Four for a Boy (6 page)

“Your plan failed,” he told the man tied to the obelisk. “But since you were looking forward to a fire, I don’t want to disappoint.”

Upending the pot he doused the Blue with lamp oil. The man began to struggle frantically as the viscous liquid soaked into his clothing and trickled down, forming a puddle.

Theodotus stepped away and casually kicked one of the lamps illuminating the scene toward the obelisk. The lamp skittered on its side, rolling in a tiny wheel of flames to come to rest against the man’s oil-sodden cloak. A thin line of red snaked slowly along it and began climbing up the man’s chest.

Then the oil exploded into a ball of flame, inside which a dark figure writhed and screamed.

His agonized cries were drowned out almost immediately by a roar of approval from the onlookers.

***

Felix, John, and Anatolius had placed many streets between themselves and the Strategion before any of them spoke.

It was Felix who finally broke the silence. “Do you really have a home, Anatolius, or are you just playing games and leading us all over the city?”

Anatolius looked around the forum they were crossing. In its center a statue of an emperor, or some lesser, forgotten luminary, appeared to be wading in a fountain basin.

“We’re almost there,” he replied.

“I’ll wager a nummus your father’s a shopkeeper,” said Felix.

Anatolius ignored him. He turned down what appeared at first glance to be an alley, but whose narrow way ended at an enormous gate set in a wall protecting a massive villa. Orange lamp light poured from a window.

Anatolius sprinted forward and the gate swung open as if someone had been awaiting his return. For an instant his slight frame was silhouetted in the gateway, then he was inside the grounds and the gate had banged shut.

John’s ruined cloak lay in front of the gate and as he retrieved it, Felix gazed at the villa beyond, amazement plain on his face.

Chapter Six

Felix squinted down the Mese where wan morning light slanted into the colonnades. He spoke without looking at John. “That boy we rescued last night…he’s the son of Senator Aurelius. A couple of my colleagues knew the villa immediately when I described it to them. They’d escorted Quaestor Proclus there for some meeting or other a few weeks ago. The senator’s known to be a staunch supporter of Justinian. It appears you’ve done your master a service. Maybe we can work together after all without you getting either of us killed.”

“I appreciate your confidence.”

“Yes, well, in such a situation as last night I would have expected you to be more…shall we say…excitable.”

Excitable? Like a woman? Because he was a eunuch? John’s cheekbones darkened with a flush of anger. He pulled his cloak closer around his lean frame and quickened his steps to match the excubitor’s steady pace. He managed to remain silent.

“There may be riots in the streets and murders in churches,” Felix continued, “but it seems that commerce carries on regardless. And begging.” He inclined his head in the direction of a man squatting against a wall. The man extended a dirty hand toward them as a biting wind came rushing down the wide street like icy water through an aqueduct.

“Neither enterprise appears to be receiving much custom,” John observed. He wished he had a coin to give. The beggar pulled his hand back into the scant protection of his threadbare tunic as the two men strode past.

They had not had much sleep after the previous night’s hectic events. When they met the Gourd in his office that morning, he seemed perfectly fresh, even invigorated. The orders he gave them were vague. They were to investigate Hypatius’ murder, as the emperor and his nephew desired. Talk to people living or working near the Great Church and so forth. His men had already covered the ground, but since the emperor had so ordered, it must be done again.

It wasn’t clear to what extent the orders were Justin’s or Justinian’s, or for that matter which were the Gourd’s interpretation of whatever had been said to him. At any rate, investigating the area near the scene of the crime seemed a sensible start.

Thus most of the morning had been spent interviewing those residents and merchants whose homes and commercial premises clustered along the Mese. In particular, they had questioned those near its intersection with the Augustaion on which stood the Great Church where Hypatius had died.

“So what have we learnt these past few hours?” Felix grumbled irritably. “That merchants keep a close eye on their goods. Those indoors keep their windows shut against the cold. Naturally no one sees or hears anything. All of which we could have easily guessed while sitting in a warm tavern with a cup of wine instead of tramping about in the cold.”

