Nine for the Devil (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

John decided to visit Theodora’s sickroom before leaving what had been her quarters. He navigated scurrying crowds of servants, eunuchs, and pages. The empress’ residence continued to function under its own momentum, mindlessly, even though its center was gone.

To John’s chagrin, Justinian’s treasurer Narses was in the sickroom, scratching a list of its contents on a wax tablet. “Justinian has ordered everything loose be packed up,” Narses told him. “If you must examine the place, please hurry.”

The dwarfish man’s fluty tone caused John to bristle. “I’ll decide how long I need, Narses.”

A sour smile flickered across Narses’ face. “As you wish. I do not want to linger here in case Justinian returns. He intends to have the room sealed. I have always been a cautious man, Lord Chamberlain. Since we are conversing in confidence, I will say that, given Justinian appears to have been deranged by Theodora’s death, I fear he might decide to entomb anyone remaining in here when it’s closed off.”

It would be ironic, John thought, if Narses proved to be correct and they were condemned to die in the same tiny room as Theodora had, watched over by the angels painted on the walls.

He did not find it very likely.

He looked around. The dismantled bed was stacked in a corner, its mattress atop it. Neatly folded bed linen lay on the chest of inlaid wood, now sitting against a wall. The marble-topped table stood beside the chest. The gilded icon still hung opposite the spot where Theodora had lain.

“What is in the chest?”

Narses shook his head. “I have not investigated, and since you are here, I’ll leave that task to you.”

John removed the bed linen and opened the chest. It was half filled with the small bottles he had seen at Theodora’s bedside. Wrapped in linen and of varying sizes, the bottles were manufactured of green or blue glass. So far as he could tell, all had been washed. Had any original contents remained, the normal procedure would have been to feed them to dogs taken off the street to gauge the effects.

“You won’t find the culprit hiding in there,” Narses remarked.

John ignored the comment.

“I have given the matter some thought,” Narses continued, “and it is evident anyone near the emperor—need I point out that includes both of us?—is not going to be safe until his desire for revenge has been satisfied. Who knows in which direction he will lash out once his first grief has worn off?”

“I can only attempt to do as ordered,” John replied. He was aware of the cloying fragrance Narses used to scent his robes filling the confined space.

“If the empress was poisoned, even if you had a suspect, how can you prove the act? I am going to give you good advice, Lord Chamberlain. Everyone has enemies. Name someone. Anyone. Then let the imperial torturers discover the evidence.”

“Enough innocent blood has been spilt because of the empress. I will not add to it.”

“It is unwise to speak so freely at any time, and especially at this time.”

John continued to unpack the chest. A set of ceramic pots came under scrutiny. These too had been scoured clean.

“Nothing to be learned here in my opinion,” Narses commented. “But having done my duty I must hasten back to my office and leave you to continue. I hope you find something useful, for both our sakes. But when you don’t, remember my advice.”

John gave a curt farewell without looking up. He delved further into the chest. There remained only one last layer, carefully-wrapped bulkier items placed lowest that they might not crush delicate glassware or pots. First out was a large earthenware receptacle, a kind of bowl. A wash basin perhaps. There was also a lidded ceramic jar. It bore the stamp of the imperial kitchens on the bottom. It may have held olives because what appeared to be an olive tree was embossed in its side.

Setting the jar aside, he next removed an alabaster casket decorated with a pastoral motif. Gentle-faced sheep grazed on a hill, guarded by a youthful shepherd. An allegorical scene. The contents of the casket proved to be far removed from the pleasant country setting, for it contained a collection of jewelry. The dull light quenched its glitter as he examined a few pieces: amethysts strung on a finely-worked gold necklace, a pair of crescent earrings supporting three chains of pearls apiece, a set of silver bracelets decorated with cloisonné enameling.

Had Theodora kept the jewelry close at hand to admire or had she insisted on wearing it, deathly ill and all but unrecognizable as she had become?

Free of its wrappings, the final artifact was revealed to be a plain silver bell. No doubt it had been used to summon attendants sitting in the corridor.

John gave the bell an experimental flourish.

As if summoned by its sweet, piercing tone Justinian opened the door and stepped into the room.

Chapter Twelve

As John left the palace grounds and walked along the Mese the image of Justinian’s haunted face accompanied him. Had the emperor, passing by the sickroom, opened the door at the summons of the bell? Or had he simply stepped into the room by chance at the instant John had rung it? Was he startled to find John there? Had he expected to see the wife he had buried two days before, still alive, ringing for assistance?

John thought he noticed the emperor’s face change when he saw who was in the room. But the transformation occurred so rapidly John could not be sure what had been replaced. Had hope given way to disappointment? Joy to grief? By the time John fully registered Justinian’s entrance there was nothing to be seen except the usual tired, flaccid mask.

John was left with the impression that there had been another face an instant before, perhaps not entirely human.

