Two for Joy

Chapter Three

When John got home after a day spent examining the unpleasant habitations of the three burning victims he found Philo ensconced in his study. The philosopher had taken to that formerly private room like a stylite to a pillar, as Anatolius had remarked not long after Philo’s arrival.

“You’re late for your meal,” announced the philosopher. He was studying the odd board game- shatranj, he called it-that he had brought back from his travels and which John, unthinkingly, had allowed to be placed on a table in the study.

“I cannot claim much of an appetite after the sights I’ve seen today,” John replied softly. “I’d have arrived back earlier but I stayed somewhat longer than usual at the baths.” He did not add that his long immersion in its tepid pool had not succeeded in making him feel any less soiled.

The chair usually set behind his desk had been pulled over to Philo’s table. Suppressing a sigh, John sat down and regarded the game board. It looked to his eye much like a latrunculi board, but the heavy, carved jade pieces ranged stolidly upon its squares were unfamiliar. Alas, his mind had been occupied with other matters when Peter had brought up the question of the table Philo had requested. What had John told him? “Oh, put it anywhere.”

Now John regretted his inattention, for the study was his sanctuary. He liked to sit there in the evenings when the sun’s dying light, streaming in through its large window, lent a rusty hue to the bright tesserae of the mosaic that transformed the width of one wall into a bucolic scene. John had developed a special fondness for one of its figures, a girl with almond-shaped eyes. He had named her Zoe and had been known to have a word with her from time to time, much to Peter’s distress.

Perhaps, John thought wryly, Peter had placed the table in the study to stop him from sitting in there talking to himself.

He realized he should ask Philo to move to some other room to contemplate the game. But the last time he had seen him, John had been a student, not his equal. Even though that had been a lifetime ago, the two weeks that had elapsed since Philo had accepted his hospitality had not been sufficient for John to overcome the long shadow of that accustomed relationship.

“How has Peter been today? Does he seem recovered?” he asked his guest.

“He’s been going about his duties,” Philo replied.

“And your day went well?”

Philo looked up. The expression of childish curiosity his face had displayed during their previous day’s exploration of Constantinople had been replaced by the exhausted, hunted look increasingly familiar to John since his former mentor’s unannounced arrival at his door.

“I spoke with Senator Aurelius as you advised me, John,” the other said heavily. “He taught at the Academy himself and yet still he refuses to offer me assistance.”

John expressed his surprise.

“He treated me so curtly,” Philo continued, moving pieces idly around the board, “that I thought my mere presence in his study was causing him pain.” A frown nagged his bushy eyebrows.

“This is a wealthy city,” he went on resentfully. “Its beggars don’t ask for less than a follis. Every baker and mason and common laborer has the dignity of work. There are scribes laboring at the palace without knowing a word of Latin, or so I hear. And yet I am to believe there is no employment anywhere in the city or at Justinian’s court for a philosopher, a man of learning such as myself.”

John detected a bitterness in Philo’s tone he had not heard before. But in the old days, this scholar, this man who had taught him to read and write and who, during John’s own brief stay at the Academy, had imbued him with the taste for knowledge, had been little touched by the dark cares of the world. The man who had so recently arrived at John’s door was almost a stranger. The carefully clipped beard and longish hair, now thinner and receding from the forehead, had turned white, the eyebrows were thicker, the eyes sunken, and the hawk-like nose more prominent. Philo had become the perfect physical embodiment of the ideal philosopher. Except for the gnawing bitterness.

“I would say, Philo,” John replied, choosing his words with care, “that a philosopher such as yourself, a follower of Plato, should not perhaps be too shocked to find a less than warm reception at a Christian court in a Christian city.”

Philo’s lips tightened. “I recall quite well that Justinian ordered the Academy closed because of its alleged pagan teachings,” he snapped. “Why do you suppose that Diomedes and I and the others who taught there spent this past seven or eight years in exile? King Khosrow at least is an open-minded patron of the arts and learning without, if I dare say so, our own emperor’s religious agenda.”

