Mary Reed: Seven for a Secret

Oblivious, the cemetery caretaker continued. “They don’t want their respectable dead anywhere near who knows what. Lord Chamberlain indeed! If the Lord Chamberlain arranged for the likes of her to be buried then Timothy the baker over here ruled Persia when he wasn’t at his ovens.”

He gave a hoarse laugh and patted the grave marker he stood beside. “I have my own troubles. Can’t see too well, but mind now, I know every dip and bend of this cemetery. Them that try to dig up the dead find that out soon enough. I can make my way better in the dark than they can when the sun is high. Or rather I could before all them new graves appeared. Still, I’ll soon learn my way around again.”

John observed the recent visitation of the plague must have meant many more interments than in past years.

The other agreed. “I’ve had a busy time, keeping an eye on new burials. Fresh earth makes for easier digging, and there’s less chance they’ve been robbed already.”

“I’m sure you’ve kept a close watch on this grave,” John said. “Has anyone visited?”

The caretaker emitted a wheezing snort. “Who’d visit such a one except you two? If that’s really what you’re up to. Or maybe her good friend the Lord Chamberlain? Do you know, in the course of my duties I once met a man who claimed he was the Lord Chamberlain. It’s my belief he was a rogue intent on stealing bones to pass off as saints’ relics.”

He paused. “There’s quite a brisk trade in relics. Every church in the city is filled with them and more than a few might have come from this cemetery if the truth be told, but not while I have kept watch. Anyhow, I was about to haul the fellow I was telling you about off to the authorities when a cat rescued him. Yes, it leapt right at me and that supposed Lord Chamberlain got away. Perhaps the cat was a demon. Perhaps they were both demons. Perhaps the real Lord Chamberlain is a demon. They do say the emperor is a demon and walks about the palace at nights with no face. Take care, my friends. Don’t linger until night falls.”

Chuckling to himself with a sound akin to a hoarse crow, the pale guardian of the dead turned and shuffled off without a word of farewell, dusty tunic flapping around spindly legs.

Cornelia stared at John.

John gave a thin smile. “Yes, I was the man he remembers. It was during the time I was investigating my friend Leukos’ murder. I came to visit the grave.”

They walked to Leukos’ simple tomb, a vault which was in reality nothing more than a thin layer of plaster over a mound of dirt.

John felt the faint breath of a breeze against his face. He was aware of the almost imperceptible trembling of grass at his feet, forming a contrast to the stillness of the denizens of the cemetery he could see in his imagination, the stillness of his friend who had been gone for seven years already.

“So many things in the present point back to the past,” John observed. “When we’re young, everything leads to the future.”

“It depends on what direction you turn your gaze, doesn’t it?”

John laughed softly. “You prove my point. You’ve just reminded me of those nights in Egypt. Remember while the rest of the troupe slept, we’d lie in our tent and ponder Marcus Aurelius?”

“And wonder whether we were the only couple within a week’s ride who were lying in their tent discussing Marcus Aurelius!”

“I’d wager we were the only couple consisting of a Greek mercenary and a bull leaper who discussed him.”

“You never knew any other bull leapers?”

“No one else has recreated that ancient sport as far as I know. The skill was lost. To the past.”

“How long had you been in Alexandria before we met?” Cornelia asked with an innocent look.

“Only a day or two,” he replied, suppressing a smile. He added, in response to the unspoken question, “Not enough time to drink the dust out if my throat, much less warm a woman’s bed.”

As they arrived home, John and Cornelia were greeted by the sound of Peter lustily singing a lewd marching song. His off key rendition continued to drift downstairs as they stood in the atrium, a sure sign the old servant was as deaf to their entrance as he was to the effect of his own painfully out-of-tune vocalization.

“It’s livelier than that morbid old hymn written by Justinian,” Cornelia remarked. She ran a hand through her dark hair. “I really must visit the baths. My hair feels like a gorse bush and I’m dustier than the belly of a cart ox.”

“I’d be happy to escort you.”

“Why, John? I’m perfectly used to going out and about by myself, you know that.”

“It makes me uneasy,” John admitted. “I’ve been contemplating engaging a bodyguard for you.”

Cornelia put her hand on John’s arm. “Better yet, you might consider having that private bath in the back of the house put back in working order.”

“Would you like that?” He glanced up the wooden staircase in the direction of the singing, which had continued unabated. “Its mosaics scandalize Peter.”

“Considering those lyrics he’s been treating us to ever since we arrived, I doubt it! You wouldn’t have to go to the Baths of Zeuxippos every day if you had your own put in order. It would make a change, bathing with someone other than Anatolius and half the population of Constantinople.”

John smiled. “True, although I would still attend to use the gymnasium regularly. I’ll engage the necessary workmen.”

“Thank you. And don’t follow me at what you hope is a discreet distance, John.”

Noting her expression, John ruefully agreed not to attempt the subterfuge.

After Cornelia had gone, John loped upstairs and paused at the kitchen door. Despite its open window, the room was warm, heated by a glowing brazier. The aroma of savory lamb and pine nuts hung in the air, drifting over the pungent smell of onions.

Peter looked up with a start from his chopping. His marching song turned miraculously into a hymn in mid-verse. Then he stopped singing. “Master, I didn’t hear you. I should have attended the door.”

His distress was evident. John suspected it had as much to do with the tacit admission of increasing deafness than any lack of attention to household duties.

“Do you wish me to bring wine to the study?”

“No, I can help myself. Continue with your cooking.” John filled the cup that sat beside the jug on the scarred table at which Peter was working. “Peter, Cornelia tells me you refuse to accept her help in the kitchen.”

“That is so, master. I feel it is not the place of the mistress to work as a servant. I have never proved incapable of carrying out my duties.” The servant ducked his head to continue his work, but his hurt expression was not lost on John.

“Of course not,” John replied. “But with another person in residence and Hypatia working elsewhere, there is more work for you to carry out.”

John thought Peter looked uncommonly haggard. The lines in his leathery face appeared deeper and his wrists thinner. As he stepped away from the table to stir the pot bubbling on the brazier he looked unsteady. It would be difficult to persuade him to undertake fewer duties. It might be possible to arrange for Hypatia to return. Peter might be more amenable to accepting help from her. He would do whatever he was ordered to, but John did not wish to injure the old servant’s pride.

“There’s no need for you to try to do more than you can manage, Peter. As I’ve said before, you will always have a place here whether you can work or not.”

Peter’s lips tightened. He kept stirring. His spoon clanged against the side of the pot. “If I can’t earn my keep, master, I will end my days in a monastery!”