“I have no doubt the words you eventually compose will please the emperor, Procopius. Have you heard of any restiveness which might be taken seriously?”
“Every angry word I hear is taken seriously by the broken man who utters it. But, no, I have not encountered a single person who contemplates attacking the emperor with anything other than false bravado and threats whispered in secret. Indeed I believe this court is a popular meeting place due to the public latrines located so conveniently behind the baths. The moment these brave souls announce their opposition to the emperor, they need to rush off to relieve themselves.”
“If you haven’t heard of plots, have you heard anything about a woman named Agnes, or Troilus, a dealer in antiquities?”
Procopius pursed his lips and appeared to consider the question. “The names don’t sound familiar, but I hear so many names. I may have written something down. You might want to visit me when I have had a chance to consult my notes. I am sure that as Lord Chamberlain you have many interesting stories to tell.”
“The stories I might be inclined to tell are probably not the ones you are interested in hearing. Still, I would appreciate the opportunity to speak with you again.”
Anatolius wanted to question Procopius about the architectural book he was reportedly writing.
John excused himself and walked in the direction of the sea. He stopped well short of the edge of the courtyard from where it was only a step down to the dark waves. The sea appeared to slope upward in the distance. John had the uncomfortable impression that the water might come rushing down at any moment.
On further consideration, he wondered what could be gained from speaking further with Procopius. It was Troilus he needed to question. The antiquities dealer had arrived at his shop with a large sack the very night Agnes was murdered. He had known Agnes. He could have stolen the dye that had been used on the body from Jabesh’s establishment, so near to his own.
Had Troilus fled? It seemed possible. Though he had no reason to think so given his single visit to the closed shop.
Knowing the identity of the murderer would not tell him all he wanted to know about Agnes.
About Zoe.
Or would it?
He thought again of the strange calm which enveloped his investigations. A deceptive calm. A calm like that of the sea gently lapping the stones, yet much too close.
He needed to know more. Not merely for his own curiosity, or even to avenge Agnes. Knowledge of some plot would explain her death. Anyone who sought to topple the emperor had already wagered his life on a desperate bet.
He would not stop at one killing.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Mistress, the gentleman has arrived!”
Cornelia turned and saw Peter peering through the doorway to the bath.
She had decided to look in on the workmen who had arrived earlier to begin repairing the neglected room. Two of them were up to their ankles in green gruel at the bottom of the circular marble pool which occupied most of the space, seeking to unplug the drain with a heavy metal rod. The third, a paunchy, middle-aged man who had introduced himself as the mosaic maker Figulus, stood on the edge of the basin, next to the marble Aphrodite, scowling up at the cracks in the domed ceiling.
“The gentleman? What do you mean, Peter?”
“I was in the garden and heard footsteps, and caught a glimpse of someone going upstairs. A stranger.”
“You didn’t confront him?”
Peter looked surprised. “I thought you must be expecting a visitor.”
“No. I’m not expecting anyone.” Cornelia could feel her breath coming faster. She chided herself. The city made her nervous, as did John’s investigations.
The visitor could be anyone. A friend of John’s. Someone on business. A palace messenger. She made an effort to control her breathing. “Figulus, are there just the three of you?”
He had been prodding at some loose tesserae in the wall mosaic and pretending not to listen to the conversation. “Yes, lady. Just three. The Lord Chamberlain said he wanted these mosaics…um…altered, rendered more fitting. Do you have any idea exactly what he has in mind?” He shuffled his feet.
Cornelia saw Peter’s lips tighten as he glanced at the mosaics which so discomfited Figulus. They depicted in a detailed, earthy manner what the goddess Aphrodite symbolized.
Perhaps the mosaic maker had misheard John’s instructions.
“No, I don’t want any alterations,” Cornelia replied. “They are to be repaired. I like them.”
She went into the hallway, which was cluttered with tools, bags, and barrels of tesserae and plaster.
“Let’s find out who our visitor is,” she said to Peter. She couldn’t entirely keep anxiety out of her voice.
As she started back down the hall, she heard one of the workmen, his voice amplified in the empty, marble room, laugh. “A lady like that likes pictures like these. Wish I was his excellency!”
“Not me!” came the reply. “You don’t know anything about the Lord Chamberlain, do you, you fool?”
The atrium was deserted. The front door stood open, a cart piled with building materials visible on the cobbles beyond.
“Do you have a weapon, Peter?”
“Yes, Mistress, but it’s in my room upstairs.”
“Never mind then.” Cornelia started up the stairway.
“Mistress, you shouldn’t go up alone!” Peter protested, following her.
How ill advised to leave the door open, Cornelia thought. It had probably never occurred to the workmen that a Lord Chamberlain wouldn’t have swarms of servants close at hand instead of one elderly man.
No one to shut doors and guard them against intruders.
The wooden steps creaked under her feet.
There was no one in the hallway upstairs. She went into the kitchen and picked up the poker beside the brazier.
“Take one of the knives, Peter. We’ll risk appearing very inhospitable if it turns out to be a senator or someone sent by the emperor.”
The weight of the iron poker in her hand made her breath come more easily as she stepped out into the hallway again, half expecting someone to burst forth from one of the rooms.
She lowered her voice before speaking to Peter. “The footsteps you heard? Was it just one person or more?”
“Only one.”
Of course, Peter’s hearing was not very reliable. Cornelia took a few steps. She set her jaw and exhaled slowly. When she’d traveled with the troupe, she had specialized in leaping bulls in a recreation of the old Cretan tradition.
There always came that time, as the bull charged, when it was necessary to take the decision and leap, to bridge the chasm between thought and action despite fear.
A hulking assassin might have lain in wait. Or she and Peter might find themselves facing a band of armed ruffians.
She raised the poker and stepped into John’s study.
A slender young man, his hair prematurely silver, lounged at John’s desk and stared pensively at the mosaic on the wall.
He barely turned his head at her entrance, but merely put down John’s wine cup. “Ah, there is someone alive in this place after all. I was beginning to think that cunning child on the wall was the sole inhabitant of the house.”
The man was dressed like a merchant in a well cut blue tunic and a short, dark blue cloak. He did not appear to have a weapon.
“Who are you and what is your business?” Cornelia demanded.
The man stood, without any display of urgency. “Have I disturbed you? I’m most sorry. I was given to understand the Lord Chamberlain wished to speak with me. I thought I’d save him the trouble of seeking me out again. As a courtesy, you understand.”
“Do you consider it a courtesy to simply walk into people’s homes and wander around unannounced and drink their wine?”