Mary Reed - Four for a Boy

“Relied upon him? What did he mean by that?” John asked.

Konstantinos started as if struck. He had obviously suddenly realized the implications of what he had been saying to these two strangers.

“My master did not reveal details,” he began, panic welling in his eyes. “Senators have great influence. And isn’t Senator Opimius a close friend of Senator Aurelius, one of Justinian’s greatest champions? I have personally ushered those worthy senators together into the very office we just left. Their friendship vouches for the integrity of my master’s affairs and because of that, I suppose, he felt there was no need to fear any difficulties arising.”

Felix frowned. “I suppose that’s true. What sort of interests did Hypatius have aside from land?”

“My work concerns only the estates.”

“What about his charitable work, his donations?” asked John. “Do you know anything about this sculpture, for example?”

Konstantinos shook his head. “No. It’s a great irony, isn’t it? If he had not been such a pious and generous man, he wouldn’t have been visiting the church to see his gift. He would still be alive today.”

“And his family?” Felix asked.

“He had none. There was often talk in the kitchen of a possible marriage to this high-born lady or that, but it never came to anything.”

“When possible candidates were mentioned I daresay one was Senator Opimius’ daughter?” John suggested.

“Yes. How did you guess? But she would be a natural candidate because as I mentioned Senator Opimius was a friend of the master’s and his daughter is unmarried.”

The servant who had admitted John and Felix reappeared in the company of a wizened man whom he announced as the master’s man of law.

The sight of the new arrival appeared to send Konstantinos into a new panic. “If you will excuse me, sirs,” he stammered, “it is time for the reading of the will. If you have no more questions…? Very well, show these visitors out.”

Hardly had the estate manager and the man of law entered Hypatius’ office when the servant turned angrily toward Felix and John.

“So, my deceitful pair, you may have convinced Konstantinos but you haven’t misled me!”

Felix stared at him. “And what do you mean by that?” His tone was menacing.

“You’re no more from the palace than I am!” the servant jeered.

He turned to John and prodded his chest with a grubby forefinger. “You’re thieves! After a death, all sorts of strangers must go in and out of a household. Why not take advantage? One of you distracts the steward while the other slips the silver under his cloak.”

The servant gave an onion-scented sneer and went on. “You must think yourselves clever, with the forged letter and that military disguise. Unfortunately I knew I had seen you somewhere before. Just now I remembered where. I’ve escorted the master to Opimius’ house. You’re the eunuch that’s teaching the homely daughter some foreign language or other. A miserable slave!”

“As are you!” John snapped back.

“But not for much longer! And I can assure you that tonight I shall be celebrating my new freedom in a place you’ll never be. Between the legs of a whore!”

John took a quick step forward.

Felix’s hand clamped painfully down on his arm. “No! We still have a job to do. Don’t pay attention to his insults.”

The servant opened the house door and saw them out with an ostentatious bow.

John and Felix started back down the steep street. “Thank you,” John finally said. “I almost allowed my personal feelings to interfere with our investigation. That would have been unforgivable.”

His gaze met Felix’s. The excubitor looked away.

“What do you make of it, uncle?” Justinian laboriously turned his head toward Justin. Slumped in a wooden chair at Justinian’s bedside, the emperor was propped up on each side by his attendants. Quaestor Proclus stood nearby.

“Make of it? I make nothing of it! It was just a dream!” The emperor spat on the floor to emphasize his opinion.

“But it was so vivid! I was walking through the city, alone and unattended, a strange thing in itself. Then I came to Constantine’s column. It was as real as this very room!”

“If you were me, nephew,” Justin broke in impatiently, “you could tell easily the difference between dreams and reality. When I dream I can’t feel this damned gnawing agony in my leg.”

“Well, this dream was so real I could actually smell the sea,” Justinian pressed on.

“That was just the stink in here. You ought to order the window opened, and get rid of most of these lamps. At least have your servants trim the wicks more often so they don’t smoke so much.”

It was true that a marshy odor, heavy with decay, suffused the dim room. Only the merest trace of the temporarily banished Theodora’s musky perfume lingered.

Justinian ignored his uncle’s remark. “I could hear the sound of something dripping,” he continued. “Then I noticed streams of a viscous green substance running down the column. So I turned my gaze upward and, as I said before, the statue of Constantine had vanished. Squatting there instead, gazing out over the rooftops, was a monstrous toad, oozing poison.”

“If you must make such a fuss about it, what do you make of this ridiculous dream yourself? That’s the important thing.”

“But isn’t it clear? Doesn’t the City Prefect Theodotus resemble a toad?”

“No. His head looks like a gourd, just as everyone says. They also say he’s about as intelligent as a gourd. I think they’re wrong as far as that goes. Even so, how can a gourd possibly look like a toad?”

Throughout the exchange, the emperor’s attendants remained as silent, expressionless and still as a pair of ugly caryatids. Proclus was a discreet presence behind the emperor’s hunched shoulders.

Justinian coughed. A servant materialized from the shadows to wipe away sweat from his forehead and then vanished again.

“How can you not see its meaning?” Justinian said. “The Gourd is poisoning me. And why? Because he plans to set himself above the city, or in other words to declare himself emperor.”

“But I am the emperor, not you!” Justin snapped. “So why isn’t he poisoning me? Am I dead? Perhaps that’s what I smell. I’m putrefying. Is that it, Proclus? Is your emperor dead and rotting?”

“No, Caesar,” came the murmured reply.

“Proclus is the type of man you need to put your faith in, nephew. Even if I was indeed dead and rotting, my quaestor here would have me hauled around the palace until I was a mere pile of bones, if such had been my orders.”

The emperor reached out and clamped a big, veined hand on Justinian’s forearm. “Does that feel like the hand of a phantom? That actress of yours put this ludicrous idea into your head, didn’t she? Perhaps it is the actress who is poisoning you. Have you thought of that? According to Euphemia…”

“We have already discussed Euphemia’s opinions.” Justinian pulled his arm away from the older man’s surprisingly strong grip.

“My dear Euphemia’s fond of you, Justinian. She just doesn’t consider the actress a proper match.”

“But what about this dream? I’m rather surprised you dismiss it so lightly, uncle. Remember thirty or so years ago when you were fighting the Isaurians and got thrown in prison by your commander-”

“Yes, John the Hunchback. I forget now what his reason was supposed to be.”

“Whatever the reason, you were to be executed, but then the Hunchback dreamed three nights running of an angel that ordered your release. When he spared your life because of those dreams, did you then dismiss them as nonsense?”