Mary Reed - One for Sorrow

Instead, as always, he forced his feet to move in the direction where his duty lay, in this instance toward the establishment of Madam Isis. She would have had time by now to question her employees about what they had seen during the afternoon and evening of the day Leukos had died. After that, he would return to the palace and seek out Anatolius. Whether he had kept his appointment with Ahasuerus was probably irrelevant, but John knew that it was not always possible to judge in advance what facts might be important to the solution of a problem.

He had walked only a short distance when he heard raised voices and saw Thomas. The self-styled knight might well have been on his way back to the inn where he was staying. Now he was talking loudly to the charioteer who had been dunked in the fountain.

The charioteer sat on a bench beside a statue of a stern, bearded old man in the classical Greek style. John guessed he had picked the seat because of the sunlight slanting under the colonnade onto it rather than to meditate on philosophy. The charioteer’s long hair still hung damply around his face.

As Thomas’ tirade continued, the charioteer stood, swaying slightly. A short man although muscular, he made a rude gesture and wobbled away. Thomas looked after him in obvious consternation, his face as red as his hair and beard.

John had not made out anything Thomas had said, beyond cursing, if in fact he had said anything else. As John approached, Thomas spotted him. He looked startled.

“Lord Chamberlain! I was just scolding Gregorius,” he explained, without John having asked. “He and the rest of the charioteers kept me awake all night. The inn was in a ferment. The noise went on almost to dawn.”

“Was there a reason for the excitement?”

“Aside from the general festivities? Apparently a lot of money has been changing hands this past week and no small fortune is riding on the racing today. Some of the Hippodrome performers are staying there and they tend to be very loud as well.”

“Are there any bull-leapers staying there?”

Thomas looked puzzled.

“A youthful looking woman, slim, with dark hair and eyes?”

“The inn’s a rough kind of place. The only woman I’ve seen there, aside from the innkeeper’s wife, was a young lady who…well….”

“Who what?”

Felix looked away from John and toward the sculpted philosopher they stood beside. “She’s trained chickens to peck grain from her naked body.”

John smiled at the big redhead’s apparent discomfiture. “That wouldn’t be the woman I’m looking for.”

“I could hardly believe my eyes, Lord Chamberlain.”

“You haven’t lived in Constantinople long enough, Thomas.”

“I’m not used to this city yet. Would you mind if I came along with you for a while? You could educate me about the ways of Constantinople.”

Thomas resembled a big, bewildered, ginger-whiskered child. Was he really so naive or was it a pretense?

“I doubt you will find my destination very edifying, but accompany me if you wish.” John continued along the colonnade, Thomas at his side. “Have you visited the patriarch yet?”

“That’s where I was coming from. He refused to see me. I was told he was ill, but it looked to me as if other callers were being admitted.”

“I’m surprised my introduction wasn’t sufficient.”

“I suppose there was nothing untoward in it?”

“You didn’t read it? You are indeed an honest man, Thomas.”

Thomas regarded the ground. “Lord Chamberlain, if there is one thing I guard above all else, it is my dignity. Still, I suppose I should be honest with you. I am unable to read or write. They are not skills I have much use for.”

John wasn’t surprised. “I shall speak with the patriarch personally and see what can be arranged.”

“How can a man bear to live here?” Thomas suddenly burst out. “If I have to bend my knee to one more pasty-faced clerk looking down his nose at me, even though he’s barely up to my shoulder….If he were a ruffian blocking the road, I’d clear my path easily enough!”

“You need to learn city ways,” John told him. “Take this delicious fish, for instance.” He had come to a halt in front of a slovenly fellow tending a brazier. For the price of a copper coin the cook handed John and Thomas each a skewer holding blackened chunks of fish. The cook looked as charred and greasy as his wares.

Thomas eyed the fish warily but John took a hearty bite.

“It’s good soldier’s fare,” John remarked, wiping a spot of grease from the corner of his lips as he strolled away.

Thomas nibbled at his fish and smiled. “Excellent! But this is the last place I would have expected to find you dining, Lord Chamberlain. A man in your position must get used to eating at the emperor’s table.”

“Only at official banquets. Besides, Justinian doesn’t eat meat. But you can thank him for this fish.”

Thomas cocked an eyebrow. “How can that be?”

“In order to protect the monopoly of the merchants, Justinian has forbidden fishermen from selling their catch themselves. However, the sale of cooked fish is not prohibited. The fish vendor was a fisherman. You can’t find fresher cooked fish than in the street, not even at the palace.”

John tossed his empty skewer into the gutter and Thomas’ soon followed.

“I am beginning to understand your city. Even what goes on in the streets depends on the emperor. Nothing happens that cannot be traced back to the palace.”

John offered his companion a thin-lipped smile. “That might not be strictly true, but for those of us who live here, it is a wise attitude to maintain.”

He stopped in a small square. From an open doorway came a tinkling of bells, the sound of lyre and pipe, and the scent of exotic perfume. “We’ve reached our destination, Thomas.”

John stepped inside the cool honey-colored building, followed by Thomas. Delicate melodies, mingled with the muted tinkling that John recognized as ankle bells, emerged from behind a curtained archway.

The doorkeeper Darius blocked their path. The huge, long-haired, and highly perfumed Persian was still sporting the tiny wings John had seen him wearing the night of Leukos’ death. “I see you are still playing Eros.”

Darius gave a disgusted grunt. “Isis has turned the house into a Temple of Venus.”

Or, more correctly, John amended mentally, an Egyptian-born madam’s idea of how such a temple should appear. “Don’t worry. She’ll decide on something else before long.”

“That’s what worries me. The girls have been whispering something about the Temple of the Virgins.”

Thomas stared around, wide-eyed.

Reverting to his official role, Darius continued, “I must remind you gentlemen that weapons cannot be carried into the Temple of Venus. Or at least not the sort you might raise in anger.”

John surrendered his dagger. Darius added it to the international selection piled in an alcove: a stiletto with an Egyptian motif on its blade, two swords in worked scabbards of Persian origin, and what looked like a palace-issue excubitor’s sword.

Darius turned gaze toward Thomas, who handed over his weapon with obvious reluctance.

“You Britons always hesitate,” grumbled Darius. “But you wield the iron handily once you set your minds to it, I’m told.”

“Darius is an expert on international travelers,” John informed his companion. “I’m here to see Madam, Darius.”

Darius stepped aside and stood in front of a brass gong on the wall. “She is unoccupied. You know the way.” He nodded down the hallway toward a rosewood door carved with doves and myrtle, sacred symbols of the goddess.