Two for Joy

Chapter Twenty

Lord Mithra answered John’s prayer, although not in a manner he would have desired.

Philo lay on the table in Gaius’ surgery so recently occupied by the plasterer with the broken arm, but unlike that particular patient he was beyond feeling pain.

If only he had found his old mentor before his murderer had struck, thought John. But then, he reminded himself, Philo might have been lying dead in the alley where the Prefect’s men found him even while John vainly searched the area near the Chalke.

John forced himself to walk over to the table and look down at the old man, who was decently covered by a linen sheet pulled up to his waist. Philo’s lined face looked serene, his white hair and beard neat. The bruising on his neck and the narrow wound in his ribs told the manner in which his shade had been set free to fly to eternity, there to discover the answers to those vexing questions that bedevil all who live, farmers and philosophers alike.

But he could not offer an answer as to why or by whom he had been murdered.

A ripe oath and the crash of breaking pottery emerged from the next room, followed by Gaius. “I fear that Bacchus is again interfering with my ability to carry out my calling,” he muttered. “I cannot seem to get my thoughts to flow correctly this morning.”

“If I may trouble you for such information as has been revealed by your examination?”

“Yes, you’ll want to know about Philo, naturally.” Gaius rubbed his temples. “Very well, then. Since it was apparent how he died, I did not carry out any internal investigation of the body.”

John was grateful to hear that. Philo had always been at pains to maintain his dignity and would have been horrified at the thought of his remains being violated by the physician’s sharp and disrespectful knives.

So far as his death was concerned, it had been clean enough as such things went. He had been spared the sort of obscene wounds John had seen in his time as a mercenary, wounds suffered by men who left their homes and loved ones whole but oft times came back maimed and occasionally half insane. Nor, his treacherous memory reminded him, was it only in times of war that this could happen…but he turned his attention firmly away from that dark river as the physician continued speaking, still massaging his forehead.

“In this particular instance,” Gaius was saying, “you would have been able to ascertain as much as I and that with a quick glance. By the bruising on Philo’s throat, I suspect that the assassin crept up from behind and choked him to render him helpless and muffle his cries. Then a quick stab, a shove to the ground, and a hasty departure to avoid discovery.”

“That is the coward’s way, to creep up on an old man.”

“No more cowardly than poison, John.”

“But still I would like to think that it was not as easy as killing a chicken for the evening meal. And then too, I would have wished him a more dignified death.”

“You mean, you hope he had the opportunity to die fighting? That is the former mercenary speaking! One thing, however. Although I rather suspect Philo wielded the blade he carried only at table, his dagger was under his body. We’d probably both like to think he marked his assailant, but even so it must have been over very quickly and mercifully so.”

“So it’s possible he at least had a chance to defend himself?”

Gaius picked up Philo’s cold hand. “Briefly, perhaps. You see these wounds?” He pointed to gashes on the dead man’s palm.

John bent down to examine the deep cuts. “Isn’t it strange, Gaius, that they appear so regular?”

Gaius shrugged. “Those who are attacked commonly put their hands up to defend themselves against the stabbing and slashing.”

“And yet…”

“Our minds seek meaning in the meaningless, John. Do we not see strange and wonderful shapes in summer clouds?” Gaius pointed out.

“Perhaps you’re right,” John admitted. What was obvious enough was that someone had taken advantage of the violence to slaughter an old man in cold blood.

“It’s just too commonplace a death for Philo,” he went on. “I wonder what other adventures he had in his wanderings and why Atropos wielded her inexorable shears and cut the thread of his life here instead of somewhere else.”

“If it’s any comfort, I would say that a blade wielded as expertly as in this instance provides an easier death than one by poison or fire.”

John agreed, adding that apart from the other six recent deaths of which he was personally aware, there must have been many more who had died in the inferno at the docks.

“Yes, indeed. But you mean five deaths, don’t you, John? Aurelius, the three stylites we examined, and that girl belonging to Isis?”

“There was also the burnt body Philo stumbled over,” John reminded him.

“Yes, well, that’s true. But there’ll be more than a few like that once the weather gets really cold and they doze off too close to their fires.”

“Gaius, I have a strong suspicion there is a connection between all of these deaths.”

The physician looked down at Philo. “Well, I didn’t see the man Philo found, but as for the stylites, as I said, they all burnt from the outside, notwithstanding people raving about fires from within, hands from heaven, and the like.”

John thoughtfully traced the gashes on Philo’s palm.

“But what about the matter of Philo’s funeral?” Gaius asked after a short pause. “It seems you’re going to be responsible, John, since obviously he has no family here to carry out his rites.”

John nodded, adding “Although at the moment the dead will be fortunate to be buried with only a hurried prayer at their graveside. And Philo would not want that.”

Gaius gently smoothed Philo’s white hair but remained silent.

