“It’s not that, sir. It’s just that I’d much rather stay in Constantinople. Born here, so I was. I’ve worked in aristocrats’ gardens all my life and, despite my name, I’ve hardly set foot outside the city walls. It’s the thought of all that open space around me that I find disturbing. Fields and fields, with nothing beyond them but more fields, or perhaps a forest. There’s bears in forests, you know.”
“Perhaps you could arrange to stay here as caretaker of the house while various legal affairs are settled, and meantime you could seek another master?”
A look of gratitude spread across Sylvanus’ face as he contemplated the suggestion.
“How does this bull indicate the future?” John asked, quickly, as much to divert the other as from a thirst for arcane knowledge.
“Ah!” Sylvanus’ brown face furrowed into a grin. “It’s very easy. No need for purification rites or anything like that! No, a person wishing to consult Apis on a course of action merely puts the question and offers food. If Apis eats, it means a fortunate outcome to the intended enterprise.” A thoughtful look entered his eyes. “Since Apis found his appetite again just after you arrived, it may well mean you will find whatever it is you seek.”
“I hope so. However, I would like to consult you rather than these oracles. I believe a customs official named Gregory recently visited your master?”
“Gregory? He visited quite often on matters of business, I believe. The master showed him around the garden a few times. He did not seem very impressed.”
The gardener appeared reluctant to say more. John assured him he had nothing to do with customs duties or taxation for that matter. “Gregory was here the day Nereus died?”
Sylvanus looked dubious. “I truly can’t say. I rarely venture into the house when the master has visitors. I wouldn’t want to be tracking mud everywhere, for one thing. There were quite a number of people there that day, from the sound of it. A real commotion. I find it of some comfort, sir, to recall that the master did not die alone.”
“You wouldn’t know, then, who might also have been present to witness Nereus’ will?”
Sylvanus shook his head. “That was none of my business, sir. My business is looking after the master’s oracles.”
“You mentioned Nereus showed them to Gregory, and to other visitors too. His lawyer, for instance?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know who his lawyer might be. I don’t think he’s visited the garden, though, since being a lawyer he would surely have started arguing with the oracles.”
“What about you, Sylvanus? Do you have any notion why Nereus decided to make a new will?”
Sylvanus patted the bull’s flank and looked down into the pond, staring gloomily at the ghostly forms of the fish moving restlessly below its surface. “Everyone in the household knew why. It was on account of his son.”
“An only child?”
Sylvanus nodded. “There is no other family left. Nereus named the boy Triton after the sea god. The master liked to say his own fate was embedded in the name his parents gave him and that because of it he was destined to make his fortune from the sea. Alas, while the mythological Nereus had fifty daughters, the master had only the one son, a lad who contrived to bring him more sorrow than fifty daughters ever could.” The oracle keeper ran his hand through his hair, extracted a straw, and tossed it onto the surface of the pool. Eager fish rose, rippling the water.
“Has Triton followed in his father’s footsteps and entered the shipping trade?”
“Hardly, although that is what Nereus intended. Excuse me, sir. I should not speak ill of his flesh and blood, but we all agreed Triton had finally gone too far. None of us were at all surprised when the master finally carried out his threat to disinherit him.”
***
Hypatia looked up from chopping dill as Peter shuffled into the kitchen. Night had begun to darken the window panes and, having lit the house lamps, Peter carefully set the last one on the kitchen table. Its orange light danced across smoke-stained ceiling and walls, adding to the ruddy glow from the brazier.
“Isn’t it strange how a good lamp and a warm fire make us feel much safer?” Hypatia remarked, emptying a plate of chopped herbs into the pot steaming atop the brazier.
“Unless the lamp gets knocked over and sets fire to the house.” Peter peered into the pot. “You added too much water for that amount of bacon and not enough dill.”
“You heard the master’s order, Peter! I am to cook for the time being. And just as well, since obviously lighting the lamps has tired you out. As for lack of dill, I’ve added all we had.”
“Make sure you slice the rind off that chunk of bacon before you serve it as well. The master has the old soldier’s habit of eating everything placed before him without complaining, and bacon rind is bad for the digestion.” Peter lowered himself on to the kitchen stool. “There is something else I wish attended to, Hypatia.”
The young woman raised inquiring eyebrows.
“When I was lighting the lamps, I almost fell over one of your clay scorpions. It was sitting beside the master’s desk. It’s fortunate for you I saw it before he did. He would not have been pleased.” Peter’s tone made it clear that he was not happy about it either.
Hypatia frowned. “I realize you call my charms superstitious nonsense, Peter, but surely you understand I’m using them to protect the house and all who dwell here?”
“Them? There are more?”
“Yes, there are.” She began to launch into a sharp retort, but sensed an unusual anger in the elderly servant’s suddenly flushed face and instead lowered her voice. “I placed one at every entrance and each corner of the house, but I couldn’t get up on the roof to-”
Peter interrupted with the comment that a woman seen clambering about on the Lord Chamberlain’s roof would certainly have been fine grist for every palace gossip who happened to be passing by at the time.
“I know these scorpions come from a good heart,” he went on kindly. “However, you need to conceal them. Remember that the master serves a Christian emperor and, in addition, may well have visitors who would not look kindly on such decorations. Besides, it’s my understanding that the scorpion has some significance for Mithrans. The master most certainly does not want his beliefs placed on view, even by accident.”
He sighed heavily. “I am confiding in this fashion because it may well fall to you to remember all these things one day.”
“Gaius says there is no cure for the plague. If that’s so, we can only try to scare it away.”
“You would do better to put your faith in the Lord than in creatures of clay, Hypatia.”
The young woman gave the pot a final stir and then stepped over to the window. Each pane held a wavering image of the flame from the lamp on the table. She leaned closer to the glass. “How can you put your faith in a god who visits such punishment as this pestilence upon his creatures?”
Peter quickly made the sign of his religion. “This world may be full of horror, but it is only this world. Who can say what lies beyond? We might well convince ourselves there is nothing outside this kitchen, but lean close enough to that dark glass, look through the reflections from our small lamp, and you’ll see countless lights blazing forth beyond.”
“For an old army cook you preach very well, Peter,” Hypatia replied softly. “In fact, better than some prelates.”
“We must remain humble! After all, there may well be prelates who are better cooks than I am.” Peter began to smile, but then his face darkened. “Gregory and I had been discussing this world and the next for some time.”
“And those words were composed for his ears?”
“Yes.” Peter bowed his head.
Hypatia rubbed away condensation on the window panes. In the quiet kitchen, her finger made a faint squeaking sound against the glass. Boiling water murmured busily in the pot. Now the smell of bacon joined the odor of dill. “I might believe in your god if he sent a messenger to me, Peter, as he did to you. Yet why would you receive a message about your friend when so many are dying?”