Mary Reed - Five for Silver

“I suppose time will tell if Theodora outlives the plague.”

“Indeed. On the other hand, according to Ahaseurus, while Theodora definitely will not die of the plague, she also has no notion of just how close she is to the end of her life.”

“I wouldn’t like to be the chicken that told her that little tidbit, would you?” Thomas grunted. He stared at the mosaic figures animated by the flickering lamplight.

“Speaking of seeing things or not, John,” he went on, “that god up in the clouds and the woman with him…It must be the result of working at Isis’ establishment. It stirs up one’s, um, imagination.”

“You mean the flute-player? In daylight she’s properly clothed. However, the tesserae are set an angle, so they present a different picture by lamplight.”

“Very different! The little girl with the big eyes looks the same, which is to say just as disturbing.” Thomas took another gulp of wine. “Did you learn anything useful from Ahaseurus?”

John shook his head. “All he would say about Gregory’s death was that it was due to the hand of heaven.”

“It would be exceedingly difficult to bring heaven to justice, I fear. Did he happen to say where he’d been all these years?”

“To the ends of the earth. Much like you, Thomas.”

The two men sat in silence for a while, passing the wine jug back and forth. Darkness pressed conspiratorially against the room’s diamond-shaped windowpanes.

Laughter drifted along the hallway.

His daughter’s laughter.

John ran his finger along the crack in his wine cup. He thought of the woman with whom he had shared the original.

“I’ve noticed you haven’t been spending much time here, Thomas. I could almost suspect you were avoiding me.”

Thomas denied the suggestion.

“No matter. I wanted to question you concerning Cornelia, but not in front of Europa.”

“She’ll be here as soon as she-” Thomas stopped abruptly and uttered a ripe curse under his breath.

John kept his gaze level on Thomas’ broad, flushed face.

Inside he began to tremble.

“I should have told you right away, John, but, well, Europa, I mean, her mother…You’ve guessed, haven’t you?” Thomas fell silent, tugging unhappily at his mustache.

A chill settled over John. “Something has happened to Cornelia? Something Europa knows nothing about?”

Thomas nodded. “Forgive me, my friend. Cornelia charged me with bringing Europa safely to you, and she would never have left her mother’s side if she’d known.”

“Known what?”

“Just before we left, Cornelia promised Europa she’d send word if she were going to be delayed more than-”

John leapt to his feet.

Dark foreboding encased him in a clammy shroud. “The truth, Thomas! Has Cornelia gone to someone else? Or…Mithra! No! Not my Cornelia!”

Thomas bowed his head sorrowfully. “She didn’t want Europa to see. While Europa went to get her cloak so we could leave right away, she told me she had certain symptoms, but insisted I was not to reveal this to Europa or you on any account. Difficult though it was, I have done that. But by now Cornelia…”

He looked up, wiping streaming eyes, as a sudden draft made the lamp flicker.

The study door stood ajar.

John had gone.

In a cellar hidden at the end of a labyrinth of underground storerooms situated in a remote part of the palace grounds, flickering torchlight gave intermittent life to the sacred scene gracing the wall behind the altar of a mithraeum.

John looked up at it. The familiar depiction of Mithra, Lord of Light, slaying the sacred bull had always been a comfort in times of darkness, but now it merely served to remind him that death was everywhere and none were safe.

He bowed his head, wordlessly pleading again with his god for some revelation, some explanation, of why Cornelia had been taken while he was left behind. He felt numb, as if he had imbibed a poppy potion. Cornelia’s loss was a deep pain felt to the bone and yet seemed far away, shrouded in mist, and hidden from view.

Tears welled as he offered a despairing prayer to Mithra.

“Lord of Light, I have always served you faithfully. I ask no intervention for my sake, but for Cornelia’s, grant I will find her so I can perform the proper rites…” His petition trailed off incoherently.

Staring up at the bas relief he sought a sign, any sign, that his plea would be granted.

The carved figures remained obdurate, unchanged, and silent.

***

“I’m certain they were the travelers you seek. How could anyone forget a trio like that?”

The innkeeper, who introduced himself as Stephanos, stood a pace or two from the doorway of his hostelry, which is to say in the road itself. Very short and very broad of build, his hair, face, and clothing were the same gray as the dust-coated facade of his dilapidated building.

“They put on several performances in the courtyard. Quite comical, they were too, although I will say the red-haired fellow didn’t look very comfortable playing the part of the bull.”

“You have paid their fee?”

“Of course!”

“And the older woman who stayed behind?”

“She’s not here, excellency. Where she went, I cannot tell you.”

An ox-cart piled with household goods rumbled along the road. The hunched driver stared straight ahead over the fly-speckled back of his ox, not acknowledging the two men in front of the inn. As the cart passed John could see blackened swellings on the driver’s arms.

A fog of dust billowed from beneath the cart wheels. John tasted grit.

“I have a small bath-house,” Stephanos offered. “I’ll have my servant stable your horse, if you wish to stop to rest or refresh yourself.”

John shook his head. If he rested, he would never rise. Thanking Stephanos, he remounted and continued.

There wasn’t a muscle in his body that didn’t ache from the long ride. He could feel every rut in the road as clearly as if he had been trudging barefoot along it.

The realization came to him that he had not dared to rest in all the years since he had arrived in Constantinople. Part of him longed for death. Another part, the part who was a follower of Mithra, knew that every day he awoke he had dealt another defeat to the Persians who had captured and mutilated him, destroying the future he might have had.

By the time he had made his way from the mithraeum to the city docks his dark despair had turned to blinding rage. He had hardly noticed the deep waters beneath the prow of the boat he engaged to take him to the Asian shore.

Once on the road he stopped at every inn along the way, in case Cornelia had tried to complete her journey to Constantinople, but found herself unable to proceed.

Proprietors cowered under interrogation from the fiery-eyed palace official.

None had seen her.

Now his anger had drained away. He was no longer certain why he had undertaken the journey.

Had he expected a miracle?

How could he have hoped to find her? Cornelia knew John, knew he would come after her if he discovered the true situation. Of course she wouldn’t have stayed at the inn where Thomas and Europa had left her. If she had wanted John to see her die she would have come to Constantinople with them.

Days had passed. By now Cornelia would be dead.

Perhaps John should not be questioning innkeepers, but rather whoever buried those victims who had no families to do so.

He came to a roadside column, most likely the one once occupied by the stylite after whom Stephanos had named his inn. The perch was not very impressive. Made of eroded granite, it was twice John’s height. Only a few rusted stubs around the edge of its platform remained of what had once been an iron railing.