Three for a Letter

Chapter Nineteen

Since Poppaea’s poisoning, Zeno’s household had eaten almost as simply as peasants. Meals were plain, free of the possibility of camouflaging deliberately tainted food with spice or sauces, and all were prepared under the watchful eye of some person of undoubted trustworthiness, usually one of Theodora’s ladies-in-waiting.

The breakfast of wheat cakes and wine well suited the Lord Chamberlain’s taste, for his culinary preferences had never risen to match his high position at court. When they had finished their frugal meal, John and Felix retired to Zeno’s study to discuss their two prisoners. Codices and scrolls were piled untidily on the desk. The room carried a hint of the dusty smell of desiccated papyrus.

“At least I’ve breakfasted as if I’m at home.” John spoke first, breaking the uncomfortable silence they had maintained since their meal. “If only court ceremonial wasn’t always accompanied by such rich repasts.” He was thinking of the endless banquets he had not only to plan as part of his official duties, but also to attend. The recollection reminded him of those strange festivities in Poppaea’s room that had apparently been visible only to her and to Sunilda.

His half-jocular comment, however, did not seem to thaw the frost in his friend’s demeanor.

Felix sat heavily down on a low bronze stool behind Zeno’s desk, almost vanishing behind a mountain of half unrolled scrolls. “A crust of bread and some watered vinegar can be a veritable feast when you’re out on campaign,” he complained, “but if I have to be nothing more than a child’s bodyguard I’d just as soon eat better than that. Besides, you can poison a cup or a jug or a plate of food wherever it might be sitting. You don’t need to skulk about in the kitchen to do it.”

John agreed his statement was certainly true.

“We were wasting our time looking for Barnabas, just as I said,” Felix continued. “He’s long since run away. Did you suppose he might have contrived to be carted back into the villa concealed at the bottom of a basket of loaves? Or disguised as a large duckling? Not that anything that happens in this house would surprise me, I must say. But we’ve already got the two bastards responsible in custody, thank Mithra, so perhaps now my men and I can take them and return to the city.”

“Not until they tell us what we need to know,” John said quietly.

“Leave that to Justinian’s torturers!”

John pushed the scene in Poppaea’s room out of his mind. Turning his gaze to the study walls, where painted philosophers strolled along paths that appeared so realistic he might have walked down them directly into Zeno’s untidy garden, he said, “I’m not certain it would be wise to take Briarus and Hero to Constantinople yet, Felix. We both know what fate awaits them in Justinian’s dungeons.”

Felix grumbled an unintelligible reply and yawned mightily.

“You need more rest, Felix,” John said. “I’m beginning to wonder if your obvious exhaustion springs from something other than staying up all night patrolling over-zealously.”

The captain muttered a ripe curse and hastily changed the subject. “You’ve already talked to the prisoners more than once, John. Of course they’ll both claim to know nothing about murders or poisons, but surely you can’t believe that Briarus knows nothing of his master’s whereabouts? What’s to be gained by keeping them locked up here? Once they’re gone, Zeno will stop asking me about Hero and complaining about his wretched automatons not being ready for the festival every time I see him.”

“I don’t intend to question them further right now,” John replied. “I want to give them another day in isolation to give them ample opportunity to contemplate what fate awaits them in Constantinople. By tomorrow morning, they’ll doubtless be happy to reveal everything they know.”

“You’re too kind-hearted, John,” Felix said without a trace of irony in his tone.

John allowed his gaze to wander the walls along the shaded paths as he contemplated the arrangements needed to transport the unlikely accomplices safely to the palace grounds.

A light step sounded in the corridor and he turned to see Bertrada peering around the ivy tendrils painted on the doorframe.

“Lord Chamberlain,” the nursemaid whispered. “I’m happy I found you alone. I have a terrible confession to make. It’s very embarrassing. Something I wouldn’t want certain parties to hear.”

Scrolls toppled off the desk and rattled to the tiles as Felix was suddenly on his feet and in full view. “It isn’t necessary to be afraid, Bertrada.”

The girl gave a tiny squeak of shock, and turned away to flee back down the corridor.

“Please,” John told her, “come in, Bertrada. As the captain says, you have nothing to fear.”

She bit her lip as she took a reluctant step into the room, glanced at Felix and then averted her eyes. “Lord Chamberlain, if I could speak with you alone…” she began hesitantly.

“If it is anything that concerns the safety of the household, then Felix will have to hear it,” John said quietly.

Bertrada, who had been looking at the floor, pushed her hair back and looked up at John. “It’s about Hero, Lord Chamberlain. He’s innocent, I swear it.”

“You have some proof of this?” John thought it was doubtful. “And if you do, why have you suddenly decided to come forward now?”

Bertrada looked toward Felix again, then quickly away. “Well, it was seeing him brought into the villa under guard, with half of the household gawking at him, just like Briarus. I thought surely someone would soon realize it was all a terrible mistake and he would be freed, but he’s still locked up.”

“I see,” John said. “And why do you insist that Hero was not responsible for Gadaric’s murder?”