John thought it appropriate and necessary to warn Philo against voicing such sentiments in public and as he did so, he looked up into the calm, glassy eyes of the mosaic girl Zoe. He did not, however, voice his thoughts about that other Persian royal patron of the arts whose subjects had captured a young adventurer straying over the border years before and changed his fate forever. If not for them, he thought, he might have been simply John, a small landholder married to his Cornelia, raising a family in comfortable obscurity in some corner of the fertile Greek countryside.

“You must have realized that this lack of opportunity was possible when you chose to come back, Philo,” he pointed out at the end of his cautionary comments.

“It didn’t even occur to me! It’s been five years since Justinian signed the Eternal Peace, the treaty giving us the right to come back. Some of my colleagues did so at once, of course. A few are still in the east and to tell the truth I thought about staying too, but I suppose I was homesick. That’s why I returned. I’d forgotten that my only true home was the Academy.”

“No matter the unfairness of Justinian’s closing it, that’s all in the past, Philo. Nothing can be done to change it. But at least you’re no longer in exile. Perhaps that’s all the justice you’ll ever find. However little it is, it’s more than many enjoy.”

The other shook his head. “No, John, I cannot accept that. We’ve been allowed to come home and even given the right to practice our own religion, that’s true. How often that’s been pointed at as a demonstration of the emperor’s boundless mercy. Merciful indeed, allowing some harmless old scholars to come creeping back to their homes!”

“But,” John replied, “of such pagans as remain in the empire, you’re the only ones having the emperor’s official sanction, Philo. Consider, here I am, Justinian’s Lord Chamberlain, sharing my house with a Christian servant and a licensed pagan, as it were, yet I’m the only one unable to legally profess my faith!”

Philo just shook his head more vehemently. “Don’t make light of my sorry situation, John. Has the emperor returned to us the land or the assets he confiscated? Has he offered us compensation for all we lost? Of course not. Nor are we permitted to teach. What then is the point of allowing a man to live yet allowing him no way earn his living? It’s my opinion that Justinian’s mercy is nothing more than calculated cruelty. He seeks to increase our suffering by forcing us to wander like wraiths through a world in which we no longer have a place. He wants to see us in rags, begging in the streets. What pleasure that would give him!”

“It’s unlikely Justinian will ever go walking about the streets observing beggars,” John pointed out with a thin smile. “As a matter of fact, he rarely ventures out into the city except when in procession, and in that case the beggars are all removed from his route beforehand. You must realize, Philo, that the vast majority of the populace would probably have had you all flayed alive before agreeing to allow you to return. I hope your colleagues took a more realistic view of what most likely awaits them.”

Philo thoughtfully tapped the board in front of him. “Perhaps it would be better for all if men conducted themselves by sensible rules such as those they’re bound to follow when they play shatranj,” he offered. “Now I admit that to the uninitiated, this is a game that may seem mysterious at first, but really it’s akin to one of those secret codes used by spies or military couriers. That is to say, once you possess the key to the cipher, what looks like nonsense makes perfect sense.”

He lifted one of the jade pieces. “This, for example, is an elephant. Its lot is to move two squares diagonally and it will never confound you by moving otherwise. Would not the ideal of life be to seek and hold to such a pattern of orderliness?”

John chuckled. “Unfortunately, life seems to more often resemble a game of knucklebones, where nothing can be predicted!”

Philo ignored John’s remarks. “Do you suppose I might be permitted to teach this game at court?” he wondered. “It is new even in Persia. Surely Aurelius could arrange such a concession for me?”

“But do you not realize how little political power a senator now has?” John paused. It was not just consternation he saw in his old teacher’s face, but fear as well. “Perhaps I should not tell you this,” he said, changing the subject, “but I know you are trustworthy and will keep silent upon the matter. At the order of the emperor I spent the day investigating the deaths of three stylites, the one we ourselves witnessed and two others, identical in their particulars. What do you think of the likelihood of all three being struck by lightning during the same storm? That is what Gaius believes happened.”

Philo thought for a time. “I would agree with him. It isn’t entirely surprising, considering how openly they presented themselves to the heavens. I see you are disappointed in my answer.”

“I had hoped you might have some other explanation. Nevertheless, I intend to have the circumstances further investigated.”

“Indeed? Then I should like to offer my assistance.”

