Two for Joy (11 page)

He had just decided to go indoors and find out when an indistinct figure drifted like a white mist towards him, having appeared from behind a large clump of lavender bushes.

“Philo! What are you doing?”

“My apologies to be barging about your flower beds, John. I seem to have lost my path in the dark.”

“My garden lately seems to offer all the privacy of the Forum Constantine. No matter,” John said quickly, hearing in the philosopher’s long pause the promise of a lengthy classical quotation that would be trotted out as surely as the flight of an arrow follows the groan of the bow. “Were you looking for me?”

“Yes. There’s something I wish to ask you.”

“Well, come inside and we can talk about it.”

Philo instead lowered himself onto the bench. “No, I prefer that we discuss it out here. It’s a matter I wanted to mention this morning, but I didn’t think it proper with that inquisitive servant of yours flapping his ears so obviously.”

A cold breeze rustled the shrubbery, bringing with it a hint of frost as well as the sweetly clinging scent of the herb. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be brief, Philo,” John said. “It grows cool and I’d like to warm my hands. What is it?”

He could barely see Philo fidgeting, smoothing down the baggy himation that had been disordered by his stumbling progress through the bushes. His white hair and beard and pale clothing gave him a spectral appearance.

“It is this, John,” he finally said, choosing his words with care. “As I was talking to people in the street during my investigations, I was shocked to hear the way some of them spoke. More than one beggar referred to the empress as ‘Theodora from the Brothel.’ They didn’t even seem to intend it is an insult.”

“What is it you want to ask?” asked John, suspecting he had already guessed.

“And others referred to the Lord Chamberlain as ‘John the Eunuch’.”

“It is true, Philo,” John confirmed, wondering how Philo, who was more used to dealing with perfect and ethereal ideas than disorderly physical reality, would react.

Philo noted only that John had said nothing to him about it.

“Why would I? If you ever left your bed early enough to attend the baths when I do, you would have known. And your next question will doubtless be ‘how?’”

“I am truly sorry, John.”

The Lord Chamberlain no longer felt cold. Anger flushed his cheeks. “I will spare you the details, Philo. In short, you may recall I was a less than diligent student. Finally I took your advice and left the Academy to see the world. The world, it happened, was home to a woman with whom I fell in love. One night I determined I would seek a special gift for her. But unfortunately in my search, I strayed over the border.”

Philo’s clothing rustled as he shifted uneasily on the hard bench throughout John’s sparse account of his capture and subsequent fate.

“There is, as you probably know, a market for castrated men,” John concluded, “and to slave traders a captive’s value is measured only in nomismata, not in whether there is a woman who loves him or not. Or whether he is soon to be a father, even if he does not know it at the time. And so I was prepared for market.

“That young man, Cornelia’s lover, the son of a mother and father, the father of a daughter, your student, the former mercenary, all that that man was died when the curved blade did its work. A new being was born then and has lived on to become this eminent personage whose hospitality you sought out under the mistaken belief that you once knew him.”

“An interesting theory,” Philo said gruffly, “but I do not think we can shed our past as easily as you appear to believe. However, I now clearly see why you have been attracted to a god as austere as Mithra, since he is a deity who values the uncomplaining endurance of hardship.”

John did not reply, contemplating Philo’s insight, but his old tutor, as usual, quickly filled the silence.

“I cannot help seeing the irony in this terrible tale, John. It’s well-known that eunuchs are valued precisely because their lack of family insures their loyalty to their masters, yet you say you have a daughter…”

“I will not speak further of my past.” John’s voice was colder than the breeze wandering through the garden.

Philo apologized for his tactlessness. “You say you departed the Academy because of my advice?” he continued thoughtfully. “If so, I feel a great deal of responsibility for the tragedy that befell you.”

“You did not wield the blade. It was not your fault. Nor, for that matter, was it mine, either for taking your advice or losing my way in a foreign land. The fault lies solely in the hearts of those who would take from a man everything he is for the sake of getting a few more coins for him when they sell him into slavery.”

