five or two and four.
“Mithra!” John breathed.
Stepping briskly along the hall to Philo’s former room, he retrieved and quickly re-examined the disorderly and rambling letter Philo had left behind.
Was it possible that Philo had left a hastily written coded message for John before setting out for his fatal appointment? Perhaps it was less his secretive nature than fear of possible derision that had kept him from voicing his suspicions. But if there was indeed a cypher, did those numbers, a message he had carved into his own flesh as he lay dying, refer to words, lines, sentences, words within sentences?
The last was the key and it took John a surprisingly short time to discover that by following the simple pattern of the second word of the first sentence, the fourth of the next, the second of the third, the fourth of that following and so to the end of the deliberately unfinished letter, Philo’s message emerged.
“They are not what they say secrets inquire Michaelites find where Michael from suspect Michael beware…”
Even when revealed, the message remained cryptic. Added to that, how could he now hope to investigate Michael further?
Peter shuffled into the room. “Master, we must hurry,” he urged in a fretful tone. “We must leave as soon as we can.”
John took a small bundle of clothing from him. It had been many years since he had traveled so lightly.
John and Peter stood shoulder to shoulder in the dank shadows beneath a brick archway. They had just descended part way down a flight of stairs leading to the docks and had paused, ostensibly to eat the bread and cheese Peter had snatched up before their flight, but in reality to allow Peter to catch his breath after their brisk walk through the streets.
Below them, the stone quay was littered with broken crates, amphorae, bundles of straw for draft animals and other detritus. Half naked men toiled on and around several ships that rose and fell with the swell of the waves. The wind was freshening.
John drew Peter’s attention to the small merchant ship he had picked out from those ranged along the dock. The squat little vessel had seen better days-and that years before-but it was still afloat. Three of its crew were busily scurrying to and fro as they stowed away the last of its cargo of amphorae. Only one gang plank was still in place. The tide was beginning to turn and they would obviously be sailing momentarily. That was why he had chosen the ship.
“Master, where are we going?” Peter asked uneasily.
“For now, wherever that vessel will take us,” John replied. “If they will carry us, that is. But then again, the emperor will doubtless ensure that they do,” he said with a thin smile, opening his hand to display a few coins stamped with Justinian’s visage. “But remember, don’t call me anything but John and otherwise say as little as possible.”
Peter nodded silently, evidently resolving to begin following his master’s instructions immediately.
They quickly descended the rest of the stairs and crossed to the ship John had pointed out. The sea wind gusted harder, sending straw skirling around their scuffed boots and bringing to their nostrils the pungent odor of exotic spices, a hint of far off lands and foreign commerce.
Arriving at the edge of the dock, John was suddenly aware that his feet were planted an inch or so from a sickening drop into deep, dark water. As a young mercenary he had nearly drowned in the swollen stream that had claimed one of his comrades. As a result he had, as he put it, developed a special caution when near water. He forced the quaver from his voice and hailed the crewman preparing to pull in the gangplank.
“Your captain, where is he? Two travelers here seeking passage. We’ll pay a reasonable price.”
The man, thickly-browed and as squat as the ship, admitted he was the captain. “Where are you bound?”
“Anywhere away from this accursed city, before it goes up in flames and takes us with it!” John spat forcefully into the water and cursed the emperor.
Beside him, Peter’s bent shoulders stiffened with outrage but he held his tongue. Admiration for John’s extremely inventive and grossly obscene language and sentiments beamed from the captain’s face while Peter’s expression changed from disapproval to barely concealed outrage as his master’s disgusting tirade continued to spew forth. It was soon apparent that John had studied language much more diligently while a mercenary then he had during his studies at Plato’s Academy.
Having disposed of Justinian’s moral character-not to mention that of his wife-with a selection of colorful epithets concerning their preferences in bed partners, including obscene speculation as to the preferred number of legs, John spat into the sea again. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he concluded in a somewhat milder tone. “And between the fires this godless holy man is calling down at will and the thieving whores infesting the place, not to mention the one living in fine style at the palace, we’ve decided to make ourselves scarce before we get killed.”
The captain scratched his stubbled face reflectively. “Seems we see eye to eye about the emperor and that wife of his, I’ll say that at least. Very well. We’re taking a cargo of wine up to Lazica, so I can carry you as far as the end of the Euxine. Cash in hand and in advance, them’s my terms. At least you’ll get far enough away from here to keep you and the old man safe from imperial whores and fire breathing prophets. You’ll have to pitch in with the crew if we hit bad weather, though. Now, let’s see what a couple of vagabonds like yourselves considers a fair price.”
John stepped nimbly across the gangplank, striving to conceal the weakness he felt as its half-rotted pine bowed under his weight. His negotiations lasted as long as it took the captain to realize there were three nomismata in John’s palm.
“Ah,” he grinned, grabbing the coins with a knowing wink. “I see why you two rascals are in such a hurry to leave. Two less ne’er do wells for the Prefect to worry about, eh? And I daresay I know where your knowledge of thieving whores comes from! Nothing worse than a thief who steals from one!”
He gave a coarse laugh and ushered Peter aboard. “You can take a corner below but don’t touch the wine. It’s practically vinegar. But what do they know in Lazica? I picked it up for a pittance. Before the innkeeper that ordered it and the vineyard owner that supplied me are done wrangling about it in the courts I’ll be back here spending my profits in the best house in the city!”
John heartily congratulated the man on his business sense, charitably refraining from giving him the bad news that the best house in the city was currently a heap of charred wood and smoke-blackened walls.
The two travelers stood by the ship’s rail, watching as the last iron anchor was dragged up and set dripping with its fellows at the base of the mast. The ship’s single square sail snapped in the wind and with crewmen straining at the sweeps the vessel slid away from the dock, bound for the narrow channel of the Bosporos and the Euxine Sea beyond.
“I could hardly believe your scurrilous calumnies about our emperor and empress,” Peter remarked reproachfully. “It was remarkably convincing.”
“Perhaps because it was heartfelt.”
Peter, not for the first time since they had left the house, looked askance while John smoothed the shabby clothing he had donned, making certain that the knife tucked in his woven leather belt was not only easily accessible, but very visibly so.
As the small boat moved out into the crowded waterway John could discern the shape of the cramped peninsula on which the capital was situated. Beyond the sea walls by which they sailed, buildings seemed stacked one atop the next, blocks piled in a massive jumble that threatened to crash down on passing travelers at any moment.
It was a miracle that the sheer weight of all that architecture did not press the land down into the surrounding water, he thought, looking back at the most prominent feature of the receding city, the vast dome of the Church of the Holy Wisdom.
“Why does the empress hate you so much?” Peter suddenly asked him. “Her hand is surely in this, for I cannot believe the emperor would betray such a faithful servant as you.”
John was tempted to enlighten his trusting companion as to how cold-blooded the emperor could be. But Peter, he reminded himself, often sang hymns penned by Justinian, so he held his peace.
