Chapter Thirty-one
John strode toward the ruins of the church over which Zebulon had once presided. The rising sun reddened smoke hanging over Mehenopolis, evidence of meals being cooked before the settlement began its day’s work. Fog steamed off the still surface of an irrigation ditch.
The bleakness of John’s humor did not match the perpetual sunlight of this strange country.
What could the night’s events have been intended to accomplish? Had the visitation by the supposed demon been a warning? If so, to whom? Was Dedi again demonstrating his supposed powers to Melios, or was someone else warning of the consequences to those of the settlement who had been displaying allegiance to a magician?
John could not envision Zebulon setting fire to a bird, although the cleric would have more reason than anyone to try to dissuade Mehenopolis’ residents to depart from what he considered blasphemous practices-not to mention his church had been burnt down.
John had not formed any conclusions by the time he came upon Zebulon seated on his accustomed bench, between the well and the ruined church.
The cleric had already captured a visitor. He was sharing a loaf of bread and a jug of water with the charioteer Porphyrios.
“Salutations, Lord Chamberlain!” Zebulon bowed without rising. “Would you care to share our humble repast?”
The big charioteer sitting beside him had left just enough space on the carved sandstone seat for John’s lean frame.
“An exciting night, wasn’t it, excellency?” remarked Porphyrios through a mouthful of bread.
Zebulon turned his face toward the sun. His profile, with its great beak of a nose and long flowing hair, was impressive, John thought. He would not have looked out of place clothed in sumptuous ecclesiastical garments, officiating in one of the capital’s great churches.
“A wonder so easily explained, Lord Chamberlain, and yet there seems no way to convince the ignorant of the truth,” Zebulon said. “I fear Dedi has provided many with food for thought.” He looked at the crust in his hand. “But is it poisoned or wholesome fare?”
“Do you believe Dedi was responsible for the flying demon?” John said.
“Isn’t it obvious, Lord Chamberlain? I can’t tell you how the trick was done, but I’m positive he’s the culprit.”
“On the other hand, if it was a genuine omen, a sign of ill to come, don’t you think Melios ought to be worried?” Porphyrios put in.
“Why do you suppose the warning was directed at Melios?” John asked.
“Because it was his property that was set on fire.”
“I regret to say Melios has a strong tendency to superstition,” Zebulon said. “He may well believe the demon was a personal message to him.”
Porphyrios shrugged. “Aren’t we all superstitious, if we’re honest about it? Even if we don’t agree with those who wear amulets to avert the evil eye, we all believe something.”
“Doubtless the same applies to charioteers?”
“True, excellency. I once worked for a team owner who immediately dismissed anyone found to have had anything to do with the color green. This was when I raced for the Blues. Our most experienced man lost his job for eating lettuce at the wrong time. He only ate it for his indigestion. We lost all our races that day and that only confirmed the owner’s belief that green was to be avoided.”
John had to lean forward slightly to direct a question to the cleric. “Would you say superstition is stronger in Mehenopolis than religious convictions? I’m thinking of Dedi’s magick against Melios’ beliefs.”
“The Lord will give us the answer soon enough,” Zebulon replied.
“You and Melios are both monophysites?”
“That’s right. We wouldn’t be popular in Constantinople. Why are you interested?”
“What about Melios’ problems with imperial taxes? Could it be these ruinous rates he complains of are a form of persecution, because of his religion?” Porphyrios suggested.
“I’d hardly call taxes persecution,” Zebulon replied. “If they are, we’re all martyrs. I would have been happy enough to pay higher taxes if I had been able to remain where I was. Besides which, the emperor tolerates us in Egypt. The empire needs Egypt’s wheat. If you’re a heretic or considered to be one, I say find yourself a far-off field of wheat to occupy, as in effect I did.”
A naked, sun-browned boy, his legs white with dust up to the knees, came running up the road, vanished down the spiral staircase clinging to the inside of the well, reappeared, and ran back in the direction from which he’d arrived, water sloshing from his large earthenware pot.
“You’ve been here a long time, Zebulon, in fact since before Dedi arrived. I imagine you and Melios have become united against his influence,” John said.
“Not so, excellency. Our discussions are confined to spiritual affairs and matters relating to his estate.”
“And the snake game?”
“I fear not, Lord Chamberlain.”
“Your host has avoided sitting down at that board with you all these years?”
“He did play it once but he insisted on placing a substantial wager to make it more interesting, as he put it. I didn’t care for the idea, but he shelters and feeds me so I agreed. Unfortunately he lost. He’s refused to play ever since. It’s a pity, since I can’t seem to better anyone else, except for your good lady. I’m hoping she’ll visit me again today.”
John suppressed a sigh. Zebulon was always voluble on the subject of his game, if nothing else.
“I was told you blessed the sheep before it was placed in the pen?”
“Yes, at Melios’ request. I was uneasy about it but as you’ll appreciate felt I could hardly refuse since he’s given me shelter all these years. Dedi heard about it and ever since he’s been proclaiming the animal’s death proves Mehen is more powerful than the Lord. What he conveniently doesn’t mention is that Melios took all sorts of other precautions. Protective garlands, charms, that kind of thing. The sheep even shared its pen with a clay scorpion.”
Zebulon absently traced a hieroglyph incised on his bench, where sprightly quail chicks, reed baskets, sinuous snakes, zigzagging lines, and seated scribes formed undecipherable messages. “Every day I sit on a bench carved from a block of stone that was once part of the temple up there on the Rock of the Snake. Much of its material has been used to build houses in the settlement. No wonder the people cling to strange beliefs, despite all my efforts.”
John seized his opportunity to mention pilgrim flasks and from there, recalling the bones hidden in Apollo’s beehive, moved on to the subject of trading in relics.
Porphyrios grunted. “There’s plenty of money to be made that way. Sorry, Zebulon, but you must admit while those departed holy men may have been poor, their bones and such have since made a lot of men wealthy.”
Zebulon laughed. “True enough. Well, excellency, I suppose I can’t persuade you to engage me in a game? What about you, Porphyrios?”
The charioteer got to his feet. “I’m always ready for a strenuous contest, but unfortunately I have urgent business.”
“I fear I must decline too,” John said. “Doubtless someone willing to play will come along soon.”
Zebulon smiled. “Send your servant some time if you can spare him, Lord Chamberlain. I enjoyed talking to him. He’s a born theologian.”
John followed Porphyrios, who marched energetically away. He soon caught up and matched the charioteer’s stride.
“I have the impression you want to speak to me in private, Lord Chamberlain. I can’t fathom why. I’ve only just arrived here myself, so I have no idea what’s been going on. Thinking about the relic trade, it strikes me a fellow in the sort of financial straits Melios claims to be in would find it a useful source of income.”
They were passing along the bank of a wide ditch. Bees droned, reminding John of Apollo’s charges.