Eight for Eternity (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“It appears you’ve had an eventful time,” John observed as Felix peered into his office from the doorway to the atrium. “Come in. Sit down. Never mind the blood!”

Felix noticed that the long cut running across the knuckles of his right hand still bled.

“You’re going to have quite a scar there,” John said. “Don’t worry about the furniture. I can get more.”

“You could use more than two chairs and a desk in here,” Felix grunted. “I looked for you first in that private chapel of yours.”

“I’ve had enough religion for the day. I decided to sit here instead.”

“We’re not likely to be interrupted now that your servants have gone.”

“It suits me. I can find a bit of bread and cheese to eat without assistance.”

Felix passed a weary hand over his face and sank onto the uncushioned wooden seat. “Things are very bad out there. Very bad. Pass the wine. I’m parched. Not to mention it feels as if I’ve got a demon inside my head trying to chew its way out.” He took a long drink directly from the jug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not surprising. Half the city seems to have turned into demons!”

“I can agree with you there, my friend.”

Felix took another gulp of wine. “It’s obvious we’re losing control of the city. After I helped Belisarius—”

“You helped Belisarius?”

Felix related what had happened. “It was poor strategy, getting caught in a spot like that,” he concluded. “But then he’s a stranger to the city. He couldn’t have known about that particular alley.”

“All the more reason not to have ventured blindly down it.”

“He’s a warrior, John. He’s been criticized for being too cautious, always on the defensive, unwilling to spill blood. A bit of recklessness is good in a fighting man.”

“Up until it gets him killed.”

“He took time afterwards to speak to me!”

“Most flattering, and doubtless well-deserved.”

Felix gave a proud smile which turned quickly to a frown. “Yes, he said he would mention me to Justinian. From what I’ve seen Justinian might not have much time left to bestow favors. The city has gone mad. I’ve seen a naked woman with her hair on fire running, screaming, falling to the ground. A baby left crying in an alley. Two women fighting over a pile of clothes as a crippled beggar stole the lot while they spat and cursed and struck each other. It’s not the sort of fighting I trained for, not real warfare, it’s…it’s…I’m not sure….”

John pushed the wine jug toward him. “It’s mob rule. Once the mob finds a leader it will be worse.”

“And Gallio refuses to order the excubitors into the streets. I don’t know whether he’s had a direct order from Justinian or not. If so he won’t obey.”

“Justinian and Theodora have a ship ready to sail. I’m surprised they haven’t already left.” A sudden rising crescendo of noise interrupted him. It vibrated through the screen between the office and the garden, loud as a distant rumble of thunder.

John got up, pulled the screen open a crack to listen, shut it. Rather than sitting down again he paced back and forth. The baying of the multitude waxed and waned as the wind shifted. “They must be close to the walls for us to hear that clearly.”

“They’re working up to storming the palace. Then the excubitors will have to fight!”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Are you still an excubitor?”

Felix frowned. “Probably not, if Gallio discovers I left the palace to fight with Belisarius’ men against orders. I certainly won’t be one when this is over.”

“Sign on with the general. That would be your safest course.”

“What’s your safest course, John? I’d rather have Gallio for an enemy than Narses. He thinks you’re ambitious, that you want to take his post at court.”

“It’s understandable. After all, are we not both those most untrustworthy creatures, imperial eunuchs? Why, we’d kill our own parents if we thought we could achieve further advancement by it.”

Felix looked uncomfortable. “So they say. What about your investigation? Does it make any difference at this point who’s responsible for killing those two faction members at the church?”

“It might be more important than ever, if whoever was behind their deaths is behind the riots.”

“Find the culprit and bring him to justice and you cut off the insurrection at the head. If, in fact, there is any particular person behind the riots and it isn’t simply a general uprising. Don’t you think it’s too complicated to work out in time?”

John smiled bleakly. “I have to keep trying. There’s always hope. Even men hanging by the neck from the end of a rope sometimes have reason to hope. And Haik’s death must be related.”

