Eight for Eternity (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-Five

At dawn John was walking through the palace gardens. He had been walking for a long time. He had lain in his bed thinking, unable to sleep, and finally decided he would think better on his feet whatever the hour. All the time he walked, a false ruby dawn illuminated the western sky, the glow from countless fires. Now the light from the rising sun had begun to drown out the lurid firelight.

The sun—John’s god, Lord Mithra.

Did Mithra care about the empire upon which he looked? An empire which had chosen a different god?

Shadows lingered beneath covered walkways amidst the trees and shrubbery and on the western sides of the buildings. John saw movement in the shadows. Something red passed through a patch of light then vanished into another shadow.

He narrowed his eyes. The red shape resolved itself into the red robed Persian emissary Bozorgmehr.

Why would he be out on the grounds so early, so far from the Daphne Palace?

Had he also been unable to sleep?

John followed him at a distance. To his surprise Bozorgmehr headed to the remains of the Chalke. Laborers had cleared a path through the rubble, at the same time piling debris so as to form a more or less unbroken wall where the gate had stood. The emissary nodded to the excubitors guarding the way out. They waved him past.

John waited until the man was out on the street before approaching the guards. “Do you know the man who just went by?”

“That was the Persian emissary, Chamberlain. I’m sorry, I can’t remember his name.”

“You have seen him before this morning?”

“Several times. Early mornings and evenings too.”

“He goes out by himself?”

“Always alone, yes.”

The guard’s partner looked down the street after the dwindling red figure. “Peculiar isn’t it? But the Persians are so fierce, I reckon they have no fear of anything they might find in our streets.”

John went after Bozorgmehr. He wondered what the guards said about his own solitary peregrinations.

The emissary walked straight down the Mese, necessarily keeping to the middle of the street since most of the structures had collapsed. John suspected he was going to the Hippodrome. Would Porphyrius be waiting there?

But he moved briskly by the high, arched entrance.

A short distance further on he abruptly swerved to the far side of the street.

John saw he was merely avoiding a group of men in front of a half destroyed tavern. By the look of them, they had managed to save much of the wine. Some staggered about, others sprawled on the street or leaned groggily against a column or a wall. They would be in no shape to engage in whatever kind of mayhem they had planned in their state of grandiose inebriation the night before.

Knots of people loitered quietly. No murderous crowds had formed yet. Even rioters needed to sleep. Later, it would be different. Perhaps that was why the emissary had left the palace so early. Or perhaps it was to avoid detection by anyone except the lowly guards at the gate.

By now the morning sun found its way down the Mese but with rubble and overturned carts everywhere it was a simple task for John to stay out of sight. His quarry did glance back over his shoulder from time to time but John thought that was probably more to insure that none of the ruffians milling around were approaching than any apprehension of being followed.

They came to the Praetorium and John saw that it was still burning. Flames licked above the remaining walls. The first fire must have been brought under control, but now the building was being consumed again. At least the macabre curtain of bodies had been removed from the portico.

Was Bozorgmehr going to the Forum Constantine?

No. Abruptly he veered down a side street.

They had come some distance from the palace, but it made sense for conspirators to meet as far away from the gaze of the emperor as possible.

By some chance the colonnades here remained mostly intact but they edged a continuous line of blackened debris from which charred and jagged beams thrust up like the shattered bones of giants.

Bozorgmehr turned and went under a miraculously preserved archway. It might have been the entrance to the grounds of a patrician’s mansion. In reality it was courtyard ringed by mundane commercial establishments, a candle maker and a perfumer among them.

A nondescript door across the courtyard opened and admitted the red robed figure. There was no sign or plaque to identify what lay beyond.

There was no time to debate what to do. John strode across the courtyard and rapped on the door.

It opened a crack, emitting a gust of almost overpowering perfume. A girl no older than Julianna looked up at John. She wore a gauzey blue garment which might have been sea mist, except that a heavy mist would have hidden her body to some extent. Her lips were stained bright red. Behind her John saw other similarly attired girls moving about a room filled with plush furniture.