John shook his head. “I appreciate your offer, but I’m afraid what I have in mind isn’t a philosophical task. I’ve already consulted Felix. He’s the excubitor captain and knows the Prefect well, not to mention that he has a horde of well-paid informants in all parts of the city. Between them, they’ll discover what is to be found soon enough.”

“I thought the excubitors’ duty was to guard the palace?” Philo displayed some surprise.

“Yes, but as Felix often says, the defense of the palace starts with control of the streets. So I’ve asked that he make inquiries about suspicious activities in the forums where the deaths occurred. I’m also rather hoping that the backgrounds of the dead will shed some light on how they came to meet their fate.”

Philo pointed out that the trio of stylites would surely have long since lost contact with anyone from their past.

“Many would doubtless say the same,” John replied, “but I think you will agree that our pasts have an exceedingly long reach.”

Philo appeared eager to pursue questioning his former student, but was interrupted when Peter tapped at the study door and hesitantly entered the room.

“Forgive me for intruding, master, but it is almost dark. I kept food warming near the brazier for you.” His gaunt face was pallid.

“Thank you, Peter, but I fear today’s duties have upset my humors. Perhaps I shall eat a bite later, but meanwhile please bring us wine. Then, if you wish, go to bed.”

Peter left and returned carrying a jug, a good ceramic cup for Philo and the cracked clay cup that was John’s favorite, for it reminded him of the woman with whom he had shared it, some years after he left the Academy, the woman with whom he might even now be sharing his life had fate not intervened. He noticed Peter’s hand trembling as the servant measured out first wine, then water. A few drops splashed on Philo’s board and Peter wiped them away, murmuring apologies and knocking several of the carved pieces over as he did so.

As Peter turned to leave the room, Philo lifted his cup and asked loudly, “Why do you keep such a useless old man as your servant?”

John waited until Peter had shuffled out before replying. “When I asked you earlier how he had been today, Philo, you told me he was going about his duties. You neglected to tell me the effort it was costing him.”

The sharpness in his tone seemed lost on the other. He had turned his attention back to his game, idly fingering first one piece, then another.

John said nothing more. His old mentor had described Peter as a useless old man, but it was clear that he might well have been thinking of himself.

Abandoning his study to Philo, John sought solitude in the garden. He sat on the marble bench beside a pool whose rippled water was replenished by a slow trickle from the mouth of what had once been a splendidly sculpted creature, but was now worn down into a shapeless mass of lichened stone. There was to be no rest there either. The single olive tree near the pool insisted upon reminding him of groves of its ancient kin, which ringed around the Academy. Before he could shake the memory, Anatolius appeared.

“John,” his friend called cheerfully as he approached, “Why are you lurking about out here? It’s getting chilly. It’s going to be a good night to be indoors.”

The emperor’s secretary was one of a very few allowed unquestioned access to John’s house-the emperor himself would have been another in the unlikely event that he ever appeared at John’s door-but this evening the Lord Chamberlain was in no mood for visitors. His dark gaze swept down from contemplating the sky above the colonnades surrounding the garden to scour Anatolius’ face. He murmured a half-hearted greeting.

Anatolius plumped down beside him. “You look as if your humors need balancing, John. Has Justinian been particularly difficult today?” Before John could reply, the younger man rushed on. “My day was difficult indeed, I may say. I had an extremely trying interview with my father, who trotted out all his usual complaints. What’s worse, though, is that he has arranged for my transfer to the quaestor’s office.” He sighed heavily. “I am hoping I can persuade him to change his mind, but meantime he has at least entrusted me with the final arrangements for a banquet he is holding shortly. I thought I’d consult you for appropriate guidance on certain matters relating to that, John. The matter of the entertainments, for example.”

John nodded, relieved that Anatolius had not arrived to share the latest gossip concerning the spectacle of the stylites. He preferred to avoid that subject for a while if at all possible.

“I trust that you weren’t contemplating anything too flamboyant, Anatolius?” he said. “Officially it’s your father giving this banquet and I imagine many high officials and courtiers will be present. You should therefore be thinking of the less lively sorts of entertainment, if you take my meaning-as I am certain you do.”

Anatolius evinced no surprise at John’s statement. He was familiar with the Lord Chamberlain’s uncanny ability to be aware of every event connected with the palace, not to mention much of what was occurring outside its walls.

