Two for Joy

Chapter Twenty-five

“Exiled? But why? You are Lord Chamberlain!”

Darius spoke much too loudly and John gestured him to be quieter. The sunlight sparkling cheerfully on the water trickling into the pool in John’s garden provided a poignant contrast to the suddenly bleak outlook of its owner.

“Even Lord Chamberlains are not safe from Justinian’s whims. You’ve lived in Constantinople long enough to know that.”

“I’m sorry. Truly I am. Is there anything I can do to assist?”

“There is something I wish you to undertake, yes. I must leave before the emperor changes his mind and sends a detachment of excubitors to escort me into an unmarked grave outside the city. Or possibly in this very garden, for stranger things have happened. Peter and I will be departing soon and therefore I am leaving the safety of this house and its occupants in your capable hands.”

“I could come with you and help guard Peter, since he insists on accompanying you,” Darius offered. “He’s an old man and hasn’t been well. How will he survive exile and all its dangers?”

John looked at Darius, pondering how strange it was that a well educated man such as Philo could have so casually and cruelly dismissed Peter as a bumbling old fool, while the unlettered guardian of a brothel would show immediate concern for a man forced into a dangerous situation through no fault of his own except, perhaps, loyalty to the wrong person.

“Peter is thinking of the old days when he was on campaign and there’s no time to argue or persuade him otherwise. Were I to order him to stay here…well, he’s a free man and would follow me anyway and so pose a danger to us both. This way I can keep an eye on him until we get to a hospice far enough away where he can be left and safely cared for.”

Darius bid a quick farewell and John went back inside, wondering if he would ever talk to the doorkeeper again. As he went upstairs he could hear Peter clattering around, gathering up a few necessities for their flight. John’s preparations were simple. Having provided himself with money, he left a pile of coins on his desk for Darius.

John looked around his study. He had left more than one place forever, as well as one life. Now he was leaving another place and a second life. He would miss its sunny austerity and his conversations with Zoe.

With a sigh, he sat beside Philo’s shatranj table and let his gaze wander over the mosaic girl. He considered chipping out a bit of the colored glass to take with him as a memento. But Zoe’s steady, strangely unworried gaze seemed to be telling him that that would not be necessary. He would see her again. Indeed, he would see his friends again.

“I do not know how that can be,” John whispered to her, “for that would require that I be reconciled with the emperor. And as to Anatolius…I will be able to look for answers and save him only if I first preserve my own life.”

It felt strange to be talking to Zoe while sunlight was still streaming in, but he did not care.

Zoe’s steady gaze did not waver. She seemed to be looking not at him but at Philo’s game board.

“Have you developed a fascination with this foolish game then?” he asked her.

The carved pieces on the board were arrayed just as Philo had left them. John could almost see the philosopher’s hand picking up the one he had called an elephant. It stood there on the board, as still as the hand that had last touched it. Gaius would have to arrange Philo’s last rites, for that was beyond John’s power now.

And remembering that, John could not help thinking about the gashes on the dead man’s hand, reminders of his attempts to avert death. It was a poignant last memory of a man who had loved an orderly world, who had talked so often about patterns and keys.

Yes, he thought, Philo waxed very enthusiastic about patterns and keys. Always. For what was hidden to most men might, to a philosopher, appear perfectly straightforward, since such scholars viewed the world in terms of what truths it hid.

The arrangement of the gashes was as deeply incised upon John’s memory as into his former tutor’s flesh. Five slashing cuts, the first three parallel, the last two slanting inward toward each other, like numerals. Three and five or two and four.

“Mithra!” John breathed.

Stepping briskly along the hall to Philo’s former room, he retrieved and quickly re-examined the disorderly and rambling letter Philo had left behind.

Was it possible that Philo had left a hastily written coded message for John before setting out for his fatal appointment? Perhaps it was less his secretive nature than fear of possible derision that had kept him from voicing his suspicions. But if there was indeed a cypher, did those numbers, a message he had carved into his own flesh as he lay dying, refer to words, lines, sentences, words within sentences?

The last was the key and it took John a surprisingly short time to discover that by following the simple pattern of the second word of the first sentence, the fourth of the next, the second of the third, the fourth of that following and so to the end of the deliberately unfinished letter, Philo’s message emerged.

“They are not what they say secrets inquire Michaelites find where Michael from suspect Michael beware…”

Even when revealed, the message remained cryptic. Added to that, how could he now hope to investigate Michael further?

Peter shuffled into the room. “Master, we must hurry,” he urged in a fretful tone. “We must leave as soon as we can.”

John took a small bundle of clothing from him. It had been many years since he had traveled so lightly.

John and Peter stood shoulder to shoulder in the dank shadows beneath a brick archway. They had just descended part way down a flight of stairs leading to the docks and had paused, ostensibly to eat the bread and cheese Peter had snatched up before their flight, but in reality to allow Peter to catch his breath after their brisk walk through the streets.