“Nevertheless, you can’t solve a murder just sitting in a warm corner. You have to go out and gather information.”

Felix said nothing.

Each interview had followed the same pattern, suggested by John and accepted, grudgingly, but accepted nevertheless, by Felix. First they inquired whether the person to whom they were speaking had noticed anything on the day Hypatius was killed. Next, whether he might have seen something unusual. Finally if he had observed a very large, broad-shouldered Blue running by. It seemed to John that even if someone had noticed nothing else, he could not have missed a man of that size in full flight.

But that was indeed the case. At least if all those to whom they spoke were to be believed. He remarked on this to his companion.

Felix smiled. “These people wouldn’t have noticed if Emperor Constantine had leaped down off his column, jumped on a horse, and galloped up the Mese. Not if a pair from the palace was asking about it. Perhaps—” Felix broke off. “You!” he shouted at a figure emerging from a shop in front of them. “Wait!”

The young man he addressed began to run. Felix caught up to him in a few strides and grabbed a skinny arm. It was the hair hanging down the back of the tunic that had caught Felix’s eye, but when he spun his captive around John saw no evidence of the shaved hair so many Blues had adopted.

“You’re a faction member, aren’t you?” Felix barked anyway.

The youngster looked confused. “Yes, sir. Not the Blues though. And not when I’m on the street.”

Felix gave the arm a shake. “Explain.”

“I…I’m a Green, sir. Or rather I used to be. We don’t dare venture out any more. The Blues would kill a Green as soon as look at him. I was sent to buy a few things for my employer.”

Felix sent the young man on his way. He and John stood in front of a grocer’s emporium, identified as such by a brass plaque engraved with a steelyard.

“We might as well ask in this shop, just like all the rest,” said Felix. “Or maybe we should find a large stone to roll up a hill instead.”

Stepping inside, they found an impressive array of household necessaries including pottery and glassware displayed amid barrels of salted fish. Baskets of vegetables and bowls of honeycombs leaned conspiratorially cheek by jowl on shelves attached to roughly plastered walls. The atmosphere was redolent of cheese, vinegar, and sawdust. Beside the door stacked amphorae held wine and the various types of oils needed for cooking or lighting. They reminded John uncomfortably of the very recent attempt to set the oil warehouses on fire.

“And how may I assist you, masters?” A short, thin man emerged from behind a stack of crates piled near the back of the cramped, rectangular room. He bowed very low while simultaneously contriving to examine his visitors from under a fringe of lank, black hair.

It would be difficult to steal anything from under this man’s narrow, pinched nose, John thought, as Felix began his questioning.

Unlike earlier interviewees, the man looked neither impressed nor terrified by their quest. “I regret that the owner of this establishment is temporarily absent,” he said smoothly, “but I will naturally be glad to help you as best I can.”

“We’ll talk to him later,” Felix replied curtly. “First, his name and yours?”

“The master is Timothy and I am Alkabaides. I am his assistant.”

Felix looked around the well-stocked interior. “Your master’s trade appears to prosper.”

“Indeed it does, sir. We charge a fair price for what we sell, unlike many others in this street.” A jocular smile crossed the man’s face. “While our competitors fill our ears with complaints about taxes and the high costs of doing business, we ourselves have just opened another shop. It sells nothing but the finest perfumes. Being situated near the booksellers’ quarter and very close to court, we’re privileged to count many of the great among our clients. I think we can guarantee you’re certain to find something there to please your ladies, should you favor us with your custom.”

Felix looked nonplussed, as if he couldn’t decide whether the man was jesting or not. “I shall bear that in mind.” He proceeded to question Alkabaides closely, not about fragrances or vegetables, but about whether he had noticed anything the day Hypatius died? Nothing at all? Nothing unusual? What about a large young man affecting the sartorial style of the Blues?

The assistant screwed up his face in thought but, like everyone else to whom they had spoken that morning, was unable to offer any information.

“If I’d actually seen such a man as you describe, I’m certain I would have remembered him. However, I must admit that a company of demons could have been racing each other right past the door and I wouldn’t have seen them. I don’t go out into the street when I’m working. Those poor unfortunates living in the gutter would be in and out behind my back in the wink of an eye and a wheel of cheese or a handful of fish gone with them.”

