The magician had draped a snake around his shoulders. The reptile was enormous and looked larger still compared to its diminutive handler. Though the size was startling, what was more shocking was its human face.
The crowd fell as silent as the stars overhead. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the crunch of Dedi’s feet as he paraded back and forth, a grotesque silhouette in front of the flames.
The creature truly lived. The firelight sparkled in its scales as the massive body rippled.
Dedi grasped the beast just behind its dreadful head and held it up. The face was tiny and wizened, half concealed by a fall of lank, black hair. Baleful eyes stared out at the crowd, their gaze cold and deep as the night sky.
Some of the crowd averted their eyes. Hands flew up to cover faces. Others fell to their knees or made the Christian sign.
Finally Dedi spoke. “Who wishes to consult the oracle of Mehen?”
To John’s surprise, it was Peter who climbed to his feet.
“My friend here, sir, has a request!” Peter blurted out. “He’s been crippled for years. He wishes to know if he will ever find a cure.”
Dedi lifted the snake higher. Firelight lapped over it. The reptile moved its head to-and-fro, then down and forward, as if fixing its gaze upon the sick man.
Peter’s eyes were wide and filled with the reflection of the fire.
The snake spoke. It did so without moving its shriveled mouth. The sound was wavering and high pitched, neither entirely human nor animal. It might have been coming from a great distance, as would the voice of a god.
“He who hath faith to brave the maze shall be granted his cure by the great god Mehen.”
John gave Cornelia a sidelong glance. She was smiling. Evidently, like John, she was not deceived by Dedi’s skill at throwing his voice. John was particularly impressed by the man’s impudence in presenting a snake with a patently false head as an oracle.
Dedi immediately dropped the reptile back into its basket. Clever, thought John. The oracle had not been on display long enough for the crowd to get over its initial shock.
The magician accepted the beggar’s donation, and the pallet-bearers carried the man toward the temple entrance.
“Now we shall soon see if Mehen chooses to honor us with a demonstration of his powers,” Dedi announced.
Hapymen appeared to bear away the basket. Excited conversations broke out and people moved toward the temple entrance.
Dedi mingled with his audience for a while. John noticed that more than once brief conversations were followed by donations.
After a time, Dedi strolled over to John and Cornelia. “I picked you out of the crowd, Lord Chamberlain. Height can be a disadvantage if you wish to go unnoticed.”
The magician turned toward Cornelia. “I noticed your lady as well. Beauty holds a similar disadvantage. And how did you both find the performance?”
“Most impressive,” John replied, “as a performance. On the other hand there are explanations for every wonder we’ve seen tonight.”
“You are a difficult man to convince.”
John offered a thin smile. “It’s like the matter of Melios’ sheep. Given enough close observation, every puzzle can be logically solved, even one such as that. No magick was involved, despite what Melios and others believe.”
Dedi pursed his fish-like mouth. “I draw my power from Mehen, Lord Chamberlain, and Mehen’s powers are beyond imagining. These powers, once unloosed, are not always fully controllable, as I have tried to explain to Melios on more than one occasion.”
Shouts of amazement interrupted him as the crippled beggar who had entered the maze on a pallet shuffled out, smiling and looking down at his feet as if he’d never seen them before.
Dedi waved an arm toward the healed man. “You see, Lord Chamberlain. He walks. Compared to such a miracle, forcing an unfortunate animal to kill itself is a trifle!”
Chapter Twenty-four
You can deduce much about a man by studying his will.
The realization came to Anatolius as he labored in John’s study, attempting to reduce to legacies and legal phrases the personal and business relationships in the life of Little Nero, owner of bakeries.
His thoughts had been wandering. That notion was the first useful one he had had all day. He laid down his kalamos, picked up the wax tablet he used for taking notes, and went in search of Senator Symacchus’ will.
The Quaestor maintained a depository of legal records in a converted warehouse just off the Forum Constantine. Despite extensive renovations and whitewash, the building still smelled faintly of the wine that had once been stored there.
A pallid shade of a fellow by the name of Perigenes, an assistant to the Quaestor, escorted Anatolius up four flights of stairs to a cavernous space filled with shelves burdened by scrolls, codexes, boxes, and bundles of parchment.
“We keep the testamentary materials up here so they’re closer to heaven,” Perigenes remarked, with such a marked lack of enthusiasm Anatolius guessed he’d repeated the jest a hundred times.
Perigenes climbed on a stool and brought down a box whose contents proved to be a large number of loose sheets of parchment and several small scrolls tied together with red ribbon. Handing the box to Anatolius, he remarked there appeared to be more reading contained in it than the entire Odyssey.
A displaced scroll on a shelf near the floor caught Perigenes’ eye. Examining the document, he saw the parchment had been badly gnawed.
“Look at that,” he grumbled, unrolling its remains. “A rat’s eaten some poor heir’s villa. See, right there’s the description and location of the bequest, but the rest of the line’s gone. Even the best legal efforts are no match for a hungry rat.”
He showed Anatolius to a marble table set against a wall. “You can study the documents there, but you can’t take them away with you. As you know, the Quaestor’s handling the administration of the senator’s estate. Or, rather, I am. It’s a difficult task, with so many legacies involved. I expect you’re used to these matters?”
“Actually, I’ve just recently taken up the legal profession.”
Perigenes’ face brightened. “How would you like to be an assistant to the Quaestor? I’d be happy to sell you my job for ninety nomismata. It’s a bargain. I could ask for one hundred. It’s a privileged position.”
“I’m afraid I’m not interested. I just left an administrative position.”
Perigenes’ expression settled back into gloom. He left, muttering about working one’s whole life and all it took was a single ravenous rat to cheat half your heirs out of their inheritances.
Anatolius sat down, placed his wax tablet and stylus on the table, and spread the documents out in front of him.
He began to read.
Senator Symacchus’ will was that of a man who had not been expecting death. To the original document, drawn up decades earlier, shortly after his marriage, there was appended a long succession of carelessly drafted codicils. Evidently the senator had been in the habit of bestowing legacies whenever the fancy took him, which going by the dates seemed to be every other month.
Thus his cook was given a set of pots, a favorite reader his copy of Virgil; the crosses adorning the garden were reserved for a monastery. The doctor who’d treated his fever during the last year of Justin’s reign could expect a silver platter he’d admired during his visits to the ailing senator, if the doctor was still alive.
There were grants of property as well as various sums of money. As far as Anatolius could tell, Symacchus had never revoked any of the codicils. It would be a nightmare untangling the bequests, not to mention tracing beneficiaries mentioned only once, and that years before.
Anatolius read on, scratching occasional notes.
Following the death of Symacchus’ wife, he had bequeathed the bulk of his estate to the church, but it appeared there would be little left by the time the legacies were distributed, meaning that litigation was sure to follow. The church would not be content to pray for what it was to have inherited.