“What makes you think so?”

“For one thing the fact that Haik and Hippolytus both ended up murdered after visiting Porphyrius strikes me as too much to be a coincidence.”

He felt too tired to go into details. Or was it that John himself was unsure there was any connection? Did he imagine there was one, simply to justify his search for his friend’s killer?

Felix didn’t press him on the question. “I’d say you’d do better to be thinking about your own life rather than someone else’s death, John. Are there any arrangements to get the court to safety if necessary? I’d wager Narses has an escape route planned and paid for!”

John shrugged. “Just as well. There won’t be room on the ships for everyone.”

“Do you suppose your reluctant house guests will be taken with Justinian? No, probably not. More likely they’ll be disposed of should he abandon the city to devour itself. I wonder if I could find Antonina and escort her to safety?”

“I see you still have your mind on Antonina. I strongly advise you to turn your thoughts elsewhere. Antonina will be safe. You don’t think Theodora would abandon her close friend do you? What we have to worry about in this house is protecting Hypatius and his family. They are in my charge and I don’t want to give Justinian an excuse to remove my head if they get away or are killed in the riots. I have come to an agreement with a certain fishing boat owner.”

Felix stared at him.

John offered his friend a thin smile. “Have you noticed that ship that’s been lying off the northern end of the palace grounds this past day or so? Its owner is a brother in Mithra and we have come to an arrangement. If it sees smoke at a certain point on the shore it will sail in to pick up our reluctant guests.”

“But how will it know it’s your signal, with half the city in flames?”

“They’re waiting to see white smoke billowing at a specific place on the shore.”

“And how do you propose to produce white smoke? Magick?”

John shook his head. “No. By burning wet leaves and branches. There are plenty in the palace gardens. The city fires produce darker smoke, and are nowhere near the pick-up point. Or at least not yet. Provided it doesn’t rain, this particular column of smoke will stand out.”

“And then they’ll be taken where?”

“Across the Golden Horn to the monastery of Saint Conon. They can be hidden for now. I don’t think they will try to escape, given they’ll be almost within sight of the scaffold where the Blues and Greens were executed. It’ll serve as a reminder that it is not safe to venture abroad just now.”

“It’s well thought out, John. But I can see one problem. What if, when their escape becomes necessary, you’ve been summoned elsewhere and cannot escort them to the meeting place?”

“I suspect a certain excubitor might act as guide. They won’t be in gaudy clothing, Felix. Just ordinary servants as far as anyone else is concerned. And Julianna has the right build to pass for a boy in appropriate clothes and her face dirtied. Or that was my opinion and it has recently been seconded.”

Felix nodded. “Couldn’t say that for Antonina. Not that I’ve seen her recently. Although I did go—” He broke off and hid his face in his wine cup.

“You went where?”

“Oh, nothing. My mind’s wandering.” He looked thoughtful. “Have you met the Persian emissary, John? I was told he traveled to Constantinople with Belisarius. Didn’t your friend Haik come here with Belisarius? Do you think he knew the emissary?”

“If so he never mentioned it. But then there seems to have been a lot left unsaid.”

Chapter Thirty

January 16, 532

John ran through the palace gardens. The covered walkway he followed veered wildly, first one direction then another. When he looked back he couldn’t see his pursuers. He could hear the thud of boots. Or was it hooves? Rhythmic, relentless.

He needed to reach the safety of the ship but he had somehow lost his way. He didn’t recognize this part of the palace grounds. He could see nothing but thick, dark vegetation, like a forest. How had he got here?

Who or what was chasing him?

The walkway emerged from the forest onto a vast plain. John peered around, hoping to spot a familiar landmark. Red twilight spilled across a rock strewn landscape. Where was the sea? Where was the Great Palace?

John saw only a charred ruin. Did nothing else remain? Had the fires spread so far?

The clamor of pursuit grew louder.

John ducked under a crumbling archway.