“In which case for a day at least they would not be quite so unfortunate.”

Alkabaides looked offended. “The master often gives them coins. He is a kind man despite losing a wife to a fever and his son in an accident. Never mind that in my opinion such charity just encourages beggars to further boldness. They repay kindness with trouble, fighting and keeping decent citizens awake half the night with their running around screaming at all hours. Not that I am criticizing my master, sirs, he is a good Christian.”

“Sounds like some of those wild palace banquets one hears about. Does your master ever provide delicacies for any of those?”

The grocer’s assistant shook his head. “I doubt that courtiers would care to dine on salt fish, although our vegetables are much remarked upon.”

It appeared that Alkabaides had more to tell John and Felix about the grocery business than about the business that interested them. They left the shop.

As they retraced their footsteps along the Mese, John noticed that the beggar who had unsuccessfully asked them for alms had now moved to the other side of the street. John was suddenly struck by a thought.

“Felix, with respect, since none of the merchants have seen anything or anyone even remotely suspicious, may I suggest that those that nobody sees might possibly be more forthcoming?”

The other regarded him with a tired frown. “What do you mean?”

“The people who live on the streets. They’re so much part of the scenery that most of the time we don’t see them unless they hold a hand out. However, they always see us. And since they see us, who else might they have seen?”

“Not a bad idea, I suppose. You think well on your feet.” He gave John an appraising look. “I noticed that last night. And when you borrowed my sword, I could swear you handled it as if you’d used a blade to better purpose than slicing a bit of pork off a haunch. You’re in excellent condition too. Visit the gymnasium much?”

John did not take Felix’s interest as a sign of friendliness. That the other was trying to draw him out about his past was obvious.

“I exercise daily at the baths.” He didn’t mention that he found such bodily exertion helped still the furies that bedeviled him and thus enabled him to present at least a nominally calm face to the world.

“And a cautious man too. You occasionally have an almost military look about you. If I didn’t know what sort of man you were…” Felix appeared hopeful of further revelations.

John said nothing, but instead pointed to the beggar in the doorway. “I saw that man sitting right there the day Hypatius was murdered.”

“I don’t know how you can tell one bag of rags from the next. But if you saw him in the same place he might know something. There’s a good view of the Augustaion from this part of the street.” Felix started across the Mese. “He must at least have seen where that enormous Blue went.”

The beggar appeared to be less a bag of rags than a disorganized pile of them with a pair of incongruously newish boots protruding from it. Strangely, he did not jump up and run off, as most did when they realized they were about to become the objects of official attention. On the contrary, the eyes set in a web of wrinkles brightened with anticipation. As John and Felix approached, he held out a dirty, three-fingered hand.

Felix ignored it. Anxious to get back indoors, he began to question the mendicant brusquely.

The man looked up, his face fixed in a grimace that mixed a vacant smile with an expression of bafflement. Again he waved his open hand at Felix and then at John.

Felix roughly slapped the hand down. “We’re looking into a death! You will answer me or answer for it!”

The beggar shook his head, grunted and pointed to his throat and finally extended his hand hopefully again.

Felix looked puzzled. “What do you mean? You’re hungry? So are we. And cold. So for the final time…”

The man grunted even more loudly. A panic-stricken note entered his strangled noises.

John stepped to Felix’s side. “Your questions are fruitless. The man cannot speak.”

With an oath, Felix turned away. “Naturally! How can I be surprised when everyone else around here is blind and deaf?”

“There is one person we can be sure saw something.”

“Is that so? Who would that be?”

“The church doorkeeper who was stabbed just after Hypatius was murdered.”

Chapter Seven

The brick-built Hospice of Samsun crouched like a squat, homely beggar in the shadow of the Hagia Eirene. Devoted to healing the sick and broken bodies of the city’s poor, the hospice’s low-ceilinged rooms were inevitably crowded past capacity.

