A Flame in Byzantium

Zejhil was breathing unsteadily. "I… I forgot what I was saying." Her cheeks reddened with her admission.



Niklos ran one finger along her cheek. "It's all right; I'll wait until you remember."



She caught his finger in her hand. "No. You must not."



"Why not?" he asked. "Do I offend you?"



"It's not that," she said, looking away from him. "It would not be permitted if our mistress knew of it. Slaves are not—"



"You don't know Olivia," Niklos said, deeply relieved.



"She is mistress."



"She is also Roman." Niklos let his hands rest on her shoulders. "She will not choose for you, Zejhil, if that is what troubles you."



"She is mistress," Zejhil repeated stubbornly.



"You make her sound like a monster." He dropped his hands. "Tell me the rest. We'll talk about this later, when you've had a chance to think."



"When you've had a chance to think," Niklos reiterated. "You don't have to decide anything now." He deliberately took a step back from her. "Have you noticed anything else in the household? Has anyone said anything to you that you find questionable?"



She shook her head slowly. "Nothing specific," she said in an apologetic manner. "There have been a few comments that might be significant, but slaves learn to keep their council."



"You gossip," Niklos reminded her.



"That's different. Everyone in the household knows that the mistress has occasional lovers but that she is most fond of that Captain who was sent to Alexandria. They say that she has strange ways, Roman ways, and a few of them have said that they worry because they have not seen her eat, ever. The rest don't care one way or another as long as we're fed, which we are." She laughed once, the sound hard and breathless.



"Is that all that matters to you?" Niklos was saddened to hear these things from Zejhil, but not surprised.



"A few are curious about her shoes. They say that the soles are too thick." She dared to look at Niklos. "Why is that?"



"She prefers them that way," Niklos answered evasively. "You think something, Zejhil. What is it?"



"I have no reason for my feelings," she warned him. "It is just a…a feeling I have. Sometimes it seems to me that Philetus has been too attentive to his duties, and doing all his work on the walls near where the mistress is. He does very beautiful work, and the murals he paints are lovely, but there is… a lack in him, as if he were hidden away behind that pious mask he paints on the faces of his Saints." Her eyes watered. "I don't want to get him into trouble for no reason."



"You won't," said Niklos, permitting himself to put a comforting hand on her arm. "When Olivia returns from church, will you come to her and tell her what you have told me? I will have to speak to her in any case, but it would be best if you were willing to answer her questions."



"And you will treat me as you did before?" She had intended this as a feeble joke, but Niklos responded with great seriousness.



"Listen to me, Zejhil: you are not to be afraid of me. I am Olivia's majordomo, and I am proud of that, but I am a bondsman, not a slave, and she would not abuse that. She would not abuse slaves, either, but you don't believe that."



"She is mistress." This time when she said it, Zejhil was less remote than before. "She is better than most, I agree, but she is mistress."



Niklos accepted this. "I will come for you when Olivia is back."



"Why do you call her Olivia and not great lady or my mistress?" Zejhil asked, as she had been wanting to for more than two months.



"We have been together a long time, and during that time, her fortunes have fluctuated. We've become… friends." He knew he could not tell Zejhil that his association with Olivia spanned more than three centuries.



"But she holds your bond," Zejhil pointed out.



"Yes. I don't mind. She would not have objected to my leaving her service at any time, and I can easily afford the price of my bond, but the arrangement suits us, and as long as it does, I suppose it will continue." He smiled.



"Are you her lover?" Zejhil blurted out the question before she could stop herself.



"When I first met her, I was. For three nights only." If he had not been, he reminded himself, he would be nothing more than a heap of bones in Saturnia. "She… she saved my life." He had only the vaguest recollection of the day he had died, but his memory of his restoration was vivid; it was the first time he had ever seen Sanct' Germain who had reanimated him.



"Oh." Zejhil looked down, as if his feet were of intense interest to her. "And now?"



"You mean are we still lovers? No, not for a long time." He slipped his hand under her chin and deliberately turned her face toward his. "And she does not require that I live like a monk. It isn't her way."



Zejhil fixed her eyes on a spot behind his head. "She is a courtesan, that is what all the household says. They whisper about the men who come here, and they talk about Captain Drosos, but—"



"My mistress is a widow," Niklos said, in his most formal tone. "I did not know her husband, but I have heard little good about him. She does not wish to marry again, and she does not want to live wholly retired from the world. If that makes her a courtesan, then you are the one who calls her that, not I."



Zejhil was more embarrassed than before. "I did not intend to"—she glanced down the hall at the sound of footsteps—"I will do as you ask. I will speak to her when she returns. And Niklos, I do not care, truly I do not care, if she is or is not a courtesan. She is a good mistress."



"That she is," Niklos agreed. He raised his hand as one of the three women employed to make, care for, and repair clothing approached. "Ianthe," he said to greet her.



"Majordomo," she responded, her face expressionless; she gave no indication that she had seen Zejhil at all.



"I don't like that woman," Zejhil muttered. "She wheezes when she walks."



"She isn't young, and her hot blood is congested," said Niklos. "One can see that from her coloring."



Zejhil shook her head vehemently. "It's more than that." She moved away from Niklos. "I will come. I'll tell our mistress what I know. You can believe me. I will not fail."



"I know that," Niklos said, hoping that his smile would give her courage. "You are a good woman, Zejhil."



"If that matters," she said, and hurried away.



By the time Olivia returned, Niklos was all but chewing on the cushions from impatience. He sought her out at once and gave her as blunt an account as he could, including his response to Zejhil.



Olivia listened to this with interest. "Good," she said after a moment. "You have done well. I want to know more about this suspect contraband. I don't want you to bring me the cups—I'll go see them for myself, later tonight. For the time being I want to know how far this has gone. As to Zejhil herself, that is encouraging."



He could not hold back a burst of laughter. "Only you would express it that way, Olivia."



"Well, it is. You were afraid that once you were restored that you would not be all that you were."



"And I'm not," he said without rancor.



"That is not because you were brought back." She gave him a roguish, rueful glance. "You ought to have tasted my blood before you faced that mob. It would have saved all of us a lot of trouble." It was an old, teasing argument with them, and Niklos shrugged elaborately.



"I was shortsighted; what else can I say?" He met her eyes, the worry back in his face. "I'm troubled, Olivia."



"Yes. Whatever we have been caught up in, it is escalating." She walked over to a large Roman chest standing next to the window. "We will have to search the house tonight, all of it. I want to find out what has been brought into this house. Perhaps then we can determine who is doing it, and why."



Niklos paced down the room. "And then what? You can't go to the magistrates, and if you did, they would pay no attention."



"I can go to Belisarius. He may be out of favor with the Emperor, and he might be kept in close check, but he is still the most respected General in the Empire, and that counts for something. He will advise me."



"You need more than advice," Niklos warned her.



She gave a helpless gesture. "I realize that. But I must begin somewhere." Her demeanor changed as there was a knock on the door; she looked now as if she were discussing nothing more important than ordering replacement parchment for the windows.



Niklos opened the door and admitted Zejhil. "You're here in good time," he said to the Tartar slave. "Don't be concerned."



Zejhil was clearly apprehensive, but she was also very determined. She spent a good portion of time answering the questions Olivia put to her and making a few observations on her own.