“But of course,” John said, “if that is what you wish.”
Felix donned his helmet and they took the few steps necessary to stand reverently before the altar. The big, bear-like man bowed his head as John addressed the torch-lit image of their god.
“Mithra, Lord of Light,” John began, “Slayer of the Great Bull, I approach to humbly petition thy blessing upon thy servant Felix, who will soon march forth to soldier.”
Torchlight wavered across Felix’s bearded face, as he glanced briefly up.
“Grant that his eye be keen, his judgment sound and his sword arm strong.” John paused. It did not seem appropriate to be offering a prayer of such a militant nature, given the unarmed pilgrims Felix and his men would be facing. Inspiration touched him.
“Keep him in the shelter of thy starry cloak,” John continued, “and give him wisdom in directing the engagement, that it be conducted in a way that is honorable to thee, his lord. But if it must be that he climb the seven-runged ladder and leave this world, grant this, that he depart with grace and that his memory be considered worthy and fitting for one who faithfully followed thee.”
Turning, John laid his hands on the captain’s bowed head. “And now with this blessing, go forth and soldier, Felix, captain of the excubitors and adept of the rank of Lion.”
“And may Lord Mithra guard me on the field of battle,” the captain replied in the traditional response.
John lingered for a few moments after Felix left the mithraeum. It was growing late. There was no question now of engaging an informant or one of Felix’ spies. If there was anything useful to be learnt, John would have to discover it for himself.
Chapter Sixteen
Philo had spent a lifetime studying philosophy.
He had read countless dialogs and listened to endless discourses. But he had never received such a pointed and sorry lesson in human nature as he received while standing near an apple seller’s stall not far from Isis’ house.
The succession of well-dressed men he observed slinking down the side alley leading to the brothel’s back door spoke more eloquently of the baseness of human nature than the most imaginative and perverse theologian ever could.
“Another apple?” The old woman, nigh as wizened as the dried fruit she was hawking, glanced down at the coins on Philo’s palm. “I don’t mind taking your trade, but if I may say so, you’d find it cheaper, not to say much better for your humors, to summon up your courage and just give a quick rap on the door. Darius will let you in as quick as a wink. Do you think anyone takes any notice of the traffic in and out of that house? All sorts of people go there at all hours. It’s like the procession of beasts to Noah’s ark. Except, of course, all the beasts going into that house are male.”
Philo flushed. It had been humiliating finding his way to the establishment but at least he had only needed to ask a couple of people before he was able to obtain directions. Evidently the house he sought was one of the best known in Constantinople.
“I assure you, I have never entered such a place nor do I intend to,” he said. Even as he protested, he wondered why he should care what an apple seller might think of him. But his statement was true enough and so he had been extremely offended when John had more or less accused him of patronizing such a place. Mulling it over later, though, he could not help wondering who might have been mistaken for him. John had mentioned the man always called on market days. So, this being market day, Philo had chosen to lie, or rather stand about, in wait to see if he could find out.
His encounter with Hektor still weighed heavily on his mind, but as always, notwithstanding John’s warnings, his curiosity was stronger than his caution. Besides, he did not think he would find Hektor frequenting such a house. At least, he sincerely hoped not.
He pressed a coin into the fruit seller’s palm and took another apple.
“Perhaps you’ve loitered here so long because you want to talk to me?” the woman suggested with a lewd cackle. “Don’t be shy, deary. We’re both of an age, you know. Why should youngsters have all of love’s delight, that’s what I always say.”
A man selling lumps of stringy meat of indeterminate origin from a stall a few paces away overheard her badinage and bellowed an obscene suggestion in their direction, illustrating his words with graphic gestures.
Far from being outraged, the apple seller yelled back an even lewder reply.
Philo drew away a few paces. How many hours had he been standing here, watching that house? The fruit he had consumed was beginning to make him feel queasy. How could he have been reduced to this? How could his years at the Academy have fled so quickly?
He could remember his leave-taking so clearly. His few belongings, with those of his friends, were packed and loaded on the cart ready to take them all to Piraeus as soon their escort arrived to accompany them to the docks and so into exile.
It had been a morning of bright sunshine. He had left the others waiting at the Academy gate and walked back through the well planted grounds. These cloistered gardens and beautiful groves had been his world. He knew the winding pattern of the flagstone paths as well as he knew his own soul. The sudden warmth of the sunlight into which he emerged from the stand of murmuring, gloomy firs beside the gymnasium he had felt many times before.
But he would not feel it again.
The gymnasium was empty. The students had gone as soon as Justinian’s edict was handed down. All that remained of their boisterous activities was a mildewed leather ball lying in one corner of the exercise area.
He left the deserted building and walked slowly to the far end of the Academy grounds, realizing that this walk, one he had taken so many times before, would be the last. Ever since Justinian had ordered the Academy closed Philo had been aware of many such last things. Thus, in the midst of a discourse on Plotinus he had thought, “This is the last time I will lecture students about beauty.” As students trickled away to their homes he had told himself; “I will never again meet a new student fresh from Athens.”
And all the time, although he told himself he was preparing for his departure, still he clung to enumerating the last week, the last day, the last hour.
Now the time to leave had finally come. He stood in the ancient, weed-overgrown burial ground just beyond the back wall of the grounds. Concealed in a stately palm tree, a bird trilled sweetly. Doubtless it would sing the next morning as well, and the following week, and the month after that, but, Philo thought, he would not be there to hear it.
He had often come to this quiet place in the mornings. He liked to contemplate the grave markers, some simple slabs, others in the shape of amphorae, weathered beyond recognition. On a few, patches of lichen clung to half-eroded inscriptions-perhaps because moisture gathered there-allowing a meaningless letter or two to be made out. The graves might have been a thousand years old. Philo had thought himself as likely to leave the familiar precincts of the Academy as were the crumbling bones lying under the mossy earth.
Loud voices interrupted his thoughts. Two men, young and intoxicated enough not to care about being observed leaving through Isis’ front door, staggered loudly past.
Tears stung Philo’s eyes. He could he possibly live in this terrible city. He blinked the tears away, angry at himself. He was too old for self pity. His past was gone. It had no more substance than a dream. Crossing the Aegean the day after he had left the Academy forever, the life he had lost had been etched in his memory. It had remained so for his first year at Khosrow’s court, and during his second. But though time healed wounds, it also wore away memory. The only thing about his past life that seemed real now, Philo reflected bitterly, was his leaving of it.