Ten for Dying (John the Lord Chamberlain Mysteries) (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

It was past midday when Felix left his house. He kept self-consciously fingering his neck, as if anyone would notice the delicate, purpling bite mark amidst all his bruises, cuts, and abrasions.

He had slept the morning away like a dead man. Anastasia had awakened him, having fetched various preparations which she duly administered. If nothing else the vile taste of the potions and the hideous burning of the salves got him on his feet. She had neglected to bring an amulet. Perhaps, on second thought, she had decided the cross she’d given him was protection enough.

She had insisted he wasn’t well enough to go out. Unfortunately there were people Felix did not want to talk to but needed to consult. And soon. He decided to have the conversation he least wanted to have first.

He had received written orders from Justinian to investigate the theft of the relic, the sort of task the urban watch would normally carry out. Was the emperor really deeply interested in the relic? If confronted, perhaps he would decide he didn’t need Felix investigating after all.

A succession of the largely ornamental silentiaries stationed in the innermost recesses of the imperial residence respectfully permitted the captain of the excubitors to pass through doorway after doorway until he reached the hall leading to Justinian’s private study. In theory, these guards were to serve as a counterweight to the excubitors. The reality was different. The silentiary who appeared to escort Felix into the emperor’s presence made it plain how easily the excubitors would prevail if they decided to mutiny.

The silentiary presented a ridiculous figure in robes studded with cut-glass gems and a helmet topped by a dyed ostrich plume. He carried a spear so long it probably couldn’t have been put to use without knocking frescoes off the corridor walls.

What did not strike Felix as ridiculous was the man’s identity. It was his old colleague Bato, the fellow who had accosted him while he was trying to dispose of the courier’s body.

“Felix! What a coincidence! I haven’t seen you for months and now we run into each other twice in two days. I hope your lady friend was pleased with what you delivered?”

Felix forced a smile. He didn’t think Bato suspected anything, but how could he be certain? He’d been staring right into the cart at the blanket-wrapped body.

“I see the silentiaries are treating you well, Bato. And so now you’re rubbing elbows with the emperor.” Bato and Felix had both served as excubitors years before but Bato had left to join the silentiaries, who were less likely than the excubitors to engage in fighting, a decision Felix had never understood.

“Don’t change the subject,” Bato said. “Was your client satisfied? Has she ordered more of your goods?”

“Would I tell you if she had?”

“If we were drinking together like we used to you would.”

They stopped before a wooden door into which were carved crosses and angels. It looked as if it had been looted from a monastery.

“The emperor is entertaining a cleric at the moment. The visitor should be leaving soon.”

“Justinian is still knee-deep in theology, then?”

“Up to his neck, to judge by the piles of parchment on his desk. Theodora’s death hasn’t been easy for him to accept.”

It was well known that when he was troubled the emperor tended to retreat into theology.

“Have you overheard any talk about this stolen shroud?”

“What? Am I a spy for the excubitors?” Bato smiled. “If you’re looking for imperial secrets it’ll cost you a drink. Maybe two.”

“As soon as I’ve got this job I’m working on finished we’ll get together.”

“We can talk about the old days. Well, listen to me! I never thought I’d be old enough to want to do that.”

A draft had found its way into the center of the palace, catching at the yellow ostrich plume, making it sway back and forth.

“Are you happy in the silentiaries, Bato?”

“It’s an easy living if not very exciting. But wait! You’ve already tried to worm imperial secrets out of me. Are you trying to get me to rejoin the excubitors? You’re not thinking of emulating Justin and seizing the throne for yourself?”

“Hardly.” Felix laughed. That was Bato, always jesting.

He was, wasn’t he?

“I hear you’ve thrown your lot in with General Germanus.”

“Now who’s asking for secrets?”

Before Felix could decide whether Bato was merely up to his usual bantering or whether he had a more serious intent, the carved wooden door opened. Felix was surprised to see the priest Basilius emerge. Basilius looked equally surprised to see Felix, but he went past without acknowledging him.

Bato directed Felix into the study and closed to door behind him. Outside the sun shone, but in this windowless room deep within the imperial residence the night never ended. Felix imagined that it was here that Justinian had buried himself almost continually since Theodora’s death, sleeping fitfully on a simple cot, poring over the religious texts piled on the wooden shelves and desk behind which he now slumped. The light from a single lamp showed how the flesh had fallen from the emperor’s normally round, bland face, revealing the grim skull beneath.

Felix began to bow.

“Never mind the formalities, captain. You’ve arrived at a convenient time. I interrupted my studies to speak with Basilius about the stolen shroud. Do you have any news about it? How is your investigation going?”

Felix’s spirits fell. He had been hoping to find Justinian was not concerning himself overly much with the theft. Apparently the opposite was the case.

He began by outlining his efforts to question people in the vicinity of the Church of the Holy Apostles.

The emperor appeared bored and tired. “From those cuts on your face, it looks as if some of the people you approached did not take kindly to your questions.”

“Indeed. It was nothing serious.” He didn’t dare say anything about the assault by the Blues. How could he explain the motivation behind it without putting himself under suspicion?

“That is all you have to report?”

Did Justinian know about the attack? Was he wondering if Felix would tell him about it? Felix studied the emotionless features—which many called the mask of a demon—but as usual they betrayed nothing.

“Caesar, may I ask why you have involved me in this matter? The urban watch know the city better than I do and they are accustomed to investigate crimes. I should be working with my excubitors to insure the palace is secure, in case your enemies mistake your mourning for a sign of weakness.”

“Do you suspect there are plots being hatched?”

Was that it? Did Justinian want to keep him away from the palace, away from his excubitors? Was he afraid their captain might have his eye on the throne?

