Mary Reed - Five for Silver

Unfortunately, he had not.

A black figure floated silently toward him, seeming to draw nearer without actually traversing the filthy ground. Rather than growing more distinct as it approached, the figure grew blacker and more impenetrable, a vortex of darkness in which Peter perceived only shifting shapes he could not name.

It stopped in front of him.

With relief, Peter saw that it was just a man in a black cloak.

But where was his face?

Peter trembled. He felt a terrible cold emanating from the approaching figure. The cloak flapped like a raven’s wing and a tremendous blow to the side of his head sent Peter sprawling in the slops and debris littering the narrow space.

In an instant Peter knew, it was death come for him, as it had for Gregory.

He lay almost insensible as the dark shape leaned over him.

Another shadow appeared.

Demons, Peter thought in terror. Had he not been a good enough Christian? He waited for the claws, the razor-sharp teeth.

He awoke, propped up against a wall.

Someone crouched beside him.

He tried to turn his head to take a closer look. The pain in his neck brought tears to his eyes.

“You were attacked by a thief.” The voice was sibilant. “It is fortunate I happened to pass by just now. Although I have a way of happening to pass by at the right time. You will not die, Peter. Assure your master of that.”

Peter tried to respond, but could not.

His rescuer patted his shoulder. Peter glimpsed the face. A face across which countless years and endless roads had scrawled a palimpsest of wrinkles in which everything was written, but nothing could be read.

Then the strange man was gone.

John followed a limping man carrying a sack down a short, narrow alley that opened unexpectedly into a dark courtyard. The place was not far from the Hippodrome, but sunk as it was between looming granite cliffs of surrounding warehouses, its cobbled space resembled a cavern. Several restless bears, growling and snuffling, were suitable inhabitants. John came to a halt, then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, thanked Mithra the beasts were locked inside iron cages.

Beyond the cages, a few shadowy figures-bear trainers, John supposed-sat hunkered down around a bonfire, roasting chunks of skewered meat. By the evidence of the scattered amphorae and the scurrilous songs they were singing, the men had been drinking steadily for some time.

The fellow whom John had shadowed stopped at the closest cage and emptied the contents of his sack through its bars.

“You haven’t finished all the wine, I hope,” he shouted to his companions. “It’s all right for you lot to sit around and drink and gorge since it’s not your turn to scavenge for our friends. Took me longer than I expected. Do you know how many rats it takes to feed even one bear?”

“Rats?” someone observed. “How dainty. You’ve been gathering little rats when the streets are piled with corpses.”

“Have some decency!”

“Besides, you don’t want them getting a taste for human flesh,” another trainer added.

“Well, the owner of the wine shop didn’t like the idea of a bear getting a taste of human flesh either, especially his. Samson hadn’t even got to the end of his chain and the owner was halfway down the Mese like a deacon with a demon on his backside, leaving all those amphorae untended.”

“You’ve told us all this before! Wait till the Prefect’s men are back on duty and start asking questions. You won’t be so clever then. ‘And what did you say the thief’s weapon was? A bear?’ How hard is it going to be for even that stupid bunch to point the finger?”

“Well,” grumbled the thief, “I notice you haven’t refused to drink the wine Samson got you.” He turned to the fellow with the sack of rats, who was now sitting by the bonfire. “Have some meat. It’s excellent.”

The rat catcher picked up a skewer, sniffed at the slab of meat it held, and spit into the flames. “Not dog again!”

“This isn’t your scrawny, stringy street mongrel. It’s a well fed watchdog. Quite succulent, it is. It was chained in the courtyard of a deserted mansion. Its master probably died. The poor thing would’ve starved to death. We did it a good turn, and saved it from a terrible end.”

“You ought to be working as a thief,” grumbled the new arrival. “Why do you bother to train bears?”

The thief shrugged. “I love bears, my friend! Beautiful animals they are. Bear training isn’t all about nomismata, you know.”

John strode forward, past the cages.

“Ah,” the rat catcher said with a leering grin, catching sight of him. “Looks like a visitor from the palace!” The man was snaggle-toothed, John noted.

“Then you better be polite,” the thief hiccoughed, contriving to bow while still remaining seated on the straw-strewn cobbles.

“Have you come to tell us the games are to start again?” the first speaker asked, looking hopeful.

John shook his head.

“See, see, I told you!” shouted a man perched on a stool. “When Sappho left, she not only took my good fortune, she took everyone else’s as well!”

Fortuna may have frowned upon the bear trainers, John thought, but perhaps at last her humors had improved so far as his quest went. “It’s about Sappho I wish to question you.”

“Is she at the palace now?” The man he addressed looked incredulous. “Not but what she was always very lucky, for me at least. Whenever she was with me and I rolled the dice, I won.”

“She wasn’t lucky, it’s those weighted dice you use!” one of his companions remarked.

John quelled the man with a glare. Turning back to the fortunate wagerer, he asked his name.

“Theodora’s father,” someone muttered loudly.

“Her son!”

“Brutus,” said the man to whom John had directed the question.

“No, he isn’t,” revealed the rat catcher. “Brutus died last week. The man you’re talking to is Epiktetos.”

“Bastard!” Epiktetos shouted.

“Oh, you mean, he’s the one who’s Theodora’s son?” hiccuped one of the imbibers.

“No matter, I’m interested in Sappho,” John said.

“I’ll wager you are!” The speaker followed the comment with a snigger.

John turned and stared at the man, who suddenly got up, announced he had to relieve himself, and left the courtyard. The staccato sound of his running steps echoed around the small space as he took his chance to flee.

“About Sappho,” John went on. “What do you know of her whereabouts?”

“Nothing, sir,” Epiktetos responded. “I haven’t seen her since last winter.”

“She’s probably dead by now, like so many others,” the thief put in helpfully.

“Not so!” another voice contradicted. “I saw her only last week!”

“You saw her and didn’t tell me?” Epiktetos’ voice rose in outrage.

“Well, I’m fairly certain it was her. The woman I saw looked like her, only she wasn’t wearing yellow.”

“Then it definitely wasn’t Sappho, you fool,” Epiktetos said, an opinion the other trainers appeared to share.

John turned to go. It was obvious he would learn nothing here.

He glanced at the Hippodrome as he retraced his steps. The great building was silent, waiting for horse-racing to resume, but would its thousands of marble seats ever be as crowded as they had been in the past? So many in the city had died, and among them a number of charioteers.

The horses, however, had long since been removed to one of Justinian’s country estates. Although it was not known to the populace at large, as his confidant John knew the order had been less due to the emperor’s concern for the teams than to avoid the animals’ being stolen and eaten. As the plague maintained its grip, the usual foraging by half wild curs had become easier. Fattened on abundant human flesh, the packs were now beginning to be hunted for food in turn, as attested by his recent interview with the bear trainers.