!
“For Christ, Christ has arisen!
“Glorious and gleaming,
“Christ, Christ is born
“Of He who gave light.”
Wasn’t the master’s god, Mithra, the lord of light?
It was something to consider.
But first the evening meal must be prepared.
He chopped happily at the cabbage and tossed its shredded remains into the large pot simmering over the glowing coals. He splashed in some wine, added cheese and eggs, and leftover scraps of the swordfish that had caused so much trouble. He took a clove or two from the string of garlic hanging from a ceiling hook and tossed them into the now bubbling mixture.
Then he was back in bed, once again feeling the warm breath of the long ago servant girl as they sat together in the cool grass behind a hedge.
Or rather, it was Hypatia’s warm breath, her face bent down close to his. But it had been the servant girl’s lips touching his cheek, not Hypatia’s. Surely.
“What are you looking so glum about, Hypatia?” Peter asked, but she drew away as if she hadn’t heard.
He hadn’t managed to speak. He made a determined effort.
This time she heard. “Peter, you were so still I was worried. What are you saying?”
“The evening meal. I started it. It’s on the brazier.”
“What do you mean? I’ve just been in the kitchen, and there’s nothing…” Her voice trailed off. “Oh, I see. Yes. Thank you, Peter.”
She turned and left the room and Peter could hear her sobbing for some reason in the hallway.
It was twilight by the time John reached Artabane’s house, a one story villa in the classic Roman style, not far from the northern wall of the Great Palace.
“Close enough so the Great Whore could keep an eye on me,” Artabanes explained in slurred tones when John noted the convenient proximity.
The Armenian was a lean, sinewy man, clean-shaven. If he’d been sober he would have been handsome. Now his deep set eyes were bloodshot, his finely chiseled features flushed, his narrow lips slack.
The dignified, gray-haired servant who answered the door had been turning John away because his employer was too ill to see anyone when Artabanes came lurching across the atrium, as if engaged in a slow corybantic dance, utterly intoxicated.
“John? John the Eunuch, isn’t it?” Artabanes said heartily. “Pay no attention to my servant’s lack of manners. Welcome. I was just out in the garden communing with nature.”
“That part of nature which grows on vines,” muttered the servant.
John raised an eyebrow at the disrespectful remark.
“He is a difficult master, sir,” the servant said. “He’ll forget everything said before he’s in bed tonight, if not sooner. If he manages to make it to the bed for a change.”
Artabanes stumbled forward and grasped John’s arm. “Let me show you the way to the garden.” Leaning heavily on John, he pointed toward the left side of the atrium. “This side, please.”
John saw the tiled floor was bisected by a broad black marble stripe leading from the street door, across the atrium, and into the garden beyond.
Artabanes noticed where John directed his gaze. “That’s the border, Lord Chamberlain. Beyond lies enemy territory.”
“Enemy?”
“The bitch. My former wife. The harpy Theodora forced me to live with. I may be imprisoned here but I won’t live with her except in disharmony. I divided the house in two. She stays on her side, I stay on mine.”
Once the entrance to the garden was reached, the symbolic frontier continued with a knee-high hedge that crossed the open space and then reverted to a black marble stripe when the green barrier reached the edge of the portico on the far side. The height of the hedge gave an indication of how long Artabanes and his wife had lived under these peculiar circumstances.
“Do the servants have access to both sides of the house?”
“I caught one of hers stealing a fig from my tree. I had the villain scourged. Does that answer your question? Her servants are forbidden to speak to mine or to me.”
John reflected that there were worse penalties for straying across borders. “Who announces guests when your wife has visitors?”
“My former wife, you mean? The servant who let you in, Augustine, is our ambassador. He handles diplomatic missions when necessary.”
“Indeed.”
“Here, sit down.” Artabanes collapsed onto a bench, forgetting to let go of John’s arm and nearly pulling the Lord Chamberlain down on top of him. John freed his arm and positioned himself as far away from Artabanes as possible, which proved to be not far enough to escape the miasma of sour wine the man emanated.
