Nine for the Devil (3 page)
“Just because Pulcheria is not a demon does not necessarily mean that your seeing her was not a sign,” said Anatolius.
“Spoken like a lawyer,” John replied.
John had spotted his long-time friend as he left the Church of the Holy Apostles. Anatolius was only in his midthirties but his curly hair, once black, had turned prematurely gray. It distressed him, John knew, but made his visage resemble even more strongly the classical Greek sculptures, bleached of color by time.
Now they sat in Anatolius’ study. The cupids Anatolius’ late mother had commissioned still cavorted on the walls. He had also retained his deceased father’s desk with a skull depicted in its tile top. He did not meet his legal clients here, but in his office.
The room was uncomfortably hot despite the screens to the garden being open. As always in the heat, John drank more wine than usual. Who didn’t? He kept adding more water until it was barely palatable, but between the heat and the wine and lack of sleep the past few days he felt as if there were a fog behind his eyes. It was an effort to speak.
Anatolius had listened to John’s account of recent events in thoughtful silence.
“I would take you spotting Pulcheria—thinking her a demon—as a sign, John. I know you don’t think that way, so consider this. A lawyer naturally gets to know what’s on people’s minds. Courtiers and senators and senators’ wives tell me things they’d never confess to a priest. Lately everyone is frightened. They’re all certain Justinian has gone mad. Theodora was his life. He has had to watch her slip away, helpless to save her despite all his power. He is not necessarily the man you knew and I would not trust him. Particularly in regards to this impossible commission he’s given you.”
“What would be your advice?”
“If you were my client? I would advise you to do what you’ve talked about for years, pack up and take Cornelia to that bucolic estate in Greece, and do it today. You won’t, of course.”
John smiled faintly. His friend knew him well. There were very few to whom he had admitted his desire to leave the city and the imperial court some day.
“If you won’t think about yourself, think about Cornelia and Europa, and that grandchild who might be squalling even as we speak,” Anatolius continued. “You may choose to live like a spartan or some holy man, but nevertheless you are a wealthy man. One day your family will inherit your lands and they may have more use for them than you do. If you fail Justinian, though, he is liable to confiscate everything.”
“I could see that if he were still being advised by the Cappadocian, but—”
“The threat is real, John.”
“The emperor takes what he wants anyway.”
“He can be thwarted. Last year I was approached by a widow, a patrician. She had heard the emperor had taken a fancy to the family estate. It was not a tremendously wealthy family. The widow and her only child, a daughter, were going to be thrown out into the street or rather, since the estate was in the country, into the nearest pasture. I transferred the estate to her daughter, giving the girl a life interest, with the property then reverting to the local bishop. Once the bishop had an interest to fight for, Justinian turned his attention elsewhere.” Anatolius frowned. “Forget your estates, John. I hate to mention it, but your family might well be at risk if you fail. Justinian seems to have lost his senses. He’s lashing out in all directions. “
“I have survived at court for a long time, Anatolius. I see no reason this time should be any different.”
“In the past your main antagonist was the empress. To deal with enemies she and the emperor did not share she had to either work her way around Justinian in secret, or come to an accommodation with her opponents. Consider Patriarch Menas, presiding over things so lugubriously at the church today. A perfectly orthodox cleric who took the place of her handpicked monophysite patriarch Anthimus. Do you think Theodora wouldn’t have breathed the fires of the Christian hell on Menas if she could have? But Justinian is orthodox and, in the end, it is Justinian’s opinion that counts. So it was Anthimus who vanished, right off the face of the earth. And now, with this investigation, it is you who are likely to find yourself up against Justinian rather than Theodora.”
John nodded. He had not told Anatolius about the emperor’s implied threat but it was easy enough to guess. “There was a time when we met you’d read me the poem you had composed for your latest love.”
“We can both be glad those days are gone.” Anatolius brushed a strand of gray hair off his forehead. “Gone, along with my glossy black locks, as someone once called them.”
“I’m sure that someone was most attractive. But you penned good verse unlike that acquaintance of yours, Crinagoras. I suppose he is still at it?”
“No. He managed to marry an aristocrat. Her father convinced Justinian to appoint Crinagoras to a position with the Master of Offices. He also lectures on lexicography at the imperial school.”
“The young lady must have had execrable taste in poetry.”
“Not so young. Her father couldn’t believe his good fortune, finally having her taken off his hands.” Anatolius ran a finger around the outline of the skull gazing eyelessly up at him from his desktop. “Funerals always make me reflect on the past and the future. On passing time.”
