The madam left the room long enough to give instructions.
“Not that there haven’t been one or two of my girls who, honey or not, have been rather careless,” Isis told John upon her return. “And then there’s poor Darius, he’s absolutely distraught about Adula. Confidentially, John, he’d become very fond of the girl. Of course, she doted on him. And it was a terrible death.” She glanced down at the burns on her hands, mute witnesses to her fruitless attempts to save Adula.
John moved uncomfortably in his chair. It was padded much too amply for his spartan tastes. “Isis, I’m here to speak to you about that very girl. You say her name was Adula?”
“Yes, or at least that was what we called her. What she was called by her father, or in any event the man who claimed to be her father when he showed up at my door trying to hawk her for twice as much as I was willing to pay, who can say? He never told me.” Isis half reclined on her couch. The delicate table beside it bore its customary jug of wine and silver bowl filled with fruit. On this occasion, she did not seem inclined to sample either.
“You mentioned Darius was very fond of the girl. There was a special relationship with her, perhaps?”
“Special?” Isis laughed. “Darius frets over all of us. He’s a regular mother hen. He did admit to taking some liberties with Adula, but there’s nothing unusual in that, men are men and always will be. If it were otherwise, I’d be out of business. He’ll recover his spirits soon enough.”
“Can you tell me anything about Adula’s background?”
Isis shook her head. Her cheeks were hollower than John had seen in the years he had known her. While it was true that her thinner features hinted at the finely chiseled face that had made her a rare beauty before she “retired to a desk post,” as she liked to put it, they more strongly suggested incipient exhaustion.
“She was from one of those peasant families scrabbling to survive, or so said her father or whoever he was.”
“Did she entertain any regular clients? Any particular favorites?”
“Favorites? Well, Senator Aurelius has never frequented this house, if that’s what you’re thinking. As for his son, I’m not aware he ever visited with her. Everyone knows he’s attracted to the aristocratic type, and he’s quite willing to put down an extra coin or two for one who can play the part well,” she concluded.
John nodded, embarrassed that Anatolius’ private preferences in such matters were a well known matter of commerce in Isis’ house. “So there was no particular reason you chose her to be among those accompanying you to the senator’s banquet?”
“Nothing beyond talent and enthusiasm. Besides, it is good for a country girl to see how wealthier citizens live, don’t you think? It gives them an indication of what is possible in Constantinople. After all, we all know what Theodora was before she married Justinian, don’t we?”
John agreed, adding, “Of course, there were many men at that banquet who might have been here at one time or another, even though they all professed ignorance of your house when questioned.”
Isis waved her beringed hand. “Please, John. You know I cannot answer the questions you are about to ask. My livelihood depends upon my being discreet even when my clients are not. But I will tell you this,” she continued. “Just looking over the guests I recognized enough familiar faces to keep you busy interviewing for, well, for much longer than I suspect you have available to solve the matter.”
John asked her to recount whatever she had observed of Adula’s death. Unfortunately, Isis had been too intent on her flute-playing to notice anything until the screaming began. John made a mental note to request that one of the Prefect’s men interview the other girls who had been present. Suspecting such questioning would be fruitless, he did not wish to waste his time on it. People tended to see what they expected to see. And unexpected events, catching them unready, were seldom carefully observed.
He asked Isis once more if she were certain she had no information to offer.
She shook her head. “Nothing except that I hear that around the city it’s being said she was struck down because of her evil ways. If that’s true, I might well be next.”
John murmured that he doubted it, the sins of her house were not the worst in Constantinople by any means, and concluded with a slight smile, “Indeed, compared to some, your girls are still innocents.”
Isis leaned forward intently. “At least, they are innocent of anything but quenching the natural fires of the fleshly sort. Personally, I don’t believe those other fires had anything but a human origin and I suspect that you agree with me.”
“Of course I do, but then neither of us are Christians.”
“But how do one’s religious beliefs change deductions arising from the facts?” A shadow passed over her face. “To tell you the truth, I blame myself for it,” she said, dabbing at her suddenly wet eyes.
John looked at her questioningly.
“Isn’t it obvious what happened? There were torches everywhere, in the corridors and rooms, along the colonnade. And I insisted my girls wear those elaborate costumes. A spark must have fallen into the folds of Adula’s clothing and smoldered there until it burst into flame. And now those zealots are taking credit for what was nothing but a terrible accident!”
Before John could reply there was a brisk rap on the door. A blonde girl dressed in a softly folded, short linen skirt and little else padded barefoot in. Her sapphire colored eyes betrayed lively interest in this richly dressed man in her owner’s private sitting room.
“I found Darius and he has departed to the honey seller’s shop as directed, madam,” she said respectfully.
“I shall have to talk to Darius at some point, Isis, but for now I must be away myself, since I have others to consult upon this matter,” John said, concealing a smile at the girl’s obvious curiosity. “Besides, you are becoming too philosophical for me, especially since there is a talkative old Greek philosopher living under my roof at the moment.”
Isis laughed. “Come and see me again soon, then. I promise you I shall have some of that awful Egyptian wine you love and we’ll talk only about the old days in Alexandria and the latest palace gossip.”
John nodded gravely. It was a long standing jest, for although years before they had both lived in Alexandria at the same time, their paths had never crossed in that huge city.
On their way down the hall, the barefoot girl giggled nervously. He glanced quizzically at her, asking what was amusing her.
She looked at him in panic. “Oh, sir, excellency, I mean, I beg your pardon. It is just that, well, there’s an old Greek philosopher visits me every market day, as regular as the sunrise, and I couldn’t help laughing, thinking about him. I shouldn’t say anything. Madam will be furious that I talked about one of my clients. It’s against her rules.”
“I won’t betray you, don’t worry. But what makes you think he is a philosopher?”
The girl looked nervously back at the door of Isis’ sitting room, caught between the known perils of her imperious employer and the possible dangers that could emanate from angering this obviously important stranger.
“I would not offend you,” she began hesitantly.
“I doubt you could offend me. I’m just curious,” John assured her with a slight smile.
“Well, it’s this, excellency. When he comes up to my room he watches while I get undressed. But after that…well…he has me pose, like a statue, this way and that.” She demonstrated, flapping her arms, looking more like a small, ungainly bird than any classical sculpture John had ever seen. “He keeps me at it until the last drop runs out of the water clock. After an hour, or sometimes two, my arms feel ready to fall off.”
“And so you think he’s a philosopher because he has you pose like a statue?” John asked, thinking that the girl would get far stranger demands if she stayed very long in Isis’ house.
The girl giggled again, her light blue eyes bright. “Oh, no, excellency. I know he’s a philosopher because he just sits on the edge of my bed for the entire time and drivels on about various ancients’ theories on the nature of beauty. And that’s all that happens.”
“I’ve never set foot inside a house like that in my life!” Philo angrily grabbed a thick stick from a pile of kindling in the corner of the kitchen.
John, seated at the table, half-expected him to bring the stout stick down on his knuckles as he had once or twice when John had misbehaved in his student days. However, Philo contented himself with vigorously stirring up the brazier, sending golden sparks floating ethereally upward. “I am shocked that you could even consider accusing
