Before John could reply there was a brisk rap on the door. A blonde girl dressed in a softly folded, short linen skirt and little else padded barefoot in. Her sapphire colored eyes betrayed lively interest in this richly dressed man in her owner’s private sitting room.
“I found Darius and he has departed to the honey seller’s shop as directed, madam,” she said respectfully.
“I shall have to talk to Darius at some point, Isis, but for now I must be away myself, since I have others to consult upon this matter,” John said, concealing a smile at the girl’s obvious curiosity. “Besides, you are becoming too philosophical for me, especially since there is a talkative old Greek philosopher living under my roof at the moment.”
Isis laughed. “Come and see me again soon, then. I promise you I shall have some of that awful Egyptian wine you love and we’ll talk only about the old days in Alexandria and the latest palace gossip.”
John nodded gravely. It was a long standing jest, for although years before they had both lived in Alexandria at the same time, their paths had never crossed in that huge city.
On their way down the hall, the barefoot girl giggled nervously. He glanced quizzically at her, asking what was amusing her.
She looked at him in panic. “Oh, sir, excellency, I mean, I beg your pardon. It is just that, well, there’s an old Greek philosopher visits me every market day, as regular as the sunrise, and I couldn’t help laughing, thinking about him. I shouldn’t say anything. Madam will be furious that I talked about one of my clients. It’s against her rules.”
“I won’t betray you, don’t worry. But what makes you think he is a philosopher?”
The girl looked nervously back at the door of Isis’ sitting room, caught between the known perils of her imperious employer and the possible dangers that could emanate from angering this obviously important stranger.
“I would not offend you,” she began hesitantly.
“I doubt you could offend me. I’m just curious,” John assured her with a slight smile.
“Well, it’s this, excellency. When he comes up to my room he watches while I get undressed. But after that…well…he has me pose, like a statue, this way and that.” She demonstrated, flapping her arms, looking more like a small, ungainly bird than any classical sculpture John had ever seen. “He keeps me at it until the last drop runs out of the water clock. After an hour, or sometimes two, my arms feel ready to fall off.”
“And so you think he’s a philosopher because he has you pose like a statue?” John asked, thinking that the girl would get far stranger demands if she stayed very long in Isis’ house.
The girl giggled again, her light blue eyes bright. “Oh, no, excellency. I know he’s a philosopher because he just sits on the edge of my bed for the entire time and drivels on about various ancients’ theories on the nature of beauty. And that’s all that happens.”
“I’ve never set foot inside a house like that in my life!” Philo angrily grabbed a thick stick from a pile of kindling in the corner of the kitchen.
John, seated at the table, half-expected him to bring the stout stick down on his knuckles as he had once or twice when John had misbehaved in his student days. However, Philo contented himself with vigorously stirring up the brazier, sending golden sparks floating ethereally upward. “I am shocked that you could even consider accusing me of such base licentiousness, John.”
The sun had just set. It had been a weary day and John’s mind was moving much too slowly to keep a proper guard on his words. Too late, he regretted mentioning the young prostitute’s remarks.
“I was concerned about your safety, Philo, that’s all,” he explained tiredly. “How a man conducts such personal matters is entirely his own business.”
Philo threw the slightly charred stick back on the pile. “As well it should be. And to change the subject entirely, that old scoundrel Peter is still lying abed.”
John had already noted that the kitchen smelled merely of smoke. Only a ghostly trace remained of the welcoming fragrance of simmering meats and sauces that normally greeted him each evening.
“You really must do something about him, John.” Philo sat down on the stool he’d pulled closer to the brazier and warmed his hands. “When he did not appear this afternoon, I eventually went up to see how he was feeling.”
“He was still resting as I had instructed?”
“Ah, so you had ordered him to stay abed? However, we did have some words.”
“Peter is my servant, Philo, not yours. And, if may I remind you, a free man,” John pointed out shortly.
“I meant it in the sense that we had some fascinating discourse, John. In fact, we had quite a long and most interesting conversation. He insisted on trying to explain to me how this god of his can possess distinct but inseparable natures. Nothing but convoluted word play in my opinion, but I do believe we might have gained a good orator there if he’d had some proper training as a young man.”
After his tiring and tedious investigations John did not care to consider such a spectacle, so he contented himself with commenting that he was happy that the pair had found something in common.
“Oh, he’s a veritable library of knowledge on religious heresies. Eutychianism, Manichaeism, Docetism… It’s quite remarkable how many ways they have found to slice up that deity of theirs. Yet sink a knife into some poor dumb beast to honor an older god and you are immediately called a blasphemer of the highest order!” Philo rubbed his hands together. John was not certain whether he was still trying to warm them or was simply enthused by the topic under discussion.
“Anatolius has made similar comments but he is young and often careless in his speech,” John said. “I hope you are old enough to know better than voice such opinions too loudly.”
“Do you think I’m that much of a fool with these Michaelites stirring trouble up for all of us with their odd ideas?”
John shrugged. “I’m amazed that Justinian would think he can reconcile their beliefs with orthodoxy. Perhaps he sees some subtle shading we do not. But,” he continued wearily, rubbing his eyes, “it’s been a difficult day. I will be retiring early, I think.”
He got up. As they had been talking the last embers of sunset had faded. The flickering orange light of the cheerful brazier danced across the room’s plain plaster walls.
Philo also stood. “John,” he began hesitantly, “I have something to confess. I went out earlier. I followed you.” He quickly recounted his meeting with Hektor. “I’m ashamed to say it, but the child frightened me so much I came back immediately and sat in your garden to compose myself. It took some time, I fear.”
John no longer felt tired. Hektor would not be spying for any good reason. Had the boy somehow discovered Theodora had ordered John to desist from investigating Senator Aurelius’ death and intended to foment trouble?
“No need to feel ashamed, Philo,” he finally said. “You have good reason to beware of Hektor, and so do I.”
“John, if I have put you in any danger…”
“No. Not at all. In fact, it’s fortunate you followed me, because now I’m forewarned about Hektor’s sudden interest in my movements. But, please, don’t follow me again. You were a wonderful tutor, Philo. I owe my life to you. But take my counsel on this and stay inside in relative safety from now on.”
Philo replied with uncharacteristic hesitancy. “One thing more. I…found that message Anatolius copied and left here on the day of the banquet.”
He led John to the study and removed a piece of parchment from beneath the shatranj board.
“An unfortunate place to lose it,” John remarked, “considering how unlikely it is that I’d ever touch that wretched game of yours.”
Philo, looking sheepish, handed the document to him. “I thought Michael might have concealed some meaning within the text. I was trying to decipher it for you.”