He had to admit that Narses was probably right. The emperor was in such a disturbed state of humors that he could lash out in any direction, including in John’s, or, more importantly, in the direction of John’s family.

John had excused himself quickly, explaining to the emperor he was on his way to an interview in furtherance of his investigation. It was true. He wanted to speak to a friend and informant of long-time acquaintance about Kuria, the attendant Theodora had plucked from a brothel. There was nothing his friend Madam Isis did not know about the city’s brothels.

He could not help but think of her as Madam Isis, though the nature of her establishment had changed within the past year. The building, set in a semicircular courtyard accessible through a nondescript archway, had been one of the best houses in the city, according to both its mistress and such of its patrons who frequented the palace and were wont to brag about their vices.

Now the gilded Eros which had guarded the entrance had been replaced with a gilded cross. Gone from the long, door-lined corridor beyond were the explicit mosaic plaques announcing the services available in each cubicle. The previous summer the place had displayed lewd statuary, colorful wall paintings, and a staff of scantily silk-clad girls. Now it boasted only whitewashed walls relieved by a few stern icons.

Of the original luxury there remained only the overstuffed couch in Isis’ private apartments, on which John took his accustomed seat, and the polished wood desk where she kept her accounts.

The plump former madam smiled from her chair by the desk. She looked much older without the make-up she had habitually worn and her extravagant silks replaced by white linen robes. “You look a bit uncomfortable John. Does my new vocation bother you? We’re friends, remember, from back in our days in Alexandria.”

It was an long-standing jest. They had both passed through Alexandria many years before but their paths had never crossed, so far as John recalled. Nevertheless, Isis insisted on regaling John with reminiscences of their meetings there, embroidering her tales with surprising details. John had never decided whether she had confused him with someone else, possessed a better memory, or whether she just automatically employed her former profession’s skill for creating a greater intimacy than really existed. Whatever the answer, however, their years of residence in Constantinople had brought about a genuine friendship between them.

“I was surprised to hear about your change of direction,” John told her. “How is your new enterprise faring?”

“Very well, John. But why would you be surprised, of all people? First a mercenary, then a slave, and now Lord Chamberlain. Isn’t that the way of the world? It isn’t like the old days. Today we’re free to change our social positions. Justinian was a farmer’s son. Theodora was a working girl.”

“I understand she was pleased to see her reform efforts succeed so well.”

“She gave me her personal commendation.”

“Has it helped to pay the bills?”

Isis tapped a naked finger on the codex lying open on her desk. The lack of rings on her wrinkled hands struck John as startling, almost embarrassing, considering the amount of jewelry she had always worn. “My accounts have never been better. Remember my big golden Eros? A private collector gave me a very good price for it, and a bishop donated those angry-looking icons you doubtless noticed.”

“I never thought of you as…” He broke off, not wanting to offend.

“As a Christian? I can’t blame you, but then again I am not the person you knew last year, let alone all those decades ago in Egypt. We all change. Well, perhaps not you, John.” She leaned back in her chair and fixed her gaze on him. “Look at me, my friend. You see what I am now, without paint or gems. An old woman. When I was just another girl working for that dreadful man in a mud brick hovel down a side alley in Alexandria, I was already planning for the future when I would own my own establishment. I accomplished that. Now the time has come to make other plans.”

“So the change is a matter of business? You are investing in your soul rather than the goods of the world?”

“I have not given up putting aside a few coins. My refuge owns several shops around the city and I intend to convert this building for similar trade soon.”

John asked what her penitents would sell.

“For one thing we do a brisk trade in wonders. Salamander eggs, stone curls of hair from victims of Medusa, strings that once sang in Apollo’s harp, that sort of thing. Visitors to the city like to buy them to take home. Currently there’s a lot of interest in amulets. We make them here, but you don’t need to mention that to anyone.”

“What would your kindly bishop think?”

Isis brought her hand up to her mouth and her eyes widened. “Oh, my. You don’t think anyone takes our goods seriously, do you? It’s all in fun, like reading about Homer’s gods, not that I ever had any amusement reading Homer.” She let her hand drop and her full, unpainted lips quirked in a smile. “There was one patron who thought it pleasurable for a naked, nubile girl to read to him the battles between the heroes in the Iliad while he—”

John held up a hand. “Please don’t give me the details. For all I know it’s some official I might need to deal with at court. I’m glad to hear you’re doing well, Isis, though I can’t believe salamander eggs are as popular as the services your house used to provide.”

“Remember, John, shops are less expensive to run. No need to hire doormen and brawny fellows to deal with the results of inflamed passions. No polishing statuary or cleaning floors and bedding. I don’t have to buy silks or make-up for my girls. And you can’t imagine how much medical care cost me. The pessaries, the procedures to correct mistakes made by my careless employees. Not to mention bribing the urban watch and the magistrates.”

“Indeed. And was this why I sometimes saw your girls dressed like penitents begging in front of the Baths of Zeuxippos?”

