One for Sorrow

Chapter Thirty-seven

Peter dug his spoon into his bowl of lentils and gingerly tasted them. “Overcooked,” he complained to the diner perched next to him on the splintery bench.

“Don’t say that too loudly at the Inn of the Centaurs, especially not within hearing of the mistress of the house.” His neighbor was mopping up the remains of his meal with a chunk of bread, making the table with its uneven legs wobble alarmingly. Peter had noticed the man’s gaze drifting constantly around the room as he ate.

Was he a thief? Or being sought for a crime? A criminal avoiding arrest?

Peter had the feeling the man was dishonest but couldn’t have said why. “The mistress here is outspoken, is she?”

“Yes, and possessing a temper making whips and scorpions seem like a child’s playthings.”

Peter looked dolefully around at the scattering of mismatched tables, the stained plaster walls, the noisy crowd of travelers and clerks. He was beginning to regret his decision to come here. He felt sorry now that he had made up the story about a sick friend to give him an excuse to be absent from his employer’s house for a while.

But, he reminded himself, the master needed his assistance. Hadn’t he overheard him telling Anatolius that he wished he could visit the inn secretly to investigate?

“This appears to be a fairly well-run establishment,” Peter said doubtfully, pushing his bowl away with one hand and steadying the table with the other. “Did you come to the city to attend the celebrations?”

“That, and other business I had in hand. Lucky to find somewhere to stay too. Every room’s taken, and noisy all night.”

“I suppose there’s no hope of lodgings?” He realized he was not as disappointed as he should have been at the possibility that he might not be able to spend the night in this uncouth place.

“Probably not in most places, but the owner here is the sort who would move cots into his cellar to get a few more coins in his pocket,” the other replied, stuffing a last bit of bread into his mouth as he got up. “I wish you good fortune.”

Peter’s face fell. He had already begun to concoct a miraculous speedy recovery for his sick friend. But at least the thief, or criminal, or whoever he was had left.

The innkeeper’s wife appeared from the kitchen, frowning, an untidy thundercloud wiping her hands on a grubby cloth.

“I wish to, er, compliment you on your cooking,” Peter said, as she cleared plates from the table. “Do you have a room I could rent for a night?”

She glared at him. “We don’t run that sort of establishment if you are contemplating bringing a lady friend here for an evening of carnal delight. What profession do you follow? We only cater to the best here, you know.”

Peter flushed. “I am in the city to carry out commissions for a distributor of pottery ware,” he told her, using the story he had invented on his way from John’s house.

“Is that so? I notice you don’t carry samples. Still, we can accommodate you in your friend’s room.”

“You mean the man I was dining with? He’s a stranger.”

“Well, then you won’t feel inclined to stay up all night talking, will you? Of course, if you object-”

“No, no, it is an excellent arrangement,” Peter murmured faintly.

Peter was relieved the shifty-eyed stranger was absent from the room he was shown. He eyed its few furnishings-straw mats, a chair, a couple of cots, a brazier-and wondered if he would be able to sleep at all.

Fortunately he had a job to do.

He tried to push aside his uneasiness. The Inn of the Centaurs could have been worse. Hadn’t the spies Joshua sent into Jericho stayed at a house of prostitution? At least he did not have to visit Madam Isis’ establishment to investigate.

But what was he to do? What could he find out?

He went upstairs and past closed doors, listening.

Unfortunately he didn’t hear anyone declaring loudly that he had killed Leukos.

He climbed to the third story and moved quietly down its hall. One door hung open. Peering around it, he saw similar furnishings as those downstairs. If they knew anything about Leukos’ murderer they remained mute.

Closed doors and empty rooms were not very enlightening.

Peter knew the Lord Chamberlain had been particularly interested in two other guests here, an old soothsayer and the knight Thomas. Then too, members of the bull-leaping team were also staying here. Not that Peter had eavesdropped, but an attentive servant could not help overhearing as he went about his duties.

Perhaps he could find out what rooms they were all staying in.

A woman’s cry interrupted his musings.

By the time he’d scampered in the sound’s direction it became obvious that it had not been a sign of distress. He crept past the door, from behind which there emerged coarse giggling and grunting, and went back downstairs.

Several intoxicated patrons were engaged in a dissonant rendition of a military marching song. He took a seat beside a young man dressed in the distinctive garb of a charioteer. Only after he had settled himself did he notice to his chagrin that the stranger with whom he was to share a room lounged on the other side of the charioteer.

