arrived by cart from another place, or that it is somehow different in substance and in nature from its mother although arising from her?”
The words brought a pang to the woman. She was not meant to be a mother. She felt gnawing pain again, a lamentation in the dark space that dwelt in her heart. She had lost their child and they had turned away from each other. Her husband became distant, not acknowledging or apparently even realizing how much she needed his comfort. Oh, he did not begin to drink too much wine to drown his sorrow and he was always icily courteous. But he became a stony-faced stranger who said little and spent less and less time with her, pleading the polite fiction that official business kept him in the city.
And then one night he had arrived home intoxicated and cursed her as barren, screaming his rage, taking pleasure in revealing in obscene detail that he had consorted with women from the gutter and enjoyed it. Yes, and enjoyed it more than anything he had had with her.
In the morning, when he was sober, he had tried to apologize. But it was too late. The drunken words that had flowed like poisoned wine had done their work too well.
“They believe they are safe,” Michael was saying, “like beasts in their dark dens, yet the sacred fire will reach inside their luxurious houses with their beautiful furniture and painted walls.”
Painted walls. Yes, she had taken to spending most of her time sitting in her room, staring at the frescoes. The finest craftsmen had come from Constantinople to decorate her husband’s villa and their handiwork was exquisite. A meticulously painted window deceived the eyes into believing that it opened out into a classical landscape graced by a temple to Venus, whose symbols were seamlessly blended into the tranquil scene.
Here was a serenely flowing river, clear enough to see the rounded stones over which it gurgled and sang, dancing between grassy banks graced by willows and fringed with violets and roses. There, two stately swans swam in the shallows and on the far side of the water, a young couple walked hand in hand up the slight incline of a hill toward a small temple to the goddess. Two doves hovered over its tiled rotunda, pomegranate trees bloomed outside its open door. Beyond, wooded hills rolled into a misty distance.
It was a beautiful scene, or at least she had thought so when she arrived as a new bride. In the mornings they would lie in bed and spin each other stories about the young couple and what had happened to them and all the other supplicants who visited the temple to offer a sacrifice to Venus or perhaps to ask for divine assistance on the field of love.
And they had discussed the names that their first child would be given. But the child had died before he was born and now there would be no more chances.
Was it not strange that here she was, standing beside another shrine? Perhaps someone outside this world was lying on their bed looking in through a window painted upon their wall, seeing her and all the others and spinning romantic stories about their lives.
“I tell you that each human being is a part of God,” Michael went on, “so that the murderer offends not merely flesh but also God. And so too the jurist offends who sentences an innocent to the axe and the husband who beats his wife and those who administer all manner of injustices. Look into the palaces and churches and the houses of the wealthy. They are filled with vessels of gold. But the flame burning in a vessel of clay burns no less brightly. It burns no less hotly.”
The words seemed oddly distant.
The little boy hid his face in the folds of his mother’s rough tunic. The woman became aware that she had been staring at him. She looked away, then glanced back quickly. He was peeking at her, a smile wreathing what could be seen of his face. She felt an answering smile begin to form.
Yet what was Michael saying? “On this very night, God’s holy fire will once again consume those who offend Him.”
Chapter Ten
After Senator Aurelius left the garden to prepare for the short oration he planned to give to com- memorate the occasion, John and Anatolius-the latter the subject of the senator’s speech-lingered under the peristyle. John noticed the fountain, like the rest of the house and garden, was lavishly decorated by white roses. They almost, but not quite, succeeded in diverting the eye from the rotund bronze Eros at the fountain’s center.
John commented that he was glad to see Aurelius was pleased with Anatolius’ efforts.
“Or pleased that he is about to dispose of my future according to his own ideas of propriety.” Anatolius’ voice betrayed fatigue quite at odds with his demeanor. “But never mind, who knows what may yet happen? Perhaps these Michaelites will march into the city and promulgate their own laws and have no need of my services!”
“That might save you from joining the office of the quaestor but I doubt there would be much room for your preferred kind of verse in a city ruled by zealots such as them.”
“You’re probably right, unfortunately. By the way, have you had time to read that letter I copied out for you? I left it at your house earlier today.”
John was puzzled. A letter? A chill of understanding came to him, like a sudden draught from an open window. He recalled mentioning to Anatolius that first communication from Michael, the letter Justinian had not permitted him to examine. “Anatolius, you didn’t place yourself in danger, did you?”
But Anatolius was already stepping forward, raising his hands to draw attention.
“My dear friends, thank you for joining us this evening.” His voice had regained its usual ebullience. “I understand my father intends to say a few words shortly, but for now the entertainment will continue with a presentation of the Address of the Muses after the fashion of the ancients.”
A murmur of interest rose from the guests. Several settled down on the peristyle’s marble benches while others lounged against its columns.
When all was quiet except for the hiss and pop of torches fending off growing darkness, Anatolius clapped his hands sharply.
A procession of the nine Muses, modestly dressed in elaborately folded robes, appeared from the shadows. They were led by Isis in the guise of Euterpe. Her chubby fingers coaxed a passably grave melody from the flute disappearing beneath the billowing veil disguising her face. The huge semi-naked figure of Darius, sporting tiny gilded wings on his broad shoulders, followed in their wake. A murmur of admiration rose from the spectators as the little procession stopped beside the fountain overseen by Darius’ bronze colleague.
“I thought Darius disposed of those absurd wings when Isis abandoned her Temple of Aphrodite decor?” Anatolius had rejoined John.
“I do think she should occasionally restrain her taste for the theatrical however good it is for business,” John muttered back. “Surely Darius must find the ridiculous costumes he’s obliged to wear very demeaning, even if it is part of his job?”
“But then we all have our jobs to do,” Anatolius said in a disgruntled tone, “whether we like them or not.”
John changed the subject. “When I was a young man at the Academy, Philo once warned us that Aristotle considered flutes to be immoral because their music was overly exciting. This struck me as so ridiculous that I have never forgotten it, but perhaps Aristotle and Isis are privy to knowledge unknown to me.”
“In that case, I’m surprised that Isis does not have whole companies of flautists serenading her clients,” Anatolius replied as the plaintive melody changed to an emphatic keening.
One of the Muses, surely Calliope judging from the wax tablet and stylus she carried, stepped forward and began her recitation. John noted wryly how Anatolius’ attention focused immediately on the meticulously metered words-or perhaps it was on the meticulously painted mouth from which they were emerging. Realizing any comments he might make could never compete with such attractions, he said nothing.
As Calliope continued declaiming, he found himself thinking that there was a comforting familiarity about these soporific entertainments. Epic verse was something John preferred to read for himself in the solitude of his study, uncolored by another’s interpretation and, for that matter, unsweetened by pretty lips.
His attention wandered up to the night sky. The breeze felt cold on his face, reminding him that the seasons turned more rapidly every year, or so it seemed. His thoughts drifted away on the liquid notes of the flute.
A terrible wail yanked his attention back to the performance. At first he thought it was some impossible,