“As it happens, I received a personal invitation from your father this morning,” John went on, unwittingly destroying at least part of Anatolius’ admiration of his powers. “So it will have to be a rather sober affair, I fear, if I am to be present in my official capacity, which I surmise is the intent.”

“Well, it certainly won’t be as lively as some banquets we could mention,” the other grinned, tossing a pebble into the pool. “Now, I have in fact already planned part of the entertainment. It’s a presentation certain to please those whose taste is refined, not to say stodgy. In short, it’s a tribute to the Muses-singing, flute playing, recitation of poetry, that sort of thing.”

“Yet doubtless there will be a few who will frown at a senator inviting actresses into his home,” John pointed out with a slight smile.

“No need to worry about that. These aren’t actresses. I’ve engaged Isis and some of her girls,” Anatolius replied airily. “Their performance will be perfectly decorous, of course. After all, you know how Isis fancies herself a patroness of the arts.”

“True enough. No doubt she’ll be happy for an opportunity to show off some of her girls’ more refined skills. Still, Anatolius, I must admit that I really don’t think that your father would have engaged such entertainers himself. What else did you have in mind? Nothing too outrageous, I trust?”

“No, of course not. There’ll be your usual mimes, jugglers, dancers, that sort of thing. But I was trying to think of something a little more unusual that would not shock the guests, and I though you might have heard of some troupe new to the city.”

John’s recent contretemps with Philo was still fresh in his mind. “Here is one suggestion,” he replied. “As you know, my old philosophy tutor is currently my guest. He has been tormenting me with a new game he brought back from Persia. Shatranj, he calls it. It’s something to do with trapping your opponent’s king. The elephant moves this many squares in one direction and the ship so many in another. I’m afraid I’ve not shown much inclination to learn to play, so I’m vague about the details, but as it happens he just mentioned the idea that he might eke out a living teaching the game at court. Now, if you were to engage him to entertain at your banquet by demonstrating it to your guests, at the same time that might perhaps assist him in finding employment. And what’s more, I do think it could be quite the talking point, without a hint of scandal attached to it. That would certainly please your father.”

Anatolius leaned forward intently. “And nobody has seen this game yet, you say? That would certainly weigh heavily with the guests, wouldn’t it?”

“The court always appreciates novelty.” John hesitated before continuing. “I should caution you, however, that it’s possible Philo may not feel inclined to accept your offer. To be blunt about it, he approached your father for assistance and was rebuffed.”

“Well, my father might turn your old friend away but I shall certainly talk to him,” Anatolius said firmly.

“If he hesitates, you might also consider mentioning that since many powerful men will be present, he may well meet someone willing to provide him with other sorts of employment. I’m certain he’s chafing at depending on my hospitality for a roof over his head-that of course is how he sees the situation, not the way I view it. I’m happy to provide him with a home for as long as he wishes, although it’s true that we do not always see eye to eye. In fact,” John concluded, “he upset Peter with a very unfortunate remark hardly an hour ago.”

“He upset Peter yesterday too,” Anatolius told him in an interested tone. “Peter was just telling me about it when he let me in. For a man of philosophy, Philo can be very tactless, I must say. Apparently he was complaining the sauce for the duck was not thick enough. Of course, Peter pointed out to him that you preferred plain food and that he was not going to go against the master’s preferences. It’s probably just as well they are both civilized men, as there are always sharp knives on the kitchen table and even cooks and philosophers must surely be hotheaded at times.”

John nodded, adding that Philo had risked all simply by venturing into the kitchen while Peter was cooking, since that was something which the servant could not abide. He would have a word with Peter, he thought, and ask him to try to be forbearing. It struck John that it was fortunate he was not married or the ubiquitous philosopher would probably also have invaded his wife’s apartments in addition to the study and Peter’s kitchen.

“How long has he been here, John? More than two weeks, isn’t it?”

John confirmed the fact, noting that Philo had arrived on the Ides of October.

“Well, now November has begun,” Anatolius replied, “And it’s a lucky month, so they say. Let’s hope so, for all of us! But however did he know where to find you?”

“Apparently my fame has spread further afield than I realized,” John replied with a frown. “He evidently heard of my good fortune at some time or other.”

