John gave a brief account of the night’s events, leaving out the fear he had felt.
“You best be getting home, John. Who knows what Hypatia will do when she gets back and finds you’re still absent?”
“Hypatia is a sensible woman. I’m sure she realizes she’s done what she could. Although I missed her, I did see Vesta leaving,” John added after a short pause.
Anatolius shook his head tiredly. “I’m overwhelmed with work, John. Vesta was here again yesterday. I stressed I couldn’t see her today because of a number of important appointments. So what does she do? She turns up on my doorstep before dawn, or as she put it in advance of my first appointment.”
“Is she consulting you on behalf of her mistress?”
“What else? The girl is a devoted servant but I wish she wouldn’t harass me endlessly. I’ve told her repeatedly there is nothing I can do to help a couple living together illicitly and without the approval of the girl’s parents.”
He paused and rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. “Since Anastasius is Theodora’s grandson he’ll doubtless avoid prosecution. I’ve stressed that more than once to Vesta, not to mention pointing out the young couple should be grateful for the protection Theodora extends them from the grave.”
“A strange notion,” John observed.
“Yes. Well, I shouldn’t detain you.”
John was struck with the unsettling impression that Anatolius was concealing something. Was his friend really so tired or was he trying to mask his nervousness? Did he seem overly anxious for John to return home?
Perhaps Anatolius sensed John’s doubts. He smiled ruefully. “I must be getting old, John. The young ladies visit my house only for advice these days.”
“You mentioned that the last time I saw Vesta here.”
“Did I?”
In the old days a young lady who insisted on visiting Anatolius with regularity would most certainly have found herself subject to his attentions. Not that Vesta was a beauty. She was still just a ungainly girl.
“At least I have saved you going to the palace to try and save me,” John said. “I’d best be on my way.”
“Wait, my friend. I’m afraid I might have given you the wrong impression. I didn’t mean to be rude. Stay a little while. Have a cup of wine. You look as if you need one.”
“But Hypatia-”
“As you say, she’s sensible. She was much calmer by the time she left. I’ll have the wine brought. You don’t have to worry about Hypatia.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Hypatia peered toward Antonina’s house, into which Vesta had just vanished.
Why would Vesta be taking foxglove from the palace garden to Antonina? She would have to tell the Lord Chamberlain, when she saw him.
She tried to assure herself she would see him soon.
There was Peter to think about now, though.
She started back to the palace, hurrying, avoiding knots of idlers lounging against the walls of the Hippodrome and stepping carefully to avoid rotting straw and vegetable matter scattered along the way.
She passed by the Palace of Antiochus with its distinctive domed hexagonal entrance hall and turned onto the Mese. A one-legged beggar seated on a pile of rags near the intersection shook his walking stick at her. “Charity, lady, for the love of heaven,” he rasped.
Preoccupied with concern for Peter and having nothing to give anyway Hypatia barely noticed the man. She hurried past with a shake of her head. She hoped Peter would not panic when he realized she was gone. She hoped in particular that he would not try to get out of bed.
A footstep sounded behind her. Before she could swing around or shriek, a hand clamped over her mouth and she was dragged through an open doorway. It happened so quickly it was unlikely any passersby had noticed, even more unlikely that strangers would come to her aid.
“Charity, lady, for the love of heaven,” leered the beggar she had ignored. His tone sounded quite different and he was suddenly spry and two-legged.
Hypatia bit his hand. Her attacker yanked it away and as she started to scream smacked her face hard with his other hand. She fell to the ground, stunned. By the time she regained her senses the hand was clamped over her mouth again. The air smelled of ashes. From the little she could see in the dimness they were inside a fire gutted store.
The erstwhile cripple bent over her. “Maybe I should let you shout, lady. There’s plenty who would like to share in your charity! After all, what is one more man? Or a couple of men?” He tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her tunic, stuffed it roughly into her mouth, and rolled her onto her back.
Half choking, Hypatia stared up at him. How could she have allowed her attention to wander while out on the streets by herself? A child would have known better. If only she could go back to the point when she had watched Vesta emerge from Anatolius’ house. She should never have followed her. She would be home now, tending to Peter. She forced herself not to think of it. Whatever happened, she would not plead with her assailant.
“Not going to struggle?” The beggar sounded disappointed. “Perhaps a little encouragement…?” His hands closed around her neck.
Then, as if mad with rage, he screamed.
***
As John started down the Mese on his way home, he told himself he had lingered too long with Anatolius. Talking about current events over a cup of wine, Anatolius had seemed less wary, more himself. Even so, John sensed an unusual undercurrent. Was his old friend trying too hard to appear himself? Did he speak too lightly and at too much length? Did he smile too broadly? Or was it that John was exhausted and overly suspicious?
He would never have registered the familiar sight of a beggar emerging from the side of the Hippodrome and settling down in front of a row of vacant shops if Hypatia had not appeared almost immediately from the same direction.
He increased his pace to catch up with her. He saw the beggar hold out his hand as she passed where he squatted on his rags.
Then John saw the beggar leap to his feet, nimbly, despite the walking stick he’d displayed.
As the assailant dragged Hypatia into a fire-gutted shop, John sprinted toward them.
He heard Hypatia scream.
He increased his pace and dodged around two laborers on their way to work. A ragged woman jumped out of his path and stared incredulously after the tall, lean man racing as if pursued by demons.
Finally he burst into the burnt-out building. It took an instant for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Then he saw the beggar kneeling over Hypatia, his hands around her neck.
John stepped forward before the beggar realized he was there and reaching around the man’s face dug his fingers into the eye sockets.
The attacked man shrieked. Twisted away. Elbowed John in the stomach. Though he must have been half blinded, he stumbled out onto the Mese and ran, weaving back and forth.
John didn’t bother to pursue him. He helped Hypatia to her feet instead.
“I’m all right, master,” She assured him, brushing ashes off her torn tunic. Her voice quavered.
It was sheer good fortune John had happened to be on hand to save her from assault. He did not like having to rely on fortune.
“I thought I would never see you again, master. I thought they had come to…” Her voice quavered.
“The emperor had a sudden urge to discuss theology,” John replied. Already the night had taken on the quality of half recalled nightmare, a confused jumble of horror and incongruity, in which the incongruities were somehow as terrifying as the obvious threats.
They walked slowly down the Mese. When Hypatia regained her composure she recounted her visit to Anatolius.
John listened with increasing concern and bemusement. That Vesta had gone directly from Anatolius’ house to the palace gardens and then to Antonina’s house suggested the possibility of connections, not only between Vesta and those she had visited, but between Antonina and Anatolius.