It was at that point he finally sighted his prey emerging from Isis’ front door. His sorrow was replaced by a mixture of shock and relief that what he had dared hope might be was actually, incredibly, true.
Himation flapping, Philo ran after the man now walking briskly away.
“Diomedes!” he called out. “Wait! Wait, old friend!”
Peter fretted. It was late and John hadn’t returned. His concern was not borne of self-interest, for as a freed man and an excellent cook, he could be certain of obtaining a good post should he ever find himself unemployed. Cooks, after all, were everywhere more in demand than philosophers. Occasionally he had wondered what it would be like to work for a less ascetic employer, especially when John regaled him with tales of the exotic dishes he had sampled at the tables of some of the wealthier inhabitants of the city. It was true that his master’s simple tastes rarely presented a challenge to culinary skills but inevitably loyalty, and perhaps more than a pinch of distaste for such ostentatious fare, kept Peter in John’s employ.
And John, he admitted to himself, was kind enough even if his theology was both mistaken and dangerous. Sooner or later it would bring grief upon his master, as if he had not already suffered enough. Unless, of course, he eventually saw the error of his beliefs, as Peter fervently prayed he would. The possibility that his master’s beliefs would also visit fury upon his own head he dismissed. He was elderly now, but John still had many years left in him. And yet…and yet it sometimes seemed to Peter that John almost willfully sought out situations where he would have to place himself in danger.
However, Peter thought, with these Michaelites stirring the city into a turmoil as fiery as his kitchen brazier, there was no telling what might happen. And whereas John habitually carried a blade about his person, as did all sensible men including himself, there had definitely been an increase in violence in Constantinople over the past few days. Not to mention the undeniable fact that two or three thugs working together could out-stab even the nimblest person, especially if they thought it would gain them a few nomismata. Since there was anonymity in a multitude, it was unlikely ruffians like that would ever be caught. Yes, it was a dangerous time to be abroad alone.
What concerned him most was that John invariably sent a messenger if he expected to be delayed an hour or two beyond the time of the evening meal. Now it was nearly dusk and no word had arrived. This unusual event, coupled with occasional bursts of that angry, distant growling that told of the rising appetite of a mob working themselves up to committing who knows what crimes, suggested to Peter that it was quite likely that John had fallen afoul of some anonymous cut throat.
Shuffling about his duties while straining his ears for the sound of John’s familiar rap on the door, Peter offered a quiet prayer for his master’s safe arrival home. Having thus left the matter in heavenly hands, he began chopping onions. Their pungent odor made tears flow down his walnut-brown and similarly wrinkled face.
The beggar knew it was time to seek shelter for the night. Already the tide of darkness had filled the byways with shadows.
During the warmer months he preferred to claim a sheltered corner where he could doze in solitude without fear of being robbed or assaulted. But the increasing chill in the night air reminded him that he would soon be needing better protection from the elements. Unfortunately, in such refuges as were available to him others would also be gathering, many of them untrustworthy, violent or even deranged, and all of them filthy and vermin infested.
He intended to avoid such accommodations for as long as the weather and his fraying garments would allow. In the life snatched away from him, now all but forgotten, the beggar had been a private and fastidious man.
He set off for his night quarters, a cozy niche under-neath a huge yew tree that grew near the aqueduct through the burial grounds between the city’s walls. The decently buried dead were quiet companions and since few ventured into their settlement after dark, it was one of the safest places in Constantinople.
Yes, he thought, as he stepped out smartly for his destination, after the tumult of the day he would appreciate the serenity waiting there. Having observed the enormous crowd flooding the Mese that afternoon he had sensed the city was ready to explode into rioting. It had happened before. The prospect filled him with a mixture of eagerness and dread. Once bricks and fire opened the houses and shops of the wealthy to such as himself, he might again taste a peach he had not found half eaten in a gutter. Perhaps he could find sandals whose soles were unbroken or a warm tunic for the winter. Those were excellent possibilities to consider. But there would also be human packs roaming uncontrolled, more vicious than starving dogs. That was something he did not like to contemplate. He had lost his workshop and his former life to just such a riot. Fortunately, he had not been married nor had a daughter or he might well have lost even more.
He shuddered and turned his thoughts firmly to the refuge he had chosen. It was some distance away, at least by the route he was planning to take. He intended to avoid certain streets likely to be frequented by Blues or Greens and give a wide berth to particular alleys he knew to be deadly.
As he passed swiftly along his way, he stayed close to the shuttered shops edging the streets, wary as a cat of open spaces where he was away from a wall to have at his back if the need arose.
He came to a wide avenue lit by the wall-mounted torches that merchants kept burning outside their places of business at night. A dark shape on the cobbles ahead caught his attention. Was it some unconscious intoxicated person? A corpse? If it were, it was too small to be human, he decided. A dead animal perhaps? There were enough of those to be found in the streets.
He crept forward slowly, ready to flee if necessary. It was not human, he realized with a sudden rush of relief. It was discarded clothing, a cloak.
The beggar snatched it off the ground, clutching its heavy folds to his thin chest. He could almost hear his heart pounding against his rib cage. The cloak was made of finely woven wool. Even in his former life he had never owned anything of such richness and value.
Belatedly, a terrible suspicion occurred to him. He looked around in panic. Was this the trick of some cruel Blue or Green who would materialize out of the shadows, blade in hand, to reclaim his possession from a thief? But neither faction needed an excuse to kill a beggar. Perhaps it belonged to a courtier? Certain tales concerning them were commonly bandied about the streets. If only half of them were true, would it not please such a person to have a beggar like him handed over to the imperial torturers?
Other horrible possibilities, each worse than the last, raced in a mad riot through his head. Should he even have picked the cloak up, thus placing himself in danger? He shivered, looking around, waiting for the hand on the shoulder that heralded…who knew what? Yet, as time passed he still stood unmolested, clutching his newly found treasure to his chest with shaking hands.
Examining the cloak in the light of the nearest torch, he realized that, however it had come to be there, it was certainly of great value.
His thoughts were swirling as wildly, the debris blown around by the chilly wind now guttering the lonely flares of the torches. How much food would the cloak be worth if he sold it? And if he kept it, how many cold nights would it allow him to remain safely in his hidden corner, well away from the communal refuges he so dreaded?
He pulled the cloak over his shoulders, noting with satisfaction how warm he felt. Its hem dragged behind him a little as he set off down the deserted avenue with much springier steps than those that had brought him there. The cloak had been made for a taller man. What fate had befallen him?