“But are you not surrounded by such heartless men in this very city? Even if they do not trade in human flesh, still…you even serve beside them at court.”

“Your old student may not have approved, Philo. But remember, that impetuous youth died long ago.”

Chapter Eight

An hour or two before the banquet, Anatolius
stopped by the palace office where he spent most
of his work days. He was surprised to find Empress Theodora glancing through the correspondence piled on the plain wooden desk.

He stood quietly just inside the doorway. If he did not know Theodora he might have mistaken her for one of Isis’ girls playing the part of an empress. Caught unaware, she was simply a short, attractive woman, her complexion carefully lightened by chalk, her deep set eyes accentuated by artful application of kohl, as if she depended upon enticement to work her will, rather than command. Surely the smooth pearls glistening along the edge of her mantle must be milky glass droplets, the brooches pinning her elaborately draped silk robes more common stones cleverly aping emeralds.

Yes, he thought as Theodora looked up from the untidy pile of letters and fixed him with a cold gaze like an adder’s, it would be an extremely easy mistake to make. And a fatal one.

“The emperor will not be needing your assistance today,” Theodora began. “I am here to retrieve your draft of his reply to the bishop of Antioch but it does not seem to be among these documents.”

Anatolius did not tell her he had not been expected, having been excused from his duties on account of the banquet. “I do not recall seeing that, highness, but I have some copying to do today, so if I discover it I will have it carried to Justinian immediately. I trust the emperor is well?”

“Do not concern yourself. The emperor isn’t ill. He is engaged in composing a theological treatise seeking to reconcile these Michaelites’ curious beliefs with more orthodox views.” Theodora’s lovely mouth curled into a sickle of a smile. “A difficult exercise, I would imagine.”

And one with which she would have no sympathy whatsoever, thought Anatolius, for she was a well-known champion of the Monophysites, despite the fact that their theology was also less than orthodox.

“A challenge worthy of our beloved emperor’s wisdom,” he replied tactfully. “It is far better to reconcile our philosophies than to shed blood. The pen can defeat the sword if wielded with sufficient skill.”

“Now you declaim like the emperor.” Theodora’s smile turned into a small grimace of disappointment. She moved away from the desk and Anatolius found himself enveloped in her scent, so like a summer garden after rain, the smell of musky blossoms and damp earth. “And indeed I confess that it is a statement I could almost wish to see tested on the floor of the Hippodrome, kalamos against spatha.”

Anatolius tried to suppress a shudder. Even the most extravagant whims of the imperial couple had a nasty way of becoming reality.

Theodora laughed and lowered her darkened eyelids. “Don’t worry, Anatolius. I would not want to see those black rebellious curls matted with dust and blood.”

She reached out and touched his hair. Anatolius could not be certain whether the ice he felt brush his temple was one of the empress’ rings or her flesh.

“I appreciate your…uh…kind thought, highness,” he stammered.

Theodora gave a girlish laugh. “And now, tell me, where is my poem, Anatolius? I have been waiting.”

With panic the young man recalled the scurrilous verse which had so alarmed his father. “Your poem?”

“Why do you look so surprised? Every lady at court has had a verse, and not a few of the servants as well by all I hear. Have you then nothing left for your empress?”

Anatolius’ relief was short-lived. Theodora took another step toward him, bringing her near enough so he could feel the warmth of her breath, faintly fragrant with some spice exotic beyond his experience and certainly one not to be found in the public markets or even at the table of a senator. She was wearing a heavy gold necklace, a chain of interlocking dolphins. Were those kindly sea creatures not said to bring good fortune? Perhaps not for him, not under these circumstances. He stared at the faint pulse in her slim white neck.

“If it is the wish of the empress I would welcome the opportunity to compose a panegyric.”

“A panegyric? They are for emperors and architecture. I would prefer a love poem,” she pouted.

“As you command, highness.”

“And not about the empress bare either.”

Anatolius tried to reply but could not. He half expected the tread of military boots in the hallway and the prod of iron between his shoulder blades announcing he was to be hauled off to the dungeons.

