Bertrada’s eyes filled with tears. “I try not to dwell on thoughts of his death, for it is unbearable to contemplate.”
Was that true? John wondered. Zeno had offered his own excuses for his seeming lack of concern over the boy’s death. He was preoccupied with the upcoming village celebrations. If Calyce grieved, her hot pursuit of Anatolius gave no evidence of it. In general, the mood of the occupants of the villa seemed remarkably unaffected by Gadaric’s terrible demise. Was it surprising? The boy’s true family, those who might have cared, had sent him away to live among strangers and strangers could not feel the same as they would.
As he stepped out of Bertrada’s room John glimpsed a movement at the end of the corridor. Someone passing by, or hastily retreating? A tall figure. Godomar?
He thought of pursuing but did not. Zeno’s halls were always busy and especially tonight, with everyone roused by the fire.
He was struck by the uneasy conviction that with each passing hour events were running further out of his control. He could not be everywhere at once observing everyone at all times. Now two people had died. Barnabas was still missing and so was Castor.
A strange pairing, to be sure, but the key had to lie with the two missing men. Yet John could think of no other place to search for Barnabas, and as for Castor-whatever Briarus knew had just been extinguished with the estate manager’s life. And while John found himself staring at a blank wall, it was entirely possible that someone, somewhere, was already embarking on a course of action that would result in yet more disappearances-or even deaths.
Chapter Twenty-one
The morning damp seemed to have settled painfully into Peter’s bones as he accompanied Godomar down the coast road. He struggled to keep pace with the long-legged prelate who, it turned out, was long-winded as well.
“It is as the venerated Patriarch Chrysostom said to Eutropius, who was a patrician and a consul but withal a eunuch and corrupt.” Godomar’s booming voice carried easily back to Peter above the rush of waves. “Where are your banquets where the wine flowed endlessly, the tables groaning with overly exotic offerings concocted by your wasteful cooks? Where are the friends who were always so agreeable and now are nowhere to be seen? For was not all of it but dreams of the dark hours that disappeared with the sunrise, merely blooms of spring and lo, spring has gone?”
Apparently Godomar had requested Peter to accompany him to the village in order to serve as a congregation of one. But if that were the case, he had not chosen the topic of his remarks well. John’s loyal servant was unlikely to be inspired by a homily disparaging both eunuchs and cooks.
Godomar was at least correct in declaring that spring was gone. Indeed, summer had suddenly fled as well-at least for the moment. A chilly breeze drove small clouds across the bright blue sky. Peter imagined them as a herd of ragged sheep. He would mention the image to the Lord Chamberlain’s friend Anatolius, he thought. He might care to use it in one of his poetic compositions.
“Are you listening, Peter?” Godomar called from the other side of the road. This particularly loud peal of verbal thunder caught Peter’s wandering attention.
“Listening? Oh, yes, yes,” he replied. “As you say so eloquently, it is nothing more than a dream.”
Godomar arched his eyebrows. “A dream? The path we go down to Paul’s house is a dream?”
“Ah, I thought you were speaking in parables, sir.” Peter hastily crossed the road as an ox cart came lumbering into view from the direction of the village. It lurched and dipped as it moved slowly along and had drawn almost level with the two men when it tilted sideways far enough to dislodge a small stool from atop a mound of household goods, sending the piece of furniture clattering to the ground.
The cart driver, a broad middle-aged man with the sunburnt skin of a farmer, stopped his cart. “Good sirs, would one of you be kind enough to hand that up? I fear to even set foot to ground now that I’m fleeing this cursed place.”
Peter hobbled to the stool and hefted it back onto the laden cart.
The ox’s massive head was veiled in a cloud of gently buzzing flies. Godomar waved an ineffectual hand back and forth in front of his face as he questioned the man about his remarkable statement. “What do you mean by cursed place?”
“Why, I mean the village, sir. It’s doomed. I thought everyone knew that. You only have to look at the goats.” The farmer pointed a work-worn hand toward the sharp peaks of the island. With his less than perfect eyesight Peter could just distinguish a vague peppering of what he supposed must be the famous goats, near the summit of one of the taller crags.
“But surely you realize it’s all nonsense?” Godomar told the man firmly.
The man was unrepentant. “I might agree with that, sir, but even if it was just nonsense as killed the little lad and set fire to the villa, I don’t want my family near it. So I sent them away yesterday to my brother’s house. Heed the goats, sirs, that’s what I would advise you both to do. The evil events are only just beginning. Why, I distinctly saw old Matthew’s daughter walking about last night, not that it was that unusual when she was alive but after ten years in the earth…”
He fell silent and then urged the powerful ox and its retinue of flies forward as another fleeing villager came into sight, trudging up the road and struggling to carry a wicker cage stuffed with squawking chickens. The new arrival hurried past them without a glance or a backward look at the hearth and home he had just left behind, perhaps forever.
“I fear I’ve already learned much of what I intended to question Paul about,” Godomar remarked grimly to Peter, “for I desired to discover the mood of the village as discreetly as I could.”
The prelate fell uncharacteristically silent for a while, gazing after the man who was fleeing with the chickens. “What does your master think of all this superstition, Peter? I know his views are not… the same as mine.”
“He has not confided his thoughts on the matter to me, sir.”
“Indeed? I noticed that he hasn’t had much use for your services these past few days. That’s why I requested your company this morning. He keeps you informed of his whereabouts, doesn’t he? So you can be on hand if necessary to bring a treat for Sunilda when he is spending time with the child, for instance, or perhaps to clean his room when he will be away for a few hours.”
Peter, uncomfortably aware that the prelate was fishing for information about his master, shook his head. “No, I have had little to do since we arrived on the estate,” he replied truthfully enough. “I think he intends me to rest, as if I could in such a place.”
“Or he may realize that you are falling prey to the frailties of old age,” Godomar pointed out. “I am told your master is a kind man. Surely it is time he allowed you to retire? He could easily engage a younger man to take over your domestic duties.”
The suggestion horrified Peter. “I am a freed man, sir,” he said in a dignified tone. “And even if I were not, my master would never discard me like that.”
Godomar shrugged. “Perhaps not. But a man of your faith could always find a useful role in the church, you know.”
By now the fleeing villagers had disappeared from sight. Godomar turned to lead the way down the path to Paul’s house. “On consideration I wouldn’t worry, Peter,” he offered over his shoulder. “After all, the Lord Chamberlain is very preoccupied at the moment. Perhaps he doesn’t realize he’s left you with so few duties. I suppose he must have made a great deal of progress in his investigations by now?”
“He doesn’t confide in me about such things, sir.”
“Of course not. You are merely his servant. Even so, you are an astute man, Peter. If your master were making any progress toward finding this murderous mime, well, surely his demeanor would reveal it to one of your discernment?”