“Ah, that would explain it. A teacher never forgets those of his students who do well.”

“Whether or not they did well as students.” John paused, uncertain whether to voice the thought that had come to him. There were many things he shared only with the mosaic girl Zoe, upon whose discretion he could depend completely. Strangely, the only other person with whom he sometimes shared confidences was Anatolius, probably the least discreet man John knew. “It gave me a shock when Peter called me to the door and I saw Philo standing outside,” he finally said, “for I had thought that all that part of my past life was dead, had died long ago.”

Anatolius, looking interested, asked if Philo appeared very much different.

“He looks much the same. Older, of course. More somber, certainly. The perfect philosopher. You might say he now looks truer to his vision of himself, closer to the ideal image to which he aspires. My first reaction was to tell him to go away.”

In the ensuing silence, the water trickling from the stone creature’s mouth sounded louder as it splashed into the pool beside them. There was not enough light for John to see the question he knew was written across Anatolius’ face.

“You are aware, Anatolius,” he continued, “that I am not the person I once was. I have no desire to revisit the world where that other person lived. In fact, I have made every effort to forget my former life.”

“But your past has a way of finding you, John,” Anatolius pointed out, “which is not to be wondered at considering that you live at the very hub of the world. One seeking to escape his past would do better to dwell in the desert like these hermits the Christians are always gossiping about.”

“Even hermits sometimes eventually find their way to Constantinople,” John replied ruefully.

“Well, then, you would doubtless find the far reaches of the desert yet more congenial, without so much as an occasional wild-eyed zealot to interrupt your solitude. But why do you continue to harbor that prickly old rogue Philo? Surely he knows other people here that he could stay with until he is able to get an establishment of his own?”

“I don’t believe Philo knows anyone else in Constantinople. He spent most of his life at the Academy in Athens and then in exile in the east. To tell the truth, Anatolius, I owe more than you realize to him, for it was he who taught me reading and writing and instilled some philosophy in me. Extending him hospitality for as long as he needs it is the least I can do, for while one cannot repay a kindness, one can at least pass it along by helping someone else.”

Anatolius agreed that that was so. As Justinian’s secretary he certainly understood the value of literacy. “For after all,” he continued, “had it not been that you could read and write, when you arrived at the palace as a slave all those years ago you would not have had the opportunity to put your foot on the ladder that eventually led to your being appointed Lord Chamberlain.”

“There is more than that,” John said quietly. “Let me explain. You know how I was captured by the Persians.”

Anatolius nodded. “The gods should be ashamed for allowing such a fate to befall a young man seeking only to buy silks for his lover.”

John gave a grim laugh. “Or at the very least the gods might have given me a map showing the location of the border, so that I would not have strayed over it. But then again, quite a few others had also been caught, between ambushes and skirmishes. But we became a burden and would have been killed except that Fortuna at least decided to show some kindness and sent a band of traders, to whom we were of some value if properly prepared. And thus was it done, and I became…a eunuch.”

He had paused before spitting out the last two words. Now he sighed. Why was it so difficult for him to name the reality with which he lived every day, one that could never be changed?

“That part of the story you know,” he said, forcing himself to continue. “But I have not told you what happened after we were sold to the traders. We set out for a large settlement, a long march away. But when we arrived, already half starved because supplies were not always easy to come by in that wild country, it was discovered that a contingent of captives from an overrun border city had just arrived. So there was no shortage of slaves for sale.”

John paused and directed his gaze up to the sky, where bright stars were peering through high, wispy clouds. He continued to gaze at them as he resumed speaking in a near whisper. “We were assembled at the edge of the encampment and forced to kneel in the dirt. The leader of the traders addressed us, saying that since they could neither sell us nor feed us, we were to be freed. First, however, we were to sign an official acknowledgment of our debt to their merciful and magnanimous ruler and so on and so forth.

“He then made his way with kalamos and parchment along our ranks. Thanks to Philo I was able to sign my name. Almost all of the others, being illiterate, made only their marks. When the charade was done, all who could not write were beheaded on the spot.”

He heard Anatolius’ quick intake of breath.