“The gods themselves were born of infinite time,” John replied. He wiped away a bead of sweat that trickled down the brown concavity of his cheek. A yellow butterfly found its way into the study, fluttered around the painted flowers brandished by several cupids, and recognizing nothing of interest drifted outside again.
“We don’t usually think very deeply, do we?” Anatolius mused. “I believe we’re designed not to do so. After watching Theodora consigned to eternity I’ll brood about death all afternoon and then feel foolish. Just as I’d feel foolish about how deeply I’d loved some woman after the affair ended, but perhaps that’s just me.”
“I’m surprised you never married.”
“I was always too busy falling in love to marry. And then I started late on a career so I’ve been busy catching up. Some day.” He gave John a quizzical look. “That isn’t the sort of thing you usually say.”
John laughed. “I’ve been thinking about marriages. Cornelia was explaining all of Theodora’s machinations to me. Arranging this marriage, thwarting that one. She believes such actions would give someone a motive for murder.”
“She’s right.” Anatolius raised his gaze to the ceiling thick with chubby, winged cupids. “Eros halts the dance and throws away the bridal torch, if he sees a joyless wedding.”
“Nonnus.”
“You have read his Dionysius?”
“No, but you recited a bit of it to me a while ago. His verse is much too long and turgid for me, even if he is popular.”
A portly, red-faced servant appeared in the doorway leading to the atrium. He was sweating profusely. “Sir, a young woman is here seeking your services.”
John caught a glimpse of a slim girl peering around the servant’s shoulder. Her light hair was coiled on either side of her head in a style currently fashionable at court. He got up from his seat. “I must go. I have work to carry out.”
Anatolius stood also. “Think about my advice, John.” He looked toward the doorway. “I will be with you shortly, Vesta. Why don’t you wait on the bench by the fountain? It’s cooler there.”
When the girl and the servant had vanished, Anatolius gave John a rueful grin. “The fair young ladies now only come to my house on business. Alas.”
Antonina did not look up as Vesta entered the kitchen of the city house Antonina shared with her husband Belisarius on the few occasions they were both in Constantinople together and not on campaign.
“The ingredients you requested, my lady,” the girl said, laying a fragrant basket on the table.
“You took long enough.” Antonina was stirring a pot of boiling liquid set on the brazier. “I thought you were going straight to the market. Have you obtained only the freshest? It makes a difference and if you wish to learn how to make love potions, you must take care to use only the finest herbs and flowers.”
She finally looked up, frowning, and continued. “And how is my daughter? Still thinks she’s in love with that young oaf Anastasius?”
“I’m sorry,” Vesta faltered. “But—”
“You won’t say,” Antonina replied, waving her spoon. Drops of scalding liquid fell on the other’s clothing. “You may be stupid, but you’re loyal. No wonder, if you get to wear your mistress’ jewelry!”
Vesta’s hand went to one of the dangling silver earrings hung with blue pendants.
“Her father and I gave her those earrings when she was only a baby,” Antonina said. “Valueless, in case she lost them. Just be certain you’re loyal to the right person, that’s my advice. Here, keep stirring this and don’t let it boil over. It’s a ginger preparation for ailments of the stomach.”
She examined the contents of the basket. “You didn’t get as many rose petals as I need so you’ll have to get more. If my potion wasn’t so popular with the ladies of the court I wouldn’t need your assistance.”
My assistance is an excellent opportunity to spy on your own daughter, Vesta thought, but on the other hand it also means I can tell my mistress what you say and do here. “I tried everywhere.”
Antonina laughed. “You can steal roses from the palace grounds easily enough. Go out tonight, pick as many as you can, and bring them to me.”
She paused for a heartbeat, staring out the window at the looming wall of the Hippodrome. “Now as to how to make rose water. The rose is a very prettily scented flower, sacred to Aphrodite so the pagans say. Which is probably how it came by its reputation as a kindler of love when used to anoint the skin.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“It’s effective with many men. I remember when Belisarius was—but never mind about that. Set that pot aside. I’ll give you instructions and when we have enough rose petals you can try your hand at making a batch.”
As Antonina spoke it occurred to Vesta that Belisarius would be advised to be careful what he ate and drink when home on leave. With Theodora now gone and considering Antonina’s ambitious nature, she might well be planning to conquer Justinian.
