The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fic - By Mike Ashley Page 0,34

fooling? I needed time to get my courage up.

At any rate, I told myself, it would be safer for Arabia to be out and about than me. She might prove very useful in that way. And, if anything went wrong and I had to stay in hiding for an extended period, she’d be able to keep me supplied with food.

I explained some of what I had in mind and sent her off. She returned with a wine skin and a sack.

“Praise be to God for what he provides,” she said. I’m not sure whether she was being ironic, or where exactly the Lord had left the provisions. It appeared to be the army barracks in what used to be the Baths of Zeuxippos, judging from the hard biscuits underneath the clay lamp, the iron striker and flint, and the jar of lamp oil.

I had a biscuit halfway to my mouth when Arabia leaned forward and kissed me lightly on the lips. Then she was gone, leaving behind a wraith of her perfume.

And a thought that persisted in thrusting itself forward.

Something that really needed attention.

I lit the lamp. The rats scrabbling nearby quietened down and the painted icon opposite where I sat resumed staring at me. I returned its gaze. Had I been a more religious person I would have taken some comfort in the holy presence. The Lord was here with me. Even though he was everywhere at once, yet, like the saints, he was even more strongly where his icons or relics were – or so they said.

But on the other hand how forgiving was he?

He didn’t look very forgiving at all. The flickering lamplight animated the giant features. At times the taut lips appeared ready to snarl, and at other times about to quirk into a sardonic smile.

The face was so large that, had the mouth opened, it could have snapped my head off with one bite. A rat peeped out from around the corner of the panel. I found a bit of brick and flicked it at the rodent, which scuttled away. The movement had made barely a sound but immediately I heard a noise coming from outside my little niche.

No. It had to be my imagination.

I sat and listened, feeling my muscles tighten until my legs began to cramp. I had to know. I crawled out of my hole, lamp in hand, took several steps forward, and listened.

Nothing.

I went a few paces further, then quickly on into the cavernous space beyond, a dry and abandoned cistern. Darkness swallowed the feeble lamplight. Several toppled columns, piled together, partly blocked the way in.

From a distance came the loud sound of cascading water. It was raining again and getting in somewhere. That must have been the sound I thought I had heard.

All the same, I checked behind the columns.

Philokalas was still there.

Or rather the tunic full of bones and scraps of rotted flesh that had once been Philokalas. The rats and whatever else lived down here had devoured most of him, which made the stench less than it might otherwise have been.

Still, I knew I should move him. It would be better if Arabia didn’t stumble across the body. I bent down but my stomach lurched at the thought of touching the thing. I hadn’t eaten much for days, and the biscuits weren’t sitting well.

I returned to my hiding place. Now I could almost swear the icon was smiling benignly at me, as if to say, “Don’t worry about Philokalas. You acted without thinking. You’re only human.” Or maybe it was just smiling to itself. Finding the whole thing funny.

I dozed.

After being awakened countless times by phantom footsteps, I finally woke to Arabia gently nuzzling my neck.

She had whiskers.

I came fully awake, flailing at a rat.

By the time I had my wits about me, my assailant was gone. In the dim lamplight I noticed the biscuit sack had moved. I started to pull it back towards me and rats boiled out and streamed behind the holy image.

The rest of the night I stayed alert.

So far, things had gone reasonably well. But I brooded over all the things that might go wrong.

Then I thought about the gnawed bones that used to be a labourer named Philokalas.

After which I thought about Arabia who had showed quick intelligence and a certain amount of cunning.

More to the point, if things went wrong I could deny everything. After all, she was only a servant and I was an artist, a craftsman well-known to Florentius.

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