“It’s the doorkeeper of the Great Church I wish to talk to, Gaius,” Felix informed a ruddy-faced, harried-looking man in a bloodstained tunic. “Is he in fit shape to be questioned?”

They were standing in the entrance to Gaius’ surgery. The physician, an acquaintance of Felix’s, set a pottery bowl down with a thud on the long wooden table against one wall.

“Why bother to ask? Even if the poor man were at death’s door, you’d still insist on grilling him like St Lawrence. Doesn’t the Gourd have better things to do than pester my patients? And what’s this about you working for him anyway? Is it better than serving that doddering emperor of ours, or worse?”

John glimpsed Felix’s grin, hastily banished by a frown.

“My position in the Prefect’s office is temporary, I hope,” Felix replied. “As for Justin, he may be old and ill now, but he was once a mere excubitor like myself. He rose to his position by his own abilities. He deserves to be spoken about with respect for that if for nothing else.”

Gaius looked unconvinced. “A nice speech. Looking to rise yourself, are you? Justin may have been a man of some ability once, but he’s fading away by all accounts. Can’t even find his own boots in the morning, or so they say. I suppose it won’t be long before you’ll be coming around asking me where the emperor’s boots are!”

John, standing by the door, glanced down the corridor behind him. A hum of conversation, interrupted now and then by muted cries of pain, wafted along between its narrow plastered walls.

The hospice smelt of crowded humanity, sickness, and herbs, overlaid with the acrid, metallic tang emanating from the brazier at the far end of the corridor. He wondered if it was used to heat cauterizing irons.

The thought turned his attention to the surgery. Bare, whitewashed walls reflected such light as filtered in through a single window from a sky the color of a fresh bruise. Apart from the table and a low stool it was unfurnished. Scattered dark patches on the table told their own tale, as did the bloodied bronze scalpels in the bowl Gaius had just set down.

“What’s more, Felix,” the physician was saying, “it would be very helpful if next time you’re guarding Justin you could suggest that he occasionally authorize funds be diverted from paying for dancing girls for all those palace banquets or some such frippery into our meager coffers. We’re full to the very doors and still people arrive for help.”

Felix snorted. “Do I look like the quaestor to you? Or perhaps a Lord Chamberlain, that I would venture to speak to the emperor in such a fashion? Why would you think Justin takes financial advice from his guards?”

“They’d give better counsel than his dead wife, for a start! Oh yes, it’s no good scowling, it’s all over the city that the emperor talks to her shade. She should counsel him about stopping the street violence. It was bad enough when the Blues and Greens fought each other. At least the Greens could give a good account of themselves and so kept the Blues in check. Now they maim and murder at will.”

“Not if the Prefect can help it.”

“He puts on a good show. He can’t burn every Blue in the city though. You think the judges won’t release any he arrests? There isn’t a magistrate who hasn’t been bought by Justinian. But it isn’t just the damned Blues keeping us busy. Most days we can depend on someone arriving with his scalp hanging half off. Hair caught in a winch at the docks or some other bizarre mishap you’d wager was impossible if you hadn’t seen the results. Others break their heads open brawling in the gutters. It never ends. We send one patient out, more or less patched up, and two more are sitting on the doorstep waiting to come in.”

Gaius took a breath and glanced curiously at John. “You haven’t introduced your friend.”

“Not a friend. A slave who’s working with me. John is his name.”

“I see.”

Looking at the physician John noticed his eyes seemed fever bright. He’d had an extra cup of wine, he guessed, and no wonder, given his work.

“Mind you, it’s not just beggars coughing up blood,” Gaius was saying, “or needing broken bones set or some such common repairs. No, the entire city is on edge. We’re seeing a lot more patients with knife wounds of late and that’s a sure sign of it, in my experience. People start drinking too so their humors are worse. Then they get argumentative and soon the blades come out. You should have been here a week or so ago. A man was brought in with the worst case of mortification I’ve ever seen. It was a miracle he wasn’t dead already. I had to take his leg off.”

“Very inconvenient for you, I’d imagine.”

