Smoke lay along the Mese, emulating early morning fog on a river. John strode through the swirling gloom, deep in thought. He had not gone directly to his next interview. Instead he had walked in the opposite direction.
He needed time to gather his thoughts. More importantly, he urgently needed to return to his house.
Someone had died.
As he left Glykeria, that conviction had formed in his mind. Where it had come from, he could not say.
Sobs greeted him as he entered his atrium.
John’s footsteps slowed as he ascended the stairway. In the kitchen Europa sat beside Hypatia, a hand resting lightly on the young woman’s shaking shoulders. Tears shone on Hypatia’s cheeks.
Europa murmured to her as John entered. The words did nothing to abate Hypatia’s tears. She let her head fall forward to rest against her hands, folded together on the table.
Not folded in prayer, John realized, for the fists clenched spasmodically, as if trying to stave off unbearable pain.
Europa looked up at her father. “It’s that bastard Pamphilos.”
“Pamphilos?”
“Her special patient. He’s discarded her. That’s exactly what he said when she went to see him at the hospice this morning, that he was discarding her. He said he was to leave and he couldn’t very well be dragging back out all his dirty blankets and soiled clothing and sluts like her with him. How could anyone be so cruel to someone who cared about them?”
John’s mouth tightened. Evidently Hektor had taken his warning to heart. “It may not seem so at present, but ultimately the break will be for the best.”
Hypatia sniffed and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand.
“Do you know,” Europa informed John, “that young villain told her to keep the ring he’d given her. Called it payment for her services. Needless to say, it’s worth hardly anything. Pamphilos would probably have thrown it away eventually. A ring off a dead man’s finger. What sort of token of affection is that?”
Hypatia opened her fist to reveal the silver band she had been holding. “I shall get rid of it right now!”
Before she could throw the ring into the brazier, Europa grabbed her wrist and managed to extract the unwanted gift from her hand. “You shouldn’t…”
Glancing in the direction of Europa’s reproachful look, John observed a bowl containing several pieces of a clay cup sitting by the brazier.
“That ring was lucky, master. I believe it saved his life. He brought it out of the tower of the dead with him,” Hypatia said mournfully.
“He brought it out of the tower?” John took the ring from Europa and turned it around between his fingers.
Hypatia looked stricken. “Please don’t think Pamphilos is a thief, master. He was carried into the hospice clutching that ring. He said he’d grabbed it as he fought his way upwards, that it had came off some poor soul’s hand…”
“Don’t defend him, Hypatia,” snapped Europa. “Whether or not he’s a thief, he’s still a villain.”
John examined the ring closely. It was a strange piece of jewelry. A bent silver coin, to which a band had been attached.
Yet it was not surprising Hypatia had considered it a good luck charm since it bore a likeness of Fortuna.
“Hypatia, does this remind you of anything?” he asked.
The young woman shook her head.
The image was worn, but John had recognized it. If he were not mistaken, he had recently seen an identical portrait of Fortuna. “Is Peter…?”
As if conjured forth by the words, the elderly servant hobbled through the kitchen doorway. “Master! I thought I heard your voice. As you see, the Lord has decided to send me back to work.”
Hardly realizing he did so, John murmured thanks to Mithra.
“Well, master, if you choose to use that name, I am sure the Lord will not mind,” Peter observed mildly.
Europa stepped quickly to the servant’s side. “You’re too weak to be up and about. Didn’t I tell you to rest?”
Peter reddened. “Master, I did not mean to disobey your daughter, but you see…”
“Never mind, Peter. The household has become rather complicated of late.”
In John’s imagination Cornelia was looking on with satisfaction. “You see,” he could almost hear her say, “Europa is perfectly capable of taking charge. You could join me this very day with no fear for her well-being.”
He had had too little sleep, John told himself. The room felt very hot. A droplet of perspiration ran down his neck.
“Peter, the coin in your bedroom. The one from Derbe.” John held the ring out. “This was made from a very similar one.”
“Of course it is, master. Gregory had his made into a ring. Was it found on him?”
“Gregory wasn’t wearing the ring,” John replied. “It came off someone else’s hand. I have no doubt it was the hand of the thief who murdered your friend. I regret I cannot bring the man to justice, Peter. He was dead of the plague before I even began my search.”
“Peter, I’d like you to have it as a reminder of your friendship with Gregory,” Hypatia put in.
Peter accepted the ring gratefully. His weathered features tightened with perplexity. “Master, can you ever forgive me?” he finally said, his voice cracking. “I see now my error…the angel who visited me…its message…” He fell silent.
“What is it? You have nothing to apologize for as far as I’m concerned.”
“But I do, master. I misinterpreted the angel’s message. Now I see the truth of it. The heavenly messenger wasn’t instructing me to seek justice for Gregory. It was telling me that justice had already been done.”
***
Justice had not quite been done regarding another matter, John told himself as he left his house and set off. Undertaking the task the angel’s message had appeared to place before him had not been futile.
Not that John believed in such heavenly messengers any more than he believed in the pronouncements of oracles.
Yet what of the conviction that had sent him home, expecting the worst, only to find Peter recovered and an unexpected solution to Gregory’s murder?
Although, he thought, not so much the solution as confirmation of the conclusion he had already reached, that Gregory’s death had been nothing more than a random street crime.
Nevertheless, like Peter, John still had work to do.
Rounding the corner of the excubitor barracks across the square from his house, he met a figure shuffling slowly along, head down.
“Anatolius!”
His friend’s face was ashen and when he looked up his eyes were as lifeless as those of the statues adorning the baths.
“Anatolius, what is it? You’ve not been taken ill?”
The younger man said nothing. He gave no indication he’d even heard the question.
John had the impression that had he not been in his path, Anatolius would have continued past without even acknowledging him.
He laid his hand on Anatolius’ arm. “Senator Balbinus has died, is that it?”
“No, John,” Anatolius choked out. “Not Balbinus. Lucretia. Lucretia has died.”