Mary Reed - Four for a Boy

“Whores are to be used, not married. By your remarks, do I take it that you’ve transferred allegiance to him?”

“No, Caesar. None of us has.”

“No? Do you think I don’t keep track of his visitors? The list goes from Aurelius to Zeno. Justinian’s shared in my wealth and used it to buy the whole Senate and half the aristocracy.”

“They support Justinian because you do, Caesar.”

The emperor glanced peevishly at his two attendants, now stationed beside the couch. “Look at me, being carted around like an infant. You would think my nephew would have the grace to wait until the Lord calls me instead of plotting to hasten me on my journey.”

“It is the fate of all to die one day, leaving others to carry on. No one can be faulted for outliving the dead. We are all guilty of it.”

“Do you think I’m angry at Justinian because he’s younger than I am?”

“It’s easy to arrange matters for our heirs when we’re young enough that such planning is likely unnecessary. But when we grow older, when we realize our plans will eventually be carried out, often we may wish to rethink them.”

“You are advising me to choose someone else as my successor, are you not, Proclus?”

“I was merely commenting in general terms, Caesar. I apologize most humbly if I offended you.”

“You’re sorry? I doubt it! You remind me of someone. No, something. Remember that crate-load of busts that arrived from Rome? King Theodoric’s gift? All those old marble heads, with chipped noses and blind stares. Senators from the time of the Republic or bakers with money to burn, like as not. My workmen used them to fill in the hole when they removed that broken fountain in Euphemia’s garden. You remind me of those very busts. Just stone, not flesh and blood. You’ve turned against me too. I can see it in those polished eyes.” The emperor’s voice had risen to a querulous whine.

“Caesar-”

Justin winced and grabbed at his injured leg. “Where’s that numbing ointment the Gourd makes for me? No. Wait, I don’t want you getting it. Summon a servant.”

Grimacing, Justin twisted around on the couch, to look for his attendants. His moist lower lip began to tremble.

“Wait! I see it all now. That’s how it will be, isn’t it? How much has he paid you? How much?” he demanded of the two men.

They looked down at the flaccid ruin of the man whom they served. Their faces registered surprise, then confusion, and then, as Justin continued to rant, panic.

“Of course it’s you two. It’s so clear! Who else is so close to me all the time? Always at my elbows or my back. I see it all now, from eggs to apples. Was it your plan, Proclus, or my nephew’s? That one day, rather than helping hands, there’d be the blade? Guards! Guards!”

Before Proclus could respond the excubitors stationed outside the door were at the emperor’s side.

“Let this serve as a lesson, my loyal quaestor.” Justin turned to the excubitors. “Take these two attendants outside for a little stroll around the garden. Then execute them both.”

A sea breeze ruffled Tryphon’s white hair as he received John and Felix at the far end of his garden, set high above the mouth of the Golden Horn. He was an elegant, slim man. The white hair perfectly complimented his lean, patrician face.

Despite constant exposure to raking winds bringing the tang of salt, Tryphon’s garden was almost unnaturally lush and green, the result of an artificially created abundance of water.

Here, within sight and sound of its sister sea, sweet water flowed wherever the visitor looked. A dazzling white marble fountain, appropriately topped by a statue of several Nereids riding seahorses, splashed and gurgled at the end of a wide, meticulously raked gravel walk. Narrow pools whose wind-rippled slate gray surfaces were partially clothed in the flat pads of water lilies marked the perimeter of the flowerless garden. Neatly trimmed hedges of cypress formed wind breaks around claw-footed benches or served as a dark background for statues of great men or gods of such weathered antiquity as to be nearly indistinguishable from the mossy boulders that rose from pebbled beds set around willow trees.

The Spartan design of the garden allowed no dainty blossoms that in summer would provide havens for bees. It seemed to John to be the retreat of a man not given to accumulation of the world’s luxuries, despite the well appointed rooms they had glimpsed while being ushered through the villa.

The green marble shelter to which they had been led was latticed on four sides, its fifth open to the view. The only furniture was a pair of softly upholstered couches.

Tryphon had been reading a scroll when John and Felix arrived.

“Felicitations.” He laid his scroll aside, invited them to be seated and inquired as to the reason for their visit.

Felix performed the ritual to which he and John had become accustomed, handing Tryphon their letter of introduction. The excubitor looked uncomfortable, his heavy bulk sunk too far into the pillows.

“You’re fortunate to find me here,” Tryphon remarked genially after he had perused the letter. “Many of my fellow citizens have already left for their country estates. I intend to follow soon. Between Justinian’s illness, the uncertainty that such illness brings, and the violence in the streets, Constantinople is not a safe place. Your master, the Prefect, is to be commended on his efforts, but these Blues are as numerous and hard to trap as rats in a granary.” He returned the now crumpled and smudged letter, handling it carefully with the tips of his fingers.

“Then Fortuna smiled by bringing us here before you departed,” Felix replied. “As the pagans would say,” he added quickly.

“Indeed.” Tryphon gave him a keen look, hooded gray eyes sharp despite the years they had witnessed.

“Speaking of country estates,” Felix continued, “it is our understanding that certain landowners are beginning to express fears, in private at least, that Justinian may decide to confiscate properties under color of law. More exactly, through incorrectly executed wills.”

Tryphon’s heavy eyelids veiled his thoughts as he examined the black and white pebbled floor of his retreat with apparent interest before answering. “It is a bold man indeed who would express such fears in public. In private, wine loosens the tongue and leads to regrettable comments.”

“Do you fear such confiscations?”

Tryphon shook his head. “No, and I have a large number of holdings and so much to lose. More perhaps than most of the tongue-waggers you mention. Though even mine pale compared to those that belonged to Hypatius. As many will tell you, he was rapidly accumulating properties at the time of his death. I imagine you already knew that?”

Felix ignored the baited question and threw out one of his own. “Are many estates changing hands of late?”

“Yes. And I anticipate that Hypatius’ properties will be next. It was rather a pity, really, that he was not allowed time to enjoy them. The last three he purchased were particularly desirable. Had I heard a day or two earlier that Trenico had them on the auction block, I would have put in a bid myself. However, since Hypatius had already purchased considerable property from him, I suppose we cannot be surprised Trenico would give him the first opportunity to buy more.”

Felix, with a swift glance at John, asked why Trenico was disposing of so much land.

“Surely you’ve heard that his finances are not at all sound at the moment? He’s now said to be contemplating selling a certain vineyard. If so, I shall be making a bid on it. It produces excellent wines, if the ones I have sampled at his dinner parties are any example.”