Mary Reed: Six for Gold

John noted the slight emphasis Nikodemos had placed on certain words.

Sun god. Raven. Heaven’s runners.

All of them connected with his own god, Mithra, the Lord of Light whose cult was popular with military men and former military men such as John.

Cornelia had mentioned Captain Nikodemos was also one such.

“I wouldn’t want to be a runner in this sun,” John replied. “Rather I’d seek shelter underground.”

Nikodemos looked relieved. “It’s true then. You are a follower too.”

“How did you know?”

“I overheard the big bear of an excubitor who escorted you on board mention Mithra.”

Someone called the captain’s name.

Nikodemos grunted. “Must be trouble or else they wouldn’t be looking for me.”

“Perhaps they need you to knot the ropes.”

Nikodemos allowed himself a slight smile. “I’m sorry we can’t talk longer. I ask no questions, you understand, but in any event I’ve given back your servant his fare and that of your wife.”

“There was no-”

“Since they were required to pay their own way, I suspect you’ll need the coins. Don’t worry, if I see you again you can repay me. Just ask anyone at the docks for Nikodemos. I’m well known here. And please, give my best regards to your charming and talented wife.”

He turned and started toward the bow, then paused. “You will find Mithra is no further from you in this land than He is in Constantinople.”

John smiled wanly. If only that were true of his friends and family as well.

“No, the emperor has not answered my request for an audience,” Anatolius told Hypatia. A week had passed since John’s departure, and Anatolius had begun to think he might as well have been sent off to Egypt himself. “I’ve become remarkably unwelcome at the palace.”

Hypatia had placed his frugal breakfast on the scarred wooden table in John’s kitchen. Now she lingered near the brazier as if awaiting further orders, but really, Anatolius thought, to press him about his efforts on John’s behalf.

He took a bite of his bread. It was stale. The cheese would not be much better. He ate the same thing every day. John’s storerooms contained little else except the horrid Egyptian wine the Lord Chamberlain favored.

Hypatia spent her time tending to the sick in the hospice rather than visiting the markets Peter had frequented. Anatolius did not feel he had the authority to order her to do otherwise, even if the markets were still being held in the city. He wasn’t her employer. He was uncomfortably aware he was merely a guest in the house-and an uninvited guest at that.

He wondered what sort of elaborate repasts Thomas was enjoying now he had arranged to stay temporarily with Francio.

“Couldn’t you by any chance try to see Justinian again?” Hypatia persisted. “You’ve been his secretary for years. He knows you well, sir. Surely he would agree to give you an audience?”

“Justinian can be very congenial, Hypatia, but imagining that confers privileges can be a fatal mistake. After a request is refused, the wise man waits a while to make it again.”

“What about Captain Felix?” Hypatia’s jaw clenched, accentuating sculpted cheekbones in a tawny face framed by hair the color of a raven’s wing. “Surely there must be someone who can help.”

Anatolius sighed inwardly. Few things cut him as deeply as the disapproval of an attractive woman. “Felix agreed to look into the senator’s murder when I asked him to give a hand, but I haven’t heard anything yet.”

Hypatia pursed her lips in annoyance. “I could make a charm, sir, one that will make the emperor agree to talk to you. Something of the sort used attract the beloved, but not exactly the same. A slightly different combination of herbs.”

Anatolius smiled. “Hypatia, how can I persuade Justinian to drink a potion? And if I’m supposed to imbibe it, well, I don’t think I’d care to have the emperor pining for me. Especially considering he’s married to Theodora.”

Hypatia filled Anatolius’ wine cup and set the jug back down on the table with a loud thump, her thoughts plainly written on her face.

Anatolius resolved to caution John about treating his servants with too much familiarity, if indeed he ever saw John again.

“Have you seen Europa this morning?” he asked, changing the subject.

“She intends to remain in her room, sir, as she doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

“You’d think I was the one who’d sent them all away!” Anatolius blurted in exasperation.

Anatolius had glimpsed Europa only once since his arrival. She had been walking at the far end of the garden, silent as a shade, finally to vanish into the far side of the building.

“I see.” He tore another chunk from his bread, chewed, and swallowed.

Thomas, he thought. Though it seemed everyone else did not wish to talk to him, Thomas would surely be happy to do so.

***

Francio’s servant refilled Anatolius’ cup.

“You’d think the Lord Chamberlain didn’t keep a single jug of wine in his house, the way you’re putting that down,” Francio observed. “Feel free to have as much as you like. Perhaps it will bring you back to your senses, inspire your muse, and banish these gloomy legal pretenses.”

Francio, Anatolius, and Thomas sat at one end of the polished marble table in Francio’s dining room. The garden beyond seemed to extend inside through opened doors onto walls lushly decorated with coiling vines, exotic flowers, fruits, beasts, and birds, some recognizable-bears, swans, peacocks-and others whose native land lay only in the artist’s imagination. They could never grace Francio’s plate.

Their riot of colors was repeated in Francio’s short, blue dalmatic with green trim over a long yellow tunic, the ensemble set off by green boots.

Anatolius took another gulp. “I’m trying to wash away the taste of John’s fine stock.”

Francio laughed. “I’d forgotten. A lover of wine might say your friend is as abstemious as Justinian. The poor stuff John prefers for his cup isn’t worth drinking.”

“The wines of my native land are far superior,” put in Thomas.

“I didn’t know there were vineyards in Bretania,” said Francio with interest.

Thomas looked askance. “You haven’t heard of them? I am amazed their fame has not traveled this far!”

“What splendid tales this fellow tells,” Francio remarked to Anatolius. “A veritable rustic Homer! I’m considering abandoning Trimalchio’s feast for a banquet based on the sort of meals eaten in this court Thomas has described to me.”

He frowned. “We shouldn’t be so jovial, considering the Lord Chamberlain’s predicament,” he went on. “However, as things stand the further away from Constantinople he is, the less danger he’s in, except perhaps for running the risk of dying of boredom so far from beauty and culture.”

Servants padded in and out the room so quietly and inconspicuously that the bowls they brought might have appeared before the diners by magick.

To Anatolius the salad seemed bitter. Its greens bore a suspicious resemblance to the broad-leafed weeds that proliferated in the neglected gardens near the palace administrative offices. He didn’t know their names. No doubt Hypatia could identify them immediately. Perhaps he would ask her.

Francio announced the main course. “I’d hoped to serve lobster, but my supplier ran afoul of the authorities. Instead, we have a special treat. It’s what I call Harbor Chicken in Poseidon’s Special Sauce.”

He signaled to an attendant, who removed the salad and set heaped plates before the diners.

Anatolius contemplated his meal. It resembled a coin pouch swimming in pungent sauce.