The sun was setting as John lit a lamp and carried it into what had been Philo’s bedroom. It was spartanly furnished, hardly fit for an Athenian, as Philo had remarked on more than one occasion with what John had taken to be an attempt at humor.

The room held few reminders of its former occupant. One or two letters Philo had been writing lay on a desk in front of the window and a pair of his well worn boots stood beside the one chair provided for the comfort of visitors.

Apart from artfully painted garlands of intertwined ivy, yew, and cypress branches hanging in dark green loops just above head height around its white plastered walls, the room’s only decoration was its mosaic floor.

Glancing down at it, John found himself wondering how Philo had regarded the throng of rioting sea creatures frolicking around, on and under the mosaic’s foaming sea swells, endlessly crashing ashore in frozen waves. The sun’s dying light coupled with the window panes’ small irregularities gave an eerie quality to blue, green and black portraits of octopi, dolphins, and other denizens of the deep. Had they reminded Philo of the long journey he had taken from Greece to the eastern wildernesses and then half way back to his home land?

John sat down and pensively contemplated the now ownerless boots. Philo had been willing to endure the bulky himation of the philosopher, but not the sandals.

What was he to make of this most recent death? Was it really just a terrible incident during the riots? If not, who would have wanted to murder an innocent stranger, a man likely to be executed when official tolerance suddenly evaporated for reasons of state, or, as had been John’s experience, at a whim of Justinian’s?

Or of Justinian’s wife Theodora, he reminded himself.

Soon he would have to arrange a funeral. What sort of rite would Philo wish? Cremation, perhaps, after the ancient custom. It would have to be done outside the city. Perhaps at Anatolius’ newly acquired country estate?

He thought of Aurelius. So far as the senator was concerned, there was a cornucopia of possibilities as to the person responsible for his death. Staring at the ceiling, John began to enumerate them. Perhaps the exercise would open his mind to inspiration or a flash of insight that would set his feet on the right path.

“Well, then,” he muttered to himself, regretting that in this room he could not address his musings to the mosaic girl Zoe. “Let us consider. There are often reasons aplenty for murder but sometimes none at all. But assuming that it was done with deliberate intent, who would benefit by Aurelius’ death?”

He stood and began to pace back and forth across the small room. Glancing out, he noted that some of the glare reflected in far off windows was not from their catching the rays of the setting sun. The violent hysteria gripping the city was worsening. Could it be the result of an alliance between the factions? During his night journey home he had several times observed what appeared to be Blues and Greens fighting shoulder to shoulder, rather than with each other.

And this led to another thought. Was it too outlandish to suspect that certain courtiers might have encouraged civic disorder by large, well-placed bribes and secret meetings with the factions’ leaders for their own reasons, although these might not necessarily include deposing the emperor?

“Think more about that later,” he chided himself, sitting down again. “For now, concentrate on who might wish to murder Aurelius. And drawing upon the training instilled by Philo, examine not just that, but also who had the opportunity to carry out the deed.”

He stared at a particularly lively dolphin disporting in the silent waves crashing at his feet.

Among those at the banquet there were certainly many who, behind smiling faces and animated conversations, must have privately disapproved of the senator’s role in the Michaelite negotiations, ignoring the imperial edict forcing it upon him. Perhaps they ought rather to have been grateful, John thought, that they had not been ordered to undertake the delicate task. But did they feel strongly enough to kill-and to what purpose?

The reasons for murder were surprisingly few. Unbalanced humors, lust, a desire for power or revenge, gaining wealth or social position.

Certainly Aurelius would have had professional or business rivals who might well have been happy to seize a chance to dispose of him. John would have expected a less public attack, but on the other hand, in a gathering of many suspects there lay anonymity and thus better odds of escaping justice. Then too, overabundant wine inhibited the reasoning capacities. One cup too many, unchecked hatred boils over and a man is dead.

But poison strongly suggests premeditation, he argued with himself, not to mention some degree of familiarity with its preparation and administration. Well, there were two people in Aurelius’ house that night who immediately suggested themselves. Gaius, whose professional knowledge of herbs was by necessity far better than many gave him credit for, and Hypatia, who had been assisting Peter in Aurelius’ kitchen, not that the girl had any motive.

Ah, but then again perhaps the poison had been intended for another victim and in the excitement of the occasion the wrong jug had been set out in Aurelius’ study?

Speculating on the possibility, he leaned over and picked up the letters Philo had left behind.

One requested a meeting with a senator. Now that would never take place. The other was unfinished, written in florid Latin with hastily formed letters and many scratchings-out. John scanned it rapidly and soon found himself wondering if Philo had uncharacteristically imbibed too freely before he composed it.

As John read, he wondered anew at Philo’s foolishness. If certain eyes had read the letter, the philosopher would have been immediately arrested and incarcerated in the imperial dungeons and the person to whom it was addressed-Aurelius-arrested along with him.

It was a scandalous document, to say the least.

Philo to the honorable Senator Flavius Aurelius, greetings!