“Not that she has many visitors,” muttered Artabanes. “Why would she? She’s not from Constantinople. She was happy enough to stay in Armenia, until I made a name for myself, until she realized I might suddenly have a few more coins than her suitors. I’ll wager that surprised her. Then she was on the trot to Constantinople, weeping and wailing to the Great Whore. The Lesser Whore, that’s what my former wife is.”
“Theodora decreed you were not divorced under Roman law,” John pointed out.
“Roman law! I repudiated the bitch. That’s the way we do it in Armenia. Repudiate and be damned!” Artabanes spat. “While I’m off spilling my blood on the battlefield, back home half the nobility is spilling its seed into her. What’s Roman law have to say about that?”
He reached under the bench and pulled out a jug of wine, lifted it to his lips, and drank. John was thankful his host didn’t offer him any. He could hear a few bees buzzing in the gathering darkness. Like John they were putting in a very long day.
Artabanes belched. “So the empress ordered me to share this miserable excuse for a house with the bitch. But what can I do? She sentenced me to years of torture is what it amounted to. Don’t feel sorry for me. You’re suspected too, Lord Chamberlain. She made no secret of her enmity toward you. It’s a miracle you’re still alive.”
Artabanes might be preposterously intoxicated but he was not entirely without sense.
“Until Justinian is satisfied we’re all liable to be executed,” John observed
“We both have reason to wish the Great Whore gone. I wish my cursed wife was gone!” He gestured wildly with his jug, splashing wine on his tunic. “I shall renounce her for a second time tomorrow and leave the city and be a soldier again!”
“I would advise against it, Artabanes. The empress hasn’t been dead long. Justinian might be inclined to enforce her wish you live with your wife.”
The general hiccuped and turned bloodshot eyes to John. “I know why you’re here. Oh, yes. But note this well. Theodora gave me an excellent defense by her own actions. Even if I managed to murder the entire court without being suspected I still could not marry the woman I love above all others. It’s too late. She’s married Praejecta off. Married her to the son of one of those plotters executed after the Nika riots. My beautiful treasure handed over to a traitor’s son.”
He lifted the jug to his mouth again, found it empty, and flung it clumsily into his wife’s half of the garden.
“Then again, I might kill my beloved’s husband,” he continued, bleary eyes brightening. “The idea has crossed my mind once or twice, I confess. Yes. A blade between the ribs. The soldier’s way. None of this poisoning business. That’s for women and eunuchs. But sssh, don’t say it too loudly. Spies, you know. Spies everywhere. Might give the bitch ideas.”
“I am told you tried to convey some ideas to General Germanus. Treasonous ideas. About how he would make a better emperor than Justinian.”
“Who could argue with that?”
“The emperor’s Lord Chamberlain might. Did you in fact visit Germanus?”
“Yes. We have both served in Libya.”
“And did you hint that you might be interested in seeing Justinian replaced? I had the impression Germanus considered you quite capable of having murdered Theodora. To weaken Justinian’s will.”
Artabanes reached under the bench, produced another jug, and lifted it to his lips. Wine dribbled down his chin. “I don’t recall saying anything. Then again, I don’t remember half of what I say these days. Thankfully.”
“Because you are perpetually intoxicated.”
“Praise the Lord for the fruit of Bacchus.” Artabanes waved the jug and emitted another belch.
John decided it was quite possible a man in Artabanes’ state might say things he didn’t mean and fail to remember what he said. Artabanes seemed too intoxicated to be properly interrogated. On the other hand, his wine-liberated ramblings supported his innocence, at least at first impression. Unless it was all for show. Still, revenge was said to be as sweet as honey and if Artabanes could not have the wife he wanted, perhaps he felt it only fitting Justinian should lose Theodora.