But Theodora just laughed again. Not a girlish laugh this time but the coarse sort of guffaw sometimes heard emanating from behind closed doors at Isis’ house.

“Oh, don’t worry, I quite enjoyed your little verse. But your evocation of my talents left something to be desired. Perhaps your sensibilities are much too delicate, Anatolius. But a pretty love poem, that’s what I’ll have from you.”

Her slightly upturned face was near to his. He knew he must back away from her. Were Justinian to arrive at the door there would be no time for explanation. But he could not force himself to move, even though his heart pounded with fear.

“It is indeed a pity,” she whispered, her piquant breath hot against his face, “that you are presently spoken for. I am sorely tempted to inform the lady’s husband and claim you for myself.”

Anatolius stared at her lips, stained fashionably red, the furtive movements of her tongue visible behind dainty teeth. Then she leaned forward and her lips touched his so lightly he would wonder afterwards if he had only imagined it. Before he could respond she was turning away towards the door.

“The poem, dear Anatolius,” she said, firmly. “You won’t forget, will you?”

He was left alone with the wraith of her perfume.

In a daze, he moved to the cluttered desk where he would sit writing as Justinian restlessly paced the small room, dictating letters carried by imperial couriers to all corners of the empire. Clearly the empress was playing with him. But to what end? Had his verse angered her so much? Was he to be made to suffer before his inevitable demise? Or did she have some other purpose?

He forced himself to look quickly through the correspondence on his desk. Her scent seemed to cling to him, reminding him that it was everywhere rumored that the empress’ lovers were often of a much lower class than a senator’s son. But a senator’s son…

Immediately Anatolius was horrified that he could even allow himself such speculation. Perhaps it would be safer were he, like John, beyond such unthinkable folly. He became aware of the sour odor of his sweat.

He found the missive he sought and sat thankfully down.

His hand trembled as he put kalamos to a scrap of parchment. An errant blob of ink spidered across one corner of the original document. It did not matter, Anatolius told himself as he started to work. All John needed was a verbatim copy of the first message delivered from Michael.

***

Hektor the court page was bored. It was his job, along with the other boys who served as pages, to ornament Justinian’s court. Elaborately and fancifully dressed, lounging and strolling about the palace and its grounds, they served their emperor as small, glittering gems in the splendid tapestry of imperial power, tales of whose splendor awed ambassadors would carry back to their distant homelands.

“For all its vast magnificence, the Great Church would be but a dark cavern if not for the ten thousand lamps burning inside,” the Master of the Offices had told the boys. “Likewise, each one of you is a shining lamp in your emperor’s court.”

The pompous old fool had not added that pretty perfumed boys could also perform certain services for palace officials that shining lamps, not to mention in many cases the officials’ wives, could or would not.

However, the religious zealots camped on the other side of the Golden Horn were casting a gloomy shadow into the palace. Receptions were delayed, banquets cancelled and foreign emissaries sent away while court officials prowled about with long faces. It was as if that ghastly holy man was already in charge, thought Hektor.

So he was bored—and that usually heralded trouble.

Already he had painted and repainted his face and tried on four different garments before making his final choice of finery for the day. Then he had ruined his azure tunic by lying in ambush in one of the palace gardens for a hour, hoping to catch the small brown cat he had seen hunting there. No doubt a captive cat would have afforded the inventive boy an hour or two of pleasure. However, the animal had not hunted that morning. Perhaps it had succumbed to religious fever and rejected meat, as had the emperor long ago.

He wandered idly through the well-kept grounds until he arrived at the menagerie, not far from the stables. Most of the enclosures were empty, the imperial couple having temporarily lost interest in exotic fauna, but the largest cage was still occupied.

The boy snapped a branch from one of the carefully pruned ornamental trees clustered nearby and banged it furiously at its bars.

“Hey, Felix!” he shrieked, that being the name he had given the caged bear.

The shaggy animal shifted sluggishly in its shady corner and emitted a half-hearted deep rumble. It seemed hardly more awake than a mosaic.