me of such base licentiousness, John.”
The sun had just set. It had been a weary day and John’s mind was moving much too slowly to keep a proper guard on his words. Too late, he regretted mentioning the young prostitute’s remarks.
“I was concerned about your safety, Philo, that’s all,” he explained tiredly. “How a man conducts such personal matters is entirely his own business.”
Philo threw the slightly charred stick back on the pile. “As well it should be. And to change the subject entirely, that old scoundrel Peter is still lying abed.”
John had already noted that the kitchen smelled merely of smoke. Only a ghostly trace remained of the welcoming fragrance of simmering meats and sauces that normally greeted him each evening.
“You really must do something about him, John.” Philo sat down on the stool he’d pulled closer to the brazier and warmed his hands. “When he did not appear this afternoon, I eventually went up to see how he was feeling.”
“He was still resting as I had instructed?”
“Ah, so you had ordered him to stay abed? However, we did have some words.”
“Peter is my servant, Philo, not yours. And, if may I remind you, a free man,” John pointed out shortly.
“I meant it in the sense that we had some fascinating discourse, John. In fact, we had quite a long and most interesting conversation. He insisted on trying to explain to me how this god of his can possess distinct but inseparable natures. Nothing but convoluted word play in my opinion, but I do believe we might have gained a good orator there if he’d had some proper training as a young man.”
After his tiring and tedious investigations John did not care to consider such a spectacle, so he contented himself with commenting that he was happy that the pair had found something in common.
“Oh, he’s a veritable library of knowledge on religious heresies. Eutychianism, Manichaeism, Docetism… It’s quite remarkable how many ways they have found to slice up that deity of theirs. Yet sink a knife into some poor dumb beast to honor an older god and you are immediately called a blasphemer of the highest order!” Philo rubbed his hands together. John was not certain whether he was still trying to warm them or was simply enthused by the topic under discussion.
“Anatolius has made similar comments but he is young and often careless in his speech,” John said. “I hope you are old enough to know better than voice such opinions too loudly.”
“Do you think I’m that much of a fool with these Michaelites stirring trouble up for all of us with their odd ideas?”
John shrugged. “I’m amazed that Justinian would think he can reconcile their beliefs with orthodoxy. Perhaps he sees some subtle shading we do not. But,” he continued wearily, rubbing his eyes, “it’s been a difficult day. I will be retiring early, I think.”
He got up. As they had been talking the last embers of sunset had faded. The flickering orange light of the cheerful brazier danced across the room’s plain plaster walls.
Philo also stood. “John,” he began hesitantly, “I have something to confess. I went out earlier. I followed you.” He quickly recounted his meeting with Hektor. “I’m ashamed to say it, but the child frightened me so much I came back immediately and sat in your garden to compose myself. It took some time, I fear.”
John no longer felt tired. Hektor would not be spying for any good reason. Had the boy somehow discovered Theodora had ordered John to desist from investigating Senator Aurelius’ death and intended to foment trouble?
“No need to feel ashamed, Philo,” he finally said. “You have good reason to beware of Hektor, and so do I.”
“John, if I have put you in any danger…”
“No. Not at all. In fact, it’s fortunate you followed me, because now I’m forewarned about Hektor’s sudden interest in my movements. But, please, don’t follow me again. You were a wonderful tutor, Philo. I owe my life to you. But take my counsel on this and stay inside in relative safety from now on.”
Philo replied with uncharacteristic hesitancy. “One thing more. I…found that message Anatolius copied and left here on the day of the banquet.”
He led John to the study and removed a piece of parchment from beneath the shatranj board.
“An unfortunate place to lose it,” John remarked, “considering how unlikely it is that I’d ever touch that wretched game of yours.”
Philo, looking sheepish, handed the document to him. “I thought Michael might have concealed some meaning within the text. I was trying to decipher it for you.”
“Before you lost it?”
John read the copy letter quickly. It contained the usual lengthy honorifics, followed by a demand for an audience. Then came the dire prophecies Justinian had described. John sighed. There seemed little to be learned from it. Had Anatolius placed himself in danger to no gain?
“Of course,” Philo was saying, “Anatolius may have copied the words accurately but not their arrangement. These things can be very subtle indeed. Not everyone grasps this significant detail.”
John’s attention was suddenly snagged by one of the sentences. He reread it, half aware of Philo droning on beside him, having realized that by seeking cryptic hidden clues the philosopher had seemingly overlooked the content of the message itself.
“Philo, did you notice this?”
The old man glanced at the letter.
“It is this sentence,” John pointed, “‘And lo for each of these holy entities the heavenly fire shall claim a sinner, so that all the world shall rejoice in the might of the True Number.’…”
“That must refer to some formula,” ventured Philo, eyes brightening at the prospect of a mathematical puzzle to solve.
“No, Philo, I don’t think so. According to the second letter, these Michaelites worship a fourth holy entity, the human vessel, that they consider co-equal with the usual trinity. That makes four. So their so-called True Number must be the same. Thus this supposed heavenly fire was prophesied as taking four lives. But on that night only three died.”
Philo understood immediately. “Could the girl at Aurelius’ house have been the fourth?”
“Possibly. But possibly not, for I heard Michael predicted more fiery deaths in a sermon the same evening as Aurelius’ banquet.”
“Then what can it mean?”
John was about to reply when there was a thunderous knock on the house door. Going downstairs, he curled his fingers around the hilt of the dagger at his belt.
Cracking the door open cautiously, he was surprised to see Darius looming outside.
“Madam informed that you wanted to question me, so I thought I should attend at once.”
John let him in and shut the door against the windy night.
Philo had vanished when they entered the kitchen. Since he could not have avoided hearing Darius’ distinctive voice booming up from the entrance hall, perhaps he was not anxious to have one of Isis’ employees confirm his recently denied patronage of her establishment.
“It’s a bitter night and I would have been happy to speak to you tomorrow,” John said, gesturing Darius to take a seat.
It was obvious from his visitor’s red eyelids and blotched features that Darius had been weeping and was attempting, with little success, to suppress more sobs. “I was right next to her, Lord Chamberlain,” he said. “It was my job to guard madam and the girls and I could not even do that.”
“You did all you could.” John looked pointedly at Darius’ enormous hands. They were covered in blisters from his efforts to extinguish the fire that had killed Adula. He hoped Gaius would not charge too steep a fee for the amount of unguent that would be needed for those burns. Better still, he thought, he would arrange for it to be given to Darius at no charge and pay the cost himself. “You will display the scars from your brave efforts for the rest of your life. And rest assured, we will find out who is responsible for her death.”
“No. No, I fear not.” Darius’ eyes glistened. “It was surely the work of some dreadful and malign deity.”
“I am certain that there was no such intervention involved, Darius. Now, reflect. You were closer to the girl than anyone else. Perhaps you saw something unusual, something strange, that might be helpful in discovering the villain responsible?”
