Mary Reed - Two for Joy

He was aware of the narrowness of the peninsula on which Constantinople was located. Simple logic, he told himself, proved that he was either moving in a circle, or had somehow turned inland-west-for otherwise, considering how long he had been walking, he would have already fallen into the sea. Logic, however, refused to reveal to him exactly where he was. And small as it was, Constantinople was enormous compared to the familiar grounds of the Academy with its ordered paths.

At first, from sheer stubbornness, he had refused to ask passersby for assistance. Now, he noted with alarm, he seemed to have wandered into a shabbier quarter. Its few pedestrians had a rough look about them, so since he thought it would be extremely imprudent to reveal himself as a stranger to the city, alone and lost, he kept walking.

The narrow street he was now traversing was rendered prematurely dusky by the overhanging tenements that crowded out the fading daylight. He strode along at the best pace he could muster, fighting off exhaustion and trying to appear confident of his destination rather than terrified. Lining the way there were only the blank walls of the tenements’ lower floors and workshops already closed for the day, or perhaps shut forever, having ceased trading entirely. Looking ahead, he noticed a patch of sunlight where the street opened out on to another forum. He forced his suddenly shaking legs to move faster. Surely, at last, he was coming to some familiar landmark?

But when he emerged into the open space, he found only an empty, weed-infested expanse of flagstones. Atop a dry fountain set in their middle, some forgotten ruler surveyed the surrounding warehouses holding the empire’s children with an imperious and uncaring marble gaze.

Philo had already walked past this fountain once.

Or had he?

Exhausted, he dropped down to sit on its rim, sending a rat skittering away.

Again his thoughts turned to the Academy. He had never expected to be cast out of those ordered and tranquil surroundings into the unruly and dangerous world beyond.

He commanded himself to settle his mind and consider the problem, as if he had become one of his own flighty students. Which had been the last place he had recognized? The Forum Constantine? Well, it was huge and circular and who could mistake the statue of the city’s founder glittering atop its central pillar? He had considered going from there down the Mese, since he knew it would lead him straight to the Great Church.

Why hadn’t he done so? He had been lost for some time before he stumbled into the Forum Constantine. But instead of thanking the gods for their favor, he had chosen instead to insult their kindness by electing to take what he foolishly thought would be a quicker route home. Thus, he had crossed the forum, plunged into an alley, and almost immediately lost his way again.

That moment of decision was so clear in his mind-and so maddeningly irretrievable. If only he could return to that time and rectify his mistake. Well, such was life, he told himself, realizing even as he muttered the words that if he were, indeed, still at the Academy, his erstwhile colleagues would scornfully demolish such a shallow and uninstructive bit of trite philosophizing.

Philo stood up and looked around. Since John’s house was at the eastern end of the city he should be moving away from the sinking sun, which he now realized uneasily he would not have for guidance much longer. He had just started towards one of the streets radiating from the forum, one that seemed to run most nearly in that direction, when three figures appeared.

Their long hair and beards immediately put him in mind of the Persians among whom he had spent his years in exile. However, thanks to John’s recent explanation he now realized that these were not foreigners, but rather fashionable members of the Blue faction.

Had they been following him? These were youths who had no compunction about robbing passersby in the middle of crowded forums, or so John had warned him.

The three Blues paused for a moment. Then one of them pointed toward Philo and called out, “Is it not the old man we were talking to a day or so ago? How fortunate we are to have found you by yourself. Come over here and we can resume the discussion your thin friend so rudely interrupted!”

The man’s words sounded friendly enough, but Philo detected only mocking menace in his tone.

He ran away.

He was much too old to run so hard and a philosopher’s voluminous and intricately draped himation was designed for thinking while pacing in a stately manner, rather than fleeing for one’s life. But he ran anyway, cutting first down one alley and then into another, back and forth, like a rabbit racing before the fox.

He came to a gasping halt in a narrow passageway, closely resembling the others he had passed through by being darkened by overhanging buildings leaning overhead. The sun was now no more than a faint orange glow at its mouth, but at least as he stood trying to quiet his loud, ragged breathing, he could discern no sounds of pursuit.

Futilely he attempted to tuck his disordered robes back into some semblance of orderly neatness. Now that darkness was creeping in ever more quickly, he could think of nothing else to do but seek out some sheltered nook in which he could safely pass the night.

With this in mind, he continued slowly down the passageway, his tired eyes directed toward the rectangle of dimness marking its exit. He did not observe the dark shape huddled against the base of the right hand wall until he was suddenly made aware of it by its sickening stench. Revolted, he glanced down briefly as he scurried by.

But as always, he was ruled by his curiosity and after a few steps onwards, he went back to investigate.

Holding his breath, he bent over the shape.

It was the corpse of a severely burned man.

Philo gagged and backed away. Backed into a barrel chest as hard and unyielding as the dirty walls hemming him in.

He turned and looked up into the curly-bearded face of a huge man, who although doubtless in the process of planning an imminent attack upon Philo, was smiling jovially down at him.

Felix had served the empire on many battlefields, from the forests of his far-off homeland of Germania to the no less dangerous streets of Constantinople. Few doubted his courage. Yet he looked strangely ill at ease lounging on the couch in Isis’ lamp-lit sitting room.

The other occupant, a man even larger than Felix and perching incongruously on a tiny, gold-inlaid stool, took the liberty of pointing out this interesting fact.

“Well, Darius, it’s one thing to visit Isis’ house for pleasure,” Felix growled bluntly, “but quite another when you realize you must make a special visit to inform your friends they’re likely in danger. The streets are becoming worse by the hour, as you well know.”

Although he had always been a military man and thus was accustomed to austerity, Felix had to admit the warmly perfumed room had a certain charm. Here it would be easy to sink into the soft embrace of the couch’s red and gold pillows and let the outside world go to Hades in its own way. The problem was, of course, that the outside world was just as likely to take a detour and march loudly through this cozy sanctuary on its way to that place. He observed as much to Darius.

The other looked thoughtful. “Yes, the world certainly passes through madam’s establishment, but of course it’s usually bent on more pleasant matters than attempting to close it down. And you say that that could well happen if these Michaelites obtain the ear of the emperor?”

“So it seems. Of course, it won’t just be this house that will be shuttered. After all, a place such as this is not everyone’s idea of heaven!” Felix replied straight faced, since he, along with John, Anatolius and a number of others at court were of necessity secret followers of Mithra and Darius well knew it.