“Crinagoras and I rode out to the countryside today. We were only half way back when the skies opened,” Anatolius explained. “Crinagoras had composed ten new epitaphs for himself by the time we’d reached the city.”
“I can imagine, but frankly I’d rather not. Be careful, Anatolius, you’re dripping water on one of Hypatia’s pets.”
Anatolius stepped away from the clay scorpion stationed near the door.
“They make Hypatia happy,” John said in reply to the unspoken question. “I consider myself fortunate my servants haven’t deserted me for the safety of the countryside.”
“Speaking of those who flee the city, Crinagoras and I were searching for just such a household. We made a discovery you might find interesting.”
“That explains this late-night visit. I was afraid someone had died. Senator Balbinus, perhaps? Usually only bad news comes calling well after dark.”
“No, there’s no such bad news.” Anatolius ran a hand through his sodden curls. “Have you learnt anything further about Gregory?”
“Nothing that would help me find the person I seek.” John had not mentioned Peter’s misconceptions about his friend to Anatolius. The younger man had a loose tongue and might let the knowledge slip. John was more guarded or possibly less straightforward, a thought that made him uneasy.
“Then I’m having more success than you are! I’ve found out the name of Nereus’ legal advisor.”
***
Prudentius’ house sat behind the Hippodrome, just beyond the row of dilapidated wooden tenements piled at the base of the arena, like shipwrecks against a line of rocks.
John knocked and waited.
He seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time standing on doorsteps of late.
The house front presented the anonymous facade common to Constantinople’s dwellings. Its door displayed the usual nail studding and metal strapping. Here in the city, even the homes of the well-to-do resembled crates stacked in a ship’s hold, all identical from the outside, but each holding…what?
Which door would open to the solution he sought?
This particular door opened on an unexpected cacophony-shouts, the buzz of conversation, a snatch of laughter, the clatter of a pan, the thump of a heavy basket. It was as if Constantinople had been turned inside out. The quiet of home lay in the street, while the bustle of the byways had come into Prudentius’ house.
The young servant girl who opened the door carried a squalling infant in her arms. The girl ineffectually tried to shush the child. “I’ll tell him you’re here,” she said in reply to John’s inquiry. “Hurry up and come inside. Otherwise the geese’ll get out.”
John followed her into the atrium. She was short, her brown hair pinned up securely. A loose, undyed tunic revealed a slightly built frame which was nevertheless broad in the hips. Her face was an attractive amalgam. She had the aquiline nose of a Roman, but full lips and dusky skin spoke of the empire’s eastern fringes. The exotic effect was somewhat diminished by the number of teeth her smile revealed as missing. John could see no geese, but stepped carefully around the evidence on the atrium tiles that proved their presence in the house.
Inexplicably, the atrium resembled nothing so much as a public square. An assortment of people wandered through it or stood about talking. Others sat leaning against its walls. They could hardly all be servants.
“Your master’s given shelter to his family?” John ventured.
“You might say so. Prudentius says everyone is his family.” The infant in her arms seemed to find this information highly disturbing to judge by the increased strength of its cries. Answering wails from elsewhere revealed that the girl was not alone in her efforts to increase the population of the house.
John followed her past two men squabbling over a basket filled with vegetables. The house might almost be termed the Forum Prudentius, he thought.
As he went up three wide steps leading into Prudentius’ office, John felt a tug at his cloak.
The beggar squatting on the bottom step looked up at him. “Please, excellency, a nummus or two. My family is hungry.”
The girl slapped the ragged man’s hand down. “You’re no hungrier than the rest of us! Does Prudentius have to tell you again? No begging is allowed here at any time and especially not from prospective clients.”
The beggar mumbled a number of obscene comments concerning the girl taking advantage of being the master’s favorite and her arrogance in assuming this allowed her to order everyone around, especially honest workers and decent folk who had unfortunately fallen on hard times. Such as himself.
John followed her through the lawyer’s office and out into the garden. He was not surprised to see several crudely constructed shelters propped against the pillars of its peristyle. Numerous people were lying in the shadows. The garden itself resembled a long-abandoned field, overgrown with straggly bushes and spindly saplings sprouting from beds of weeds. Ashes filled the basin of the dry fountain.
“It seems he must be out somewhere.” The girl stroked the scarlet-faced baby, whose keening now turned into huge gulping sobs, soon quieted by the brown breast she popped out from her tunic. “I would be happy to take a message. He’s likely looking for more mouths to feed.”
The baby’s puckered mouth moved contentedly.
“Who are these people?”
“I don’t know all their names. Mine is Xanthe, by the way. They’re unfortunates such as beggars, out-of-work stone masons, orphans, impoverished widows, even a few whores, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
There was a rustling and a huge black cat exploded out of a patch of weeds nearby, collided with John’s boot, did a somersault, and raced away, pursued in an instant by a much smaller, tortoise-shell kitten.
“As you see,” observed Xanthe, “he also takes in stray cats. There’s a not a finer Christian in the city. He took me in off the street. I’ve served in his household for years and he’s been like a father to me.”
“Giving up so much space in his home must be difficult. Most would choose to donate to a hospice or some similar institution rather than fill their houses with the destitute.”
“Not Prudentius! He likes to do heaven’s work with his own hands. Needless to say, we have regular visits from a prelate, who reminds all these fortunate souls where their aid really comes from.”
John produced a handful of coins. “Give these to your master and this one is for your baby.” John had found coins unlocked tongues more quickly than wine. “Do you know when he might return?”
Xanthe gazed down thoughtfully at the nursing infant as if it might have the answer. Then she looked up.
“Ezra!” She accompanied her cry with an energetic wave of her arm, which dislodged the baby’s mouth and set it instantly screaming.
John followed her gaze. A thin, half-naked man with a wild beard and straggling hair sat hunched near the peak of the roof.
“Ezra! Did you see Prudentius go out?”
“He visited the sick in the garden just after dawn. Haven’t seen him since.” The man’s croaked reply was scarcely audible.
Xanthe turned back to John. “Sorry. You may have to come back tomorrow. Prudentius doesn’t often go out these days. Just as well, really, since every time he does, there’s yet another mouth to feed.”
“The man on your roof…”
“Ezra’s been here for months. He used to be a stylite. Prudentius found him lying at the base of his column. Fortunately for him it was not very tall. The master hired a cart to bring him back here. The poor fellow’s legs are like sticks. You could use them for skewers. It’s a sorry state of affairs, when stylites are falling off their columns like so many poisoned crows.”
“I gather he stays on the roof because that’s the only place he feels comfortable?”
“That’s exactly right! How did you know?”
John smiled enigmatically.
***