Nine for the Devil

Chapter Fifteen

Manuel, cook for Empress Theodora, locked the storeroom in which were secured victuals and spices for dishes destined for the imperial couple. He nodded a goodnight to the guard stationed at the iron-banded door and went out through the series of long basement vaults that served as the palace kitchens. A skeleton night staff moved through the red shadows cast by the scattered braziers in operation at this late hour. From some distant chamber came a monotonous echoing thump as a servant chopped vegetables-parsnips perhaps-for a soup to be simmered through the night. No, onions. Manuel could distinguish the smell of freshly chopped onion, recognizable even in an atmosphere redolent of banquets past. The sooty whitewashed walls exuded the odor of meats broiled over the years and expensive spices few tongues in this part of the world would ever taste.

The cook was swarthy complexioned or else the smoke through which he moved day after day had soaked into his pores. He was as emaciated as a man who never came within sight of a square meal. When asked how that could be, Manuel joked that in the constant heat from dozens of massive braziers, he continually sweated off the morsels he sampled.

He stopped to speak to Petrus, who took charge during the night. His second-in-command was covered in loose feathers from the chicken he was plucking. One of the slaves should have done the job but Petrus enjoyed plucking and gutting chickens.

“That new assistant hasn’t been back?” Manuel asked.

Petrus shook his head. “Just as well. He insisted he knew all about cooking. Always had his nose in one of the pots. I had to keep explaining that he hadn’t been hired to cook but to clean and haul supplies off the delivery carts.”

“He was good at that. I’d thought he was a bit old for hard physical labor, but you saw the size of him. A powerful fellow.”

Petrus blew drifting chicken feathers away from his mouth. “A hard man, I’d say. Not your typical help. I put him down for one of the Praetorian Prefect’s men.”

“My guess was he actually worked directly for Justinian. I was given to understand he could be trusted because he had worked for highly placed officials.”

“A spy?”

Both men knew that the emperor had the kitchens kept under constant surveillance. Some of the guards were known to the staff, others were not. Generally there was a man who reported to the Master of Offices and another employed by the Praetorian Prefect. They kept an eye on both the staff and each other. Usually the emperor had his own spy there to watch everything and everybody else. The watchers were constantly being replaced, making it difficult for them to discover each other and collude. It all made little difference to the functioning of the kitchens, considering the virtual army employed there.

“It isn’t a coincidence the man vanished the very day the empress died,” Manuel observed.

“No. No coincidence.” Petrus slapped the denuded chicken down on the table and picked up a knife. “I think we can safely say the emperor was disappointed in the poor man, whoever he worked for and…well…” Petrus stabbed his blade into the chicken and tore its belly and chest wide open.

“Justinian’s gone mad,” Manuel said. “He’s convinced the empress was poisoned, impossible as that is. He’s looking for someone to blame.”

“He must think this spy of his missed something important.”

“One of the dishwashers didn’t show up this morning either. Perhaps he was working for the Master of Offices. I’m sure we’ll eventually notice others are gone too.”

Petrus reached into the chicken carcass and pulled. A handful of guts came out with a slurping noise. “If Justinian knew who the poisoner was he would have him gutted like this chicken, but more slowly.”

“You can’t execute someone who doesn’t exist. So the watchers pay the price for not spotting someone who was never there. When I delivered the emperor’s breakfast I noticed the guards to Theodora’s sickroom have been replaced.”

Petrus was groping deep inside the dead chicken. Finally his hand emerged, fingers gripping the last, stringy bloody entrails. “At least he doesn’t suspect you, Manuel.”

The empress’ cook grimaced. “I pray he doesn’t.”

“Don’t worry. If Justinian suspected you, do you think you’d still be alive? I’ll wager you didn’t sleep much last night. Try to catch up on your rest. Come in late. I’ll take charge until you feel like coming in.” He started sweeping offal from the pile of gutted chickens off the table.

Manuel left to the moist sound of vital organs plopping into a bucket.

He nodded to the sentry at the door. A new man. Had the familiar sentry been reassigned? Or perhaps the question was had he been reassigned to a post in the land of the living or sent to the land of the dead?

He decided to return to his rooms via the brightly torch lit walkway that passed by the Triclinium rather than taking his usual shortcut through the dim gardens. There were so many guards about one might have thought the palace was under siege.

Perhaps it was time for him to retire. How many years had he served the empress? Ever since the previous cook had been-well, it was best to forget the incident of the fish. What would he do now? There were endless banquets to be prepared. Perhaps he might be ordered to take over the cooking for Justinian.

He hoped not. Cooking for the emperor, who was a vegetarian and austere in his tastes, would be like cooking for a peasant farmer. There were those who hated Theodora. Manuel could never understand why. There was no dish too exotic for her palate. She had been a joy to cook for until the last few weeks, when she had been unable to hold down anything but broth. Even so, had she not complimented him on his broth of partridge, venison, and crab?

Yes, he had accumulated enough wealth to retire in luxury. Perhaps he could move to the provinces, run an inn for well-to-do travelers who would be glad to have a good palace style meal during a long journey far from the amenities of the city.

He heard boots thudding along the marble walkway behind him.

Some emergency?

As the footsteps came up beside him they slowed to match his pace.

“Manuel, cook for Empress Theodora?” inquired a gravelly voice.

Two hulking guards, hands on the hilts of their sheathed swords, flanked him. A hollow space as vast as the inside of the Great Church seemed to open up inside Manuel’s chest. “Yes?” He wasn’t sure how he managed to get the word out.

“You are to accompany us. Orders from Emperor Justinian,” said one of the guards. He was practically a youngster. A curl of red hair fell from under his helmet and lay across his unlined forehead.

“What…what is this about?”

“We are here merely to carry out the emperor’s orders. Come with us.”

Manuel felt a hand on his shoulder. It was all he could do to control his bladder.

They led him down a narrow path into the gardens. Their feet crunched on gravel.

“Justinian desires to see me?”

The guards did not answer.

They passed through a gap in the shrubbery and the bright light illuminating the broad marble walkway and pouring out into the grounds beyond was abruptly blotted out.

Manuel’s heart pounded in fits and starts. “Am I…am I under arrest?”

The guards remained silent.

They halted at a patch of dark bare ground surrounded by bushes. Manuel could hear the ratcheting of summer insects in the dark foliage. The sharp odor of dill came to his nostrils. Oddly, as much as Theodora had favored esoteric spices, she had always loved dill.

He heard the whisper of a steel blade slipping from its sheath.

The guards said nothing.

The red-haired youngster slit Manuel like a chicken from belly to breast.