He had followed the Persian emissary to a brothel.

***

The enormous silence in the palace reception hall swallowed up the dull thump of John’s boots. He noted that the room was deserted, except for Justinian and Narses huddled in conversation near the raised dais with its double thrones, and Theodora, who stared down from one of them.

Justinian broke off his conversation and turned to face John. “As you can see, this isn’t a public audience. I threw them all out.” His reedy voice sounded too loud. Or was it only that the vast empty space made it seem so? The emperor rarely raised his voice.

“Everyone needed a favor,” the emperor went on. “Lend me a ship, an armed guard, a bag of gold. Two bags of gold. As if I could insure their safety. Find a church, I told them. Pray to the Lord. That’s what your emperor is doing.” Justinian glanced upwards, toward the cross painted on the ceiling.

It was a giant version of the one decorating the chapel at John’s house. He supposed it might bring comfort to a Christian. Though it was nothing but insubstantial gilt, to John it felt more like a sword of Damocles that might come crashing down on his head at any time.

Justinian took a few nervous steps to one side, as if he had the same idea, although he still remained underneath the looming image. The emperor’s gaze darted around the hall.

Theodora’s voice ripped through the silence. “The whole court is nothing but a gang of begging sycophants. No different from the mob outside except they don’t smell as bad.” Even from a short distance John could see her eyes glittering, her pupils hugely dilated.

She was largely correct in her evaluation of Justinian’s courtiers, he thought. Now the air was harsh with smoke from hanging lamps, but there remained a faint memory of perfume, a ghost of the almost choking miasma of scent that filled the place when it was crowded.

“Courtiers and aristocrats carry more concealed blades than any street rabble,” Narses remarked. The bald eunuch looked toward John and pursed his lips as if he dared to spit.

“Narses assures me that this uprising has been carefully planned,” Justinian said, fixing John in his gaze. “Whoever had the faction members at Saint Laurentius killed is behind the unrest. That being so, your investigation is critical. Haven’t you made any further progress?” The emperor’s countenance was bland. Which, John knew, meant nothing, particularly since he detected an uncharacteristic edge to the voice? Anger? Fear?

“I learned nothing new this morning, Caesar. It is nearly impossible to move around the city. There are fires up and down the Mese all the way to the Forum Constantine. I hear the rioters have occupied imperial offices around the city.”

It had been difficult returning to the palace. The people in the streets had become more restless. After following Bozorgmehr to the brothel, he had spent considerable time making certain that the establishment was not, in fact, being used for illicit meetings of a more sinister purpose than it might have appeared. In the process of interviewing the inhabitants of the establishment, he had learned much more than he wished to know about the sexual proclivities of Persian men.

Narses issued a high pitched cackle. “If you are afraid to go out on the streets, John, why don’t you stay inside? I’m sure you can serve the emperor just as well. Like Plato’s cave dwellers you can observe the shadows of the real conspirators outside, cast upon the palace walls by the flames of the burning city. You are clever like that, having been schooled at Plato’s pagan academy.”

“I see you have concerned yourself with my past, Narses.”

“It is prudent to know what beliefs are held by those the emperor chooses to hold close.”

“Quite true,” put in Theodora. “Do you know, I once saw a performer who created shadow plays with puppets. Highly amusing.” She spoke much too quickly, sounding tense.

“There’s plenty of work to do in the palace,” John said. “If there is a plot, it probably reaches into the palace.”

“Straight to those two vipers under your guard,” Justinian replied. “They haven’t said or done anything to rouse suspicion? They’ve had no visitors? Haven’t gone out?”

“No. They have made no attempt to see anyone or to leave. The last thing they want is to leave.”

“How can you be certain what they’ve been up to? You’ve spent most of the past few days out, looking into the murders,” Narses put in.

“Felix and his excubitors report to me.”

“Can you trust them?”

“Indeed, I can. I know Felix personally and can vouch for him.”