And found himself in a windowless room. The wooden door was shut, although he didn’t recall closing it. A familiar figure confronted him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Haik said.

“Haik! Thanks to Mithra! I thought you were dead.”

“Hardly. I must have stayed too long at the baths. We were detained by the Persians, you see.”

“The Persians? You mean the Persian emissary?”

There was an explosive pounding at the door.

“They’re here!” Haik cried. “They’re here!” His voice rose to an inhuman howl.

His eyes turned red and his flesh began to melt.

The knocking at the door continued, accompanied now by shouts. “Chamberlain! Chamberlain!”

John was suddenly aware that he was lying in his own bed. For an instant he was paralyzed, suspended between nightmare and reality. Then he forced himself awake.

What hour was it? The oil lamp beside the bed guttered as he threw off his blanket.

The pounding continued. “Chamberlain! Can you hear me?”

He recognized the voice of Pompeius. His suspicion was conferred by the gust of stale wine breath that hit him in the face when he yanked open the door. The fat man was frantic as well as drunk. “Dead! I was afraid of it! Hurry! It’s Julianna!”

“Julianna? Dead?”

“No. You. I thought you were dead. I kept knocking. You wouldn’t answer. Julianna’s ill. Poisoned, like that house guest of yours. Must be poison. She’s in her room. Come quickly.” Pompeius lumbered off, unsteadily.

John glanced around for his clothes, half expecting to see Haik, but the phantom had gone back to wherever dreams go. It was said the gods spoke to men in dreams. Had some kindly deity sent him the solution to the murders of Haik and the faction members? If so, he couldn’t remember. As he pulled his dalmatic on over a light tunic he tried to hold onto the vision. It was like trying to grasp sea mists at sunrise.

He rushed after Pompeius and caught him at the entrance to the suite of rooms the guests were occupied. “Have you summoned a physician?”

“Yes. Of course. Rusticus is staying at the palace. One of the excubitors agreed to go for him. I think, at first, he thought it was some sort of ruse. But I…I…well….it’s your house…I thought you should— ”

“Where is she?”

“In her room.”

“But I’m not a physician or a clergyman. It wouldn’t be appropriate.” John well knew that in aristocratic circles the women’s quarters were strictly off-limits to men. In this case, those quarters were the single room Julianna was staying in. Even if Pompeius were too intoxicated to take offense, others might.

Pompeius stared at John glassy eyed. “What? Not appropriate? Oh…Oh…I see. No. It’s fine. As Hypatius agreed. Because of your….um….your status.”

John felt a sudden rush of heat to his face. He managed to control his voice. “I see. Very well. I have no antidotes for poison though.”

By the time he reached Julianna’s bedside his anger was under control.

Hypatius, hovering nearby, snapped at his brother. “It’s about time. I was afraid Bacchus had detained you or you’d fallen asleep under a table.”

John leaned over the girl. Her face was shockingly pale and her breathing shallow but her eyes were open and alert. “I’m fine.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I just felt dizzy. It’s nothing to worry about. Please reassure my father and my uncle.”

“She collapsed,” Hypatius said. “The crash woke me up. When I got her she was crumpled up on the floor. You can imagine what I was thinking, after what…just happened.”

John wondered if she had been injured during her confrontation with the street thugs, or had inhaled smoke while out in the city. Probably the exertion and worry of recent days had finally caught up. He knew he should alert Hypatius to his daughter’s secretive comings and goings. Julianna knew it too. The gaze she fixed on him clearly demanded that he say nothing.

He was reminded again of Cornelia. She had been strong-willed too.

“I’m not a physician,” he said. “but it doesn’t look to me as if she’s been poisoned. The past few days have been too exciting for her. That’s all it is.”

“Exciting? It’s not very exciting here, is it?” Pompeius shook his head. “More likely she’s taken a chill from spending all her time out in your garden.”

“Quite possibly.” As John straightened up the white haired physician Rusticus entered in his usual flurry of words.

