Mary Reed - Five for Silver

The girl slapped the ragged man’s hand down. “You’re no hungrier than the rest of us! Does Prudentius have to tell you again? No begging is allowed here at any time and especially not from prospective clients.”

The beggar mumbled a number of obscene comments concerning the girl taking advantage of being the master’s favorite and her arrogance in assuming this allowed her to order everyone around, especially honest workers and decent folk who had unfortunately fallen on hard times. Such as himself.

John followed her through the lawyer’s office and out into the garden. He was not surprised to see several crudely constructed shelters propped against the pillars of its peristyle. Numerous people were lying in the shadows. The garden itself resembled a long-abandoned field, overgrown with straggly bushes and spindly saplings sprouting from beds of weeds. Ashes filled the basin of the dry fountain.

“It seems he must be out somewhere.” The girl stroked the scarlet-faced baby, whose keening now turned into huge gulping sobs, soon quieted by the brown breast she popped out from her tunic. “I would be happy to take a message. He’s likely looking for more mouths to feed.”

The baby’s puckered mouth moved contentedly.

“Who are these people?”

“I don’t know all their names. Mine is Xanthe, by the way. They’re unfortunates such as beggars, out-of-work stone masons, orphans, impoverished widows, even a few whores, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

There was a rustling and a huge black cat exploded out of a patch of weeds nearby, collided with John’s boot, did a somersault, and raced away, pursued in an instant by a much smaller, tortoise-shell kitten.

“As you see,” observed Xanthe, “he also takes in stray cats. There’s a not a finer Christian in the city. He took me in off the street. I’ve served in his household for years and he’s been like a father to me.”

“Giving up so much space in his home must be difficult. Most would choose to donate to a hospice or some similar institution rather than fill their houses with the destitute.”

“Not Prudentius! He likes to do heaven’s work with his own hands. Needless to say, we have regular visits from a prelate, who reminds all these fortunate souls where their aid really comes from.”

John produced a handful of coins. “Give these to your master and this one is for your baby.” John had found coins unlocked tongues more quickly than wine. “Do you know when he might return?”

Xanthe gazed down thoughtfully at the nursing infant as if it might have the answer. Then she looked up.

“Ezra!” She accompanied her cry with an energetic wave of her arm, which dislodged the baby’s mouth and set it instantly screaming.

John followed her gaze. A thin, half-naked man with a wild beard and straggling hair sat hunched near the peak of the roof.

“Ezra! Did you see Prudentius go out?”

“He visited the sick in the garden just after dawn. Haven’t seen him since.” The man’s croaked reply was scarcely audible.

Xanthe turned back to John. “Sorry. You may have to come back tomorrow. Prudentius doesn’t often go out these days. Just as well, really, since every time he does, there’s yet another mouth to feed.”

“The man on your roof…”

“Ezra’s been here for months. He used to be a stylite. Prudentius found him lying at the base of his column. Fortunately for him it was not very tall. The master hired a cart to bring him back here. The poor fellow’s legs are like sticks. You could use them for skewers. It’s a sorry state of affairs, when stylites are falling off their columns like so many poisoned crows.”

“I gather he stays on the roof because that’s the only place he feels comfortable?”

“That’s exactly right! How did you know?”

John smiled enigmatically.

***

“Tell your master he can preserve his bacon in a dark place. I’ve got no dill left. None.” The vegetable-seller leaned over a display of limp greens of other descriptions to deliver her emphatic message.

“I can pay-”

“You can see what I have to offer, you old fool. Can you see any dill? No! So no matter how much you say you can pay, I still can’t sell you something I haven’t got.”

Peter turned away, his face flushed with anger and frustration. A fine thing for a Lord Chamberlain to eat boiled bacon prepared with insufficient dill. What did that silly girl Hypatia know about cooking? Running out of dill, indeed! It was intolerable.

He’d been to the stall of every vegetable seller between the Great Church and the Golden Horn, or so it seemed. None offered so much as a stalk of dill. Other households had probably stocked up on herbs as a precaution against hunger while he’d been brooding over his poor friend.

He had failed his master.

It was true the Lord Chamberlain had ordered him to take time off from his duties, but now see how it had turned out? Why should he make matters worse by heeding his master’s order not to venture into the streets? Especially when there was no dill in the house.

“Old man! Are you all right?” The seller called after him as he walked away.

He ignored her. His heart thumped in his chest. If only it weren’t so hot. The sun seemed to beat all strength out of him. The colonnade he was walking toward kept moving sideways.

He stared out at the harbor. Across the Golden Horn, pillars of coiling black smoke rose into the bright air, reminding him of pillars holding up the ceilings over the flaming pits of Hell.

He knew of one last market he could try. He forced his heavy feet to keep moving, just as he had when he had been marching though the rocky passes in Isauria. When he had thought he could not lift his boots again, even though the sun had not even begun to slide down the slope of the blazing afternoon sky. Somehow he had taken another step, then another, until he lost count of the number of impossible steps he had taken. He and Gregory, he thought, reminding himself he was blessed he could still march through the city, however reluctant his aging legs might be.

Gregory could not.

He became aware the sun had stopped torturing him and looked up, expecting to see gathering clouds. Instead, he saw tenements leaning drunkenly over a street as narrow and winding as a dry stream bed.

An unfamiliar street.

He did not remember taking a wrong turn, but now he might as well have been in Antioch. Was it because the street was so silent? When had it become deserted? There had been people in the market he had just left, although not the usual jostling crowds. He had passed others going about on the first street he had turned down. Where had they all gone? To what sort of place had he found his way?

Peter forced himself onward. He felt dizzy. A low humming filled his head. He began to sing a favorite hymn, “Though Thou Didst Descend into the Tomb.” It failed to lift his spirits. The buzzing in his head increased. Then he turned a corner and found his way blocked by a pile of dead, overhung by a thick, swirling cloud of flies.

He hastily retraced his steps.

The dim way was no longer deserted.

A lone figure approached.

Peter could not make out its face.

Suddenly the figure broke into a loping run toward him.

Peter fled as best he could.

He veered into an alley, staggered briefly against a wall, stumbled onward.

It was not so much an alley as a narrow space between two buildings whose walls almost touched overhead, blotting out light. In near darkness he trod on as best he could. His chest felt on fire. He prayed for strength, but slowed and stopped.

He bent, gasping for breath.

There was no sound of pursuit.

Had he managed to elude the strange man?