Six for Gold

Chapter Nineteen

Cornelia slipped out of the guest house shortly after dawn.

Their temporary lodging was one of several mud brick dwellings in a tightly packed row near the edge of the estate. The facilities consisted of a reception room from which a narrow corridor led back to a pair of cramped bedrooms. At the end of the corridor a steep flight of wooden stairs led to a trapdoor opening on to a flat roof. The ceilings were low and the floors composed of packed dirt. The cooking and bathing facilities were behind the house, as was the custom.

Though sparsely furnished, it was more comfortable than the tents and inns where she’d lodged with the troupe. To Cornelia, who had led a life of constant travel, home was whatever village or city she happened to find herself for a day or a week. She had discovered that the best way of learning about each new place was to explore the area and speak with anyone inclined to talk.

Which is what she intended to do.

She soon realized this might prove more difficult than she anticipated. The few women carrying baskets and several vendors setting out produce for sale eyed her warily. Could it be because she was so obviously not Egyptian, and furthermore apparently had nothing to do first thing in the morning except stroll around?

Bees droned sleepily as she made her way along the path. She wondered if any were Apollo’s charges.

She had left Melios’ estate by way of the gate near the guest house. Before long Mehenopolis itself came into view. It was not large, and its disorderly clusters of small houses straggled out to the boundaries of cultivated land.

At the edge of the settlement she came to a tumbled pile of smoke-blackened rubble. Nearby, shaded by the ubiquitous palm trees, was a wide-mouthed well surrounded by a low parapet. A short spiral staircase clinging to the well’s inner wall led down to its dark pool of water.

Next to the well a man in a rumpled, undyed robe sat half-asleep on a stone bench, waving his hand now and then to disperse insects buzzing around his head.

As Cornelia approached, he called her a greeting, his voice strong and mellifluous.

“Salutations!” Cornelia returned.

When the man stood briefly to offer a hint of a courtly bow, she saw he was tall. He had deep-set eyes, a nose jutting like an escarpment, and black hair that flowed down to broad shoulders.

“I am Zebulon. Welcome to Mehenopolis.”

As Cornelia drew closer she saw that Zebulon was older than he had first appeared. Gray streaked the dark hair, and his enormous hands were veined and gnarled and trembled slightly.

She introduced herself and accepted his invitation to sit down, noting the stone bench had been formed from a broken block of red sandstone, its intact surfaces carved with hieroglyphs.

“It’s not often I see a female pilgrim,” Zebulon told her with a smile, “and beyond that, one bold enough to talk to a stranger.” There was the hint of a Syraic accent in the man’s Greek. “If you have time to spare, would you care to engage in a board game?”

Cornelia couldn’t conceal her surprise. She had received many propositions during her years with the troupe, but never to play that particular sort of game.

Zebulon laughed. “I see you are wondering what I mean.” He leaned sideways and groped behind the bench, finally producing an alabaster board and a cedar box, which he laid on the sandstone between them.

Cornelia examined the heavily incised circular board curiously. If this was a popular local form of entertainment, it wouldn’t hurt to know something about it.

“How is it played? I see it looks like a snake coiled on itself with its head in the middle, and that there’s segments marked off from the tip of its tail to its head. Is the idea to win by being first to move from tail to head?”

Zebulon nodded. “It’s called Mehen and you have described it perfectly.”

He opened the box and set two ivory pieces, one a recumbent lion and the other a crouching lioness, on the tip of the serpent’s tail.

“We toss a coin to see how many segments we move. I’ll explain the formula as we go along. Now, I believe I have a nummus. Yes, I do. If you would like to take the first turn?”

Soon their leonine markers were racing along the snake’s tail, first one getting ahead a few spaces and then the other.

“Do you see many pilgrims here?” Cornelia asked. She grinned as her lioness leapt forward two segments. “And if I may ask, how did that building behind us burn down?”

Her opponent picked up the coin. “That was once my little church. One night a few months ago it caught fire, but unfortunately it could not be saved. I wasn’t here at the time, having been called out to administer spiritual comfort to a sick pilgrim, and by the time I arrived back, well…”

He flipped the nummus with a practiced air. “Ah, I see heaven favors me, for I now draw ahead!”

Handing Cornelia the coin he resumed his narration. “I hope to have the church rebuilt in due time, although it seems that day draws ever further away. Until it’s risen again I spend most of my time playing Mehen. Melios houses and feeds my old bones from charity and I perform occasional duties of a religious nature for his household and for others who need them.”

Cornelia, catching the sad note in his voice, looked up from the board, hand poised over her lioness.

“No doubt the pilgrims keep you busy?”

“Would that it was so, Cornelia, but the majority are more interested in the maze. Then too, a fair number of them also come to see Dedi’s magick tricks.”

Cornelia moved her piece and handed the coin back.

“I’ve heard the maze mentioned, but nothing about a magician called Dedi.”

Zebulon fingered his board piece. The tremor in his hand seemed more pronounced. “So you are not here to visit the maze or to consult Dedi?”

Cornelia shook her head, saying nothing.