“Apologies, sirs. Your guard had to drag me out the barracks. Been there half the night. Belisarius got into a tussle in the streets. I’ve been treating wounds that would made Galen weep to see them.” He pulled a stool up to Julianna’s bedside. “Fainted, you say?”

“That’s right,” Hypatius confirmed. “Fell down as if she were poisoned.”

Rusticus took hold of the girl’s chin and turned her face to him. “Look this way, child. Show me your tongue. The lips aren’t blue.”

“I’m fine,” Julianna protested weakly. “I just feel a bit sick.”

“You think you’re sick, do you?” Rusticus rambled on. “Be glad both your leg bones aren’t protruding from your skin. You’d be sick then. And that wasn’t the worst.” He placed a hand on her abdomen. “Breath now. There, you can breath. If you’d been hit with a brick, it might be a different story. Home-made weapons are the worst. Some untrained ruffian with a splintered board in his hands or a jagged shard of pottery isn’t as likely to inflict a wound as a trained soldier with a proper sword or spear. Oh, but when he does he makes a nasty wound indeed. At least a well honed blade, precisely placed, will kill you on the spot. A plank full of rusty nails just rips your guts open. Tortures you for days before putting you out of your misery.”

“Are you sure she’s all right, Rusticus?” demanded Hypatius.

“Fine. Fine. A touch of woman’s complaint most likely.” The physician struggled up off the stool. “I can give her something for it.”

“I don’t need anything.” Julianna’s voice sounded slightly stronger.

“You’ll take what Rusticus thinks best,” said Hypatius. “I don’t want you visiting Antonina for any of her evil concoctions.”

Rusticus shuffled to the door, followed by Hypatius and Pompeius. John took a last glance around the room. The family had not had time to bring much from their homes. He noticed a wooden chest, probably filled with clothes. On a marble topped table a tiny, painted horse sat surrounded by perfume bottles and fancy enamelled containers of the sort that might hold unguents and make-up.

He was alone in the room with Julianna, who was looking at him.

“Thank you for being discreet,” she said in a whisper.

“Please try to be more discreet yourself. No more excitement.”

He went out into the corridor where Hypatius was gesticulating at Rusticus. “You’re sure it isn’t poison? Haik could have been poisoned outside the palace. Everyone agreed. It might have been slow acting.”

“There would be signs,” Rusticus said. “Why I recall, back when Senator—”

“But what if there’s a poisoner among us?” interrupted Hypatius. “Or a murderer with access to this house? I could be next. Or my brother.”

Pompeius put a hand on Hypatius’ shoulder. “Come away now. Have some wine with me. For all you know you might be poisoned already. The pain might start any moment.”

Hypatius looked stricken. Pompeius chuckled, then began to sway on his feet. His hand tightened on his brother’s shoulder. Hypatius grabbed Pompeius’ arm to steady him.

“You’ll be nearby if my brother should need you, Rusticus?” Hypatius asked. “Or if I should?”

Rusticus gave a curt nod. “Yes. The last thing either of you need is wine. I will send a concoction for Julianna, and a sleeping potion for the two of you.”

“I’ll accompany you out,” John told the physician after the brothers had departed. “Perhaps you should just stay at my house. You seem to visit the family constantly.”

“Mostly Pompeius. Julianna is healthy as a horse.”

“I suspect she would appreciate your saying so.”

“The last time I saw her was when I treated her uncle, right after the executions. It was Pompeius who was on his sick bed that afternoon. Julianna had come over to tend to him until I arrived. The two houses are practically next to each other. She’s a strong girl. Not squeamish. Demanded to hear every detail of what I’d witnessed. Did I describe the executions to you?”

“As a matter of fact, you did and it was most interesting,” John said quickly, as they walked into the atrium. “Please excuse me. I have something to attend to.”

He left the elderly physician beside the statue of Aphrodite.

