Mary Reed - Five for Silver

“Sit down, Peter.”

John spoke quietly, but it was clearly an order rather than an invitation. Peter took a hobbling step over to the marble bench facing the pool and lowered himself stiffly. John sat down next to him. The clusters of white blossoms adorning the garden’s single olive tree had begun to open, yet seemed to emit none of their familiar fragrance. The air held the only too familiar charnel smell, but faintly, as if it had drifted over the roof into this inner space or still clung to John’s garments.

“The loss of an old friend is always deeply upsetting,” John said. “I’m sorry I had to be the one to confirm your suspicions.”

His elderly servant shook his head. “I’ve known Gregory was dead ever since the Lord’s messenger told me so. I’ve already prayed for my friend’s soul.” Peter’s army boot face, brown, mottled, and cracked, appeared calm although his eyes were glassy in a hint of tears not quite controlled.

John averted his gaze and instead stared at the cascading water sending ripples across the pool. “Are you certain Gregory didn’t give you some indication he was in danger? Perhaps not in so many words? Some strange business he’d mentioned to you? Something that could pose a risk to him? Try to remember.”

“It is merely as I explained, master. The angel appeared and-”

“Peter, consider how this must appear. You announce a man has been murdered, but have no idea who committed the deed or why. I look for this man and find someone has in fact thrust a blade into his heart. What am I to think? More importantly, what might others, who do not know you as well as I do, think?”

Peter sighed, but remained silent.

“Tell me about this angel again,” John continued patiently. “You say he looked like a man?”

“Yes, but uncommonly tall and fair of face, and clothed in shining robes. There was a glow about him as bright as the setting sun and his eyes burned like the sacred lamps in the Great Church.”

Grasping at wisps of straws, John asked if Peter had recognized the strange visitor.

“Only what he was, master.”

John had questioned Hypatia, who had neither seen nor heard anything unusual the evening before. He had inspected the heavy, nail-studded main door for signs of forcible entry, checked all the windows overlooking the cobbled square the building faced, had even made a circuit around the inner garden, examining its soft earth to ascertain if someone might have entered by crossing the roof and dropping down into the shrubbery. Nothing untoward could be found.

It was obvious the heavenly intruder had got into the house by way of Peter’s imagination.

Peter looked placid enough now, but he had been distraught and inconsolable when he related his tale that morning. John had gone out immediately to investigate the matter and thereby calm his servant’s fears.

Instead he had confirmed them.

Further, Peter had made it clear he expected John to find the culprit. A nearly impossible task. Crimes committed in the street were typically solved when the perpetrator happened to be caught in the act by the City Prefect’s men. However, John thought, Peter’s peculiar foreknowledge of the murder indicated it could be more than a commonplace crime.

“I don’t know much about this friend of yours, except that you’ve been meeting him now and again for years. Tell me about his history, Peter. There may be something in it that will help me find his murderer. For a start, what did Gregory do for a living?”

Peter looked away from John, toward the dark glass of the pool. “I can’t say.”

“He never told you in all the years you knew him?”

Peter confirmed it was the case. “We never spoke much about what we were doing now. As old friends do, we talked about past times. Our days in the army, mostly. Also the writings of the great church men. He had a wide knowledge of John Chrysostom. We’ve had some very lively discussions about his homilies.”

John noted the catch in Peter’s voice, caught the quick blink of his glistening eyes. Those theological discussions would be no more and the thought hung in the air as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud. “You never visited Gregory’s house?”

“No, master. We usually arranged to meet at a specific place. In the Forum Constantine, outside the Great Church, or perhaps at the Church of the Holy Apostles. Sometimes we met in front of the house here.”

“Never at his home?”

“He never said where he lived.” Peter lowered his voice before he continued, although there was no one to overhear. “I think he was ashamed, master. When we were in the army I was a mere cook, not a soldier like him. Yet he befriended me anyway. After his discharge, I suspect he didn’t prosper. Outside the army there’s much more call for cooks than soldiers, especially ones who are older. The excubitors would never have accepted him, for example. His position wasn’t as comfortable as mine, or so I guessed. I never questioned him. I wanted to spare his feelings, you see.”

Yet, John thought, the document the dead man had been carrying suggested he was a prosperous customs official.

“Did you ever observe anything that might have given you an idea of his occupation? His clothing, ink under his fingernails, a wine stain on a sleeve, a particular expression he used?”

“Those are things you would doubtless have noticed, master, but I did not,” Peter replied sorrowfully. “To me he was just an old friend. If he didn’t want to tell me about his humble station in life, I was happy to accept that.”

Would it be necessary for Peter to know about his friend’s circumstances?

Not yet, John decided.

Besides, there might be some mistake, even though he was certain the man he had seen at the hospice was the same man who had met Peter on numerous occasions.

Instead he asked Peter when he had last seen Gregory.

“It was the day Anatolius visited you with that perfumed young versifier.”

John suppressed a smile. “Crinagoras the poet, you mean?”

“I am sorry, master. My mind is calm enough, but I fear my tongue is not.”

“Never mind, Peter. It is to be expected. Were you meeting Gregory before you came to work here?”

“Yes, for many years. After we left the army I did lose track of him, as so often happens. I never expected we’d meet again. Then one morning, during the time I served in Lady Anna’s household, I saw him in the market by the Strategion.”

Peter’s voice strengthened as he recalled the event. “It was a raw day. I had been contemplating going to market, but when I woke up the rain was beating so hard at my window I decided to put it off a few hours. Then the sun showed itself. It was only a brief gleam, as if to remind me I shouldn’t be neglecting my duties. If the clouds hadn’t parted for just that instant, I might never have seen Gregory again. Or, for that matter, if Lady Anna had not instructed me to purchase leeks. It happened that only one vendor had leeks that morning and Gregory was seeking the very same vegetable. Imagine that, master. If he had been hungry for, say, figs, well…”

“If you think about it that way, Peter, all our lives are a quite improbable progression of circumstances.”

“It was a miracle, master,” Peter replied firmly. “Imagine the odds against two old friends meeting in that fashion in this teeming city. I believe if Lady Anna had wished me to buy figs, it was ordained Gregory would have had the same notion and so we would still have met again.”

John wondered if Peter and Gregory had pondered this interesting question during one of their conversations. He thought the story revealed more about Peter than Gregory. “You mentioned you met Gregory during your army days. Where was that?”