He had paused before spitting out the last two words. Now he sighed. Why was it so difficult for him to name the reality with which he lived every day, one that could never be changed?
“That part of the story you know,” he said, forcing himself to continue. “But I have not told you what happened after we were sold to the traders. We set out for a large settlement, a long march away. But when we arrived, already half starved because supplies were not always easy to come by in that wild country, it was discovered that a contingent of captives from an overrun border city had just arrived. So there was no shortage of slaves for sale.”
John paused and directed his gaze up to the sky, where bright stars were peering through high, wispy clouds. He continued to gaze at them as he resumed speaking in a near whisper. “We were assembled at the edge of the encampment and forced to kneel in the dirt. The leader of the traders addressed us, saying that since they could neither sell us nor feed us, we were to be freed. First, however, we were to sign an official acknowledgment of our debt to their merciful and magnanimous ruler and so on and so forth.
“He then made his way with kalamos and parchment along our ranks. Thanks to Philo I was able to sign my name. Almost all of the others, being illiterate, made only their marks. When the charade was done, all who could not write were beheaded on the spot.”
He heard Anatolius’ quick intake of breath.
“Those few of us who were literate were of course extremely valuable, so well worth the bit of gruel necessary to keep us alive until we were finally sold,” John concluded quietly. “So as you see, Anatolius, I owe my life to Philo’s tutoring.”
Darius, doorkeeper for Madam Isis, hurried along a marble-floored corridor in his employer’s establishment. It led from an entrance hall where the gold leaf decorating the capitals of Corinthian columns gleamed almost as brightly as the many coins that changed hands during commerce within the house.
He could not help feeling anxious now that darkness was drawing in. True, nightfall meant an increase in business but it also heralded more dangerous possibilities. Thus the bullish man bit back alarm when he knocked on the rosewood door of Isis’ private sitting room and it swung open unaided to reveal a plump woman seated on a softly cushioned couch as she worked intently on her account book.
Tugging his black, curly beard in agitation, Darius stepped into an atmosphere so thick with incense it blanketed the smell of the perfume drenching his beard and long wavy hair. It was only when the door thudded shut that the woman noticed him and set down codex and kalamos next to the silver fruit bowl on the table beside her.
“You must keep your door locked, madam,” he scolded. “I might have been an assassin.”
“According to my accounts we don’t seem to have that many disgruntled customers, Darius,” she replied. “Besides, you’re always nearby.”
“I can’t be everywhere at once! And there is much unrest in the streets on account of the strange deaths of those pillar sitters. Unrest outside inevitably finds its way inside, just like bad smells.” He drew breath. “But you summoned me?”
The woman seemed lost in thought, caressing the thin gold marriage band she wore in Egyptian fashion on the middle finger of her left hand, although whether as a remembrance of her past or merely as a disguise she had never revealed. “Do you think this stylite business will dampen our customer’s appetites?” she finally asked.
The big doorkeeper looked surprised.
“You have been with me for a long time,” Isis said with a smile. “I would value your opinion. But before you give it, please sit down.” She patted the couch beside her.
Looking even more surprised, Darius seated himself beside his employer. “Well, madam, since you ask I think some of our clients may hesitate to venture out at night if the streets become too unsafe.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that exactly,” Isis admitted. “After all, men regularly throw away their lives for what we offer here. No, what concerns me more is the possibility of too many of our Christian friends developing a sudden fear of their god, who I hear frowns on every form of pleasure.”
Darius remarked that unfortunately in that case he could not address the question since he was not a theologian.
Isis laughed. “Well, you are the only person in Constantinople who will admit that! Now, I realize the very idea sounds ludicrous but this very afternoon one of the girls informed me that her client leapt off her bed at a most inopportune moment crying out that he felt hot, that he was about to be consumed by the flames of sin inside him, or some nonsense of that sort. In my time, I’ve heard many things but I don’t recall ever hearing anything like that, not even in my wilder days.”
Darius shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Although he had been in Isis’ employ for many years, it had been even longer since she had actually practiced the profession that had brought her not a little wealth and some measure of fame in the capital. It was difficult for him to believe this imposing matron must have once been nothing more than a pretty little thing, like the foolish girls in his care. To him she seemed more like a mother.
Changing the subject, he reminded her that she had wished to consult him on a matter of urgency.
Isis had picked up her codex and was looking at its notations. “Oh, yes. Yes, I will need you to accompany me and a few of the girls to a banquet,” she informed him absently. “It’s to be held at the home of Senator Aurelius. That young rogue Anatolius has engaged me to present a classical entertainment.”
“I hesitate to say it, but if I may, I would strongly advise against attending,” Darius replied worriedly. “It really is not safe on the streets after dark.”
“If custom does in fact begin to drop significantly we may have to consider redecorating,” Isis muttered, apparently oblivious to Darius’ counsel. “We could adopt a new motif, get new costumes for the girls, offer something extra and different to lure more customers in. Now, what could that be?” She thoughtfully tapped at her small white teeth with her kalamos.
Darius began to repeat his warning, then stopped. He knew from experience that once Isis began reading her accounts nothing else could compete for her attention, not even classical entertainments or musical instruments. Not entirely a bad thing, he reminded himself, noting the largely unused hydra standing against one wall. He certainly did not care to hear again the cacophony of agony the merest touch of her fingers made groan from that instrument.
“What is so fascinating about those numbers, madam?” he asked, his chagrin at his employer’s ignoring his advice momentarily overcoming his tact.
Isis ran her finger down a column in her account book, mumbled a few numbers to herself, and bit the full lower lip reddened with wine-dregs whose lush pout had helped accumulate the wealth whose extent she was now calculating. Finally she smiled and looked up.
“Well, my friend, numbers have their own beauty. Then too, my account book always makes me think of my father.”
Darius could not conceal his look of surprise.
“He was a tax assessor in Alexandria,” Isis explained. “He taught me about numbers. They balance, like lines in well-constructed verse. As I say, they have their own beauty.”
“You would have made a fine tax assessor.” Darius was thinking about Isis’ shrewd evaluation of the girls so often brought to her doorway for sale by their destitute families.
“But that is not a woman’s job, is it?” Isis put her account book down and took a handful of dried figs from the silver bowl beside her. “My father was often away from home, valuing estates and villages and such like. I had an uncle who sometimes visited while he was gone. He’d bring me trinkets and tell me stories about his travels for as long as I cared to allow him to sit beside me with his hand on my knee.”