Six for Gold (4 page)

Chapter Eight

“No, the emperor has not answered my request for an audience,” Anatolius told Hypatia. A week had passed since John's departure, and Anatolius had begun to think he might as well have been sent off to Egypt himself. “I've become remarkably unwelcome at the palace.”

Hypatia had placed his frugal breakfast on the scarred wooden table in John's kitchen. Now she lingered near the brazier as if awaiting further orders, but really, Anatolius thought, to press him about his efforts on John's behalf.

He took a bite of his bread. It was stale. The cheese would not be much better. He ate the same thing every day. John's storerooms contained little else except the horrid Egyptian wine the Lord Chamberlain favored.

Hypatia spent her time tending to the sick in the hospice rather than visiting the markets Peter had frequented. Anatolius did not feel he had the authority to order her to do otherwise, even if the markets were still being held in the city. He wasn't her employer. He was uncomfortably aware he was merely a guest in the house—and an uninvited guest at that.

He wondered what sort of elaborate repasts Thomas was enjoying now he had arranged to stay temporarily with Francio.

“Couldn't you by any chance try to see Justinian again?” Hypatia persisted. “You've been his secretary for years. He knows you well, sir. Surely he would agree to give you an audience?”

“Justinian can be very congenial, Hypatia, but imagining that confers privileges can be a fatal mistake. After a request is refused, the wise man waits a while to make it again.”

“What about Captain Felix?” Hypatia's jaw clenched, accentuating sculpted cheekbones in a tawny face framed by hair the color of a raven's wing. “Surely there must be someone who can help.”

Anatolius sighed inwardly. Few things cut him as deeply as the disapproval of an attractive woman. “Felix agreed to look into the senator's murder when I asked him to give a hand, but I haven't heard anything yet.”

Hypatia pursed her lips in annoyance. “I could make a charm, sir, one that will make the emperor agree to talk to you. Something of the sort used attract the beloved, but not exactly the same. A slightly different combination of herbs.”

Anatolius smiled. “Hypatia, how can I persuade Justinian to drink a potion? And if I'm supposed to imbibe it, well, I don't think I'd care to have the emperor pining for me. Especially considering he's married to Theodora.”

Hypatia filled Anatolius' wine cup and set the jug back down on the table with a loud thump, her thoughts plainly written on her face.

Anatolius resolved to caution John about treating his servants with too much familiarity, if indeed he ever saw John again.

“Have you seen Europa this morning?” he asked, changing the subject.

“She intends to remain in her room, sir, as she doesn't want to be disturbed.”

“You'd think I was the one who'd sent them all away!” Anatolius blurted in exasperation.

Anatolius had glimpsed Europa only once since his arrival. She had been walking at the far end of the garden, silent as a shade, finally to vanish into the far side of the building.

“I see.” He tore another chunk from his bread, chewed, and swallowed.

Thomas, he thought. Though it seemed everyone else did not wish to talk to him, Thomas would surely be happy to do so.

***

Francio's servant refilled Anatolius' cup.

“You'd think the Lord Chamberlain didn't keep a single jug of wine in his house, the way you're putting that down,” Francio observed. “Feel free to have as much as you like. Perhaps it will bring you back to your senses, inspire your muse, and banish these gloomy legal pretenses.”

Francio, Anatolius, and Thomas sat at one end of the polished marble table in Francio's dining room. The garden beyond seemed to extend inside through opened doors onto walls lushly decorated with coiling vines, exotic flowers, fruits, beasts, and birds, some recognizable—bears, swans, peacocks—and others whose native land lay only in the artist's imagination. They could never grace Francio's plate.

Their riot of colors was repeated in Francio's short, blue dalmatic with green trim over a long yellow tunic, the ensemble set off by green boots.

Anatolius took another gulp. “I'm trying to wash away the taste of John's fine stock.”

Francio laughed. “I'd forgotten. A lover of wine might say your friend is as abstemious as Justinian. The poor stuff John prefers for his cup isn't worth drinking.”

“The wines of my native land are far superior,” put in Thomas.

“I didn't know there were vineyards in Bretania,” said Francio with interest.