Zebulon settled back, the game temporarily forgotten. “The maze is carved out under the old temple you can see up on the rock. Mehenopolis was once the center of a snake cult. Of course, that was long before the empire became officially Christian.”

He swatted a fly away and continued. “Mehen was the snake god of the ancients, a healing god said to perform many wonders for his followers, provided they could find him in the center of the maze. That’s why this settlement is named Mehenopolis.”

“And pilgrims still come here to worship this snake god?”

“Worship? Not exactly, no. They mostly visit because of superstition or from desperation. Some attempt to tread the maze, for it is said the sick will be cured if they can reach its heart unaided.”

Cornelia observed that did not seem such a difficult task.

“You think not? The maze is enormous and being hewn out of solid rock it’s impossible to see one’s way since pilgrims are not allowed to take torches. They must make the journey on faith alone. Inevitably one of the local residents has to go in and rescue them. I myself have never seen anyone healed in all the years I’ve lived here. Not that that discourages anyone, it seems.”

He leaned forward, a fierce light in his eyes. “Yes, the sick believe if they can reach the central chamber guided by faith alone they will emerge into daylight healed. But faith in what, Cornelia? A blasphemous snake god, or Dedi, who oversees the maze, not to mention claiming to be one who can work magick and a healer himself to boot? Better to put their trust in heaven, I tell them, not that many listen. This is a battle I have been fighting ever since I was exiled here over twenty years ago.”

“Exiled? How very odd! I recently met a man, a charioteer, who’s just been exiled here as well.”

Zebulon smiled benignly. “It may not be as odd as it seems. Consider. If the emperor orders someone to be exiled, wouldn’t he send them to such an obscure place that even its name will soon pass from the memories of the exile’s friends and supporters? Then too, if Justinian decides to send the next person away to the same place, it’s possible he’s already forgotten where the previous unfortunate is now living, and which of his courtiers would be brave enough to remind him? Not that one necessarily needs an imperial order to choose exile.”

He tossed the coin lightly into the air and clapped his hands with delight when he saw how it fell. “Ah! Speaking of Justinian, I see the emperor is uppermost, so that means my piece is due three times your last move, that will be, let me see, six, yes, and…” His hand rapidly tapped the miniature lion around the remaining segments to land triumphantly on the snake’s head. “…This time I win!”

Cornelia would not have expected a religious man to sound quite so gleeful about his victory.

Zebulon noticed her expression. “Forgive me. It’s just that no matter who I play, I always seem to lose. I shall mention this victory to Dedi next time we speak. He may take it as a sign the church is still powerful and then perhaps I can use it to persuade him to give up his pretence of being able to work magick for the ignorant.”

Cornelia lost the snake game to an effusively appreciative Zebulon twice more before she managed to extricate herself from its coils to return to the guest house.

Peter would soon be preparing the midday meal and if it went uneaten it would upset him, for the elderly servant had been doing everything in his power to maintain the usual routine of John’s household.

***

As she hurried along, Cornelia wondered just how skilled a magician Dedi might be. Preoccupied with her thoughts, it was a little while before she realized the big, dark-robed man approaching along the road was staring at her. Usually she sensed the interest of strangers immediately.

She was also able to tell, as she could now, when they intended to accost her. There was something in their posture that alerted her before they spoke. It was a skill she had soon developed as a woman who performed in public and thereby often drew unwanted attention.

She picked up her pace, meaning to pass the man quickly, but he stepped forward and blocked her path.

“Aren’t you the woman traveling with the Lord Chamberlain?”

The man was wide-shouldered and had the battered face of a pugilist. A scar bisected one cheek. His heavily embroidered garments would have been suitable at the court in Constantinople.

“Let me pass,” Cornelia ordered.

“My apologies,” he replied. “I should have introduced myself. I am Scrofa, one of the emperor’s tax assessors.” He bowed.

Cornelia realized the man’s profession explained the grand clothing. “Is there a tax on exile now?” she asked.

“Certainly not.”

“Then what do you want?”

“An audience with the Lord Chamberlain. I believe you are staying on Melios’ estate?”

“Anyone in the settlement can answer that question. No doubt John will be happy to talk to you if you request it.”

“I wish everyone were as happy to talk to me. Being a tax assessor is quite a challenge. To think of such ingratitude, when the emperor asks so little for the beneficence he returns.”

“His beneficence is hardly in evidence in Mehenopolis,” Cornelia observed. “There’s a church that was burnt down a while ago, for example, and it’s still-”

Scrofa scowled. “Pardon me, but if it was not for the grace of Justinian and the presence of imperial troops within a few days’ travel, Melios would be up to his neck in trouble dealing with raids and attacks on the pilgrims coming here.”

“By the sound of it, am I to understand that Melios did not give you much of a welcome?”

Scrofa sighed again. “It is ever the lot of the tax assessor to be treated with scorn, if not worse, and Melios was most impertinent. However, since the Lord Chamberlain is a powerful man, and one who moreover is close to the emperor, if he were to give instructions to Melios, I am certain there would be less obstruction to my carrying out my duties.”