An image of Haik floated through his mind. The dream was already dissipating from his memory. Haik had said something about Persians, hadn’t he? Felix said that the Persian emissary traveled with Belisarius. Haik had also accompanied the general’s troops to the city. Then too, Julianna had been with Pompeius when Rusticus had treated him. These were connections John had not known about. They formed new possibilities.

***

It took only a few inquiries before John was being ushered into the Persian emissary’s rooms at the Daphne Palace. No one sought to deny him entrance. It was perfectly natural that the chamberlain in charge of the imperial banquet might wish to confer with the honoree. The only puzzle was why preparations were still ongoing, given the state of the city, but then the emperor was known as a man of strange whims.

The quarters had been decorated in wall hangings with Persian motifs. The emissary was sitting at a table, poring over something there. When he rose, John saw he was a tall man, not much older than John, with a black spike of a beard and hair that hung to his broad shoulders in glossy ringlets.

John’s breath caught in his throat before he could speak. He recognized the man, from his time in captivity.

For an instant he was back in the Persian encampment. A military officer with a sharply pointed beard walked down the line of chained men. “This one, and this one,” he said, and the men were dragged away to the waiting executioner. Only a handful had been spared, John among them. Spared to be led into a tent, where they were tied to a table and a man with a razor-sharp knife relegated them to a worse future than the condemned whose heads already had been piled up in blood soaked baskets.

No, John realized. That commander would have been much older today. The emissary was the same age that other Persian had been when John’s life had been so drastically changed, more than ten years ago, an eternity.

The commander had worn the same style of beard, and was Persian. There was no other similarity.

Nevertheless it was only with difficulty that John managed keep his voice from shaking as he returned the emissary’s greeting.

“Please tell your emperor that I appreciate his hospitality all the more in light of the crisis with which he is dealing,” the emissary said. “You speak Persian well. You have spent time in Persia, perhaps? One hopes your stay was pleasurable.”

John made no reply. His heart was still racing from his initial, mistaken impression. What had the man said his name was? Bozorgmehr? How peculiar. That translated as Great Mithra. So the Christian emperor was negotiating an Eternal Peace with Mithra, John’s god. “I wanted to insure the banquet arrangements are suitable,” John said. He showed him a proposed menu he had written out on a sheet of parchment.

John had no clear idea of what he might learn from his visit. He hardly dared question the Persian official directly. Particularly if his reasons for being in the city were other than diplomacy. Bozorgmehr’s crimson tunic bore a decorative pearl-outlined roundel of a boar’s head. The boar stared at John while the emissary studied the parchment. Over the Persian’s shoulder John saw what the man had been looking at so intently on the table. It was a rectangular board of light, polished wood inlaid with long triangles of darker wood. Several rows of flat, enameled disks had been laid out in lines along some of the triangles.

Bozorgmehr must have noticed the direction of John’s gaze. “That is the ancient game known as Nard.” He handed the menu back. “Your choice of courses is excellent, Chamberlain.”

“Thank you. I imagine a game like that would be a good way to pass the time during a tedious journey.”

“True enough. That is why I brought it with me, in part. But in addition, I have been refining the rules. Rather as your emperor has been organizing the welter of your old Roman laws. I find games to be exquisite miniatures of life.”

“Assembling a guest list and arranging seating for a banquet is not unlike placing pieces on a board,” John remarked.

“Exactly. Men are fascinated by games, even if their outcomes change nothing. The wealthy and the poor are passionate over the races, though the wealthy have no need to win more than they already possess and the poor are not made wealthy by cheering for the winner.”

“Charioteers have a financial stake in racing, however. Their game is their life. Perhaps it would please you if I seated Porphyrius within speaking distance. Or have you had the chance to speak to him already since you arrived?”

Bozorgmehr displayed no reaction that John could see beyond genuine perplexity. “Why would I have spoken to Porphyrius? I know him only by reputation.”

“My apologies. He is one of the city’s most famous residents and I am certain would have been highly honored if you had granted him an audience. I fear that in my eagerness to provide suitable entertainment for you the thought was father to the assumption.”