Gaius sighed. “You military men have it easy. One clean thrust is all your job requires. Try sawing through a femur as fast as you can, before your patient wakes up and starts screaming. And how do you suppose he came to be in such a state?”

Felix admitted he had no notion.

“Got into a fight over a girl. He’ll certainly be a bit less hot-headed after he hops out of here, if he survives. Not that he’ll be fighting over women. They like their men with all their members. He claimed he was a soldier, but he must have been incompetent to lose a knife fight to a civilian. No more military campaigns for him.”

“He’ll leave well equipped to succeed as a beggar,” Felix pointed out. “A missing leg’s much more effective for getting sympathy and a coin or two than any amount of rubbing dirt into sores or borrowing malformed babies or cutting chunks of flesh out of the face.”

Gaius stared at the instruments in the bowl. “You’d have more sympathy if you had my job, Felix. We see innumerable children. Not that long ago we had one poor child brought in whose head was crushed in a cart accident. Often there’s nothing you can do but watch them die, wash them down, and send them home for burial. At least Hypatius saw a few years!”

“Yes, yes, I do see your point,” Felix replied. “But, as I said, we need to speak to the doorkeeper.”

Gaius finally fell silent and led them down corridors as difficult to navigate as the Bosporos, thanks to the patients lining them, some leaning against the walls and others stretched out on the floor. They crossed a bare courtyard where untainted air swirled briefly around their faces. Then they plunged back into the warm, malodorous atmosphere of the far wing. John glanced into the doorless cell-like rooms they passed. Each contained three or four patients lying on thin pallets under threadbare blankets. Even so, he reflected, many must be in better quarters than wherever they lived outside the hospice.

In one room, a cluster of solemn children stood around an emaciated, white-bearded man who lay comatose, his face covered in sores. Stentorian breathing rattled in his throat. In his mercenary days, John had heard the sound often from the lips of the dying. The man was not long for the world.

Gaius showed the two men into a room no different from the rest except that it was so narrow that it had space for only two pallets. Only one was currently occupied. Perhaps, John mused, the doorkeeper’s roommate had just been discharged, either from the hospice or from earthly pain, and that very recently. After ascertaining that the room’s sole occupant was awake and lucid, Gaius left.

“Come by when you have a free hour or so,” he told Felix on his way out. “We’ll resume our tour of the city’s taverns.”

John had only glimpsed the wounded doorkeeper in the Great Church. There the old man had been nothing more than a pile of discarded robes in the shadows. Here, swathed in a coverlet, he appeared not much different. His thin, leathery face reminded John of a preserved holy relic.

“Who are you, good sirs?” The doorkeeper’s eyes were bloodshot. His gaze darted back and forth between his visitors in terrified fashion.

Felix made his usual introduction. His mention of the Prefect elicited a peep of horror. “And what is your name?”

“Demetrios.”

“You were one of the doorkeepers on duty the day that the man Hypatius was murdered in the Great Church?”

“My job was to guard the door. Not the vestibule. The villains stabbed me too.” The man pulled himself up into a sitting position, revealing wrists as thin as a kalamos. He was shaking.

“I’m sure you’re not responsible in any way for Hypatius’ death, Demetrios. We just need to know if you saw anything that might help us find the men who committed the crime. You are attentive, I’m sure.”

Demetrios seemed to relax a bit. “Certainly.

Doorkeepers always have to be alert. I regret to say that not all our visitors are pious. Some of them, and you will scarcely credit this, even seek to steal whatever they can conceal about their persons. So we keep a close watch on all who come into the church and also aid worshippers as needed. The old and the feeble, for example, sometimes need help. All are welcome in the house of the Lord but some need extra assistance getting into it.”

“No doubt that’s true. But did you witness the murder?”

“I did.” Demetrios sat up straighter. “It was not long after Hypatius arrived. A sad loss, sir. He was a most pious gentleman, very generous to the church and full of charitable works. He always gave us doorkeepers a coin or two. We’ll miss him. But as to that terrible event—it was bitterly cold that day and not much better inside the church. The archdeacon does not allow much funding for charcoal, you see.”