Thomas looked askance. “You haven't heard of them? I am amazed their fame has not traveled this far!”

“What splendid tales this fellow tells,” Francio remarked to Anatolius. “A veritable rustic Homer! I'm considering abandoning Trimalchio's feast for a banquet based on the sort of meals eaten in this court Thomas has described to me.”

He frowned. “We shouldn't be so jovial, considering the Lord Chamberlain's predicament,” he went on. “However, as things stand the further away from Constantinople he is, the less danger he's in, except perhaps for running the risk of dying of boredom so far from beauty and culture.”

Servants padded in and out the room so quietly and inconspicuously that the bowls they brought might have appeared before the diners by magick.

To Anatolius the salad seemed bitter. Its greens bore a suspicious resemblance to the broad-leafed weeds that proliferated in the neglected gardens near the palace administrative offices. He didn't know their names. No doubt Hypatia could identify them immediately. Perhaps he would ask her.

Francio announced the main course. “I'd hoped to serve lobster, but my supplier ran afoul of the authorities. Instead, we have a special treat. It's what I call Harbor Chicken in Poseidon's Special Sauce.”

He signaled to an attendant, who removed the salad and set heaped plates before the diners.

Anatolius contemplated his meal. It resembled a coin pouch swimming in pungent sauce.

“It's boiled gull,” he accused.

“Well, if you must be so crude…” Francio was hurt. “Do you know how hard it is to keep a respectable table these days?”

Indeed it was, Anatolius thought, when a self-confessed epicure offered his guests noxious weeds and seabirds drowned in garum sauce.

Thomas attacked the repast with gusto.

“You and Thomas appear to be getting along well,” Anatolius ventured.

“I feel fortunate to have him as a guest. He's already given me several banquets' worth of excellent anecdotes. You know how it is at court, a good story can be more valuable than gold. My servant Vedrix is getting jealous.” Francio inclined his head toward the young wine server stationed at the door and added in a whisper, “He thinks Thomas is competing with him for my affections.”

Anatolius glanced at the servant. He was a dark, sturdy, sullen fellow outfitted in classical style, resembling a young man who had stepped out from the painting on an ancient Greek vase.

Thomas dropped his heavy silver knife and wiped his rust-colored beard with the back of his hand.

Anatolius decided it was time to question Thomas again. “Could we speak in confidence? Could Vedrix leave the room?”

Francio instructed the man to do so and then turned to Anatolius. “My servants are very discreet, but I always humor my guests. Well-known for it, in fact. What did you want to discuss?”

“Thomas has of course explained why he requested temporary lodgings with you?”

“Oh, yes, and it's all very exciting! However, he hasn't revealed how it came to be that he found himself in the Hippodrome at that particular time.”

“That's what I'd like you to clarify, Thomas.”

“It's as I told you a few days ago, Anatolius. I heard about an employment opportunity while I was guarding Isis' door.”

Fidgeting like an impatient child, Thomas recounted how he had overheard a loose-tongued servant bragging to one of the girls at Isis' establishment about his master's plans to surreptitiously obtain a fabulous relic that would astound the city.

“I've never heard such braggarts as I've heard in that place,” Thomas concluded.

“Who was this servant?” asked Anatolius.

“Isis won't allow the names of any of her guests to be bandied about. He was a young man, but completely bald. He and Antonina were standing in the corridor and she kept rubbing his head. For good luck, or so she said,” Thomas sniggered.

“You doubtless hear a lot of fascinating stories at your work. It must be like having a vast library of human experience at your fingertips.” Francio sounded wistful.

Thomas nodded. “Standing by the door all night, unless a brawl breaks out there's not much to do but listen. My ears pricked up when I heard mention of a relic. As I've told you, I'm somewhat of an expert there.”

At Anatolius' prodding, and despite numerous interruptions from Francio, Thomas recounted how Antonina had finally been persuaded, although still refusing to provide a name, to identify her customer as belonging to Senator Symacchus' household. Thus had Thomas found his way to the senator's door.

Anatolius saw clearly what had subsequently happened. “So in short, you offered to sell the senator your services in obtaining this relic, not to mention keeping your mouth shut about it afterwards? From the senator's viewpoint, it was as much a threat as an offer!”