Concerning they who sit in bejeweled radiance on gem-encrusted thrones, Justinian and the woman rightly known as Theodora of the Brothel. This befouled pair are, and I am willing to demonstrate the truth of this statement with many instances, demons copulating in spiritual darkness. Truly, not even the filthiest and most broken-down whores fornicating in the worst alleys of this benighted city can approach the wickedness of the empress, whose gleeful delight in her public and obscene lewdness offends the heavens themselves.

Yet even so, what surprise the common folks appear to feel that wrath is descending upon them all, from innocent babes to the most respectable elders such as ourselves, because of the evil rotting at the heart of the empire. But they, by which I mean Justinian and Theodora, would take great delight in personally cutting out your tongue and ordering you starved until you ate your words, or rather the organ that declaims them, did you but dare to whisper concerning their guilt in bringing death and disaster upon this city. I do not say this from mere anger but as a reasoned observation, while pleading again, old friend, that as a former Academician you help me find some way to escape this sinister city.

The secrets of what lies beyond the grave will soon enough be revealed to me, but I am too old to make the long journey home to die in Greece, and although John has been kind, in fact more than generous, I feel I cannot avail myself of his hospitality forever. Perhaps you could inquire among landowners with estates near yours and thereby find some suitable post for an educated person such as myself? Between Michaelites and the demons in human form who rule the empire, Constantinople is a city under a murderous siege and you are fortunate indeed to have a bucolic sanctuary in which to take refuge. I regret I find there is little call for a tutor of my brilliance despite many inquiries, and I despair of ever finding such a place.

Indeed, where should prudent men such as us place our loyalties at this time? Certainly not supporting Michael and his rabble, who themselves are an affront to any reasonable mind and conscience, you may well reply. Yet from what I have seen and heard here, it seems more than likely that soon he will be in power and when that terrible day dawns, pagans such as you and I will be in the gravest of dangers.

Now, you may suspect that I have lost my senses, but I assure you that not only is this not so but that I have much of great interest to reveal. This Michael is but one subject upon which I would like to converse with you, but I prefer not to commit more than that to writing for reasons that will surely be evident to us both as men of the world. Senator, we must beware always of those imperial spies who…

John laid down the letter thoughtfully. For a self-described man of the world, Philo had certainly written much more than was wise. Obviously he had hoped to obtain another interview with the senator by intriguing him with vaguely worded hints about matters of great import. After all, Theodora’s character, and for that matter her affairs, were common knowledge in Constantinople, even if Justinian remained-or pretended to remain-blissfully ignorant about them.

An unwelcome thought struck John. Had Philo stumbled upon more information and concealed it from him? Information so dangerous to possess that a man could be murdered to keep it secret? It would certainly be in keeping with the philosopher’s secretive nature, and yet…

Peter interrupted his chain of thought.

“Lord Chamberlain,” he said, peering around the door with a disapproving expression, “a summons has arrived from our most gracious empress.”

The servant’s demeanor and formal method of address alerted John that the message-bearer was within earshot. He nodded silent thanks and emerged into the hall to see Hektor, resplendent in yellow tunic and emerald hose, lounging a few paces away near the top of the stairs, turning one foot this way and that as he admired his exquisite yellow boots. He looked up with a gleeful grin as John appeared.

John said nothing. He had a strong suspicion that the lad had not arrived to bring good tidings. He was not mistaken.

“Well, my dear Lord Chamberlain,” the boy began with a sneer, “you will have to explain yourself to the empress. I for one will be very interested to see what possible explanation you can make up to save yourself this time.”

“Indeed?” John replied, ignoring the boy’s studied insolence. Fortunately Peter had shuffled off to the kitchen and was not present to be outraged at the manner in which his master was being addressed by this perfumed creature.

“Indeed, indeed,” Hektor echoed mockingly. “You are to go immediately to the empress. And just in case you were thinking of suddenly taking a trip to the country, there’s a detachment of excubitors here to ensure that you make all possible haste to obey her summons.”

A loud pounding at the front door reinforced his statement.

“Then I shall go immediately,” John replied, refusing to give Hektor the satisfaction of inquiring as to Theodora’s reasons for requiring his presence. “It is not often that the empress sends a mere page to announce such a summons, although I seem to recall that it has been known to happen on odd occasions in matters of extremely minor import. And your detachment of excubitors seems to have lagged behind somewhat. You must have stepped out smartly to have arrived here before they did.”

Hektor bridled. “I did not say that I was actually with them.” Raised voices echoed up from the entrance hall as he continued. “I arrived ahead of them in a sort of unofficial manner, because,” an unpleasant smile spread over his small face as a heavily armed excubitor loomed at the top of the stairs, “I thought it kinder to inform you quietly that your dear friend Anatolius has just been arrested for the murder of your other dear friend, the philosopher Philo. My most sincere commiseration upon this tragic event, dear Lord Chamberlain.”