Cornelia stared at the assessor. She felt heat rising in her face. When she spoke her voice was cold. “I fear John is far removed from the emperor right now. Further removed even than you, in fact. You might better seek to have a word with your imperial master on John’s behalf.”

Scrofa made no attempt to follow when she strode away.

***

Melios frowned. “You wish to know about Dedi? Where did you hear the name of that rogue? I fear I can find little good to say about him, Lord Chamberlain.”

John briefly outlined what Cornelia had related about her conversation with Zebulon.

They sat in Melios’ reception room. From John’s perspective, the fresco of the Great Church looming over his host’s shoulder was an unpleasant reminder of all he had left behind, undone. The headman had eschewed his wig this morning, revealing a glistening scalp that boasted a few unruly patches of hair.

“It appears Dedi is someone few praise,” John observed.

Melios chewed unhappily on a handful of almonds before answering. He was obviously choosing his words with care, but his feelings were evident in the tone he used.

“Dedi is the cause of my being in a difficult situation, excellency. He arrived from who knows where several years ago. At the time I had been headman for over ten years, and I’d always carried out my duties in a fair and just manner. Oh, you might hear the occasional complaint. That’s just human nature.”

“Even the emperor has his critics,” John observed.

“Yes, that’s it exactly! Anyway, before Dedi appeared we did not have as many pilgrims as we see these days. One or two travelers would make their way here every so often to visit the ruins, which have some interest to those who study antiquities, but that was about the extent of it. Now it’s sometimes difficult to feed all our visitors, not to mention there’s definitely been a rise in thefts and assaults.”

John sympathized, mentioning the latter problem was akin to those experienced in Constantinople as the capital’s population had grown.

“It is evident you understand my position completely,” Melios replied. “This sort of thing will always become a problem as residents increase in number. However, in Constantinople the pilgrims come to worship at the Great Church or to pray before sacred relics. Here, however, we have been saddled with a man who claims to perform magick and one who, furthermore, attracts crowds which are dangerously close to worshipping a snake god.”

John, a follower of a god Melios would have regarded as equally blasphemous, took an almond from the bowl. “On the other hand, I imagine the local inhabitants do gain some financial advantage by selling food and lodgings to visitors?”

“Indeed! Yet even this extra wealth brings problems. More houses, more goods, and more livestock. These additional possessions naturally add up to more taxes. Confronted by the current rates, I do think that our glorious emperor would surely agree with Tiberius Caesar, that it is the duty of a good shepherd to shear his sheep, not to skin them. This is why I took my case to Justinian himself. How can he be certain what his officials are getting up to so far away? I suspect many of them regularly inflate the taxes due and keep the overpaid amounts.”

“There are very severe penalties for such actions,” John pointed out.

“Yes, indeed. Even so, as you know, I traveled to the capital and there I presented a petition at the palace, requesting relief. However, while I am content to patiently await the emperor’s benevolent action on my behalf, Dedi has put it abroad he has some plan whereby he can arrange for Mehenopolis not to be taxed at all. I do not believe such a thing is possible, but naturally this has led to talk of late about his becoming headman.”

John noted it would take a very great magician to avoid the emperor’s taxes entirely. “Dedi presumably is quite wealthy himself?”

“Definitely. There again, perhaps heaven smiles, excellency, for a day or so ago, even as Dedi boasted of this plan of his, the imperial tax assessor arrived for his annual visit rather earlier than usual. I fear those who live here will be shocked when they find out the sums they will have to pay into the emperor’s coffers. I know that I was! Even though I have but a modest estate and few animals, according to the assessor’s demand you would think I owned half the Great Palace!”

“The fuller our coffers the more burdensome the taxes,” John offered. “It is something all of us have in common, at least.”

“You grasp my predicament, but of course you would, being such a close advisor to Justinian. As you are also aware, not everyone pays his fair share, thereby placing a bigger burden on the honest. Dedi, for example, always pleads poverty in public, especially when tax assessors are within earshot.”

An indignant note entered Melios’ voice. “He is also not above spreading vicious slanders for his own ends either. Why, it has come to my ears he’s lately been claiming I was killing my sheep in order to avoid paying taxes on them! It’s absolutely untrue, excellency! As I told you, it was only the one that died, and it cut its own throat. And consider this. Dedi had warned me the sheep would kill itself. How did he know if he didn’t have a hand in it?”

“You hadn’t mentioned a warning before,” John replied.

Melios ran his hand through what remained of his hair. “Didn’t I? Well, excellency, you know how these magicians are, always claiming they predicted this or that after the fact, or else predicting everything under the sun beforehand so that whatever happens they can take the credit for foreseeing it. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

He glanced at his glossy fingers before wiping them on his garment. “It’s a mixture of rosemary oil and crocodile fat,” he explained. “My head gardener makes it for me. It’s said to encourage the hair to keep sprouting. As Martial tells us, there is nothing more contemptible than a bald man who pretends to have hair.”

He paused. “If I may say so, I wouldn’t concern myself with Dedi, excellency. He’s just a fraud, taking advantage of the gullible in any way he can.”