Mary Reed - One for Sorrow

There was a loud rapping at the house door. “The devil take you, whoever you are,” Peter muttered.

The old servant did not recognize the caller but the man’s rough tunic and breeches did not speak of the palace.

The stranger held out a folded sheet of parchment and spoke without preamble.

“Thomas asked me to bring this urgent note.”

***

Anatolius strode into the courtyard of the Inn of the Centaurs.

The heavy scabbard rubbed painfully against his leg and he kept his hand on the sword hilt, less to be ready for action than to attempt to keep the scabbard from swinging in such an irritating fashion. He was greeted by the imposing, albeit unarmed, Mistress Kaloethes.

“I must speak with the innkeeper at once,” Anatolius demanded. “It concerns one of your guests.”

“My husband isn’t here,” she snapped. “What’s your business?”

“I am investigating a murder.”

Mistress Kaloethes glared at him. “You’re the second inquisitive visitor I’ve had today. You won’t be wanting to rummage through my clothes too, will you?”

Anatolius was given no time to respond to this unexpected question because Mistress Kaloethes, bristling with rage, swept on, her shrill voice rising. “He went through everything! He even examined the marks on my silver plates and tossed my personal belongings about. And can you imagine the gall, he stole one of my best table linens!”

“I assure you, I am not here with any such intent. I wish to speak to Thomas.”

“Him?” Mistress Kaloethes gave a sudden laugh. “What would an emissary from the court of the king of Bretania have to do with such a foppish youngster as you?”

“I am secretary to Justinian, madam.”

“So you’re from the palace?” The woman gave an appraising look at Anatolius. “Still, scribblers aren’t paid much, are they?”

“Is Thomas here?” Anatolius persisted.

“I am here, Anatolius.”

Thomas had just entered the courtyard. He moved to the fountain. “Mistress Kaloethes,” he addressed the woman, bowing slightly. “If you would leave us alone.”

“Certainly, sir. Let me know if you need anything,” she simpered, and retired into the inn.

“What do you want of me?” Thomas demanded, his voice going cold. “It must be important since you’ve armed yourself. Is it about Europa?”

“No, it’s-”

“She is a very attractive young lady. But like myself, she must travel from country to country. Soon we will all go our separate ways, she and I included. Did you think you would be able to convince her to stay here with you?”

“That is none of your business,” Anatolius responded hotly. He grasped the hilt of his sword more tightly. His heart was pounding.

“I did not come to your city to have romances with young ladies, my friend. I came on a much greater quest, a quest that requires many sacrifices. Indeed, for it a knight must sacrifice even love.”

“And will a knight kill to further his quest?”

“If it should become necessary. Do you propose to test me?”

“You killed Leukos, didn’t you?” Anatolius was mortified his voice quavered as he forced the accusation out.

A smile flickered underneath Thomas fiery mustache. “People entertain many strange beliefs in this city.”

Anatolius reached for his sword. Before it was even free of the scabbard, Thomas’ sword was resting against the young man’s chest.

Ice closed around Anatolius’ heart. In the wink of an eye, he would be covered with blood. Not the blood of a sacrificial bull this time, but his own.

Instead of driving the sword home, Thomas spoke. “You are fortunate that I am beyond feeling the sting of your petty insults, lad. I have just met a traveler from Bretania. He told me the High King is dead. There is no need for me to continue the quest.”

Thomas lowered his weapon.

As he did so, John burst into the courtyard. “Peter said I’d find you here, Anatolius,” he called out. “Both of you, hurry! Cornelia and Europa have been abducted!”

“What?” Anatolius was at a loss for words.

“When I returned home,” John explained rapidly, “Peter told me that a note from Thomas had been delivered for Cornelia and Europa. Despite her mother counseling caution, Europa rushed off and Cornelia naturally followed. They’re on their way to the Cistern of Hermes.”

Thomas blurted out an obscene oath.

Anatolius looked toward John in confusion, then back at Thomas.

The knight snorted impatiently. “Of course the note wasn’t from me, you hotheaded young fool. I can’t write!”

The dying sun cast a confusion of shadows through the discarded statues crowded in front of the abandoned imperial records office under whose eroded portico lay the entrance to the Cistern of Hermes.

Emperors, philosophers, and generals, the statues might have been a congregation of the dead waiting to pass through the portals of the underworld.

John, Anatolius, and Thomas stood amid the frozen figures, nearly indistinguishable from them in the gathering shadows, but alive for the moment.

Anatolius peered around anxiously. “Why didn’t you send for the excubitors, John? With just the three of us we might not be a match for whoever’s waiting in there. It’s not likely there’s only a single person holding two women hostage.”

“No doubt there’s a gang. The same gang that’s been trafficking in imperial goods, forged relics dug up in cemeteries, and probably any other crime you can think of. There are only the three of us here because as soon as the rogues spotted excubitors they’d murder the women and flee. They’ve probably had a ransom note delivered to my house by now, but their aim isn’t ransom, it’s to kill me. They must have realized I now know who murdered Leukos.”

“Then what are we waiting for, John?” Thomas demanded.

The sun was vanishing, leaving a glorious orange and gold streak low on the horizon. Raven-like black clouds scudded across the livid gash of the sunset. As the men reached the portico, sunlight flashed off what remained of the flaking gilt on the statue of Hermes set above its entrance.

“Mithra blesses our attempt,” John murmured.

The building’s atrium smelled of smoke, damp, and unwashed bodies. Voices echoed in its cavernous space, barely illuminated by small fires around which ill-clad beggars gathered for warmth.

John threw his cloak to the floor. His white tunic seemed to glow in the dimness. “A soldier fights unencumbered,” he told Anatolius. Thomas had discarded his travel-worn cloak. As soon as the men stepped away, shadowy figures fell on the abandoned clothing in the manner of rats swarming over a discarded bone.

Out of the darkness came a wheezing laugh. “Does our young hero seek to free more captives?”

John, aghast at their early discovery, turned quickly toward the source of the taunting question.

It was only an old woman huddled beside a pile of wicker cages.

“I purchased some birds from her not long ago.” Anatolius’ voice shook with relief.

The crone’s cackling accompanied them on their way.

Access to the cistern was through an opening little more than a rectangular gap in the wall. Beyond, worn stone steps disappeared downwards.

John’s stomach lurched as he led the way. He was not afraid of battle and bore the scars to prove it. But to descend into the depths of his private Hades, into that dark, water-filled space, was the stuff of his wildest nightmares. “Mithra help us,” he muttered.

As the three descended, the air grew colder. Light from the fires upstairs filtered through chinks in the floor and down the stairwell. As his eyes adjusted, John could see the interior of the cistern chamber. The water’s surface threw wavering reflections onto concrete walls and up the regular rows of pillars soaring up from its depths to vanish into deeper shadows beneath a vaulted brick ceiling.