“Pay attention, Vesta!” Antonina was saying. “All you do is take several handfuls of petals and cover them with boiling water in a lidded bowl. When the mixture is cool, squeeze and remove the petals. As simple as that, but the women at court are too idle to make it themselves and too proud to admit their need of it. And that being so, they can hardly order their servants to make it for them. On the other hand, a visit to their old friend Antonina, a hint dropped, a gift given….”
A sly look came into her eyes as she continued. “Does your mistress ever use it, I wonder? After all, it inflames ebbing passions. Perhaps that betrothed of hers has a wandering eye? Has he ever made any obscene suggestions to you, Vesta?”
Vesta clenched her fists and began to wish she could poison Antonina to protect her mistress, or at the very least still the cold voice asking questions she had been ordered not to answer.
Duri
ng the night a thunderstorm broke the oppressive heat.
John and Cornelia were startled awake by the crack of a lightning bolt. The strike was near enough to rattle the lamp on the bedside table and the water clock in the corner. John leapt up in time to force the shutters closed against a gust of wind. Then the skies opened. He and Cornelia lay awake, watching flashes of light flicker through gaps between shutters and window frame and listening to rain lash at the brick facade of the house.
John could imagine sheets of water racing along the streets, wisps of straw, rotting vegetables, animal droppings, and other debris swirling and eddying into corners and soaking baked mud to a soft, clinging consistency. As the air cooled, he and Cornelia drew closer together.
Around dawn John rolled reluctantly away from her warmth. Pulling on a light tunic, he went to the window and opened the shutters. Crows strutted around the square dragging long shadows behind them, pausing to peck at morsels washed there by the night’s downpour. Their eyes glistened like the wet cobbles.
“I count nine,” John told Cornelia, as he turned away from the window. “Nine for the Deofil’s own self.”
“Deofil?” Cornelia sat up in bed.
“It’s the way they say ‘devil’ in parts of Bretania.”
Cornelia ran a hand through her tousled hair and gave John a quizzical look. “Those crows are predicting the devil?”
“It’s not much of a trick. Constantinople has always been full of them.”
“That’s why we should move to that estate in Greece, the one you plan to retire to. I wish you were leaving the city with me today for good. Maybe the crows are telling you it’s time go.” She had let the sheet fall away and sat worrying at a knot in her hair. She smiled at him to show that her remarks had been meant teasingly.
A shaft of morning light draped itself from her shoulder, across her breasts, and settled against the rumpled sheets under her thighs. John felt a momentary tightness in his chest, no different than he had felt seeing her in the light of dawn decades earlier when he was a young mercenary.
He tried not to dwell on that other life.
Cornelia said, “You remember after we had news that Europa was pregnant we walked in the garden and you saw four crows and told me that our grandchild would be a boy, because the rhyme said four was for a boy?”
“We shall soon know if the crows are accurate.”
“The day Theodora died I saw a single crow sitting on the fountain in our garden. One for sorrow, you said. But how many people were sorry Theodora was gone? I wasn’t.”
“Perhaps the prediction was not for you. Perhaps the crow was meant to be seen by someone else. By Peter.”
“What? Would Peter feel sorrow over Theodora?”
“Maybe he is destined to overcook tomorrow’s diner. That would make him unhappy.”
Cornelia had finished with her hair but she made no effort to get off the bed. “What a funny rhyme for you to carry around in your head, here in the capital so far from its home. It seems out of place.”
“Like the head it is carried in,” John said. A secret Mithran serving a Christian emperor, the son of a Greek farmer, former mercenary, former slave, a man who had traversed the empire from Bretania to Egypt and Persia. He had spent almost three decades in Constantinople. He carried a map of the city in his mind. He knew the most intimate details of the imperial court and its intrigues. Even so, he did not feel he belonged.
“I don’t remember you mentioning nine for a devil before. Is it the last verse?”
“In some versions of the rhyme.”
“Are there many versions?”
“Probably as many as you care to make up. Julius was fascinated by fortune telling. He was the friend who introduced me to Mithra. We served together in Bretania. He used to talk to the natives whenever he had a chance. At night, in camp, he’d explain to me, for instance, how I should check the colors of the caterpillars to see if we’d have a cold winter. I’m not so sure some of the peasants weren’t just amusing themselves at his expense.”
Cornelia leaned forward attentively. “You remembered all the rhymes about crows?”
“Some of them. The rain reminded me.” John turned back to the window. Crows still stalked across the cobbles but he didn’t count them. “We had had downpours for a week. If you have never been to Bretania you can’t imagine what it is like. The bitter chill, the icy fogs. Despite the cold, Julius returned from his patrol full of enthusiasm. He had struck up a conversation with an old farmer who recited this new rhyme. Others Julius knew went to seven, or to ten or eleven. This one, he said, had nine for the deofil’s own self and wasn’t that strange since there was another rhyme that had nine for a kiss. Not that women don’t sometimes turn out to be devils.”
