pedestal because there wasn’t a single inhabitant of Constantinople who, having seen its glory once, would bother to make the effort to crane their neck to observe it a second time.
He sighed as he resumed his swift lope, realizing he could not avoid further investigation of Balbinus’ suspicious appearance at Aurelius’ house. But there were other interviews to be conducted first.
Following John unobserved had been child’s play. Tall and lean and wrapped on this chilly afternoon in a heavy black cloak, he made a striking figure, his dress and bearing clearing him an easy path through swarming humanity. There had been no danger of losing sight of him in the common throng while still being able to maintain a safe distance. It would be simpler than expected to close the space between them when the time came, thought the pursuer, a smug smile crossing his face.
The narrow street they were now traversing was lined with brick buildings, not tenements but obviously divided into apartments. Their first floors were taken up by the customary merchants’ establishments. The smell of fruit too long unsold mingled with the odor of boiled fish and cabbage emitted from open windows. Several workshops rang with the sound of hammering, but the street’s occupants were apparently even less inclined to labor than usual, since several establishments were shuttered. Here and there, men clustered in stray patches of pale sunlight, conversing in strident tones but falling ominously silent as the two strangers, pursued and pursuer, approached.
John’s swift stride took him past the mouths of several alleys, narrower than the street into which they yawned and largely deserted at this time of day except for the occasional foraging rat, skittering about their gloomy length.
Philo had already decided that he would draw closer to his prey and risk the possibility of revealing his pursuit if John should turn aside into an alley since he had no wish to become lost anywhere in that warren of narrow, dark ways a second time. He had therefore been chagrined when John led him at last to the Forum Constantine. That enormous open space made it impossible for him to sidle close enough to the senate house’s portico to overhear John’s conversation with the important-looking man he was addressing. He was thus forced to lurk under one of the ornamental archways leading into the forum, peering out now and then while wondering where John might go next.
Yes, he thought, John would not be at all pleased if he discovered that Philo had ventured out of the house. But who was he to order Philo about as if he were an ignorant student? There again, hadn’t Philo already garnered more about the dead stylites than the Prefect’s men had managed to uncover? And, no doubt, an innocent-looking old gentleman could easily extract more information from one suspected of murder than could an intimidating Lord Chamberlain. He had only to find out who John suspected and then talk to them. And how else to do that but by following John, however distasteful such deceit might be?
Yet, he thought, John would thank him in the end, when he was presented with those vital scraps of fact necessary to solving the murders. Not to mention the matter of deciphering that most peculiar letter from the leader of the Michaelites. The guilt he might have felt at concealing his possession of the hastily scribbled copy Anatolius had left, in order to study it for carefully hidden meanings, had been assuaged by John’s totally unwarranted tone with him. What right did he have to speak to him in that manner? He might indeed be Lord Chamberlain to Emperor Justinian but Philo remembered a time when John was an unlettered student from the country, rough and awkward in his manner although certainly intelligent, if overly hasty in making decisions.
Peeking around the edge of the archway, Philo was suddenly assailed by the sweet scent of roses. It was unexpected here, amidst the odor of the crowd and the bitter smell of animal dung. Not to mention the acridly lingering memory of the beggars who had relieved themselves in the relative privacy of the archway under bas reliefs commemorating forgotten military victories.
Philo was reminded of Senator Aurelius’ banquet, at which the gentle fragrance of roses had hung sweetly in the air. He looked around.
A heavily perfumed child glared up at him with the black eyes of Cerberus, red-painted lips drawn back in an expression that was not exactly a smile.
“You, old man! Tell me quickly why I should not call the Prefect and have you thrown into an imperial dungeon immediately!”
Philo drew back in alarm and confusion, staring at the apparition. The boy, for it was a boy despite the heavy layer of chalk on its face, kohl rimmed eyes and the cloyingly heavy rose perfume, was dressed in a short plain brown tunic which blended in with the garb of the majority of the crowd around them. The bright yellow leggings he wore did not. Philo had occasionally glimpsed exotic beings such as this on the palace grounds. The lad was obviously one of dozens of decorative court pages.
“What do you mean?” stammered Philo, for once finding himself at a loss for words.
“Oh dear, what do I mean?” mimicked the boy, making his voice quaver. “Don’t think to play the innocent with me, I warn you, or you’ll be lying on top of dead men at the bottom of a pit within the hour. I don’t suppose you’d last long down there. Even an old gizzard like yours might be palatable to the crows.”
Philo retreated another step, not caring when he felt one of the befouled bas reliefs imprint its triumphant scene upon his himation. “Who are you, to accuse me like this?” he demanded, outraged.
The boy gave a harsh laugh. “My name is Hektor,” he said. “And I am well-known in high circles. The very highest.”
Philo protested weakly that he was guilty of no wrong doing, having merely been taking a stroll around the city.
“You have been following the Lord Chamberlain,” Hektor broke in impatiently.
“That’s ridiculous!”
“You’ve been creeping along behind him ever since he left his house.”
“How would you know that?” Philo demanded. Had he been so obvious in his shadowing that even a child had deduced his plan?
“When you both came out of the same house and took the same path, yet you did not hail the Lord Chamberlain, I said to myself, now, that is interesting. Why would that wretched old scoundrel be skulking along following the highly placed official whose hospitality he has been enjoying? It was quite obvious that was what you were doing, for when he paused, so did you. So I followed you both. After all, who knows what your design might be? Under that billowing, pretentious thing you’re wearing, are you an assassin in an old man’s clothing waiting for your opportunity to murder our dear Lord Chamberlain?”
Hektor stepped forward, extending one hand to grasp Philo’s shoulder as the old man cringed backwards, trapped by the befouled wall behind him. When the boy’s delicate hand mercifully stopped short and drew back, Philo noticed its fingernails were painted.
Philo paled, feeling his heart squirming fearfully in his chest. “I am an acquaintance of the Lord Chamberlain and indeed, as you say, I am enjoying his hospitality, as is well known.”
“Ah, but how do I know that you are not a spy who has ingratiated himself by some subterfuge into the Lord Chamberlain’s household?”
“I have known John for years. He was…”
“Never mind.” Hektor waved his dainty hand in a gesture of dismissal. “I shall allow you to live. Count yourself fortunate that I am in a merciful mood today.” A scowl marred the boy’s beautiful face. “You seem harmless enough. You may go now.”
Philo departed hastily. As he left the forum at as quick a pace as he could manage, he berated himself for the irrational fear he had felt of the absurdly painted creature, yet it was a fear he could not shake off. He glanced back once more before going around a corner and leaving the forum blessedly out of sight. From that distance, from the back, as Hektor craned his neck to see over the crowd, he looked like any other boy.
“Yes, Lucretia, I remember it was always your favorite game as a child. You loved to hide for me to find you,” Nonna recalled, a smile blossoming along the well-worn lines of her face.
The elderly woman was in full flood of happy reminiscences. Chattering like a magpie, she only paused now and then to spoon up boiled wheat from her dented silver bowl, a gift from her former owners upon her manumission and retirement.
Lucretia was perched nearby on a low chair finely inlaid with rosewood. It had been another parting gift from her parents to her former nursemaid. Nonna seemed unchanged, she thought, or was this strange effect of time