The old man shivered as if memories of the cold had chilled him anew. “Yet even so, a fair number of people came, mostly to see the sculpture. It offends some, sirs. Others, sadly more superstitious than devout, consider such representations to be magickal. I’ve had to tell more than one not to soil the marble with their grubby hands. There was even a fellow we had to pull down off the pedestal because he was convinced his wife would be cured of her fever if he touched Christ’s face. The sculpture is so lifelike that, well, sometimes, and especially when the light was dim, it gave me pause. Yet if such a pious gentleman as Hypatius thought to glorify the church with it, then who is a simple doorkeeper to say otherwise?”

Felix removed his helmet and ran a hand through his thick hair. Despite the seriousness of their investigation, John had to suppress a smile. Between Gaius and Demetrios one might guess the main affliction besetting Constantinople was a mysterious disease which refused to allow the lips to stop moving.

Felix broke into the doorkeeper’s ramblings to ask when the Blues had arrived on the scene.

“Oh, there was already a crowd of them in the church,” was the surprising reply. “All are welcome, as I said, without exception. Now as it happened, I was standing inside by the main door. I’d just come in for a short time to get out of the bitter wind, you understand, when it happened. It was all very confusing, between the number of people in the vestibule and the fact that it’s not as well lit as the rest of the church. Anyhow, the trouble broke out among the crowd gathered around the sculpture.”

“These were Blues?” put in Felix hopefully.

“Some certainly were, but most of them were regular visitors. I knew many of them by sight. Hypatius was standing looking up at the sculpture, when one of the Blues shouted.”

“What was it he shouted?”

“Let’s just say it was a blasphemy and leave it at that. Hypatius took him to task for using such words in a holy place. The others immediately started yelling even worse. A few of our regular worshippers tried to shout them down. Then Hypatius attempted to calm everyone. It was no good. Things had gone too far.”

Felix shook his head. “And this in a holy place!”

“As you say, sir. It turned into chaos. Women were getting hysterical. Men ran outside to escape. Wisely so. Damage was done to the church…yet really it all happened in less time than it takes to tell you. Within a few heartbeats fighting began.”

Demetrios’ voice rose incredulously as he continued. “Including among the faithful! Suddenly Hypatius fell, mortally wounded as it turned out. It was as if he had been struck by the hand of God. But why a man of such piety? And he hadn’t even started the argument. That is how blood was spilled in the house of the Lord, sirs!”

To John’s surprise, the doorkeeper began to cry feebly. “Yes, blood was spilled in the house of the Lord,” Demetrios repeated forlornly.

“And it was then that you were wounded?” Felix asked after a brief silence.

The doorkeeper’s head bobbed in agreement. “I tried to go to Hypatius’ aid. The Blues were running away and a couple shoved me aside, but not before one turned back and sunk his blade into my shoulder. Why would they do that? Killing one man, wounding another, and for what reason? Is there nothing they won’t stoop to? We’re not safe in our beds!”

The thought brought fear back to his face.

“The city will be calm now,” Felix reassured him. “Look at the way the Prefect put down those rioters just the other night. They’ll think twice about starting anything now.”

“Those young troublemakers aren’t averse to murder. They’ll be very hard to convince.”

John had the fleeting impression that the doorkeeper was about to leap off his pallet. The man raised a stick-like arm and waved it in feeble agitation.

“Decent citizens never know whether or when they’ll be assaulted. Prudent men go about their business well guarded and it’s best for women to stay at home. Except for attending church, that is.”

He slumped down, looking suddenly exhausted. Felix asked the doorkeeper if he had related all that he had seen.

“That’s all, sir.”

There was an outburst of screaming in the corridor. Looking out, John saw a young woman, her head covered with a soiled veil, carted shrieking into a nearby room. Gaius raced into view.

Felix stepped out of the sickroom and laid a hand on the physician’s arm before he could pass. “What’s happened?”

Gaius wrenched his arm free. “It’s a street whore. A dissatisfied customer threw a lamp full of burning oil into her face.” He vanished into the room where the woman’s continued screams now had a raw, rasping quality. Evidently the tortured cries had been going on for a long time.