Seven for a Secret

Chapter Twenty-Seven

John continued through the alternating shadows and torchlight beneath the colonnade.

Only days earlier Agnes must have passed the same way. She might have been pondering whatever it was she intended to tell him. Did she realize she was in danger? Is that why she had arranged to meet in an obscure square while the city was still coming awake?

Here and there sculpture graced an alcove or a pedestal. Likenesses of long dead rulers and poets, the statues served as reminders of the empire’s ancient heritage.

Where had Agnes’ journey been interrupted? Had she gone past that marble Sophocles? Had she noticed him frowning at her? Was his bearded face the last thing she had seen before her attacker leapt from the black mouth of that nearby alleyway? Or had her assailant been hiding, masked behind the chiseled robes of the ancient playwright?

The red ruin of the woman’s battered face floated to the surface of John’s thoughts. He hoped it had been over too quickly for her to be aware of what was happening, that her killer had not dragged her away into darkness to complete his task in a leisurely fashion.

John brushed a spark from a sputtering torch off his shoulder.

There was no one to question. The only people on the street were of polished stone.

The thoroughfare crossed the street where Figulus kept his mosaic workshop and passed in front of the Church of the Mother of God, before running along the back wall of the law courts. To reach the square where John had been waiting for her, Agnes could have turned and gone past the courts or proceeded on for a short distance and gone up the street which went by the courtyard housing the make-shift theater, the dyer’s emporium, and the entrances to the underground establishments of Helias and Troilus.

John guessed Agnes would have gone by the theater since it was most likely a route she took often to see her friends.

He continued toward the intersection, past Opilio’s shop. A faint smell of spice drifted out through its lowered metal bars.

The giant, sausage-shaped sign looked even more obscene in the twilight.

The narrow way leading to the square, with its overhanging structures, was darker than the colonnade. The hot breath of forges and furnaces issued from archways.

In such an area why had the killer chosen to conceal his victim’s identifying tattoo with dye? Perhaps he had not had access to a furnace. There was also the problem of the smell of burning flesh. Dye was easy to come by. Jabesh’s establishment was not far from the alley leading to the cistern where John had found the body.

But then why not just carve the tattoo from the dead flesh?

Had Agnes come within shouting distance of the square? Surely whoever wanted to prevent the meeting would not have taken such a chance.

If, indeed, her ambush had been planned in advance.

Nothing moved in the square, aside from a dog which slunk away at John’s approach. Scattered shop front torches hardly penetrated the gloom. The stylite’s column rose from darkness into a gray rectangle of sky where a bright star winked between ragged clouds.

There was no light atop the column. No doubt the holy man would consider artificial illumination a luxury, a vanity of the world he had left behind. Would he, like Helias the sundial maker, be aware of the passage of time as the relentless sun drove his shadow around the top of the column or that of the column itself around the square?

John had completed the walk Agnes had failed to finish. He had learned little, observed nothing.

He looked up at the looming pillar. Might the stylite have seen something useful from his high perch?

From that height the holy man would be able to look down the street which John had just traversed, perhaps even into the courtyard where the theater was located.

A movement caught John’s eye, and he whirled around. He expected to see the feral dog had returned. Instead a figure coalesced from the darkness.

It was the acolyte he had glimpsed in the square during previous visits or perhaps another like him.

“Do you seek Lazarus?” the man asked. The deep, raspy voice identified the figure as a man. His face was hidden in the shadow of a hood. “I have taken in the offering baskets, but I will gladly accept whatever you care to give to the glory of our Lord.”

“I haven’t come here for that purpose,” John replied. “I do however wish to speak with this Lazarus.”

“That will not be possible. Lazarus has dedicated his tongue to glorifying the Lord. He does not engage in worldly discussions and speaks not of earthly things. All of his words are of Heaven. Pilgrims from far and wide make their way to this city to hear Lazarus describe the beauty and joys to be found in the Kingdom of God.”

“He will speak to me. I am a servant of Justinian, and the emperor is God’s representative on earth, is he not?”

“The emperor is nothing to Lazarus, less than the scrawny mongrel that lifts its leg against the pillar. Lazarus is above them both,” was the reply. “He prays to the Lord and the Lord protects him.”

The acolyte made the sign of his religion before proceeding. “It may be that the emperor would threaten Lazarus with torture. That is his way. Yet do you suppose there is any torment worse than those Lazarus imposes on himself? His own awareness of sin sears his soul more painfully than a thousand red hot pincers. If you return in the morning you may listen to his message, but Lazarus talks with no one except the Lord.”

John craned his neck to observe the top of the pillar. The stylite would have retired to his tiny shelter by this hour. Every manner of religious zealot flocked to the Christian empire’s capital. There was no reason to disbelieve the acolyte’s description of the holy man’s attitude to worldly authorities. John had encountered far more eccentric holy men.

He considered whether a coin or two might help his cause but decided it would not. In his experience the poorer the Christian the less susceptible to bribery-a trait a Mithran like John could respect.

He therefore asked the acolyte the same questions he had put to the beggar, and was not surprised to find that the former could shed no light on matters.

John had to admit to himself that he was tired. He could approach the stylite at some later time, if it still seemed worthwhile. He started back the way he had come. Night settled into the narrow passage between the buildings like a black fog. He lengthened his stride.

Soon he saw ahead the pallid light of the intersecting thoroughfare.

Again the image of the dead women returned. Agnes. An actress he had never known. A woman of poor repute. Or was she Zoe, the girl on his wall, his confidant and silent member of his household? He could not separate the two, but neither could he force them to merge and take on a single identity.

They were different shadows cast by the same person.

There was a scuffling sound behind him.

His heart jumped. He hardly had time to chastise himself for not being on guard against attack as he should have been when all thoughts ceased.