John shouldn’t have been startled to see Isis poring over the Christians’ holy book at her desk, but he was and admitted as much. “I realize people don’t believe I could possibly take religion seriously, but I do,” Isis told him. “It is my business to take it seriously. Would you care for one of these honey cakes?”
John shook his head. Although he had hardly eaten all day, his empty stomach rebelled at the idea of the rich, sweet cakes which were normally favorites. He sat on the couch.
Isis wiped a few crumbs from her white linen robe. “Christ was a troublemaker. I never knew that. Patriarch Menas would not have liked him very much.”
“You think not?”
“Would the patriarch like me if I walked into the Great Church and started telling him he had got his religion all wrong? It seems to me he was just asking for trouble.”
“My understanding is that he was well aware of the danger and knew what was coming.”
“Have you made a study of it, John? After all, Justinian is always immersed in church controversies.”
“I take an interest in religions. They are too important to the empire to ignore. I’m not a theologian. Justinian looks elsewhere for advice on theology.”
Isis licked honey off her fingers. “A haughty sort, this Christ, or so I originally felt. Arrogant. Demanding. But a brave man and at times gentle. Reading the story for myself is giving me quite a different impression of him.”
John sighed. “Man? Or God? Or both?”
“What do you mean? Oh, I know. What do they call it, the Three Chapters argument? I haven’t got to the part yet where they explain all that.” She gave him a playful smile.
She was just bantering as always. He carefully broached the subject of Kuria.
“That wretched girl! Did I look fierce when you reminded me of her yesterday? I must learn forgiveness.”
“Do you recall any of those men you said were attracted to her? Officials, patricians?”
“I don’t know, John. So many girls and so many men. I tried not to notice the men, or remember them. And the girls…you’d think I would remember. Maybe it’s my age. I only recalled Kuria because she wounded one of my girls.”
It was understandable, John told himself. Though a visit to the brothel might have been a memorable experience for each individual, for Isis it was simply a business. Would a vendor remember who she’d sold a couple of melons to years earlier? And as for clients from the imperial court…most of the court had probably crept past the gilded Eros that once stood outside Isis’ hospitable door, if they hadn’t slunk in through the back door instead.
He wanted to believe Isis was not concealing anything from him as everyone else seemed to be doing.
“Why do you suppose you remembered her having aristocratic clients at all, Isis? Did something we talked about bring it to mind? Was it someone you might have associated with Theodora or Justinian? Or with me?”
“With you, John?”
“I deal with many people at court. I thought perhaps there might be a connection to be discovered. Talking to me might set a spark of memory flickering.”
Isis pursed her lips. “A friend of yours perhaps? That big bear Felix.”
John stiffened. “Felix was visiting Kuria?”
“He wanted to marry her.”
John leaned back into the cushions with a sigh of relief. “No, no, Isis. That was poor Berta many years ago. She was the girl who was murdered.”
Isis made the Christian sign. “Yes, you’re right, John. It must have been Berta I was thinking about. Poor child. It just seemed as if it was more recently your friend was in here doting over her…strange how muddled the past gets.”
“The more important events always stay close to us, Isis. The less important recede. Berta was involved with violence as Kuria was, although Berta was the victim. That might be why you mixed up the two.”
“Yes, probably.” Isis looked alarmed. “I wonder if my mind is going to fade away as I get old? I can’t afford that to happen. I’ve always taken care of myself.”
“We all become a little forgetful as we get older, Isis.”
Later, on his way home, John remembered his consoling words to Isis.
He had never forgotten anything. And there were so many things he wished he could forget.
Chapter Thirty-six
Hypatia met John as he came up the stairs. Except for bruising on her neck she showed no ill effects from her recent frightening encounter.
He asked if there had been word from Cornelia. “No.” She hesitated, then added, “If I may say so, it’s barely been three days. Babies don’t keep appointments, master. They arrive when they feel like it.”
John reflected again on what Isis had said about the past becoming muddled. It seemed to him as if Cornelia had departed a week before Theodora’s death, not two days afterwards.
“Hypatia, if you need to take the rest of the day off-”
“Oh, no, master. I’m fine. I have to keep an eye on Peter.”
“And how is Peter?” The puffiness around her dark eyes showed she had been crying.
“Worse. I managed to get some of the potion I made down him. It seems to have helped the pain but I think he’s drifting away. I’ve propped him up against a pillow so he could breath more easily. He’s been asking for you.”
John went up to the servant’s room slowly and with trepidation. Peter would never normally ask to see him. He would not consider it his place to make requests of his employer.
Peter was motionless, head slightly elevated, eyes shut. It would have been impossible to tell he was breathing except for the faint erratic, whistling that issued from his dry, slightly parted lips.
“Is that you, master?”
“Yes, Peter. Hypatia said you wished to see me.”
The old man’s eyes fluttered open. “I am sorry to trouble you, master.”
John pulled a stool to the side of the bed and sat down. He saw laid on the bedside table the coin from Derbe which Peter had found in Isauria during his military days, a lucky coin or so he claimed, because it came from a city visited by Saint Paul. Beside it, on a leather thong, lay the Egyptian amulet Hypatia had given him years before when she had worked for John. And then there was the wooden cross above the bed.
All equally ineffective.
“It’s no trouble, Peter. How are you feeling? Hypatia tells me she made a potion for you.”
“A lovely girl, master, even if hopeless at cooking.” Peter lapsed into silence. His creased face was gray, inert and heavy as if eternity had already begun to insinuate itself into his flesh.
From the open window came the clump of boots on cobbles. Excubitors were returning to the barracks. Or leaving. A gull screeched and others returned the shrill call.
John did not have words of comfort for his long-time companion. Christians were quick to assure the sick and bereaved they would pray for them. It came automatically, provided them with comfort. Not that John had ever known such prayers to alter fate. Was that surprising? Even the gods of Olympus had been subject to fate. Why not the Christians’ god?
John’s own Mithra was not a god who would look kindly on pleas that he alter the natural course of life. It was up to the Mithran to deal with life, whatever that might entail, to survive uncomplainingly, to serve.
Peter spoke at last. “Don’t trouble yourself over me, master. If my time has come, I’m ready. Only I’m sorry it has to be now, with your grandchild not yet arrived, and when Hypatia has just returned.” He fell silent for a heartbeat, his eyes turned toward the blank plaster of the ceiling. “Do you know,” he resumed. “I was dreaming just now of my mother. I was a very small child and she was telling me the story of Tobit. It is my favorite because it was the first story my mother told me. Tobit went to sleep by the side of the house and was blinded by bird droppings. That got my attention.”
“Yes, it would.”
“Tobit’s son-just a boy-goes on a long journey. His dog accompanies him. I liked that. And the angel Raphael is his guide, except he doesn’t know his companion is an angel until the end. They battle a giant fish and drive away a demon. My mother didn’t tell me it was a demon of lust, though.”