Thomas scowled. “I thought it was a very reasonable one, and so did the senator. However, as I said, he was cautious. That's why I was given a certain little item I showed you a few days ago.”

“Take his word for it, Anatolius,” said Francio. “The man's memory is perfect. He can describe to you every bit of armor worn by every foe he's killed.”

“And probably each man's eye color as well. It's time I returned to John's house. Francio, are you taking all the precautions I advised?”

“I think I can see my house is properly guarded.”

“Thomas, keep trying to remember anything that might be useful. If you recall something, Francio will get word to me. You must remain hidden for now.”

“How is Europa?” Thomas asked.

“Well enough.” Anatolius didn't mention he had not spoken to her. He turned to Francio. “Thanks for your assistance. I count it a great favor.”

Francio spooned the remaining sauce off his plate. “As Publilius Syrus put it,” he replied with a grin, “treat friends as if they may one day be enemies.”

Anatolius looked surprised.

“Not you. It's what's on my spoon.” Francio flourished the silver utensil. “I commissioned a set of them, to be decorated with various quotations. It's to stimulate dinner conversation, should it lag.”

“Are they all taken from Publilius Syrus?” Anatolius wondered.

“Yes. Originally I engaged a court poet for the job. One Crinagoras. Do you know him? Unfortunately, to accommodate the length of his verse my guests would have been forced to eat with spears.”

Anatolius chuckled. “Thank you again, my friend.” He picked up his own spoon and read its lettering. “I am advised that accepting favors sells my freedom. It's all very puzzling. I suppose I should try to talk to Felix next. I feel quite lost.”

Chapter Nine

Peter trudged through the network of alleyways behind the harbor in Alexandria, clutching his satchel to his chest. He had crept out of the hostelry before dawn. Now the sun beat down on his uncovered head. The sparse gray hair covering his scalp felt hot to the touch. The master and mistress would have missed him hours ago, though he had planned to accomplish his mission before they realized he was gone. Now, no doubt, they would be worrying about him.

Peter had not loosened his protective grip on his satchel all morning. The bag contained silks he had packed before their hasty departure. There had been no time to prepare properly for the journey, but silks could be folded small, were light, and, being of great value, were easily converted to coins. It had been kind of Nikodemos to return the boat fare, but judging from the cost of their first night's lodgings in Alexandria, the sum regained would not be nearly enough to cover their needs.

Unfortunately, he had not been able to find any establishments dealing in fine fabrics. Perhaps that was not surprising so close to the docks. Nonetheless he was amazed he had not, at least, run across a brothel whose employees and patrons might be interested in his wares. Or so he supposed. Now elderly as well as devout, Peter's experience of brothels and their inhabitants was some years behind him.

Aside, that is, from infrequent exchanges with John's old friend Madam Isis, who occasionally visited John to chat about former times. She, like John, had once lived in Alexandria, or so she claimed. Surely Isis would know where to find a brothel in this city even after being away from it so many years?

She might have lived near the docks, he thought, might even have purchased items from the now old men he saw everywhere, squatting beside their merchandise.

Their stock in trade was mainly edible, even if barely so in some cases—sticky dates and figs encrusted with dust, pungent onions marred by an occasional rotten patch, cucumbers displaying small fuzzy patches of gray mold, and cabbages wilting from the heat.

Peter emerged into sunlight and crossed a busy square. Brightly clad men, hawk-nosed and wavy-haired, squabbled over bunches of leeks and radishes and baskets of coriander. Half-naked children teased thin, scavenging mongrels. Swirling clouds of droning, fat, black flies hovered over everything, crawled on the face of an infant held in its mother's arms, tracked across slices of melon oozing sweet liquid. The air smelled of rotted and fermenting fruit. The scene might have been just off the Mese in Constantinople, except for the throngs of long-legged ibis strutting about, hopefully sticking their curved beaks into piles of debris littering the gutters.

Peter slumped against a brick wall and made the sign of his religion. He bent his head and closed his eyes.