The girl’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s shameful to admit, Lord Chamberlain, but I was with Hero at the time.”

She stole a swift look at Felix. He said nothing but simply walked to the study door, moving as slowly as a condemned criminal going to his death.

As he passed by Bertrada she caught at his sleeve and looked at him silently.

John was struck by the incongruity. Felix, a big scarred veteran with a few streaks of white in his beard, Bertrada a young girl. It could almost have been a parting between father and daughter.

“Felix, don’t be angry,” Bertrada begged. “That’s all over now, I swear it. Please…”

The excubitor captain shrugged her small hand off his arm and vanished down the corridor.

“I will order Hero released immediately, but he must not leave the estate,” John finally said. “You were right to tell us, Bertrada, and I realize to do so has cost you greatly.”

***

Briarus yanked harder at the ornamental hanging. One of the nails attaching it to the wall popped loose and skittered across the tile floor but no sound came from the corridor. Evidently the excubitor had heard nothing or, more likely, his patrolling had taken him to the other end of the long hallway running the length of this wing of the villa.

Briarus smiled grimly. His temporary lodging was nothing more than a windowless room that had been decorated with a few wall hangings of little artistic merit in order to hastily convert it into a bedroom for one of Zeno’s numerous summer guests. The dense, leafy vegetation depicted on the fabric was crudely sewn, neither natural in appearance nor pleasingly ornamental. Castor would never have allowed it to be hung in his house, Briarus thought, but much could be forgiven for the unpleasing decoration had provided him with a weapon.

He got down on his hands and knees to find the nail, which had bounced off the tiles onto the woven carpet stretched between bed and door. To his disappointment, the small length of metal was not only bent but also much shorter than he had hoped. At first glance it suggested no way it could be used to his advantage. It might inflict some damage thrust into an eye, perhaps, but he was unlikely to be able to get close enough to an excubitor to accomplish that. He stuck it into his belt anyway, just in case. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and waited.

Briarus had not always labored as an estate manager. He had risen to that position largely by waiting. It had occurred to him early in life that although each day contained only so many hours, each one of those hours contained Fortuna’s handiwork. Whole days of hours, even weeks or months of them, might stream by, all useless in accomplishing an individual purpose. But there were so very many hours and their flow so unceasing, that if one waited watchfully, eventually some opportunity would present itself. So, over the years, he had seized this chance and that, and then another.

Even as he worked in his comfortable post on Castor’s estate, Briarus had waited for a better opportunity to present itself. So when disaster fell upon him and the excubitors had marched him off to this soft but secure room, he had simply gone on waiting, certain that one of the hours still between him and Justinian’s dungeons would offer him the chance he needed to escape.

Nevertheless, being locked in the cramped room was burdensome. Aside from the bed and a small wooden table, there were only a clay lamp, a religious tract, and a chamber pot whose necessary use had rendered his surroundings somewhat malodorous. He intended to complain about that at the next opportunity, but unfortunately the Lord Chamberlain had not appeared to question him again.

Not that Briarus would have anything more to say about the matter, having immediately pointed out the noticeable lack of proof of any misdoing on his part. Unfortunately, he knew very well that this undisputed fact would not be something he could turn to his advantage once he was escorted to the palace.

Now the night was well advanced. Briarus fingered the tract but made no effort to read it. At this point he was more intent at avoiding eternity than in preparing for it.

During the day, listening occasionally at the door, he had overheard a man berating someone of the household for a dalliance and, later on, his guard sharing scurrilous jokes about the empress with someone with a booming laugh. Swift, light footsteps had run past once or twice, accompanied by childish laughter. He had eavesdropped on grumbling about the heat and learned that someone in the house liked to sing hymns, although unhappily in a dreadful, tuneless manner. Nothing that he had heard seemed useful in resolving his current dilemma.

Now as he sat quietly pondering the situation he heard a footsteps outside. They sounded almost too quiet. Stealthy, in fact. He padded over to the door and listened intently.

There was no sound of a key being turned but rather an odd scratching. Something was scrabbling at the wall outside.

Then Briarus smelled lamp oil, its light odor hitherto masked by the stench from the chamber pot.

Looking down, he saw that a stream of lamp oil had run in under the door and was rapidly soaking into the carpet.

He reacted quickly, reaching down to pull it away from the oil before it became saturated.

It was too late.

His hand closed on flames as a rivulet of fire raced into the room.

He grabbed the chamber pot and threw its contents over the carpet but it had no effect. The glowing fire spread rapidly across the floor as Briarus began to shout hoarsely, pounding at the door.

A wave of heat washed against his back. Turning, he saw the bed was catching fire.

Streamers of flame crackled up the wall hanging. Briarus opened his mouth to yell again and heated air poured down his throat like boiling water. Smoke filled his lungs.

Coughing and cursing, he kicked at the door frantically. Surely he would be heard and help would arrive. Where was his guard?

He screamed louder, choking on the swirling smoke.

Briarus was still waiting to be rescued when he lost consciousness and fell to the blazing floor.