Below them, the stone quay was littered with broken crates, amphorae, bundles of straw for draft animals and other detritus. Half naked men toiled on and around several ships that rose and fell with the swell of the waves. The wind was freshening.

John drew Peter’s attention to the small merchant ship he had picked out from those ranged along the dock. The squat little vessel had seen better days-and that years before-but it was still afloat. Three of its crew were busily scurrying to and fro as they stowed away the last of its cargo of amphorae. Only one gang plank was still in place. The tide was beginning to turn and they would obviously be sailing momentarily. That was why he had chosen the ship.

“Master, where are we going?” Peter asked uneasily.

“For now, wherever that vessel will take us,” John replied. “If they will carry us, that is. But then again, the emperor will doubtless ensure that they do,” he said with a thin smile, opening his hand to display a few coins stamped with Justinian’s visage. “But remember, don’t call me anything but John and otherwise say as little as possible.”

Peter nodded silently, evidently resolving to begin following his master’s instructions immediately.

They quickly descended the rest of the stairs and crossed to the ship John had pointed out. The sea wind gusted harder, sending straw skirling around their scuffed boots and bringing to their nostrils the pungent odor of exotic spices, a hint of far off lands and foreign commerce.

Arriving at the edge of the dock, John was suddenly aware that his feet were planted an inch or so from a sickening drop into deep, dark water. As a young mercenary he had nearly drowned in the swollen stream that had claimed one of his comrades. As a result he had, as he put it, developed a special caution when near water. He forced the quaver from his voice and hailed the crewman preparing to pull in the gangplank.

“Your captain, where is he? Two travelers here seeking passage. We’ll pay a reasonable price.”

The man, thickly-browed and as squat as the ship, admitted he was the captain. “Where are you bound?”

“Anywhere away from this accursed city, before it goes up in flames and takes us with it!” John spat forcefully into the water and cursed the emperor.

Beside him, Peter’s bent shoulders stiffened with outrage but he held his tongue. Admiration for John’s extremely inventive and grossly obscene language and sentiments beamed from the captain’s face while Peter’s expression changed from disapproval to barely concealed outrage as his master’s disgusting tirade continued to spew forth. It was soon apparent that John had studied language much more diligently while a mercenary then he had during his studies at Plato’s Academy.

Having disposed of Justinian’s moral character-not to mention that of his wife-with a selection of colorful epithets concerning their preferences in bed partners, including obscene speculation as to the preferred number of legs, John spat into the sea again. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he concluded in a somewhat milder tone. “And between the fires this godless holy man is calling down at will and the thieving whores infesting the place, not to mention the one living in fine style at the palace, we’ve decided to make ourselves scarce before we get killed.”

The captain scratched his stubbled face reflectively. “Seems we see eye to eye about the emperor and that wife of his, I’ll say that at least. Very well. We’re taking a cargo of wine up to Lazica, so I can carry you as far as the end of the Euxine. Cash in hand and in advance, them’s my terms. At least you’ll get far enough away from here to keep you and the old man safe from imperial whores and fire breathing prophets. You’ll have to pitch in with the crew if we hit bad weather, though. Now, let’s see what a couple of vagabonds like yourselves considers a fair price.”

John stepped nimbly across the gangplank, striving to conceal the weakness he felt as its half-rotted pine bowed under his weight. His negotiations lasted as long as it took the captain to realize there were three nomismata in John’s palm.

“Ah,” he grinned, grabbing the coins with a knowing wink. “I see why you two rascals are in such a hurry to leave. Two less ne’er do wells for the Prefect to worry about, eh? And I daresay I know where your knowledge of thieving whores comes from! Nothing worse than a thief who steals from one!”

He gave a coarse laugh and ushered Peter aboard. “You can take a corner below but don’t touch the wine. It’s practically vinegar. But what do they know in Lazica? I picked it up for a pittance. Before the innkeeper that ordered it and the vineyard owner that supplied me are done wrangling about it in the courts I’ll be back here spending my profits in the best house in the city!”

John heartily congratulated the man on his business sense, charitably refraining from giving him the bad news that the best house in the city was currently a heap of charred wood and smoke-blackened walls.

The two travelers stood by the ship’s rail, watching as the last iron anchor was dragged up and set dripping with its fellows at the base of the mast. The ship’s single square sail snapped in the wind and with crewmen straining at the sweeps the vessel slid away from the dock, bound for the narrow channel of the Bosporos and the Euxine Sea beyond.

“I could hardly believe your scurrilous calumnies about our emperor and empress,” Peter remarked reproachfully. “It was remarkably convincing.”

“Perhaps because it was heartfelt.”