“Please, Lord,” he murmured under his breath. “Show me a merchant, or a brothel, or even a prostitute. Someone who will purchase these silks.”

When he raised his head he found he was gazing toward a cul-de-sac leading from the opposite corner of the square.

Upon investigation he found his prayer had been answered. This particular narrow thoroughfare boasted a number of emporiums selling wares different from any he had seen thus far. Here was a candlemaker, its neighbor a silversmith.

The next establishment, little more than a cubbyhole open to the street with a counter in front and shelves lining its back walls, caught Peter's interest because of the variety of its dusty goods. Colored glass bottles, statuettes, medallions, and tiny, stoppered, clay flasks jostled for space.

The shopkeeper, a big man in a voluminous red and white striped robe, accosted Peter in Coptic.

When Peter replied in Greek, the shopkeeper responded in Greek of a sort. “Remember good. Yes?”

The man grabbed a green bottle from his stock and held it out to Peter, who saw it was engraved with a picture of the lighthouse as he had seen from the
Minotaur
the day before.

“Pharos? Yes! Remember good! Yes?” The shopkeeper grinned, showing big teeth akin to granite blocks.

Peter shook his head and tapped his satchel.

The shopkeeper displayed one of the crude clay flasks, no bigger than his thumb. “Holy oil! Yes? Remember good! Yes?”

Peter would have liked to buy a souvenir for the master, something featuring a pyramid. Under the circumstances he couldn't part with so much as a nummus. He shook his head and showed the man the silks.

When the shopkeeper understood the type of transaction Peter sought, his smile vanished. He pointed toward the end of the alley. “Pedibastet,” he said and turned away.

Pedibastet's establishment was one of the most curious Peter had ever encountered. Not even in Constantinople had he seen a shop selling cat mummies.

Pedibastet sat on his haunches in front of his place of business. He was a swarthy man with an elongated face. His tunic was black, and his hair shone like ebony. On the ground before him lay his wares, feline corpses whose bodies were concealed in grubby wrappings reaching to their necks. Peter couldn't help thinking of Anubis, guarding the dead.

The purveyor of cat mummies stood up, bowed, and introduced himself. “I can tell you have journeyed from afar. I bid you welcome. Would you care for refreshment?” His Greek was not the best, but compared to the seller of souvenirs he might have been an orator.

“Refreshment?” Having endured the sun beating on his head like a hammer for hours, Peter was tempted by the prospect of a sip of wine.

Pedibastet motioned toward his shadowy doorway. A stout youngster, also garbed in black, darted out with a brimming cup which he pressed into Peter's free hand before vanishing back into the darkness.

“You will surely honor me by accepting my humble hospitality,” Pedibastet smiled. “After you have drunk my poor wine may I draw to your attention my offerings? Expensive they may be, I admit, but few in Alexandria have such wonderful samples of increasingly rare items, reminders of a time so ancient that not even the oldest of the old can recall it. In short…”

A sweep of his hand took in all of Egyptian history and his stock of recumbent felines equally. “I have for sale,” he went on, “having obtained them at great expense and not a little danger, I may add, authentic mummies of the animal sacred to the great goddess Bast.”

Peter looked at the small, log-like bundles topped by shriveled feline heads resembling large, whiskered raisins. Here and there tufts of fur protruded untidily between the wrappings.

“Well…” His tone was doubtful. “I am not certain what purpose the mummy of a cat would serve in my master's household.”

The man waved his hand again. “You are obviously newly arrived in Egypt, my friend. Have you never heard of the luck of Bast? Your master is wealthy?”

Peter agreed that was the case. He didn't mention that the only wealth currently at his master's disposal was in Peter's possession.

“In that case, your master would most certainly be interested in one of my little friends. An interesting and unusual memento of his visit, and of course the ladies do love the dear little things. Think how delighted he would be to display such treasures, timeless reminders of his journey to Egypt. Why, I would even lower my price for one such as he, for I am certain he is a man of culture, of great taste. See, already the luck of Bast is working for him! Take this beauty, for example.”

He picked up a bundle that looked much like the rest, Peter thought. Indeed if anything it was somewhat more soiled than the others.

