Mary Reed: Ten for Dying

“Supposing the relic was not authentic, you mean? You just told me you don’t deal in authentic relics. You don’t think it is the actual shroud of the Virgin?”

“Fortunately I have no reason to give it any thought.”

“I wish I could say the same, Isis. Your mentioning Egypt reminds me that there was that scarab left on Theodora’s tomb the night of the robbery.”

Isis made a gesture of contempt. “I am not the only person from Egypt living in the city. Besides that what about those who collect such interesting artifacts?”

“That’s all very well, Isis, but-”

“Have some wine, Felix. You look overheated. You can think things out more clearly if you cool down.”

Felix pushed up his sleeves and reached for the cup she offered. Isis leaned forward, then sat back and stared. The ruddy color drained from her face as quickly as the sunset blush fades from a marble statue.

“May the gods protect you, Felix! Those patches on your skin…I saw them in Egypt.” She leapt off the couch and backed away. “You must leave immediately!”

He stood. “What is it?”

She cringed and backed further away. Her features trembled and twisted into an expression of horror and revulsion. “I’ll have to engage a doctor to examine everyone in the house tomorrow. My girls! You’ve killed them! You’ve brought leprosy into my refuge!”

Gordia, widow of Martinus, occupied what passed for a modest dwelling amongst the aristocrats of Constantinople, a domed, brick, two story house faced with polished granite, at the top of the hill north of the Great Palace. The dead courier’s wife met Anatolius on a terrace from which could be seen the Golden Horn to the north and to the north east the Marmara where it met the Bosporos.

She had delayed their meeting but Anatolius had persisted. She was in her late twenties, one of the pretty, well-born women whose sole purpose seemed to be to decorate the home of a similarly well-born man. Anatolius knew from experience all of the carefully painted little statuettes were far more complicated than they seemed when one got to know them better, and also that it was not easy, and ultimately not desirable, to get to know them better.

“How can you help me?” Gordia asked. “Martinus is dead.”

“But whoever killed him is at large. Surely you want him brought to justice?”

“It would not bring any comfort, if that’s what you are implying.”

Anatolius stared out over the sparkling waters where ships lay scattered like a child’s abandoned toys. She had agreed to see him but had not offered a cup of wine, or even a seat. “You would not wish an innocent man executed for a murder he didn’t commit, would you?”

“Martinus was executed for no reason at all.”

He explained to her as vaguely as possible, without naming names, how her knowledge of her late husband’s activities might provide vital clues which would prevent more innocent blood being spilled.

“But you see, I knew nothing about his activities.”

“You knew he was visiting the captain of the excubitors from the note he left. Didn’t that seem unusual to you?”

Gordia looked at him, the eyes in her blandly painted features wells of infinite weariness. “Martinus gambled. He was very deeply in debt. Everyone at court knows the captain is a gambler. I supposed it had something to do with that.” Her cheekbones flushed with sudden anger. “No doubt you will tell me I should have expected it. That’s what you get when your husband becomes involved with a bad element. That’s what most of my friends have told me!”

“If we were all murdered for our weaknesses there would be no one left in the city.”

“You do have a silver tongue, don’t you? I apologize for not offering you any hospitality. I do not have a proper staff at present. Our head servant vanished a few days before…well…and I thought I had too much to deal with when that happened.”

“Could there be a connection between this vanished servant and your husband’s death? Did you report the servant missing?”

“Certainly not. I believe it was a case of Martinus not paying him his wages on time. It was always happening. Rather than paying the servants he’d bet on the races. It is not the sort of matter I would wish known.” She paused. “I don’t want you to think Martinus was a bad man. It’s true he ran with the Blues when he was a boy and he came before the magistrates more than once because of it. He had put all that behind him and he would have put the gambling behind him too if he’d had the chance.”

Anatolius was thinking rapidly.

Was Martinus’ missing servant somehow also involved? Martinus had been in the same straits as Felix, who had admitted his financial problems led to his recruitment into the affair. Had that been the case with Martinus, who had once been a Blue and was now unable to refuse cooperating in the thefts for fear of consequences? Porphyrius had used Blues to administer the beating Felix had received. If Porphyrius was organizing thefts of relics, or even if he were merely involved, the situation began to look very like a web with the old charioteer squatting in the center. Or rather lurking unseen at one side, as spiders often do, ready to scuttle out when there was prey to claim.

“You’re silent,” Gordia snapped. “Have I helped you in any way or have you deepened my misery for no reason?”

“This is valuable information,” Anatolius told her. He would need to get in touch with Felix and pass it on to him. “I will not inconvenience you further.”

“Thank you. I understand you are a lawyer. There are things that need to be taken care of with regard to my late husband’s estate. If you would be so good as to return next week…”

Following Isis’ pronouncement of doom Felix fled blindly out into the streets.

Leprosy! Already it had been neglected for…how long had it been since he’d noticed the spots on his face and hands?

He was sure he had washed himself sufficiently after his encounter with the leprous beggar in the alleyway but obviously he hadn’t. Now the filthy disease was eating away at him. He was rotting like a corpse. That’s what happened to lepers, wasn’t it? He would end his days a pariah, alive but as good as dead.

What did he care if he was apprehended wandering about? Before it came to that he’d give himself up to Justinian. Better an axe or a noose end his suffering quickly. The imperial torturers wouldn’t dare to work on a leper, would they?

He prayed to Mithra and several other gods he had learned about during his days in Constantinople, including-at the sight of a feral cat crossing his path-the Egyptian deity Bast.

“Please let this be a nightmare,” he prayed. “Let me wake up!”

Every god answered his prayer. And every answer was the same. No.

Then he found himself in front of a church.

From the open doors came the sweet smell of incense.

He entered and walked through diffused shafts of light falling through the tall windows.

Tears ran down his cheeks and into his beard. The incense must be irritating them.

He pulled his cross out and pressed it to his lips, as he had seen Christians do, and fell to his knees and prayed to Anastasia’s god.

His head cleared. The miasma of unreality which had surrounded him began to evaporate. He was aware of other worshipers kneeling and murmuring on either side of him and suddenly he flushed with humiliation.

What was he doing? A military man on his knees, blubbering?

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

He tensed, turned, expecting to see one of Narse’s guards. Instead an elderly priest looked down at him.