“Yes, Fortuna smiled upon him.” Anatolius looked glum. “Crinagoras and I visited his house on the way here. It is only a matter of time, however, since Lucretia could not leave his bedside, or so we were told.”
He stopped at one of Hypatia’s herb beds and drew in a deep breath. “A pleasant fragrance, is it not? Especially after the streets. Father was never one who cared much for flowers and such, so my garden is rather plain. Perhaps I can borrow Hypatia some time to rectify the situation?”
“Can you be trusted with her?” John asked with a smile.
“I admit to the occasional infatuation, but you needn’t worry, they are all behind me. There is only Lucretia. There’s never been anyone else, not really, and there is always hope…Haven’t you always longed to be reunited with Cornelia?”
John plucked a leaf from a bushy herb. It felt slightly furry. He crushed it and brought his fingers to his face. The odor was familiar. Was the herb something Peter used when cooking?
“There are certain subjects it is best not to discuss, even between close friends,” he said quietly.
Anatolius was silent for a time. “Thomas and Europa seem very fond of each other,” he finally ventured.
“I had noticed.”
Anatolius glanced upwards abruptly. John saw what had caught his friend’s attention. A tiny, brown bird had dropped out of the sky to perch on a limb of the olive tree beside the fountain. It sat for an instant, then fluttered away and up under the peristyle surrounding the garden.
“There’s more than one nest there,” John explained. “My house is like an avian inn these days.”
“It will be more home-like when Cornelia arrives.”
John shot him a warning glance.
“Er…speaking of lovers, try not to mention the subject to Crinagoras.”
John observed it was not one of his usual topics of conversation and in any event it would certainly not be something he ever expected to discuss with Crinagoras.
“Just as well. His dear Eudoxia wasn’t more than fifteen or sixteen, you know.” Anatolius stared toward the pillar behind which the bird had disappeared. A faint chirping could be heard.
“Crinagoras and I grew up together,” he went on, “and it gets tiresome to constantly hear about this great love of his. He has himself half-convinced she threw herself into the sea in despair because they were forced to part. Yet as far as I know, all she did was step onto the ship taking her family to Egypt. Her father had been appointed to some high administrative position there. Crinagoras rushed to tell me as soon as he heard she had gone.”
Anatolius struck a dramatic pose. “How could Eudoxia leave me? No, no, never could she leave me willingly. She must have thrown herself over the rail and into the winey waves. That was his reasoning.” He paused. A cloud passed over his face. “If I really believed she’d killed herself I couldn’t tolerate Crinagoras’ company for an hour longer. She’s probably married with five children by now. I asked him once why he didn’t go to Egypt and find out exactly what happened to her. He said even looking at the sea made him nauseous. Do you know, I’ve never been to Crinagoras’ house. We arrange to meet here or there, just like Peter and Gregory did. It’s because Crinagoras still lives with his family. There’s not much money in poetry and epitaphs. It’s just as well Crinagoras’ father deals in sewers and such rather than verse.”
He paused for an instant. “And what he said when Crinagoras announced his ambition was to become a court poet rather than dabble in drains, well…”
***
When Anatolius departed, John secured the house door and visited Peter’s storeroom to replenish the kitchen wine jug, deriving some amusement from the realization he was performing tasks for both his servants. Then he sat in the garden for a while, mulling over his next course of action.
Europa appeared. She perched at the side of the pool, dangling a hand into the water. Her tunic sleeve was pulled up to her elbow, revealing a slim, muscular arm.
“It’s cool here, isn’t it? I suppose it will be another hot day.” She turned her face toward him and smiled.
His breath caught in John’s throat. Europa looked like her mother.
“Cool water feels wonderful, especially after all those dusty roads we traveled and the public squares we performed in with the sun blazing down on us all day long.”
“How is your mother?”
Europa looked down at the water, rippling with her hand. “As always. In Egypt she still insisted on dancing on the bull from time to time.”
“And otherwise?”
“She never married.”
Was his interest in that direction so transparent, he wondered. “And you haven’t either, it seems.”
Europa’s hand churned deeper, raising a series of waves. “Not yet, father.”
John drew a slow breath. He felt overheated. He would have found it easier to attend a midnight audience with Theodora than to try to talk to his own daughter. “And Thomas?”
“He has been nothing but helpful to mother and me. He’s different from when we met him years ago, when we were here the first time.”
John uneasily noted the secret smile that passed over her lips. “He may not be a man you want to think about too seriously, Europa.”
“Perhaps. But don’t be deceived by his barbarous looks. He is not as unsophisticated as he appears.”
The waves she was making lapped over the pool’s edge. She pulled her hand from the water and wiped it dry on her tunic.
“Please don’t worry about me, father. I am not certain what we will do after mother arrives. Considering the life I have led, what can I know about being the daughter of the Lord Chamberlain? Would I have to sit in the garden and sew dainty things all day or compose pretty verses like that fellow you were questioning just now? No, I’m happy as it is. Thomas says he’ll find a suitable bull to replace the one the troupe lost and then we can start traveling again.”
“If that is what you want, Europa, I can obtain an animal as fine as any in the empire before the sun sets.”
“Thank you, but I would rather Thomas and I found one for ourselves.”
John went indoors, leaving Europa sitting by the pool. Thomas again! What had Thomas been doing since they had last met? He had not exactly been forthcoming when questioned about it.
If Peter had been dead, John’s knock would have roused him.
Though he had nothing to say beyond asking that water be left at his door, Peter’s voice sounded weaker.
John debated ordering him to open the door. Then he could consult Gaius on suitable treatment.
But what if Peter died anyway? In that case, he would die without his dignity.
With a sigh John turned away. He couldn’t allow that, any more than he could permit him to die without knowing justice had been done for his friend.
Chapter Seventeen
“I’m off to visit Scipio, my bookseller. His shop’s just across the Augustaion,” Crinagoras told Thomas, as he led his newly hired bodyguard through the huge, bronze gate of the Great Palace and across the square beyond.
“What do you intend to buy?”
“I don’t purchase literary works, Thomas, I write them. Scipio handles the occasional copying job for me. He also sells my poems.”
“Does he? You mean to say you can make a living in this city by scribbling poems? What a strange place!”
“Yes, well, I have been known to turn my golden verse into silver now and again. Tell me, Thomas, what do you do for a living?”
Thomas slapped the hilt of the sword hanging from his belt. “My blade’s my livelihood.”
“You’ve killed many men?”
“Do I look like a butcher?”
Crinagoras scowled at his red-headed companion, uncertain whether he’d been given an answer or not. “So you have spent a lot of time employed as a bodyguard?”