Mary Reed: Six for Gold

“It would be as well I don’t take that journey until you’ve heard what I have to say, or I can guarantee you’ll be following me shortly.” Anatolius had to raise his voice to be heard over the unintelligible chanting of a hirsute fellow in a bright yellow loincloth sitting nearby.

“You are clearly deranged, young man. Your threats are but empty words. Still, I am bound to listen to those who seek an audience.”

He grabbed Anatolius’ elbow and directed him through an archway to an atrium whose walls were lined with classical statues, and beyond that into what had once been a series of private baths. The walls which had separated baths from changing rooms and exercise areas had been torn down, leaving an empty marble box illuminated by light from the apertures in several domes. Former rooms were marked by the marble benches, tables and statuary which had been left sprouting incongruously from the floor. Many of these traces of former glory formed the basis for the same sort of crude dwellings to be seen in the corridor. Some enterprising lodgers had made homes out of the dry bath basins by laying boards over them.

“Renovation work here is unfortunately not one of Justinian’s priorities,” Crispin remarked. “He’d much rather build something new and magnificent. Now, why have you returned? More pilgrim flasks, is it? You strike me as an aristocrat, but no one here recalls a bald-headed fop dressed in peacocks. At least you’re a more convincing fraud than that big red-headed oaf with whom you say you’re working.”

“Then you’ve met my friend?”

“Not necessarily. Might it not be that he’s been described to me? Your blundering acquaintance pretended to knowledge he did not have, as I told you at our last interview. I repeat I have no business which involves you, nor am I in need of whatever services either of you propose to offer.”

“Did it not occur to you that I might not be a friend of orthodoxy? You suppose my associate and I are selling you our sealed lips. You think we know nothing, but there are certain matters of which we are aware, which we may be persuaded to reveal at the appropriate time. The question is to whom?”

This appeared to give Crispin pause. “So now you pretend to offer…what?”

Anatolius decided to test the conclusions he’d made.

Mithra, let the words be right, he prayed, and then began.

“I understand your suspicions. After all, Senator Symacchus’ servant Achilles died because his careless mouth alerted my friend to a certain matter. Then the senator was murdered because he was thought to have become untrustworthy in that his servant should never have known anything about the affair in the first place.”

“You and your associate have some strange notions.” Crispin delivered his retort in even tones, but Anatolius thought he detected a slight movement in the narrow face, as if the bishop’s jaw tightened. “I am a guest of our beloved empress, who shares my religious views, as everyone knows. I would not seek to offend her in any way, let alone engage in any sort of matter. What is it you’re talking about? You have been vague about the details, I notice.”

“Let me be plain. You were able to convert Symacchus to your religious views. Justinian sent him to you to argue theology, but the senator was a well-read man, open to new ideas. I believe his late wife, being Egyptian, was herself a monophysite, so naturally he would already have some sympathy for that point of view.” Anatolius could see from the expression in Crispin’s eyes that his deductions were correct. He pressed on. “More importantly, like you, I move among those who share the same beliefs.”

“Then I congratulate you on your courage in remaining in the city, young man. However, you have yet to state this business of yours.”

“Symacchus was seeking a relic in which you had an interest,” Anatolius went on. “The man I know was to assist in this quest, but before he received his instructions, the senator was murdered. When we met recently, I showed you an artifact similar to that which my colleague was to use to establish his identity to the senator’s intermediary.”

He paused. “Although you tried to conceal the fact, it was obvious the token was familiar to you. I realized you would wish to appear ignorant to see if despite your assumed indifference and advice to depart the city I returned to offer our assistance. And here I am.”

“Have more wine, Melios! You’re not going to let a dead sheep cast a pall over the festivities, are you?” Zebulon gestured to Hapymen, who promptly filled the headman’s cup from a blue glass jug.

Melios’ gathering in honor of his esteemed visitor, John, Lord Chamberlain to Emperor Justinian, had been under way for some time. However, to judge by Melios’ demeanor the departed animal might have been bleeding to death in the middle of the table. The headman, though dressed for the occasion in a voluminous toga and Egyptian wig, looked glum.

John wished he could reveal what he’d deduced, but it would have to wait a little longer.

Melios was flanked by John, Zebulon, the traveler Thorikos, and several middle-aged men in expensive garments, who had been introduced to John as wealthy local landowners. They sat at one of three tables of unmatched heights arranged to form three sides of a square.

Eye-watering smoke drifted from ill-trimmed wicks in silver lamps set around the room. Beneath the odor of cooked meats, spices, and fruit lay the less appetizing smell of too many guests dining in too small a space.

John glanced around the noisy gathering. Dedi was missing. Naturally, he would not be welcome, and neither would Scrofa the tax assessor. Apollo was not present either. Perhaps one did not invite itinerant beekeepers to formal banquets any more than one invited women.

John mentioned his surprise that Porphyrios was nowhere to be seen.

“Such stories he tells about the races in the Hippodrome,” put in Thorikos. “He could entertain us half the night.”

“He was invited but declined, excellency.” Zebulon answered for Melios, then changed the subject. “Barley beer is excellent for every day, but for celebrations we have something much better. This pomegranate wine is made on the estate. Isn’t that right, Melios?”

Melios drained his cup and set it down awkwardly. It tipped over, spilling a few drops of wine and several soggy petals, an ingredient not present in John’s cup.

“Aren’t those lotus blossoms?” asked Thorikos. “Do they perhaps guard against headaches caused by too much wine? I’ve been having the most dreadful headaches.”

Zebulon placed a finger to his lips. “Be discreet, my friend. I minister to the soul, but there are times when the body must be cared for just as much. Let us not be overly critical of our host for seeking to enhance the soporific effect of what he’s imbibing.”

“You may recall I had a wine-importing business,” Thorikos remarked to John. “There was never any call for Egyptian wine. Wretched stuff, generally speaking. Now I see how it can be made palatable.”

The mixture of wine and petals seemed to gradually lighten Melios’ mood even if it did not make his eyelids heavier. He began to speak in slurred tones about his visit to the empire’s capital and his opinions of various classical authors.

John, whose preference for less elaborate dishes gave him a distaste for the rich and over-spiced offerings at imperial banquets, enjoyed the comparatively plain fare.

Melios’ guests, having already been served platters of smoked fish and lentils, followed by roasted quails garnished with fat cucumbers and chopped lettuce, had just completed consuming a concoction described to John as moon fish sauced by mulberries.