“And did he see ever nine crows after that?”
“No. The next morning we forded a swollen stream. We must have done that a hundred times. This time he lost his balance or maybe a devil grabbed his leg and dragged him down. Before I could do anything he was carried away in the current and drowned.”
He heard a soft footstep and then Cornelia’s bare arms encircled him. He felt her warmth press against his back.
“Come back to bed, John. The carriage won’t be here for a while.”
***
Cornelia left for Zeno’s estate before the sun had warmed the air. John had requisitioned one of the imperial carriages used to transport foreign dignitaries. Mist rose from cobblestones in pearly columns. John turned away before the carriage clattered out of sight beyond the corner of the barracks across the square. He did not like farewells. Under the circumstances he was glad to have Cornelia out of the city and not within easy reach of the emperor should things go wrong with the investigation.
Peter served John bread and boiled eggs, his lips drawn tight in unspoken disapproval.
“I know what you’re thinking,” John put his cup of Egyptian wine down on the scarred table. “If the mistress were here we would be having a proper breakfast. But when I was a young mercenary without a nummus to my name I would have been happy for such excellent fare.”
“It would have been a proper breakfast indeed for a young mercenary,” Peter replied. “When I was a camp cook we usually made gruel.” He refilled John’s cup. “I intend to visit the market, master. I’m going to see if I can get a really fresh swordfish to grill.” The look he gave John was almost challenging.
“Swordfish would be excellent, Peter.” John suspected his servant had recalled his fondness for the dish and thought it would cheer him with Cornelia away.
As soon as Peter limped downstairs and shut the door with an echoing bang that emphasized the emptiness of the house, John went his study to contemplate the Gordian knot he had been ordered to unravel. He wished he could solve his problem by waving a sword at it.
He glanced up at the little girl in the wall mosaic and sighed. Years ago he had named the solemn, dark-eyed child Zoe but now knew her real name had been Agnes and she was no more alive than the cut glass from which her double and the scene around her were constructed. Despite that, he continued to think of her as Zoe and she remained his confidante.
In daylight, Zoe stood in a serene country landscape beneath billowing clouds. Later, illuminated by fitful lamplight, the cleverly angled tesserae would reflect satyrs cavorting in the fields and pagan gods rioting in the sky.
“It’s fortunate you cannot see what’s going on behind you, Zoe,” John muttered. “And equally unfortunate I’m just as blind to whatever has been happening behind my back.”
He stood at the window. The mists had evaporated, Below, excubitors went in and out of their barracks, whose rain-washed surface gleamed in strengthening sunlight. Beyond the barracks a line of cypresses marked out the perimeters of a garden, more trees embraced a small church, and in the distance lay the Sea of Marmara, above which gulls visiting from the docks and foreshore swooped to and fro.
By now the carriage bearing Cornelia away would have passed through the Golden Gate at the southern end of the city on its way to Zeno’s seaside estate. He wondered how his daughter Europa was faring, if Peter would find an acceptable swordfish, then chastised himself for permitting his thoughts to wander. Cornelia would send news in due course, Peter would doubtless find what he sought, and meanwhile he must at least organize a plan of attack for his investigation.
He couldn’t very well investigate everyone at court who had nursed a grievance against the empress, let alone everyone in Constantinople.
Who had access to Theodora’s sickroom? Not many, so that might be the place to start. But what about those who had some connection with those who had been granted access? A servant, for example, might be working for anyone at court or in the city.
Time slid away as he sank into thought. He was sitting at his desk, still pondering, when a thunderous knocking brought him to his feet. He hurried downstairs. It was Peter, laden down with a swordfish and a basket of produce.
“Thank you, master. It is hardly proper for you to let me in. I was on the wrong side of the door to open it.” Peter said as he followed John upstairs.
John was about to reply when Peter gasped. Before John could turn to catch him, Peter fell backwards. He went crashing down the stairs, coming to rest surrounded by pears and several surprisingly intact pots of honey. A large cabbage had rolled into a corner of the atrium and the swordfish reclined next to Peter’s out flung arm.
Although he lay flat on his back with his legs stretched straight toward the door, the toe of his left boot pointed at the wall. The sickening angle made it obvious that, unlike the pots of honey, Peter’s left leg was broken.
