Thomas offered Europa a broad smile. “I made some inquiries and finally found the troupe, or what was left of it. The company was in the process of disbanding. The plague had just appeared and had already taken a few of them. It was time to leave.”
“And what’s more, our bull had been stolen,” Europa put in. “I fear he ended up butchered. A beautiful, intelligent beast like that.” Her eyes glittered at the memory, although whether with tears of sorrow or anger John couldn’t tell.
“I don’t think those pagan priests would have allowed that,” Thomas observed. “But in any event, the disaster sweeping the city put an end to my business there as well.”
He paused and John wondered exactly what business Thomas had been pursuing so far away. “In any event, I suggested to the few remaining performers that we stick together and move along the coast, earning our way by impromptu performances in towns as we went. Alas, I fear I am not cut out to be an entertainer.”
The admission caused Thomas to pick up his cup, which turned out to be empty. Before he could say a word, Europa refilled it.
Thomas fortified himself and continued with his story. “Unfortunately, the plague appeared to be pursuing us. No sooner had we arrived in Ephesus, but the plague appeared. We hastened on to Smyrna and Nicaea and the same thing happened. You’d have thought we were carrying the disgusting sickness on our backs. Eventually we parted company with the rest and gradually worked our way up the coast to Nicomedia.”
“Naturally at that point it seemed an excellent notion to come into a city where the dead were piling up in the streets,” John observed.
Thomas began to mumble a reply.
“Mother asked Thomas to escort me here,” Europa interrupted. “She was trying to protect me.” Her tone and accompanying frown made it plain that she considered the effort unnecessary. “We knew Constantinople was being ravaged. Is there anywhere that isn’t? Yet, she said, to survive in the midst of such a horror, what better chance could one have than to live in the household of the Lord Chamberlain?”
“She’s a practical woman, is Cornelia,” Thomas put in.
“You say Cornelia is still at the inn where you were staying?”
“A place called the Inn at Stephen’s Column, on the road from Nicomedia. It’s not far from a stylite’s column. Stephen isn’t there any more, just the column. I suppose the place was built to accommodate passing pilgrims.”
“Why didn’t she accompany you?”
“The innkeeper owes us money,” explained Europa. “We’d paused there for a few days, performing in the courtyard to entertain guests. He was awaiting payment for something or other himself. I’m not certain of the details, but in any event, mother didn’t want to arrive on your doorstep empty-handed. Isn’t that what she said, Thomas?”
Thomas’ head bobbed in agreement.
“That would be her way,” John said. “A very proud woman, Cornelia. As if I don’t possess more than enough wealth!”
“I notice you still haven’t spent any of it on new furnishings,” said Thomas.
Before John could reply, there was a rap at the house door.
John leapt to his feet and went to the top of the stairs.
Hypatia had come in from the garden and already opened the door, but the figure who rushed inside and loped frantically across the atrium towards the stairway was not Cornelia.
“Anatolius! You look as if you’ve had a terrible shock. Come up into the kitchen.”
“Fortuna has smiled on me, John.” The young man was out of breath as he reached the top of the stairs. “Balbinus is sinking fast! I called at his house again. The place was in an uproar, but I gathered that when Lucretia looks out of a window tomorrow, the sun will shine in on a widow.”
John caught his friend’s arm a stride’s distance from the kitchen and spun him around.
“Anatolius!”
Anatolius looked at him, amazed at his harsh tone.
John released his grip. “You’re wishing for Balbinus’ death!”
“I’m thinking of Lucretia-”
“No doubt. But the Lucretia you knew is gone, Anatolius.”
“No, John, never.”
“Lucretia has shared the senator’s bed for some time now. It’s true she left him once, but she returned.”
“John, I would rather not think-”
“You had better think about it, Anatolius. However much we may desire it, the past can’t return.”
Even as he uttered the words, John realized he had been giving voice to what he had been trying to tell himself ever since his visitors had arrived, counseling himself not to hope too much, not to build dreams.
As Anatolius turned toward the kitchen doorway, John saw Europa seated at the table, a living refutation of everything he had just said about the past.
Chapter Fifteen
John chose to cover the short distance between his house and that of the lawyer Prudentius by taking the back streets behind the Hippodrome rather than walking up the Mese.
It was just as well.
Those streets being less frequented, there were fewer citizens to draw back fearfully from the tall, grim-faced Greek who was obviously, from his demeanor and dress, the bearer of some grievous trouble from the palace. Those passersby who scuttled out of his path were more frightened still by his lack of a bodyguard.
It was obvious to anyone he was as dangerous and reckless as he was powerful.
Despite his grim face, John was not contemplating the infliction of harm on anyone. He was merely thinking, as he liked to do as he walked. The harder he thought, the faster his feet moved.
Despite his rapid pace, he could not find any ready solutions to the myriad of problems posed by the unexpected arrival of his daughter in the company of Thomas. At the realization, his mouth settled into a hard line.
Then too there was Anatolius’ dangerous pursuit of Lucretia. Why hadn’t that young man grasped his opportunity and taken her to wife before she was married off to Senator Balbinus?
Most importantly, there was the matter of Peter’s illness. If his elderly servant were indeed dying then it was even more urgent that John find Gregory’s murderer. Or so he’d told himself upon waking that morning after a restless night filled with dreams he could not recall.
The evening before had been trying enough, brief as it had been thanks to the hour at which Thomas and Europa arrived. Hypatia had prepared rooms and they’d been happy enough to retire early, leaving John alone with his thoughts and Zoe.
All in all he felt he could hardly linger at home and chat with the new arrivals this morning. There was work to be done.
As Prudentius’ house door opened, a voice in the back of John’s mind insolently suggested that duty could also be a convenient refuge.
The exotic servant Xanthe greeted him. This time she did not carry her infant, which was doubtless one of those John could hear crying lustily in the far recesses of the house.
John was indeed fortunate today, Xanthe indicated. Prudentius was at home and receiving visitors in his office.
The lawyer had closed the room’s inner screens, barely muting the clamor from the atrium, while leaving the rest open to the garden.
The man John had arrived to interview turned out to be as tall as the Lord Chamberlain and hollow-chested with a long bony face, sporting as much bristling white hair in his eyebrows as on his balding, cropped scalp. He gave the impression of a patrician who had become a desert hermit, particularly in his garments. The gold embroidery around the collar of his well-worn robe had begun to unravel. Stray threads stuck out untidily, mirroring the hairs over his deep-set eyes.
He offered John the chair beside a dainty lacquered table whose legs terminated in carved and gilded swans’ heads. The delicate piece of furniture apparently served him for a desk.