Justinian offered a forced smile. “But how observant are they? That foreign visitor of yours was murdered under their noses.”

“Caesar, Haik was poisoned. The physician said it might have happened anywhere.”

“Do you think his murder has anything to do with the riots? Were the plotters involved? How could it be a coincidence?”

“I can’t say, Caesar.”

“There’s much you can’t say, John. I am disappointed in you. How do the brothers pass their time? Can you say?”

“Pompeius drinks and Hypatius broods.”

“Don’t assume those two are what they appear to be,” Narses said. “They’ve been at court since long before you arrived.”

Justinian paced nearer to the throne where Theodora sat. When agitated he never stood still. Most men’s features moved in revealing fashion. In Justinian’s case it was his feet that moved and they were impossible to read. The habit made him hard to talk to but no one dared tell the emperor that. Perhaps it was his version of the long walks John took when he needed to think. “Narses tells me you spoke to Porphyrius. Is the charioteer involved? He’s meddled in politics in the past.”

“I have suspicions but no proof.”

“Some say that display at the Hippodrome was clearly a signal for the factions to join together in revolt.”

“There are other explanations.”

Narses glanced in Theodora’s direction. “Do you wait until the bee stings before you crush it?”

“An excellent point,” Theodora said.

Justinian turned and walked back toward John, his footsteps echoing around the hall. “Porphyrius dead would give us all a nastier sting than Porphyrius alive. He might be helping incite unrest. His death certainly would do so.”

“And if he is involved in a plot,” John added, “you would alert the other conspirators by moving against him.”

Justinian stopped in front of John, at enough distance that John’s advantage in height was not especially obvious. The emperor’s face remained emotionless as a mask. His eyes peered out from behind it. Whereas Theodora’s eyes were huge and glassy, Justinian’s gave the impression of being apertures into a strange, dark world. “Surely you have learned something of value. What is your theory?”

“It is plausible that the murders of the faction members were planned, since the riots on their behalf have been transformed so swiftly into an insurrection.”

“Was it part of the plan for the hangings to fail?”

“I don’t think so, Caesar. The executions may have been rushed because the spectators had become restive. The executioner and the guards feared for their lives.”

“Perhaps that is what the plotters wished us to think.”

“Planning for the hangings to fail would have been too complicated, left too much to chance, involved too many people. Unless the monks of Saint Conon were involved, the condemned men would simply have been hung again, and I have no reason to believe the monks were involved. As it was, the ropes failed twice. And—”

Narses cut him off. “Have you pursued this matter of the monks?”

“I visited the monastery once.”

“Is that all? Is that enough to uncover any sort of wrong doing?”

“It’s plain that the emperor needs a solution quickly. I have confined myself to the lines of inquiry most likely to be fruitful.”

Narses leered at him. “And have you learned anything? Something more useful to yourself than the emperor? Have you perhaps discovered that monasteries can be very wealthy? Not to mention successful charioteers and aristocratic families! Are you sure you haven’t been paid not to make inquires or reach conclusions?”

Theodora let out a harsh caw of laughter. “You do amuse me, Narses.” She rose from the throne in a swift, jerky motion like a huge bird, in a flurry of swinging robes, heavy fabric rustling and jewels clicking against the throne. She descended from the dais and clapped a hand onto Justinian’s arm. John thought the emperor stiffened. “Why waste your time talking with these creatures? Belisarius will give you better advice.”

“I have already solicited Belisarius’ opinion,” Justinian replied.

“It’s time to heed it.”

“He’s young. Reckless.”

“But also brilliant. And experienced in military matters.”

“The emperor does not take orders from his generals. Or anyone else.” Justinian’s voice rose. The familiar thin timbre vanished. Then he was speaking softly and soothingly again, as he added, “Sometimes caution is best.” He turned his attention to John. “I have come to a decision. I don’t trust those two scoundrels in your charge. I am convinced they are spies. I am ordering the family out of the palace. I will send an escort for them. They can return to their houses, if they haven’t burned yet.”