Mary Reed: Nine for the Devil

He glanced up at the little girl in the wall mosaic and sighed. Years ago he had named the solemn, dark-eyed child Zoe but now knew her real name had been Agnes and she was no more alive than the cut glass from which her double and the scene around her were constructed. Despite that, he continued to think of her as Zoe and she remained his confidante.

In daylight, Zoe stood in a serene country landscape beneath billowing clouds. Later, illuminated by fitful lamplight, the cleverly angled tesserae would reflect satyrs cavorting in the fields and pagan gods rioting in the sky.

“It’s fortunate you cannot see what’s going on behind you, Zoe,” John muttered. “And equally unfortunate I’m just as blind to whatever has been happening behind my back.”

He stood at the window. The mists had evaporated, Below, excubitors went in and out of their barracks, whose rain-washed surface gleamed in strengthening sunlight. Beyond the barracks a line of cypresses marked out the perimeters of a garden, more trees embraced a small church, and in the distance lay the Sea of Marmara, above which gulls visiting from the docks and foreshore swooped to and fro.

By now the carriage bearing Cornelia away would have passed through the Golden Gate at the southern end of the city on its way to Zeno’s seaside estate. He wondered how his daughter Europa was faring, if Peter would find an acceptable swordfish, then chastised himself for permitting his thoughts to wander. Cornelia would send news in due course, Peter would doubtless find what he sought, and meanwhile he must at least organize a plan of attack for his investigation.

He couldn’t very well investigate everyone at court who had nursed a grievance against the empress, let alone everyone in Constantinople.

Who had access to Theodora’s sickroom? Not many, so that might be the place to start. But what about those who had some connection with those who had been granted access? A servant, for example, might be working for anyone at court or in the city.

Time slid away as he sank into thought. He was sitting at his desk, still pondering, when a thunderous knocking brought him to his feet. He hurried downstairs. It was Peter, laden down with a swordfish and a basket of produce.

“Thank you, master. It is hardly proper for you to let me in. I was on the wrong side of the door to open it.” Peter said as he followed John upstairs.

John was about to reply when Peter gasped. Before John could turn to catch him, Peter fell backwards. He went crashing down the stairs, coming to rest surrounded by pears and several surprisingly intact pots of honey. A large cabbage had rolled into a corner of the atrium and the swordfish reclined next to Peter’s out flung arm.

Although he lay flat on his back with his legs stretched straight toward the door, the toe of his left boot pointed at the wall. The sickening angle made it obvious that, unlike the pots of honey, Peter’s left leg was broken.

“Get hold of his leg above the knee, John. When I tell you, pull as hard as you can.”

The speaker, Gaius, the palace physician, had helped John get Peter up to his third floor room. Peter was positioned with his left leg extending past the edge of the bed. John clasped his servant’s upper leg while Gaius grasped the ankle.

“Pull!”

The physician was a stout, bald man. His big forearms corded with effort. John leaned backwards as he pulled in the opposite direction.

Gaius’ rubicund face grew redder. With a grunt he twisted Peter’s leg until the grotesquely misplaced foot returned to its normal position. “I think we’ve got it. Let go.”

John thought he could hear bones snap back into place, but surely that was his imagination. He looked with concern at Peter, whose face was calm but as waxen as that of a corpse.

The servant smiled weakly. ““Don’t worry, master. For all I can feel, my leg might have been amputated.”

“You still have your leg,” Gaius said gruffly, positioning the splint under it. “The tibia and fibula were both broken right through, but cleanly and that’s fortunate for you. Help me with these bindings, John.”

“I am sorry for the trouble, master,” Peter said.

“You’ll be back on duty in a few months,” Gaius told him. “Your leg will be good as new.”

The servant sighed. “Can you make the rest of me new as well?”

***

Seated at John’s kitchen table, Gaius looked up from his cup. “I’m grateful for your assistance in helping me set Peter’s leg, but not for this terrible wine of yours. Not that I would ever refuse to drink it,” he added truthfully. The physician had spent so much of his life with his bulbous nose buried in cups it had taken on a wine-dark color. “You’ll have to tie Peter to his bed for several weeks.”

“That will be difficult,” John replied. “He’ll try to get up before you’re out of sight.”

“For now, the draught of poppy potion I gave him will make him sleep. He may not be as difficult as you anticipate. After you left us alone I frightened him into agreeing not to get out of bed until I give him permission.”

John asked how this remarkable feat had been accomplished.

“Oh, quite easily. I told him he would probably faint if he did and if we found him apparently dead on the floor I would have to establish if he was still living by extreme methods, such as thrashing his chest with nettles or pouring vinegar into his mouth. According to Peter, vinegar tastes no worse than your awful wine. So I went on to the possibility of onion juice squirted into the nose and horse-radish rubbed on the tongue. That got his attention. I didn’t have to mention any of the more stringent invasive tests. If the healing goes well, his leg should remain much the same length as it always has been. If not, it’ll be shorter than the other and he’ll limp.”

“He’s already does, but thinks nobody’s noticed.”

“It’s age gnawing at his joints. I’ll bring something for that tomorrow.”

John nodded. His own joints ached on damp mornings like this. “You’ve heard Justinian has ordered me to find out who poisoned Theodora?”

“Yes. Word gets around fast. I’m under suspicion, needless to say.” The physician drained his cup and reached for the jug. “I attended Theodora until the day before she died, and it was not an easy illness. That last week she was asking for more and more poppy potion and yet it hardly seemed to lessen the agony.”

“Could anyone have poisoned it?”

Gaius considered the question. “No. I make it myself from tears of poppy and it never left my hands between completion and delivery to the sickroom. I’ve served as palace physician long enough to know it’s the only way to avoid problems.”

“Do you think she was poisoned?”

“No. She was gravely ill. I saw no signs of poisoning. It would have been impossible. Who could have poisoned her? It’s not like anyone could walk in and invite her to have a drink or eat a honey cake. No, I’m certain it wasn’t that, despite what Justinian says. Though if the emperor says a thing is so, as far as we’re all concerned it is so.”

“He expects me to prove it.”

Gaius shook his head. “It was a wasting disease, John. There were all the characteristic signs as illness ran its course. Marked loss of weight, yellowing of the skin, increasing pain.”

He shook his head and took a gulp of wine. “The pain was unimaginable. Several times Justinian summoned me, begging me to give her something stronger. You could hear her screaming all the way to the end of the corridor. I tried to explain to him that there was a limit to the amount of painkiller I could administer and that it could only deaden the agony so far. He was frantic.”