That was true enough.
Isis’ revelation about Aristotle had placed the man’s nocturnal activities in a different light. He had been burying a statue rather than a body. On the other hand, the discovery also lent credence to John’s theory concerning the possibility of forged wills.
His thoughts invariably returned to the will. Oral wills were not common. That Gregory had been murdered within hours of witnessing such a will strongly indicated a connection. John had hoped that the remaining witnesses would provide information that could indicate what it might be.
He continued along the Mese, past shuttered emporiums. Only a few of the torches shopkeepers were required to maintain at night still burned. Now and again, John traversed pools of almost total darkness.
Could Byzos the cart driver have been the one person who could have illuminated the mystery?
There was also the incident at Nereus’ house to consider. Was it possible that the night visitor had expected another witness, the steward’s assistant Cador, to be there?
Even if that were the case, why had no one attempted to murder any of the other witnesses?
Did the solution lie with the wayward son who had been disinherited, yet another who had been removed by the plague before John could speak to him? Had that been John’s mistake, to overlook Triton’s obvious interest in the will? Then there was the woman Triton and his father had quarreled about. Should John again attempt to seek her out?
Of the witnesses, there remained only one for John to interview, the so-called holy fool. The others had revealed nothing useful.
What were the chances that the final roll of the bones would be the lucky one?
Having spent as much time gambling as any military man during his days as a mercenary, John knew the answer.
It didn’t happen often, but often enough.
As he rounded the corner of the barracks across from his house John considered whether he should attempt to get a few hours’ sleep, or spend the time contemplating his problem in the company of Zoe and resume his efforts with dawn.
Lamplight spilling from the second-floor windows startled him. At this time of night the house should be dark.
He sprinted across the square.
His first thought was for Peter. Had all John’s efforts suddenly been rendered pointless?
His next was of Cornelia.
Perhaps the lamps were lit because of her arrival, rather than Peter’s departure.
Both surmises were wrong.
John found Hypatia sitting on the edge of Peter’s pallet, feeding him gruel with encouraging words and clucking noises, as if persuading a sickly child to take sustenance.
John drew a stool to the bedside as Hypatia apologized for not extinguishing the house lamps. He waved her back to her task, sat down, and scrutinized his elderly servant.
Peter was a wraith. His skin appeared colorless, all but transparent. The notion struck John that if the window were opened, the old servant might float up and rise heavenwards unless someone grabbed an ankle to detain him.
That he had allowed Hypatia into his bedroom and then accepted being fed indicated how feeble was the old soldier’s grip on the world.
Peter made a slight motion with his head and Hypatia drew bowl and spoon away. The coverlet tucked up under Peter’s chin hid any marks of disease.
“Master.” Peter spoke in less than whisper. John was not certain his servant had actually said anything, or if his lips had merely formed the word without releasing a sound. John leaned closer to listen, until he could feel the old man’s shallow breathing against his cheek.
“I regret my disobedient foolishness,” Peter went on. “I should not have disrupted the household by refusing to open my door, no matter what good reason I thought I had to defy your orders. Please, master, it’s best not to come so close.”
John waved the apology away. “I see Hypatia’s persuaded you to eat at last. It’s always a good sign when the appetite returns. It seems then, despite your doubts, you will remain with us a little longer.”
Peter released a long, rattling breath. Again his head moved slightly. “No, master. I have a feeling in my bones it will not be so. However, Hypatia can be very persuasive when she wants and, well…as I said…but I also wanted to know if you’d been able to find anything out about Gregory.” A smile briefly illuminated his pallid face. “Shouting at each other through the door is not the proper way to conduct a conversation with an employer.”
He slumped lower, exhausted by even that brief response.
John exchanged a glance with Hypatia. “I haven’t yet been able to find the person responsible. I’m sorry, Peter. I can only hope Fortuna will smile on my labors tomorrow.”
“I know you have been doing all you can, master, and that if the Lord wills it you’ll find whoever took my friend’s life. I only pray I’ll live long enough to see justice done.” Peter squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again they glistened. Hypatia brushed away the incipient tears before Peter could manage to lift his own hand.
Peter offered John a weak smile. “There is one last thing. I wish to leave a gift to whatever family Gregory left behind. He never spoke of that part of his life, although I believe it was because he was too proud to admit his poverty. All he ever said was that he worked near the docks. I am certain you will be able to find his family.”
He fixed his gaze on John and went on in a stronger voice. “I’ve saved a little during my service with you, and while there is not a great deal, I wish it to be divided into three. One portion is to go to Gregory’s family, leaving one each for Hypatia-”
The young woman protested, but Peter took no notice.
“No, Hypatia, you and I have been friends since the days we served Lady Anna and you are as close to a family as I have. The third portion I leave to you, master.”
“Thank you, Peter. It will be done as you wish if the need arises,” John replied. “I give my oath on that.”
“Hypatia has promised to attend to the kollyba,” Peter went on, his voice fading to a painful whisper. “Some might say that with Hypatia not being of the faith…but it is the intent and not the belief that is important, or so I have concluded after much thought on these matters over these last few days.” A look of terror transformed his weary face. As if gaining strength from it, he struggled to sit up.
He no longer seemed to be seeing his familiar room. “Don’t let them throw me into the pit, master!” he cried and then fell back.
***
John sensed Zoe glaring at him. He set his cracked cup down and met the mosaic girl’s accusatory gaze.
“You didn’t tell Peter the truth about Gregory,” Zoe told him. Although her lips remained frozen, John could hear her words in his mind, as clearly as Peter claimed to have heard those spoken by the angel.
“Peter should know his friend wasn’t a failed ex-soldier,” Zoe continued. “Gregory was a successful man, happily married. It would please Peter to know that.”
“Wouldn’t it distress him more to realize his old friend had concealed so much from him?”
The mosaic girl made no reply. Tonight the slightly curved line of tesserae forming her mouth looked less like a wistful smile than a frown of disapproval.
John glanced toward the door. He half expected to hear Peter’s footsteps approach, slow, and halt as he lingered fretfully in the hallway, reluctant to intrude on another of his master’s strange soliloquies. John’s conversations with Zoe always distressed the elderly servant. If he chanced to overhear this particular exchange he would be even more upset, John thought.
He got up and opened the door.
Only shadows populated the hallway. Peter was unable to leave his bed and perhaps might not rise from it. It occurred to John it was more than likely he would never again glimpse Peter shuffling away down the hall, pretending to have overheard nothing, and muttering a prayer for his master’s soul.