A cup of wine crashed down in front of him. “Here’s the drink you ordered,” said the innkeeper’s wife. “I’ll add it to your bill.”

Before Peter could protest, the charioteer slapped him on the back. “Come on, old fellow. Wet your throat and join in. Do you know the song?”

Peter considered fleeing. But, no, he had to play the role of a traveler. He was a spy for the master after all. He took a gulp of wine and began to sing. He knew the song well from his days in the military.

Before it ended he began to feel dizzy. He wasn’t used to strong wine. Or was it the heat in the room?

“He’s got a good voice, hasn’t he?” the charioteer asked Peter’s roommate. Did the young man know that shady character? “I can tell by the look of you, you’re an old soldier.”

Peter proudly admitted he had been with the military, without mentioning that he had been a slave cook at the time.

“What’s you name?”

“Er…Joshua…”

“You must know a lot of marching songs, Joshua.”

“Well, yes.” Peter felt suddenly emboldened. “Enough to cross the whole length of Isauria without repeating one!”

With the charioteer’s encouragement he taught the group a bawdier song than the one they’d been singing. Then another.

At some point his cup must have been refilled, and he must have emptied it, more than once. He amazed himself with the lyrics he recalled. He’d had no idea they were still in his mind but the notes of the songs pulled the words straight out of the darkness of his memory. Words he hadn’t had any use for since he’d put away his soldier’s boots.

The charioteer was laughing and slurring his words. “I’ve never met a man with such a wealth of obscene lyrics!”

Peter wondered if he had gone too far, not to mention drinking too much wine. “Perhaps we should try a hymn. I know one written by the emperor.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, trying to bring the room into clearer focus. He was certain he recited the pious lyrics correctly, until the rowdy patrons began singing. Surely the hymn didn’t mention Theodora and the apostles?

He decided to temporarily retreat to his room to clear his head. He had hoped Thomas or the soothsayer might appear but they hadn’t, and if any of the singers belonged to the bull-leaping troupe he was unable to tell.

As he got to his feet and started unsteadily toward the stairs he could see into the kitchen, where the innkeeper sat at a table counting coins. His wife appeared to be chastising him, but the uproar in the room where Peter stood drowned her words.

He moved closer to the door. As he did so, he felt the sting of a boot applied to his backside and stumbled forward. Turning, he saw his assailant looking startled.

“You’re not the person I thought you were,” the man said. “You look like him from the back.”

“Do you usually greet your friends that way?”

“It was meant in jest.”

The bulk of the innkeeper’s wife loomed beside them. “You must be looking for the other old man who’s staying here, that ancient scoundrel of a soothsayer.”

“That’s right. I was hoping to see him on a matter of business.”

“If you find him, remind him his bill here’s due,” snapped the innkeeper’s wife.

Might this acquaintance of the soothsayer possess useful information? Peter tried to fix the man’s face in his mind but all he could register through the fog that had settled around his thoughts was that he was bigger and younger than Peter, which included practically everyone these days.

Then, abruptly, the man was gone. Peter hadn’t noticed him leave. He shook his head. It felt as if filled with bees.

By now the other guests had decided to take turns kicking each other’s behinds to the rhythm of a song Peter had never heard. Its thunderous refrain of “Theodora said to him, to him Theodora said…” was followed by many stanzas declaring what it was the empress had said to the emperor and what the emperor subsequently did to the empress.

It was not the sort of scene that would end peacefully.

Peter wobbled upstairs and collapsed onto a cot. He would rest a little while and wait for the tumult reverberating up through the floorboards die down.

The next thing he knew he was in Jericho. Why he was sure it was Jericho was hard to say, because all he could see of his surroundings was a long corridor whose walls were painted with rows of scantily clad women marching through rugged mountain terrain, singing.

No, they weren’t singing, that was the sound of trumpets he heard.

Which meant something but he couldn’t remember what, exactly.

Then the walls began to shake, cracks appeared, and the marching women disintegrated into multi-colored dust.

Seeking to escape he flung open a door and found himself in a tiny cubicle containing a bed occupied by the innkeeper’s wife who was clothed in only-

He came awake in a panic.

Heavy footsteps thumped down the hallway.

Struggling to his feet and lurching to the door he opened it a crack and saw an exceedingly old man clothed in a worn brown tunic, carrying a satchel.

Was it the soothsayer John had mentioned? If so, he appeared to be in trouble because he vanished down the stairs escorted by a group of armed men.