“Neither has been attacked, but we still have had three deaths.”
“Three unrelated deaths of people from totally different classes,” Felix pointed out.
“But linked by their involvement with the project,” John persisted.
“Consider, John,” Felix had replied. “How many people can you contrive to connect to that wretched statue? Let’s see, there’s the carter who transported it. What about the owner of the ship that carried the marble here, or the ship’s captain? What of all those brawny fellows on Proconnesus who hauled the marble to the ship or cut it out of the earth, for that matter. What of the men of law who drew up the agreement to buy the marble? We mustn’t overlook all the ecclesiastical officials who approved its placement in the Great Church! Would they include Palamos? The Patriarch? For that matter, what about-”
John had held up his hand. “Enough. I see your point. You think it is just coincidence.”
“Exactly. This conspiracy against Justinian, though, now there’s something concrete, if not marble. We must venture down that avenue.”
John had all but reached the same conclusion. From what Fortunatus had told him about Opimius it appeared, even to John, that the murder could have political ramifications, just as Justinian feared. He was still not prepared to accept that it had been politically motivated, or did not have something to do with the sculpture. The connection between the dead and the Christ figure continued to tug at his mind. He should at least speak to Dio.
Whoever the murderer might be, Senator Opimius’ intrigues had definitely placed his daughter in danger, he thought. A cloud of gulls rose noisily from the almost deserted street, leaving a few feathers drifting in his path. No, Felix would not have accompanied him to Opimius’ house. He doubtless would have said it was both reckless and foolish and ordered him to abandon the notion.
By the time John arrived at his destination he had concluded that Felix would have been right. After all, what would Anna be able to do if she were alerted to the danger? If she took any action at all it might be one that was rash. And a visit from him would not remain a secret from Opimius for very long.
Anna’s safety lay in finding the murderer. Her father was not the villain, of that John was certain.
From the street Opimius’ mansion gave no hint of the luxury within or of the spacious garden lying behind. The building appeared nothing more than a nondescript box masked by a heavy, metal-banded street door. A few narrow windows interrupted its second story.
Was there movement behind one of those windows?
John suddenly feared that Lady Anna might see him and run out to meet him.
He ducked down the alley beside the house.
If Opimius noticed him lurking around he’d almost certainly send for the Gourd’s men. Stamping down the narrow way John muttered a rich variety of curses, mostly called down on the thick head of Opimius. As he emerged into the next street he realized that he had been declaring his opinion of the senator to the world. It was fortunate that here at least there seemed to be only a few seabirds to hear his tirade.
Perhaps, on reflection, Felix’s odd suggestion that if he must curse in public he should do so in Egyptian was a better one that he had originally thought. Yes, John decided, he should certainly practice doing so. Given his opinions of everyone from Justin downward it would turn out to be more sparing to delicate ears, not to mention saving his neck from the murderous caress of a sharp axe.
He considered returning to the palace. Felix had made it plain he wanted to continue their original line of investigation. While John had to admit it seemed the most sensible course at present, nevertheless he could not shake the strong feeling that the three deaths were connected.
This indecision was unusual for him. His mind was in a turmoil and at a time when it was most important he should think clearly. He willed himself to reason things out.
What should he do next? As it happened he was as close to the address Fortunatus had given him for the sculptor’s studio as he was to the palace. That decided it, then. He should visit Dio.
***
The sculptor’s residence nestled within an enclave behind the Domninus, north of where that colonnaded thoroughfare intersected the Mese, in an area populated by bakers, metal workers, and artisans.
An archway leading from the Domninus admitted John to a courtyard around which stood tiny shops selling glassware, jewelry, dyed goods and furniture. The sound of hammering, the thud of mallet on chisel, and the smell of sawdust, all gave evidence of workshops behind the shop fronts. Blankets, draped to air at open windows punctuating the upper story of the enclosure, disclosed the presence of residences.
John noticed several premises displaying marble pieces at their doors, but his eye was drawn to one emporium. Over its entrance loomed a huge, carved lintel. The doorway itself was surrounded by small squares and rectangles of marble, wood, metals, painted plaster, and mosaic chips, each repeating in miniature form the single word chiseled deeply into the linteclass="underline" Signs.
Curiously, however, the sign-maker’s sign did not announce his name to prospective clients.
The proprietor, a red-faced man, appeared in the doorway and smiled expectantly as John approached.
“Good morning, sir,” he said jovially. “What can I do to help you? Do you seek a sign for your business premises? A plaque announcing your name and profession?”
John wondered what he would do with a bronze plaque engraved with “John, Slave.” Perhaps, he thought ruefully, he could wear it around his neck.
“Let me guess what you will want emblazoned on your sign.” The man turned his head to one side and squinted hard at John. “I can always tell the professions of my clients. Tall fellow, aren’t you? Little trace of calluses on your hands, I see. By your looks Greek perhaps? And you have the bearing of an aristocrat, sir. Definitely from the palace.”
The maker of signs bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Yet there is something hardened in your features,” he went on. “Military almost. And…hmmmm…there’s that look…” The man straightened his head and chuckled. “Well, sir, I give up. All I can think to classify you as is a philosopher!”
“I regret to say I’m not here to buy a sign,” John replied politely, “but rather seeking a sculptor named Dio.”
The red-faced man looked disappointed. “Dio? Naturally. He has all the luck!” He pointed across the courtyard to one of the larger shops.
“He has all the luck, you say?”
“One big commission after another. Why, customers pour in over there and the way they’re dressed, you’d think his door was the entrance to the emperor’s reception hall. He’s barely more than a youth. Granted, he has some talent.”
John thanked the man. “By the way,” he added, “you are quite correct about me, at least if you count as a philosopher someone who studied for a time at Plato’s Academy.”
The man brightened. “There it is. I do have a knack for reading people, sir. Very helpful in my trade, as you might surmise.”
John strode over to Dio’s shop. He guessed the sign-maker would soon be regaling everyone in earshot with how he’d identified a philosopher from the palace. Doubtless the tale of such a person visiting his emporium would be worth more to him as publicity for his wares than whatever he might have earned from a commission for a sign.
The sculptor’s shop was deserted except for a few bits of carved marble populating a table. They were chiefly smaller versions of the sculpture in the Great Church but there was also a woman’s head, startlingly realistic and thus none too flattering, depicting as it did every wrinkle and several prominent moles. A rejected commission perhaps?
John walked through the shop and into the studio behind.
The space was larger than he’d anticipated, two stories in height, with a packed dirt floor. Worktables covered with tools and partly shaped chunks of marble and granite lined unfinished masonry walls. Light poured down from tall, narrow windows.