“I won’t trouble you further,” John said and started to rise.
Artabanes grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back onto the bench. “You see a drunken fool,” he said thickly. “This is what the imperial couple has done to me. I am a brave man, Lord Chamberlain. A hero. Who was it saved Libya from the rebels?”
“I am certain Justinian appreciates—”
“Let me tell you how it was. Let me tell you. We were invited to a banquet by the tyrant. His name was Gontharis. Imagine the scene. He sat right beside me, exactly as you are. So then, Lord Chamberlain, imagine you are the tyrant. A merry tyrant, gorging yourself, offering choice morsels to the guards who stand behind you. Let us suppose those shrubs there are the guards. The tyrant is drinking. He is very drunk. Perhaps not as drunk as I am right now, but drunk enough.”
“Yes. I have heard—”
Artabanes plunged ahead, slurring his words. “Suddenly, as planned, one of my men rushes into the hall. Straight at the tyrant he runs, sword bared. A servant shouts a warning. The tyrant turns. ‘What is this? What did you say?’ He cups a hand to his ear.”
Artabanes pushed himself to his feet, made a wide slashing motion with his arm. John ducked his head to avoid being hit.
“The sword comes down. Slices a flap of scalp and cuts off two fingers. One of the fingers splashes into my wine. But the tyrant leaps to his feet. Leaps, Lord Chamberlain! I must show you! Stand up. Stand up.”
John got up reluctantly. Artabanes reached inside his own tunic and brought out his hand with the index and forefinger pointing straight out.
“I draw my dagger. A two-edged dagger. A wicked thing. Death to the tyrant! Blood’s spewing from the stumps of his severed fingers. He can hardly see because that gory scrap of loose scalp is flopping in his face. I don’t hesitate. I lunge with the dagger. Plunge it into the beast’s side. Up to the hilt.”
He took a tottering step and shot his hand forward, poking John’s side painfully with his stiff fingers.
“The tyrant falls!” Artabanes sounded jubilant.
John took a step away but did not fall.
Artabanes face was a fiery red, sweat beaded on his smooth, broad forehead. He smelled like a tavern. “Then we take care of the guards.”
He started lashing his invisible dagger at the shrubbery. Leaves flew like green flesh. Artabanes reeled forward, banged his knee on the bench, and tumbled across it and into the foliage, where he thrashed around in panic before finally ending up on his back.
He lay there in the embrace of the branches and looked up at John. “It was wonderful. I was a warrior then, Lord Chamberlain, and look what I’ve become.”
John helped him to his feet, grimacing at the wine fumes which seemed to be seeping from the man’s every pore.
“So is it any wonder Praejecta fell in love with me as soon as I unlocked the door to her room?” Artabanes raved on. “I was still soaked in blood. Her rescuer, the avenger of her cowardly husband. She was mine. She is mine, by right! She gave herself to me willingly. Eagerly. A toast to Fortuna for arranging the Great Whore’s long agony!” Artabanes raised his hand and realized he was holding neither cup nor jug. “Ah, well. I just wish her torment had lasted as long as my miserable marriage.”
A breeze wandered into the garden and was strangled by the stifling heat. Snatches of song passed them, carried on a tantalizing smell of frying onion.
“I suppose your kitchen is cut in half too?”
“Oh yes. Yes, it is. But, you know, onions cut in one side still make eyes on the other side water. That’s how it goes, isn’t it? Just how it always goes.”
Artabanes wandered away abruptly.
John decided it was his opportunity to escape. Perhaps his thoughts would march in better order if he was somewhere cooler.
Somewhere along the coast perhaps.
He could go to Zeno’s estate and surprise Cornelia and the others.
If it weren’t for this hopeless investigation. He could not leave the city with Justinian likely to summon him at any time.
Since he had to stay, a long walk round the city would be helpful in ordering his thoughts, as it had been on numerous occasions.
John left quietly, while Artabanes urinated across the border.