An Echo in the Darkness(111)

The big Syrian prodded him awake in the morning. “Get up. The physician will speak with you now.”

Prometheus followed him up the stairs and down a corridor into a bibliotheca. A young man stood behind a writing table, reading a scroll. He glanced up as Prometheus entered behind the servant. “Thank you, Rashid,” the man said, and the Syrian left. “What is it you wanted to speak with me about?”

Prometheus was surprised to be speaking to so young a physician. He had expected someone elderly, of long experience. “I’ve come to plead with you for the sake of my mistress. She is gravely ill, my lord.”

“There are many physicians in the city. Why do you come to me?”

“She’s seen many physicians, my lord. She has been to priests. She’s given votive offerings to numerous gods. I was told by her maid that she spent a night in the abaton.”

Alexander found himself curious. “How does her illness manifest itself?”

Prometheus told him all he had observed.

“Can she be brought here?”

“I’d have to carry her, my lord, and though she doesn’t weigh a great deal, it’s a long distance.”

Alexander frowned. “Very well,” he said. “I have people to see today, but I’ll find time to come and examine her this evening. Where does she live?”

Prometheus told him.

Alexander’s brows flickered. “Hardly the neighborhood of the impoverished,” he said dryly, wondering why she couldn’t have a litter carry her.

“Her illness has impoverished her, my lord.”

“Oh,” he said and gave a nod. The young man turned to leave. “One moment,” Alexander said. “Make sure she understands I make no promises. If I can help her, I will. If I can’t, her fate will be left in the hands of the gods.”

“I understand, my lord.”

“I hope I can help her.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Prometheus said. “May God bless you for your kindness.”

Alexander’s brows rose. He glanced up again as the slave left the room.

Hadassah entered. She paused in the doorway, looking after the young man. “Who was he?”

Alexander glanced up. “That was the young man who wanted to speak with me last night. Remember?” He gave her a wry smile. “The one to whom you sent half your partridge.”

“Yes, my lord, but what was his name?” Though she hadn’t gotten a good look at him, he seemed familiar.

He shrugged, returning his attention to the scroll. “I didn’t ask his name.”

Later that night, Alexander would have grave cause to wish he had.





25

Marcus heard a knock on the door. Ignoring it, he continued to lie on the mat and stare at the beamed ceiling. Sunlight shone in through several breaks. The house was already in disrepair. Another few years of rain and weather and the roof would begin to crumble. How many years before the wind and storm destroyed it completely?

The knock came again, louder this time, insistent.

Irritated, Marcus rolled to his feet. He crossed the dim chamber with its dusty columns of light. Perhaps the intruder would have the good sense to depart before he reached the door. He opened it and found the old woman who had spoken to him in the marketplace. She was leaning heavily on her walking stick.

“So,” she said, “you are still here.”

“So it would appear,” he said tonelessly. “What do you want?”

She considered him from head to foot. “Why do you take up residence in the house of the dead?”

He flinched as though she had struck him in the face. He had come to feel close to Hadassah, not be reminded she was dead. His hand whitened on the door. “Why do you bother me, old woman?” he said, glowering down at her.

“This house doesn’t belong to you.”

Who but an old woman near death would dare challenge a Roman for taking possession of a deserted house? His mouth curved into a hard smile. “Have you come to try to throw me out?”

She put both hands on her walking stick and set it before her. “I’ve come to find out why you’re here.”

Annoyed, he stood silent.

She stared back. “What do you hope to find in this place, Roman?”

“Solitude,” he said and slammed the door.

She knocked again, three hard raps.

“Go away!” he shouted at the closed door and sat down at the table. He raked his fingers through his hair and held his head in his hands. She knocked again, three more hard raps. Marcus swore under his breath.

“Go away!”

She spoke through the closed door. “This is not your house.”

Marcus set his jaw, his heart beating with hard, angry thumps. “Tell me the name of the owner and I’ll buy it!” A long moment passed, and he let out his breath, thinking she had given up and left.