Peter, not for the first time since they had left the house, looked askance while John smoothed the shabby clothing he had donned, making certain that the knife tucked in his woven leather belt was not only easily accessible, but very visibly so.

As the small boat moved out into the crowded waterway John could discern the shape of the cramped peninsula on which the capital was situated. Beyond the sea walls by which they sailed, buildings seemed stacked one atop the next, blocks piled in a massive jumble that threatened to crash down on passing travelers at any moment.

It was a miracle that the sheer weight of all that architecture did not press the land down into the surrounding water, he thought, looking back at the most prominent feature of the receding city, the vast dome of the Church of the Holy Wisdom.

“Why does the empress hate you so much?” Peter suddenly asked him. “Her hand is surely in this, for I cannot believe the emperor would betray such a faithful servant as you.”

John was tempted to enlighten his trusting companion as to how cold-blooded the emperor could be. But Peter, he reminded himself, often sang hymns penned by Justinian, so he held his peace.

Peter continued, his quiet voice barely audible over the splashing of waves and the creak of ropes and timbers. “I have heard it said, if you will excuse me for repeating such gossip, and bearing in mind that… well…I have heard that in particular she hates those men who are not such as may fall prey to her womanly attractions. Could that not be the reason?”

John shook his head. “Who does not distrust a eunuch, Peter? They’ve always had bad reputations, and in many cases with good reason if you care to study history. So it may be that Theodora, because of my condition, mistakes me for one of those treacherous creatures. But I believe there may well be a more specific reason.”

He paused, collecting his thoughts, as Peter looked expectantly at him.

“Some years ago, upon the death of Emperor Anastasius,” John continued, “his Lord Chamberlain, by name Amantius, had ambitions to wear the imperial purple himself. Unfortunately as a eunuch he was barred from doing so. But as it happened, Justinian’s uncle Justin was at that time commander of the excubitors. It’s said that Amantius had a candidate, one Theocritus, picked out to rule and thus secretly provided a vast sum of money to Justin, money that was quite possibly stolen from the imperial treasury, to buy support for the man. Justin, in a fine display of imperial maneuvering, used the money to buy support for himself and began his reign by putting the deceitful eunuch Amantius to death.”

“I can see the meaning of your story,” Peter said, “although I would not say it offers any moral to be drawn.”

“It was a eunuch’s failed plotting that brought Justinian’s family to power. Who is to say whether another eunuch’s more successful plot might not topple him from the throne?”

John looked down into the sea and immediately wished he had not. Their ship’s foaming wake, pointing an accusing finger back toward Constantinople, lay across a darkly glassy sea, a polished mirror from Hades such as Persephone might have used during her time in that shadowed land. The gleaming surface beckoned him to gaze into it, enticed him to throw himself into its embrace. Much as he feared deep water, there was still something fascinating and irresistible about it, like those certain heights where men with everything to live for were drawn to throw themselves over the precipice to their deaths on the rocks below.

His grip on the rail tightened at the thought. With an effort, he wrenched himself away from the siren call of the water and hunkered down next to the ramshackle shed over the hatchway behind the mast.

Peter sat stiffly down beside him, gazing around as they sailed slowly into the mouth of the narrow, twisting Bosporos. Its treacherous currents formed a fitting warning to exercise caution to those traveling down from the Euxine to visit Constantinople.

The captain was much in evidence directing his crew, ever wary of the many centuries’ worth of drowned wrecks waiting to claim for their own the ships of captains who were not quite canny enough. Each new victim rendered the sea passage more dangerous still. The ship’s slow tacking to and fro promised many extra hours of travel.

Peter sighed. His bones were protesting already. He asked John, not for the first time, where this shockingly sudden journey would end, but his master made no reply.

Darkness had fallen when John shook Peter’s shoulder. The servant, dozing with his back to the cabin wall, startled awake. John quickly informed him that the ship was anchored for the night.

“Master, what…?”

John’s gesture indicated the need for discretion. Light from the tiled firebox supporting the brazier on which the crew’s evening meal was being cooked flickered through gaps in the cabin wall. Voices were audible, arguing about who had wagered what on the most recent game of knucklebones.

“We have reached the end of our sea voyage, Peter, and none too soon for me.”

His servant looked about in sleepy confusion.

“No,” John assured him, “you did not sleep for the entire journey. We have not yet left the Bosporos. Did you think I would flee, even from Justinian? With friends lying dead and unavenged or imprisoned and in danger? But be as quiet as you can, for I do not want to alert the captain of our departure. It would be better for him if he knows nothing.”

Peter struggled to his feet. His eyes were wide with fear. “But if you defy the emperor…”

Though he still spoke in a whisper, John’s tone was suddenly, uncharacteristically harsh. “What do I have to flee that would be more terrible than the fate that ambushed me long ago? Now hurry, Peter, please.”