He would consider the question in the morning.
The hours advanced. John had always thought, whenever he stood watch, that the quality of time changed at night. The hours did not flow forward as they did during the day, but rather lay upon the world in a still pool, until daylight forced them into motion again.
He spoke a few words of encouragement to a boy leaning on his spear. The boy smiled, surprised that the tall, lean Greek could address him in fluent Coptic.
John made another circuit around the barn.
All was quiet. Occasionally a torch popped and threw off a gout of sparks. John half expected a second flaming demon to come shrieking out of the sky, or some other similar diversionary tactic.
He crossed the open space to the verge of the garden, where the smells of smoke and livestock were replaced by that of vegetation. The chirp and buzz of insects within the dark plant life grew louder.
Pale moonlight formed a patch of white behind the trees.
No, it was a robe.
John plunged toward it.
The figure turned to flee. John leapt forward, put his shoulder into the man’s back, and drove him face down into the soft ground, crushing most of a fragrant bed of flowers.
John yanked his prey over. “Thorikos!”
“Lord Chamberlain…I…uh…”
John dragged the traveler none too gently to his feet. “What are you doing here?”
“I meant no harm!”
“You’re fortunate I saw you before one of the guards decided to test his aim and the sharpness of his spear.”
“Yes, I see that. My apologies, excellency.”
“And why did you attempt to flee?”
“Well, I…er…realized I was trespassing and might not be welcome, although I came here with the best of intentions.”
John treated Thorikos to a stream of Coptic invective that, although only barely understood by its recipient, was still more memorable than many of the sights the traveler had seen during his journeying.
Thorikos suddenly put his hand to his belt. For an instant John thought he might be reaching for a blade. Instead, Thorikos let out a faint cry, bent over and began feeling through the dark vegetation around his feet.
With a gasp of relief, he finally straightened up, holding out a smooth, rounded piece of bone. “Thanks be to the Lord! I thought I’d lost it, excellency. It’s a saint’s knucklebone.”
He stuffed the bit of bone back into his pouch. “You see, Lord Chamberlain, I purchased it at an outrageous price at the pilgrim camp, having heard about the demonstration planned for tonight. I thought it might be useful in helping protect the animal.”
“A touching thought, Thorikos, but surely you don’t believe it’s really the knucklebone of a saint?”
“Of course not! It probably belonged to some lesser holy man. Nevertheless-”
A series of frantic, high-pitched bleats resonated from the barn.
Cursing, John raced back.
He ordered the guard away and yanked the bolt open himself, breaking the wax seals he’d placed on the door.
As he reached the pen, he saw the sheep staggering. Its front legs folded, the crimson-chested animal pitched forward and rolled onto its side.
The sword blade anchored on the wooden post glistened wetly.
The ground was speckled with blossoms redder than the flowers in the garland around the dying creature’s neck.
Chapter Thirty-six
Europa nervously cracked open the house door.
“Anatolius? Why are you back so late? I was beginning to get worried-”
The door was kicked violently inward, catching her on the side of the head and flinging her onto the tiles. Dazed, she tried to push herself up. All she could see from her prone position were boots stamping across the wildly spinning floor. Too late, she remembered what Anatolius had told her-not to open the door unless she was certain he was on the other side.
She lay still, peering through half-closed eyelids.
The intruders had leather leggings.
Except, comically, for one, who wore yellow hose and soft leather shoes.
The floor spun faster. The yellow hose no longer seemed so humorous.
She pretended to be unconscious. The thin trickle of blood seeping toward the house door would help the illusion, she thought. The shoulder of her tunic was already soaked. Scalp wounds bled profusely.
“Search the upper floors,” someone ordered. “The men must be elsewhere, otherwise the racket would’ve brought them down here by now. Still, we better be certain they aren’t hiding, trying to be clever.”
There was a muffled query.
“You’ve had your instructions,” snapped the man in charge. “Don’t hesitate to do it, and don’t ask me again.”
Europa tried to control her breathing. As the floor gradually stopped turning she became aware of an agonizing pain in her side, centered on a hard lump. She hesitated to reach down to investigate. Had she broken a rib?
No, it wasn’t a rib.
Through slitted eyelids she watched the yellow hose approach.
“If they aren’t here now,” said their wearer, “they’ll be back soon enough. Then we’ll finish our business and be off.”
The intruders intended to kill Anatolius and Thomas, Europa realized. Thomas was safely away, but Anatolius should have returned long ago.
Yellow hose’s shoe prodded her roughly.
She gasped.
“Ah, so you’re still alive,” he said.
The man in the yellow hose wore a brown robe. The face was a visitor from a nightmare, half human, half demonic.
It was Hektor.
Anatolius had warned her the former court page wanted her father’s house.
Would he kill for it?
It seemed so.
“Should I finish her off, sir?” asked a gruff voice.
“It seems such a waste,” Hektor remarked. Looking down, he addressed Europa. “Tell us where Anatolius and Thomas have gone. I’m delivering a homily on divine grace later this evening and I don’t want to be waiting here all night.”
“We can handle the task of persuading her, sir,” the gruff voice suggested.
“And would you deal with that task as magnificently as you and your idiot friend handled your assignment at Francio’s house? Unfortunately, the only man I can trust to do any such job correctly is currently in Egypt. Go up and help the others search. I’ll call you when you’re needed.”
After the man had gone upstairs, Hektor kicked Europa more vigorously in her ribs.
She sat up groggily.
“Where do pagans suppose they go after they’re dead?” Hektor asked her with a vicious smile.
“Your intention is to kill me?”
“I prefer to think of it as sending you to join your father.”
Europa’s hand moved swiftly, reached behind her, grabbed the clay scorpion on which she’d fallen and flung it straight into Hektor’s face.
The protective charm disintegrated, showering bloodstained fragments onto the tiles.
Then Europa was on her feet, running across the atrium.
Behind her Hektor screamed, “Your death will be slow now! I’ll make certain it’s slow!”
Europa plunged into the darkness of the garden.
Past the pool she ran, toward the unused wing of the house.
Shouts and the clatter of boots followed.
She raced down a corridor and into the room containing the bath.
She was shaking. Her chest burned and her head pounded.
She surveyed the small space. The round bath, the lascivious mosaics, the enormous Aphrodite holding her marble mirror, the circular hole in the domed ceiling through which moonlight slanted.
She ran around the edge of the bath, took a breath, tensed her muscles, and jumped.
No sooner had she landed on Aphrodite’s mirror than she leapt up lightly, gripped the goddess’ smooth shoulders, climbed onto them, and launched herself upward again.