“Those few of us who were literate were of course extremely valuable, so well worth the bit of gruel necessary to keep us alive until we were finally sold,” John concluded quietly. “So as you see, Anatolius, I owe my life to Philo’s tutoring.”

Darius, doorkeeper for Madam Isis, hurried along a marble-floored corridor in his employer’s establishment. It led from an entrance hall where the gold leaf decorating the capitals of Corinthian columns gleamed almost as brightly as the many coins that changed hands during commerce within the house.

He could not help feeling anxious now that darkness was drawing in. True, nightfall meant an increase in business but it also heralded more dangerous possibilities. Thus the bullish man bit back alarm when he knocked on the rosewood door of Isis’ private sitting room and it swung open unaided to reveal a plump woman seated on a softly cushioned couch as she worked intently on her account book.

Tugging his black, curly beard in agitation, Darius stepped into an atmosphere so thick with incense it blanketed the smell of the perfume drenching his beard and long wavy hair. It was only when the door thudded shut that the woman noticed him and set down codex and kalamos next to the silver fruit bowl on the table beside her.

“You must keep your door locked, madam,” he scolded. “I might have been an assassin.”

“According to my accounts we don’t seem to have that many disgruntled customers, Darius,” she replied. “Besides, you’re always nearby.”

“I can’t be everywhere at once! And there is much unrest in the streets on account of the strange deaths of those pillar sitters. Unrest outside inevitably finds its way inside, just like bad smells.” He drew breath. “But you summoned me?”

The woman seemed lost in thought, caressing the thin gold marriage band she wore in Egyptian fashion on the middle finger of her left hand, although whether as a remembrance of her past or merely as a disguise she had never revealed. “Do you think this stylite business will dampen our customer’s appetites?” she finally asked.

The big doorkeeper looked surprised.

“You have been with me for a long time,” Isis said with a smile. “I would value your opinion. But before you give it, please sit down.” She patted the couch beside her.

Looking even more surprised, Darius seated himself beside his employer. “Well, madam, since you ask I think some of our clients may hesitate to venture out at night if the streets become too unsafe.”

“I wasn’t thinking of that exactly,” Isis admitted. “After all, men regularly throw away their lives for what we offer here. No, what concerns me more is the possibility of too many of our Christian friends developing a sudden fear of their god, who I hear frowns on every form of pleasure.”

Darius remarked that unfortunately in that case he could not address the question since he was not a theologian.

Isis laughed. “Well, you are the only person in Constantinople who will admit that! Now, I realize the very idea sounds ludicrous but this very afternoon one of the girls informed me that her client leapt off her bed at a most inopportune moment crying out that he felt hot, that he was about to be consumed by the flames of sin inside him, or some nonsense of that sort. In my time, I’ve heard many things but I don’t recall ever hearing anything like that, not even in my wilder days.”

Darius shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Although he had been in Isis’ employ for many years, it had been even longer since she had actually practiced the profession that had brought her not a little wealth and some measure of fame in the capital. It was difficult for him to believe this imposing matron must have once been nothing more than a pretty little thing, like the foolish girls in his care. To him she seemed more like a mother.

Changing the subject, he reminded her that she had wished to consult him on a matter of urgency.

Isis had picked up her codex and was looking at its notations. “Oh, yes. Yes, I will need you to accompany me and a few of the girls to a banquet,” she informed him absently. “It’s to be held at the home of Senator Aurelius. That young rogue Anatolius has engaged me to present a classical entertainment.”

“I hesitate to say it, but if I may, I would strongly advise against attending,” Darius replied worriedly. “It really is not safe on the streets after dark.”

“If custom does in fact begin to drop significantly we may have to consider redecorating,” Isis muttered, apparently oblivious to Darius’ counsel. “We could adopt a new motif, get new costumes for the girls, offer something extra and different to lure more customers in. Now, what could that be?” She thoughtfully tapped at her small white teeth with her kalamos.

Darius began to repeat his warning, then stopped. He knew from experience that once Isis began reading her accounts nothing else could compete for her attention, not even classical entertainments or musical instruments. Not entirely a bad thing, he reminded himself, noting the largely unused hydra standing against one wall. He certainly did not care to hear again the cacophony of agony the merest touch of her fingers made groan from that instrument.