Isis made a clucking sound of disapproval. “They never begged with my permission! Nor do we beg now. However, I’m happy to say the faithful are inclined to make donations. Imagine when a grand aristocrat or powerful office holder opens his door and sees the poor child he carnally abused now dressed in the garments of a penitent. The same sweet lips those wretched men damned their souls to kiss remind them how to save themselves from the fiery pit. What could be more fitting? Some of them weep with gratitude as they promise to remember my refuge in their wills.”

John couldn’t help smiling. “And your girls are happy with their new occupations?”

“There you are wrong. Some—the newer ones—complain they have to work too hard and have too little time to themselves. And they miss their silks. The older ones, who have seen what the life can lead to, are happier with the change.”

“Which reminds me of what I intended to ask you,” John said. “Do you know of a former working girl named Kuria, who became an attendant to Theodora?”

Isis’ face hardened. “Yes. Kuria was one of my girls. Theodora noticed her when she visited here to give her official blessing to my refuge. She brought an enormous retinue. They descended on us like an army of shining angels. If you’d sold the clothes off their backs you would have made enough to build a church. When she spotted Kuria she insisted the girl return to the palace with her.”

“Why did Theodora single her out?”

“For the same reason many of my patrons singled her out. She has an aristocratic bearing. She was a favorite with a number of men from the palace. One of my more lucrative girls, in fact. But her patrons were so generous to her she became rather spoilt, which always causes difficulties. I was pleased to be rid of her.”

An aristocratic bearing? Isis’ words did not describe the hunched, sobbing girl John had spoken to in the gardens. But then any of the pampered ladies of the court would disintegrate in tears if suddenly forced to fend for themselves, a task for which none of them was prepared.

“You would not want to take her back?”

“No,” Isis replied firmly. “And she knows it. Not an hour before the empress arrived I had decided to discharge her. Do I sound harsh? You know I look after my girls like a mother, John, but she slashed the face of a rival. It was an argument over a favorite patron. It cost me a great deal for medical treatment for her victim, who was left with a bad scar. It happened shortly before I left that life and took my girls with me. The whole story only came out afterwards. If I had known, I would have put her out at once. I never condoned violent behavior. And girls who are prone to jealously over men are jealous about everything. I am sure Kuria would have caused trouble even in our refuge.”

John could not imagine the beaten-down girl he had met fighting a rival. It showed how misleading quickly formed impressions could be.

Isis leaned forward and placed a hand on John’s knee. “Let’s not talk about business. I was just remembering that time in Egypt. The horrible man I worked for insulted me. Do you remember what you did?”

John smiled. “No, I confess I do not. Did I act rashly? Remind me.”

***

All the way back home John tried to recall the incident Isis had described. How could he forget emptying a jug of scorpions into someone’s bed?

It struck him he had a vague recollection of Isis and himself creeping around dark alleys collecting the scorpions. Then again, hadn’t she told him that story at length during earlier visits? Didn’t the alleys he recalled have the perfumed scent of Isis’ private rooms?

Though he could have employed a carriage or a litter or taken a horse from the imperial stables, John usually preferred to walk. Constantinople was not large. He had often been advised that it wasn’t safe to traverse the streets without a bodyguard, but having fought from one end of the empire to the other there was nothing in Constantinople that frightened him. Besides, he thought best while on his feet. Walking also gave him the chance to observe the mood of the city. One did not overhear conversations while clattering along in a carriage.

What he observed during this walk was not especially enlightening. The city invariably grew tense when change loomed. People spoke more loudly. They argued. They debated what might happen—was the empire doomed or was it worse than that? The factions did not seem to be out in force, the so-called Greens and Blues, supporters of competing chariot teams, gaudily dressed young men whose increased presence in the street signaled violence to come the way flocks of gulls in the squares announced storms approaching from the sea. That was good news.

The news at home was not so good.

John saw tears in Hypatia’s eyes when she opened the door. Was it Peter? Or had there been bad news from Cornelia?

“Gaius has been here,” Hypatia said. “He told me Peter isn’t doing well. The fall was a blow to his system. He said falls are the beginning of the end for many elderly people.”

John felt a rush of relief. For an instant he had steeled himself to hear that he had lost his grandchild or his daughter. Immediately the relief was replaced by guilt, for Peter was also a family member.

Hypatia wiped at her eyes. “He seemed fairly well this morning. We were talking about old times. He was threatening to chop onions in bed. Then he dozed off and slept a long time. He didn’t respond when I tried to wake him. I was ready to go and get Gaius when he arrived to see how Peter was.”

“When was Gaius here?” John asked her.

“He just left.”

“I’ll see if I can catch him. Try not to worry about Peter. What’s true for many isn’t necessarily true for a tough old boot like him.”

As the door shut behind him and he hurried across the square, John wished he believed his own reassuring words.