affairs.
But why had Anatolius been anxious for Hypatia to leave? What did he care whether John’s servant caught a glimpse of his lady friend?
As she stood in the shadows a figure emerged from the passage.
A woman dressed in a bright blue stola.
Vesta.
Joannina’s lady-in-waiting glanced around and then walked toward Hypatia.
Hypatia backed quickly into a doorway.
Vesta appeared to be in a hurry. She went by with her eyes down, so close Hypatia could smell her perfume. If she noticed a form in the shadowy doorway she must have taken it for a drowsing beggar.
Hypatia waited long enough to be certain Vesta was well on her way and then set off at a brisk pace for the palace.
She did not have time to ponder why Anatolius apparently had not wanted her to see Joannina’s lady-in- waiting. Having done what she could for John, her thoughts turned to Peter.
If Gaius were fit to treat the empress surely he was qualified to care for an elderly servant? But physicians were not always mindful enough of their patients’ comfort. Surely it wouldn’t interfere with Peter’s treatment if she made a potion to relieve pain. She could collect the necessary ingredients from Gaius’ herb garden on the way back.
Once on the palace grounds she took the wide path used by carters and others to ferry supplies to the kitchens. Now the sun had risen further, and shadows cast by lines of trees barred the path. Through the trees could be glimpsed the vegetable beds where Hypatia spent much of her time cultivating those needed for culinary purposes.
At its far end the path forked, one side leading to the kitchen buildings and the other to an open space where carts unloaded boxes of eggs, slabs of fly-encrusted meat, barrels of fish, sacks of flour, crates of fruit, and other supplies. Passing through the vegetable garden beyond would bring her out on a walkway providing a short cut to Gaius’ herb garden. It was a familiar route for Hypatia, who often took it when returning from an early morning visit to the market, but wished to pick fresher herbs for sauces or stews than those offered in the city.
She again thought of Peter left alone and quickened her step, ignoring the jests of three burly men carrying amphorae into the back door of the kitchens. She soon reached a large grove of pine trees shading a marble statue of Poseidon guarding a fish pond. Created to resemble an open space in a wood, the shrubby glade featured patches of ferns and wild flowers clustered here and there among moss-covered boulders. Poseidon’s fish, ornamental rather than destined to be served at the imperial table, lived in a rocky, shadow-dappled pool fed by a trickling stream.
A flicker of movement caught Hypatia’s eye as she passed the entrance to the grove.
Vesta was visible just behind Poseidon, working in a tall patch of foxgloves alive with the humming of bees going to and fro between the flowers’ purple fingers. Vesta kept looking around, furtively, as she stooped to collect foxglove leaves she put into a small bag.
When she first arrived at the Great Palace, Hypatia had been surprised the showy flowers were permitted to flourish on the grounds. They were praised by physicians for treating affectations of the heart, but she knew the purple spikes were also the source of a deadly poison and thus perhaps not the wisest choice of plantings in a court whose members would kill to advance a step in the hierarchy or eliminate a rival for an obscure imperial post.
Recollection of poison reminded Hypatia of John’s seemingly impossible task of finding Theodora’s poisoner, if indeed such a person existed.
Was the poison Justinian believed had been used to murder Theodora been brewed with these or other examples of the beautiful if deadly plant?
And to what purpose would Vesta put the material she was secretly gathering?
Intrigued, Hypatia hid behind a nearby summerhouse until Vesta emerged from the grove, and followed her a second time through the rapidly growing crowds in the city’s thoroughfares.
Vesta’s destination lay in the shadow of the Hippodrome.
Antonina’s house.
Chapter Thirty
John found his house door locked. He knocked, waited, and tried again. There was no response.
He looked up at the second story window of his study. The diamond-shaped panes showed only muddled reflections.
He raised his fist to pound harder, then paused to think. If Hypatia were there she would have answered. She must have gone out, and Peter wouldn’t be able to navigate the stairs even if he could hear John’s knock up on the third floor.
It would be best if Peter didn’t hear because if he did, he might foolishly attempt to get out of bed.
What could have prompted Hypatia to leave Peter alone?
The answer was obvious. She assumed John was in danger, having been abducted in the middle of the night, and had gone to seek help.
Should he look for her at the Urban Prefect’s offices?
She would hardly have sought the assistance of the prefect’s night watch. They worked in concert with the excubitors and it had been excubitors who carried John off.
He doubted she had seen his captors but if by good fortune she had glimpsed the carriage surely she would have recognized it as an imperial vehicle.
Therefore, he reasoned, she would seek help from someone outside the palace.
Who did Hypatia know in the city who could help?
Anatolius. Who else? John’s friend, who had at one time paid her unwanted attention.
John strode back across the square in the direction from which he’d just arrived.
The sun rose higher, measuring its power in shadows fingering rooftops and statues. Already it was warm, heralding another stifling day. Carts carrying crates of produce and squawking chickens rattled through streets coming alive with artisans hurrying to their work and beggars rolling out of sheltered corners to begin scratching out a hopeless existence for another day.
John took a shortcut, little more than a crevice between buildings. He was sorry almost as soon as he emerged from it when he was hailed by a man scrubbing the entrance to a business selling costly linen, wool, and similar cloths.
“You are abroad early, sir. A worker like myself, no doubt? Times are hard for those who labor to earn an honest crust.”
The man sat back on his heels. “It’s not just outrageous taxes. When do you think Justinian will authorize measures to protect merchants from beggars using our doorsteps as lavatories?”
John was reminded of Artabanes urinating across his hedge frontier. Before he could answer, the shop owner, evidently a man happy to pass the time of day with anyone who would listen, continued.
“Every morning I have to scrub my steps. The ladies don’t want to buy in a place smelling of-well-it reminds me of a certain landowner one of my cousins works for. This landowner, you’d know him if I mentioned his name, very well-known he is, he’s so rich he has a servant whose only task is to keep his master’s collection of statues cleansed of bird droppings. And yet he only collects damaged statues! You know, missing a limb or damaged in the casting. What’s the use in buying such statues, I ask you, sir? They’re fit only to melt down for the value of the copper.”
John agreed that it was quite puzzling and hurried on before the fellow could bring up Theodora’s death and point out a rival who sold cloth colored with poisonous dyes.
It occurred to him that the peculiar collector might feel he was sheltering those poor, injured images. At times he found himself reacting to a statue he passed as if it were alive. Feeling sorry, for example, for the long- forgotten dignitary who stood year after year in the forum near Anatolius’ house, alone and unrecognized though he had been a great man once. Could a statue retain some part of the living man? If a dessicated piece of bone could