Glancing around and lowering his voice as if he feared their conversation might be overheard, Pedibastet went on. “This cat came from the garden of the temple to the goddess of love. The temple lies in ruins now, but descendants of the sacred cats live there still. There are those who feed them, since not every trace of the old religions are gone. I mention this as I can see you are a man of the world, and can draw your own conclusions.”

Pedibastet looked around again. “I would not tell this to anyone,” he continued, “but your face is that of a man who can be trusted. I have a few temple cats living with me, so devoted am I to their welfare. Would you care to see them?”

Intrigued, Peter indicated he would.

Pedibastet gestured him inside his cavern-like shop. It was odd, Peter thought as he entered, that the man would leave his priceless stock outside unguarded for anyone to steal.

Perhaps the local populace was not interested in such antiquities.

The interior was eye-wateringly pungent and, once his eyesight had adjusted to the gloom, Peter saw it was sparsely stocked. One or two boxes turned upside down displayed small wooden statues, roughly carved and painted, and a few pottery pieces. Every item offered for sale depicted cats.

One or two live specimens were also in evidence, washing their faces. A small brown cat watched from a corner, while a portly black feline sitting by the half-open back door observed the men with disdainful eyes as they passed by on their way to the garden behind the shop. The green and shady place Peter had expected to see turned out to be little more than a walled expanse of dirt where more cats slept or sunned themselves.

Within a few steps, Peter discovered that while a garden of plain dirt was not aesthetically pleasing it was, however, very convenient for the relief of cats.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” Peter said after glancing around. “However, I have something I would like to sell you. The merchant down the street seemed to think you might be interested.”

Pedibastet's mask of affability dropped as swiftly as a eagle plummeting down on its prey. “You are not here to buy one of my wonderful mummies?”

Peter apologized. “I regret I seem to have misled you.”

Pedibastet gazed thoughtfully at Peter's satchel. “But your master is rich?”

“He is, sir.”

“Then why would he want to sell me anything?”

“He doesn't know. If he did, he would be displeased.”

Pedibastet did not seem deterred by the admission. “Do you think he might be interested in my humble offerings?”

“My master is interested in many strange matters.”

Pedibastet pondered briefly and then smiled. “I'm a little short of funds today. People speak ill of Egyptian bankers, and…well, I'm certain you don't want the details. Suffice it to say, doing business in Alexandria is different than doing it in other great cities. As a gesture of good will, however, which you can repay by bringing your master to my shop tomorrow, I will purchase your wares for a small sum, provided you add a service to them.”

“A service?”

“You will need to be nimble. Can you run very fast? But no…” Pedibastet paused for a heartbeat. “At least you could try. My assistant broke his leg and the boy Rameses is busy wrapping one or two new arrivals more securely.”

“How do you expect me to obtain more silks? And what does being nimble have to do with it?”

“Silks?” Pedibastet's long face dropped.

Peter opened his satchel to reveal its contents.

“Not a cat?”

Peter looked at the seller of cat mummies in horror. “You thought I was trying to sell you the master's cat? That's what you expected me to catch? Cats? But why? You have so many already. Surely you don't mean—”

“I breed cats.” Pedibastet's tone was soothing. “What did you think? There are many cat lovers in Egypt. Now, as to your master's visit—”

“Are you certain your real business is not ransoming cats?”

Pedibastet looked dumbfounded. The idea had never occurred to him although, he admitted to himself, it was definitely one to be pursued as soon as possible.

“There must be no one but fools left in Constantinople for anyone to have hired you as a servant!” he replied in exasperation. “My business is manufacturing cat mummies to sell to foreign visitors. Please leave immediately. You've wasted enough of my time!”

Peter crept out of the shop past the preserved remains of Pedibastet's pathetic victims. As he crossed the bustling square again, he noticed another promising alleyway.

He would try once more before returning to the hostelry, he decided.

The elderly servant was distraught. In retrospect it was obvious enough what the rogue's trade involved, but what Peter's reason told him, his good nature often didn't want to believe.

The narrow way he entered was populated only by a couple of strolling ibis. Peter navigated carefully around them. He heard the footsteps behind him too late, began to turn, and then the world went black.