One for Sorrow

Chapter Forty-five

John suppressed a yawn while the elderly Quaestor worked his way through the legal preliminaries to reading Leukos’ will with the patient determination, but none of the artistry, of a spider spinning its web.

It had been another late night.

Felix had had to be assisted to bed. He kept blubbering Berta’s name. John found it distressing because the memory would humiliate Felix, if he were to recall it.

Then there had been the encounter with Theodora. That was definitely an occurrence best forgotten. As were his hopes of negotiating approval of his investigation from Justinian.

John stifled another yawn, tensing his jaw painfully. The reading had been scheduled for a cramped hearing room near the law courts. There were no windows. Apparently the reality of the outside world was considered an unwanted intrusion.

John had brought with him the pouch Leukos had been carrying when he died. The few trinkets it contained were worth little. But it was part of Leukos’ estate, and John was hoping that someone from Leukos’ family would be there to claim it.

The Lord Chamberlain glanced around at the handful of people seated in the stuffy room. There was no one he recognized. A few men who appeared to be minor officials, professional acquaintances of Leukos, perhaps. Several others might have been hangers-on, present just in case they were mentioned in the will. It had been foolish of him to hope that some relative might attend, someone who could shed some light on Leukos’ past, perhaps even on the recent past, and on what may have caused his death.

There were more yawns. A fly explored the wall behind the droning Quaestor, and in the end, those assembled learned that Leukos, Keeper of the Plate, had granted manumission to his slaves and placed the bulk of his estate in the hands of John, Lord Chamberlain, to dispose of as he saw fit. John signed and swore out the required documents before the Quaestor.

When he was done, John returned to Leukos’ house. Perhaps he had missed some pointer to the truth during his recent visit. Certainly a person’s home should reveal something about its inhabitant, but Leukos’ residence was barren of the man’s personality. How-why-was this so?

The house had the air of a building to which no one would return. The water clock remained dry. The kitchen walls retained the odor of meats that had been boiled there. In the hall the suggestion of recently consumed meals mingled with the cloying perfume used in preparing Leukos for burial.

Someone, presumably the servant Euphemia, had thrown open cupboards and chests prior to packing their contents into the crates strewn about the tiled floor. John examined several plates, an ornamental lamp, a set of candlesticks. Compared to the treasures with which he had dealt, Leukos’ possessions were simple.

John found Euphemia in Leukos’ bedroom, carefully removing clothes from the chest at the foot of the bed and smoothing out their wrinkles one last time.

“I’m happy to see you’re still here,” John told the girl. “I wish to ask a few more questions.”

Euphemia turned her gaze to the robe draped over one arm. Her finger traced the gold embroidery along the hem.

“If it’s about my master’s visitors or his doings, I can’t tell you any more, sir. I’ve thought about it since we talked, but I’ve told you all I know.”

“And the other servants?”

“I asked them. They know less than I do.”

It was hard for John to imagine that Leukos would have intentionally involved himself in any questionable activities. Could he have unintentionally done so? There were the mysterious night time visitors. And Leukos had worked closely with Xiphias, a man who was capable of anything.

“Did Leukos ever mention a man named Xiphias who worked with him?”

Euphemia shook her head. “He never spoke of his work to me.” She placed the gold-embroidered robe on the pile of other clothing on the bed.

“These men who brought things to the house from time to time, none of them were named Xiphias?”

“I don’t know their names, sir.”

“Do you recall a middle-aged, stooping man?” Knowing that he had described half the clerks at the palace, John searched for a more exact portrait of Xiphias. “A man with a hard face. A scowl. Tight-lipped.”

Euphemia looked at him blankly.

John was describing how he saw Xiphias. The man’s viciousness overrode in his memory any objective description. Then again he was a nondescript man, or was that also John’s perception?

Euphemia glanced down at the linen undergarment she’d removed from the chest, reddened, and placed it quickly with the other clothes.

John took Leukos’ pouch from his belt. There had been no one at the reading of the will to claim it. He emptied its familiar contents onto the bed.

“Do you recognize any of these things?”

Euphemia looked puzzled. “No, but the necklace is lovely.”

John picked it up. “For a new love, or a remembrance of an old one?”

“Truly, sir, I’ve never seen it before.”

“Did you take care of his personal belongings, look after his jewelry?”

“Yes, though the master didn’t have much jewelry. Just a few rings. He must have purchased the necklace very recently.”

John looked thoughtful. “So you are returning to the countryside where the mice are friendlier?”

The girl was startled. “Did I mention how much I hate the mice here, sir? I shall not miss them.”

John smiled, convinced he was missing something very important.