John exchanged concerned glances with Cornelia. Peter’s garrulous nature might turn out to be a cause for concern. It was part of the reason he did not care to reveal everything he knew concerning his mission. Not everyone had trained their tongue as well as he had. Still, it was always wise to know with whom they were travelling, especially when night fell.
“Who is Porphyrios?” John asked.
“A charioteer. He’s raced at the Hippodrome. A fascinating fellow. He said that dogs always run along the bank when they drink from the Nile, to avoid being dragged in by crocodiles! We must be careful, master!”
“I hope you aren’t developing a fear of those creatures before you ever see one,” Cornelia said. “What other stories was this character telling you?”
“He mentioned that auburn hair is considered ill-omened in Egypt. Thorikos was horrified and said he was glad his had long ago turned gray. Though he regretted that as it was also thinning, it did not protect his scalp from the glare of the sun very well.”
“Porphyrios sounds like quite the teller of tales,” John observed.
Peter nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed, master. He also told me the Blue racing team are superstitious about anything green.”
“I suppose that’s not surprising given their bitter rivalry with the Green faction,” Cornelia said. “What’s Porphyrios doing in Egypt?”
“It’s another remarkable story, mistress. It seems he’s been exiled.”
“Did he say why?” Cornelia asked.
Peter shook his head. “No, and he looks the sort of man who wouldn’t appreciate being pressed for details. Besides, no sooner had he told us than he launched into a detailed account of every race he’s been in, and what’s more, insisted on showing off that odd-looking belt of his. He had it woven from the team’s reins after his last winning race, hoping it will bring him good fortune.”
“What about that little man who’s as black as a Nubian? The beekeeper?” Cornelia wondered. “I notice he rarely leaves his hives unattended.”
“He was the first person I talked to after we came aboard. He speaks quite passable Greek. I didn’t realize those clay cylinders were hives until he told me. I asked him why he was traveling with his bees, and he said he followed the spring flowers every year. He sells a fair bit of honey. It’s used for everything from curing headaches to dressing wounds.”
“I expect he does a brisk trade,” Cornelia replied.
“He told me some terrible tales about crocodiles too, mistress. They leap up and drag people off the river bank or even boats and devour them before anyone realizes a companion has gone!”
“What’s this beekeeper’s name, Peter?” John asked, glancing toward the stern where, he noted, the disgraced charioteer and the itinerant beekeeper were now in deep conversation.
“Apollo.”
“The ancient sun god!” Cornelia said. “What an appropriate name for a beekeeper, when sunlight is so vital to the flowers from which bees take their sustenance.”
The unwelcome, unspoken thought came to John. To the ancients bees represented souls.
He hoped it was not a bad omen.
Chapter Fourteen
Felix pounded up the stairs. “Anatolius! I’ve just heard one of my men’s found a body in the water. It might be that missing servant you told me about. It appears the man was murdered.”
Anatolius, paused, caught by surprise midway between the kitchen and John’s study, holding a wine jug.
Hypatia stood beside the open house door, looking bemused, as Felix urged Anatolius downstairs and across the atrium.
“But Felix, what about Hypatia and Europa-”
“They’ll be perfectly safe behind locked doors,” Felix growled.
Anatolius hastily pushed the jug into Hypatia’s hands. Then he and Felix were marching across the cobbles.
“When you told me the man Achilles vanished the same night Symacchus was murdered, I didn’t expect he’d ever turn up again,” Felix said. “Even though we’ve got a city full of dead bodies, I told my men to keep their eyes open and gave them your description of the man. I’ve sent for the senator’s reader, of course, and perhaps he can identify the body.”
They went out through the Chalke and quickly turned off onto a side street. Before long they were crossing a square scantily populated with passersby.
As they approached the sea wall, a bundle of black rags lying in a warehouse doorway sprang to life and staggered toward them, coughing like a sick crow.
“Sirs! Sirs! If I may introduce myself? My name is Tarquin. My services are much in demand at the palace. I know what gentlemen of refinement prefer.” The ragged young man simpered and pushed greasy hair away from his pallid face. The motion revealed the swellings on his neck.
“He doesn’t realize he’s a dead man,” muttered Felix. “Or doesn’t care.”
Anatolius tossed a coin. “Off with you, now.”
Felix spat on the cobbles. “You might as well throw your money in the sewer, Anatolius. He’ll be taking the ferry with Charon soon.”
“Well, at least he can afford a little wine now to ease the journey.” Anatolius stepped through a gap in the waist-high sea wall that opened onto a steep stairway. Its steps were slick with sea spray and bird droppings.
When they reached the bottom, and Anatolius dared look up from his boots, he saw an excubitor and a crowd of gawkers on the dock gathered around what might have been a sodden sack of wheat.
It was the corpse, bloated into an inhuman shape.
The lantern-jawed excubitor with a gourd-like nose noticed Anatolius staring. “Don’t be thinking about prodding it, sir,” the man advised him. “He’ll burst like an overfilled wineskin.”
“He’s been in the water several days,” Felix remarked, “so he could very well have gone in the night Symacchus was murdered.”
Beyond the dock, a humid miasma clung to the calm waters of the Golden Horn. Flies buzzed around their newly found feast.
The corpse stank. Anatolius tried to breathe through his mouth.
“It’s definitely murder, captain,” the excubitor reported. “Observe the cord he’s wearing around his neck.”
Felix bent to get a closer look at the swollen and discolored flesh, sending up a swarm of flies. “Criminals all think the same, Anatolius. Need to get rid of bloodstained cloaks or inconvenient bodies? Toss them in the water.”
“And water’s never far away in this city,” observed a bystander.
The captain uttered an oath and stood abruptly. “This could well be the man who came to my office to warn me about the senator’s murder.”
“How can you tell?” To Anatolius the livid face retained no hint of individual features.
“For one thing, our friend here was young and yet bald. Even though the fellow dashed in and out, that stuck in my mind. He was too young to have lost all his hair. Once you’ve seen a few bodies fished out, you can begin to visualize what they probably looked like before they went in. This definitely was not an old man.”
Diomedes made his way through the crowd of onlookers, and after a hasty glance at the body turned to Felix.
“Yes,” he said, “that’s Achilles, or at least those are the clothes he was wearing last time I saw him. May I leave now?”
“I’m afraid I’ll need some further information. Wait here.”
Felix took Anatolius by the elbow and led him to a spot behind a pallet of marble blocks, out of view and earshot of everyone.
“This is getting complicated. I see the senator’s so-called reader wears a lot of powder.”
“So-called? You suspect Diomedes’ duties extended beyond reading?”
“You told me he was a former court page. He’s far too old now for that sort of work, but then some of these aristocrats like their duck hung longer than others.”
“You’re thinking Diomedes had something to do with the murder because of some relationship with the senator?”