The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fic - By Mike Ashley Page 0,37

“Cupid,” he told me. “He keeps turning up. Pieces of him, that is. Fell into a pigsty during the earthquake. Must have surprised the pig.”

As we passed under the peristyle and into the rear of the house, he frowned at several labourers busy with trowels and mortar in the hallway.

“Did you suffer much damage?” I asked.

“Enough to keep too many unwashed labourers tracking mud around. Don’t like having such people underfoot. At least a man knows his own servants; and labouring types can never be counted on. Worse than donkeys. The job’s only half finished and they vanish and need to be replaced. On the other hand, I’ve tripped over the brutes wrapped around my serving girls in the storeroom.”

“It must be vexing for a man like yourself.”

“Indeed. But I thank the Lord it wasn’t worse. I hear there are cracks in the foundation of the Great Church and the Patriarch lost most of the wine in his cellars.”

We came to a metal-banded wooden door which Florentius unlocked. “It’s a sin to keep my holy men hidden away back here. Every day I pray we will soon be rid of the beast who sits on the throne.”

Perhaps he felt safe expressing treasonous thoughts to an icon-painter.

After all, I was a criminal in the eyes of the law.

I had never seen his private bath. Doubtless he had kept it locked even before he used it to store illicit icons. The frescoes on the walls and domed ceiling of the tiny room depicted ancient gods embroiled in an Olympian orgy in garishly coloured detail.

“I bought this place from a bishop,” Florentius explained.

Icons were stacked in the dry bath. Several hung on the painted walls, including my depiction of Saint Laurentius being martyred on a red-hot grid.

Florentius noticed the direction of my gaze. “An exquisite work! The saint’s pain is palpable. How it pleases me! What can such a young man as yourself know about pain, to capture it so perfectly?” He stared fondly at the image.

Demonic figures, seen in twisted profile, prodded Laurentius’ bound, blackening flesh with tridents. I wondered what a man with as much wealth as Florentius could know about pain to appreciate it so much, but I only smiled modestly.

Florentius looked away from the icon and towards the artist. “What fools they are to claim we venerate the wood and paint itself. I venerate your skills. Your talents help me to understand how we must face suffering. How perfectly you capture the saint’s beatific demeanour! After my wife died last year I often looked to this painting for comfort, for a lesson in the way a Christian endures, secure in the knowledge that all is God’s will.” He wiped his glistening eyes. “And now, young man, for what reason have you come to see me?”

9

“I knew Florentius would agree,” Arabia put the plate of honey-cakes she’d brought on the dirt in front of the Chalke Christ. It made me think of a pagan offering.

“It took all my powers of persuasion,” I said.

“You have a golden tongue.”

“I must have. Florentius suspects Leo and the Patriarch know the icon was salvaged in some fashion and spirited away. Naturally they’re outraged.”

“If it was seen again, people would think it was a miracle, a sign the pair of them are the real heretics.”

“That’s about what Florentius told me. They’re having the city watched. Spies are everywhere. So he needs time to make arrangements. Or to change his mind.”

“He won’t change his mind,” Arabia replied.

“You think not? We’re to meet tomorrow at an early hour at the Golden Milestone to discuss the matter further.”

Arabia clapped her hands together like a child. “How very appropriate. Right where the icon was burnt. Or supposedly burnt. Sit down and try these sweets.”

Florentius probably hadn’t chosen the Golden Milestone for the symbolism but rather because people often lingered beneath it to talk. We would attract no attention, nor would either of us be able to resort to treachery in such a public spot.

All the same, I was uneasy about the arrangement. For one thing whoever was following me could conceal themselves in the crowds. I would need to be careful. I hunkered down and took one of the sticky cakes. It was very sweet indeed. I noticed the plate was silver.

“It was difficult to get away,” I said. “He kept talking.”

Arabia’s large brown eyes narrowed. “What did he want to talk about?”

“Religion. He wanted to know whether a painter could depict Christ as both divine and human at