Orange light flared into the corners as the door to the other room creaked open and an old man, short and squat, emerged from it, carrying a clay lamp.
“The storm has brought me some callers, I see,” he said jovially. “The queen of Italy, for one. And who is the other? Her faithful servant?”
“Paul!” the girl giggled. “He’s the Lord Chamberlain.”
Paul shifted his lamp to illuminate the taller of his two visitors more directly. “Yes, I see,” he agreed amiably. “You must excuse me, for I don’t entertain Lord Chamberlains very often. Who will you bring next time you call? The emperor?”
“I don’t know Justinian very well,” Sunilda replied severely, “but Theodora will be visiting soon to attend the village festival. I’ll ask her to come and pay her respects to you then, if you’d like.”
Paul looked alarmed. “A very kind offer, my dear, but I’m certain that the empress and I will have many opportunities to chat during the celebrations.” John noted the humor in his words but Sunilda did not.
“Oh, good! Then you’ll be coming to see it after all!” she said with a grin.
“I regret the intrusion, Paul. The storm arrived very suddenly,” John explained to their host.
“You certainly wouldn’t want to be walking about in that tempest.” Paul’s observation was emphasized by a gust of wind groaning through the half open door, bringing a spray of rain with it. “We don’t want it in here with us either. If you’d just close the-I beg your pardon, excellency-”
John pulled the door shut, muffling the sound of the storm. Briarus had mentioned a Paul who gardened, John recalled. “You are Paul, the gardener?”
“These days I grub in the dirt a bit, yes, excellency. I don’t care for it personally. I’ll always want to return to being a fisherman, although I can hardly remember when I last ventured out onto the sea. It just got harder and harder, what with the pain in my joints making it so difficult to even get my little boat down to the beach. In the end I just had to give it up.”
John did not ask Paul about his argument with the prickly estate manager. It was possible too, he thought, that it was Paul who had assisted Hero with the framework of the whale, but he thought it better not to mention the matter in front of the girl. He could question Paul on another occasion if need be.
The former fisherman’s skin was weathered as dark as a worn leather boot. His thinning hair and the disorderly collection of bristles springing from his cheeks and chin were like the yellowish white of spume on the beach, his eyes, appropriately, a watery blue.
Paul grimaced as he set the lamp on his table. “Old age is like a storm, one that’s tossed me up on this miserable patch of dirt when I would much rather be at sea.”
He sighed heavily before continuing. “Please sit down. I am happy to offer what I have to such distinguished visitors.”
Sunilda promptly plunked herself on the bench beside the table. John sat down beside her as their host bustled about, producing rough pottery plates and cups along with a small loaf of bread and jugs of wine and water. He apologized for the wine as he cut a chunk from the cheese hanging by a rope over the brazier. “It’s poor stuff, I fear, excellency.”
“Yet very much to my taste,” John replied truthfully, setting his cup back down, “although it may not suit everyone.”
Paul expressed amazement at this unexpected pronouncement. “Then would you perhaps care for some of my garlic paste?” he ventured.
“Yes, he would, Paul. And perhaps we could have some of those fine olives you usually have?” put in Sunilda.
“Yes. I’d forgotten about those.” Looking flustered, he produced a pottery bowl of plump olives. John wondered if they had come from Zeno’s grove. They were certainly excellent.
“This is a fine banquet indeed,” pronounced Sunilda through a mouthful of bread.
“You two are friends, I take it?” John directed the question to the old fisherman, who had lowered himself painfully onto a stool at the other side of the table.
“Minthe has brought the young lady to visit more than once.” Paul poured himself a cup of wine.
“You know Minthe well?”
Paul did not answer immediately. In the ensuing silence John became aware that the sound of the rain was diminishing. Thunder rumbled still, but its muted grumbling came from further away.
“Everybody in the village knows Minthe,” Paul finally replied. “She offers all sorts of services of a herbal nature and has for many years. Ever since she arrived, in fact. The village girls consult her a lot. I think you know what I mean.”
“Minthe is a very wise woman.” Sunilda popped a fat olive into her mouth and chewed enthusiastically.
“Some do say so,” Paul nodded, “but I’ve got to know her because she often buys produce from me.”
“You grow herbs?” John asked with interest.
Paul shook his head. “No, I don’t. Minthe grows whatever she needs for those potions of hers. It’s vegetables she buys from me. A few radishes, some beetroots, a cabbage now and then, that sort of thing. She doesn’t bother to plant such sensible things as vegetables.”
“Minthe prefers to devote all her garden to herbs and flowers.” An olive pit rattled onto the girl’s plate. “Someone left a question for the goats, Paul,” she went on. “Is it true that the omens have been very bad these past few days?”
John gave Paul a questioning look.
“I put no faith in those goats, excellency,” the man said, avoiding a direct answer, “although I’ve heard quite a few villagers say on more than one occasion that the animals are always right.”
“The rain has stopped,” Sunilda said, bounding off the bench and outside in a instant. “Look,” she said as they followed her, “you can see the goats from here.”
Ghostly pillars of mist were swirling slowly up from the dark water. John could barely see the rocky island and said so. “The young have much better eyesight,” he remarked to Paul. “But what are these terrible omens that the villagers have apparently been talking so much about lately?”
“Among the ignorant it’s said that the patterns the beasts are forming as they graze on the slopes have not been glimpsed within living memory,” Paul replied slowly. “Some terrible disaster is to be expected, or so it’s being said. However, it’s my opinion that we have already had a catastrophe, for what is worse than the death of a child?”
“Don’t be sad about Gadaric, Paul.” As Sunilda spoke, John felt her small hand grasp his arm. “Now the Lord Chamberlain and I must be off to another engagement. Thank you for your kind hospitality. I shall expect to see you at the celebrations.”
Paul, concealing a smile, gave a stiff little bow of farewell.
Watery sunlight broke through the clouds as John and the girl reached the road.
The Lord Chamberlain’s young charge whirled to face the sea again. Her golden hair comb came free and John plucked it from the grass. As he did so he heard laughter drifting on the wind.
He looked along the beach in the direction in which Sunilda was now staring intently.
Two figures moved near the water. They had obviously been unable to find shelter from the storm as their sodden robes hung about them. One was pacing stolidly along while the other darted ahead and back and then ahead again. The big bearded figure was unmistakably Felix and his companion, doubtless, was Bertrada.
It was a sight John wished he had not observed. A soldier could not allow himself such indulgences while on duty and under special orders from Justinian. Much as he disliked the notion, he knew he would have to speak to Felix about the matter.
Chapter Sixteen
“I fear I was ambushed by Bertrada,” confessed Felix.
On his way to Zeno’s bath house shortly after sunrise John had encountered his visibly agitated friend in the open air gymnasium.