“What is so fascinating about those numbers, madam?” he asked, his chagrin at his employer’s ignoring his advice momentarily overcoming his tact.

Isis ran her finger down a column in her account book, mumbled a few numbers to herself, and bit the full lower lip reddened with wine-dregs whose lush pout had helped accumulate the wealth whose extent she was now calculating. Finally she smiled and looked up.

“Well, my friend, numbers have their own beauty. Then too, my account book always makes me think of my father.”

Darius could not conceal his look of surprise.

“He was a tax assessor in Alexandria,” Isis explained. “He taught me about numbers. They balance, like lines in well-constructed verse. As I say, they have their own beauty.”

“You would have made a fine tax assessor.” Darius was thinking about Isis’ shrewd evaluation of the girls so often brought to her doorway for sale by their destitute families.

“But that is not a woman’s job, is it?” Isis put her account book down and took a handful of dried figs from the silver bowl beside her. “My father was often away from home, valuing estates and villages and such like. I had an uncle who sometimes visited while he was gone. He’d bring me trinkets and tell me stories about his travels for as long as I cared to allow him to sit beside me with his hand on my knee.”

She paused to chew thoughtfully for a moment or two on a fig. “This uncle of mine,” she resumed, “had traveled all over the country and had even seen the high falls of the Nile. But the story that impressed me the most was about the Saraceni. Apparently they were nomads who didn’t enter into matrimony as we understand it, but rather hired women to act as their wives for whatever length of time it was agreed the marriage would last. Well, you may say, that’s not so very different from my business here. But it wasn’t quite the same, really, for the so-called wife brought a dowry with her. More importantly, she had the right to leave her husband after a certain time, if that was what she wished.”

“What sort of savages must these Saraceni be?” interrupted Darius.

Isis laughed. “Oh, that struck me as a much more civilized arrangement than the one my parents had. But I had an even better plan, Darius. By reducing the time agreed to and placing the burden of providing the dowry upon the man, I have done quite well. Of course, this uncle of mine, as I later learned, had only heard the tale at second hand and wouldn’t have known the Saraceni from his sandals.”

Isis finished her figs and licked her sticky fingers daintily. “And what of your family, Darius? Do you have one?”

“Indeed I do, madam, and by making my fortune in this rich city I have been able to be of some assistance to them by sending them what I can.”

“But just lately I heard it rumored that you are the son of a village lord.”

Darius’ face reddened. So that explained his employer’s unexpected reminiscences. She had hoped to draw him out.

He asked her where she had heard such a tale.

“From a lady friend of yours,” Isis replied lightly. Then, her voice hardening, she added, “who is another employee of mine.”

“Madam, I am sorry. I should…”

Isis raised an imperious hand. “Do not explain, Darius. We both know the only circumstances that could produce such ridiculous boasts. Adula will believe anything she is told, which is an attractive trait in our line of work. In my day, I had a great deal of difficulty appearing so credulous. But you are aware of my rule.”

Darius hung his head, feeling as if he were being scolded by his mother. “I know, madam. And I assure you, I have not breached your rules before now.”

“I know you haven’t, Darius, or at least not too often. The wares we offer here would hardly be worth the price they are sold for if they were so poor that a man such as yourself could live among them without ever falling prey to temptation.”

“Thank you, madam.”

“But remember, although such indulgence might seem to cost my business nothing, unlike a baker’s assistant stealing a loaf say, yet each transaction increases the likelihood of those complications which contribute to our expenses. And Gaius for one has been talking about raising his fees for necessary remedies.”

Darius assured her that he would be careful not to break her rules again.

“You will have to be, Darius, for I fear Adula is quite smitten with you,” Isis replied. “Now, as I said, I have been asked to provide refined entertainment at the senator’s banquet. I’ve already chosen several of my most talented girls. They will represent the Muses and each will declaim poetry. I wish you to arrange for extra guards to look after the doors since you will accompany us because, as you just pointed out, the streets are unsafe right now. And of course even senators and their esteemed colleagues can become bestial after imbibing too freely. Besides,” she added with an impish smile, “with a loincloth and a pair of gilded wings you’ll make a most striking Eros. Rather a subtle advertisement for our business here, wouldn’t you say?”