“I know of no plots, but whenever the empire suffers a blow, there are those who seek to take advantage.”

“As by stealing one of the city’s most sacred relics? This is the very time we need the Virgin’s protection the most.”

“And naturally the theft upsets the populace.”

“There is that also.”

“If the theft was in aid of a plot all the more reason I need to be at my post.”

“All the more reason our protection must be found and returned, Captain.” The emperor’s tone was sharp, a sudden contrast to his previous lassitude.

Felix uneasily shifted his feet, resisting his habitual nervous tug at his beard.

As a Mithran he had never given much credence to the Christian god and his relics. It was wise to treat them with respect, of course, whether those of the Olympian gods, or local deities, or the handiwork of sorcerers, just in case. There were supernatural powers, both good and evil, abroad in the world.

Justinian was rifling through parchments and half unrolled scrolls on his desk. “Though the saints are everywhere at once, they still linger most strongly in the vicinity of their relics. I was reading a treatise only days ago, but I can’t seem to put my hand on it. It all has to do with lines of force. Since a saint’s relics were once a part of his person or in contact with him, there remains an attraction between saint and relic, the attraction that holds spirit and matter together in the earthly sphere. Ever since the shroud was taken I have felt an absence, as if an invisible cloak of protection has been lifted from the city. Basilius tells me the Church of the Holy Apostles feels empty to him now.”

“The reliquary in which the shroud rested was most certainly empty, Caesar. But if you will excuse me—I am an ignorant soldier. Why could not the shroud protect itself?”

“Ah, I see a military man may also be a philosopher. That is a good question, captain, and the answer is clear. We are being tested by God. Of course the shroud could have reduced the thieves to dust or brought lightning down on them. Even now the Lord could drop it right onto this desk. But that is not the way He works. It is up to us to please Him and not the other way around. Yes, it is even true the emperor must please God. To do that I must see the shroud returned and I am depending on you to assist in its recovery. Don’t disappoint me.”

***

Felix’s stomach churned as he left the Great Palace. He was suddenly aware of the innumerable crosses pointing to heaven from the rooftops, of the magnificent churches he passed on many streets. The mithraeum where Felix worshipped was hidden underground. Symbols of Mithra were nowhere to be seen in public nor, if one was wise, in private also. The Jesus that Christians talked about—that Anastasia and the emperor worshipped—was not Felix’s sort of man, not with all his prattle about love and peace. Yet somehow he and his followers had achieved what the sword had not, the subjugation of the Roman Empire.

And no doubt He wanted His mother’s shroud returned. What son wouldn’t?

Felix tugged at his beard in consternation. He had visited Justinian hoping to find the emperor was not really concerned about the matter of the relic and that Felix could let his investigation slide without angering him. Now he wasn’t only risking the wrath of the emperor but the emperor’s omnipotent god as well.

Chapter Twenty-five

As Felix walked into the Hippodrome he hoped this interview would be more successful than the last one.

He didn’t bother to see if anyone had taken down the hanged man. Surely the corpse would have been noticed and removed hours before. Instead he took a ramp behind the starting gates and descended into the maze of stables and storage rooms under the racetrack. The sound of his boots hitting the concrete echoed back into the corridor. He smelled horses, hay, and dust despite a strong draught blowing from the direction of the great arena.

He was almost certain Porphyrius was the man who had threatened him. The aging charioteer wanted the relic for one reason or another, so why not start with him?

Felix did not find him in the stables. Try the track, he was told. He returned the way he had come, hurting with every step as if he were filled with shards of broken glass.

The great charioteer was sitting in the stands overlooking the track, the sole spectator in an arena designed for tens of thousands. He was instructing a younger man driving a chariot, shouting a mixture of praise and lurid oaths.

As Felix clattered up the marble benches Porphyrius leapt to his feet and bellowed “You’ll never win a race like that. Stick as close to the inside of the track as you can instead of wandering all over it like a child in the market! It’s a sure way to end up crippled or worse!”

The young charioteer grinned, flourished his whip, and came racing by, leaving his teacher coughing, choking, and cursing in a cloud of dust.

Porphyrius had been a wonder in his day, admired and feted. Statues had been raised to him and he had made a fortune, wresting it from the sweat and fear of racing, somehow avoiding serious injury. Considering the number of years he had raced and given he had raced for both Blues and Greens at one time or another, it was a miracle he had survived not only racing but had also escaped a blade in the back from a supporter of one of the competing factions, intended to even the odds in the next contest.

“Ah, the captain of the excubitors,” Porphyrius remarked as Felix approached. “A little early for the racing, are you not?”

“It’s not racing I’m here for.” Felix sat down next to him. The sun had made the marble hot.

“So then…?”

Felix glanced at the man at his side. He was squat and powerfully built with a broad face and a laborer’s arms. Despite the gray in his hair, he looked like the sort of man you wanted on your side in a fight, the sort you didn’t want to oppose. And his booming voice was unmistakable. Felix was certain now that Porphyrius had been present on the spina the night before.

Felix looked back toward the center of the track. No sign of the hanging remained. Having confirmed to his satisfaction the identity of one of his assailants, Felix was unsure what to do next. “There was a man found hanging on the spina this morning,” he finally said.

Porphyrius looked away from Felix toward the far side of the track where his student’s chariot moved slowly, engaged in some exercise. “Is that so? The urban watch must have got out of bed earlier than usual this morning.” There was a sneer in his voice.

“A murder on the racetrack could hardly have escaped your attention.”

“I did hear some such tale when I arrived about an hour ago to put our latest recruit through his paces.”

“Is the dead man’s identity known?”

“Not to me. I didn’t even see the man.”

“No? I’m surprised. Granted, from where I was lying on the track I didn’t have a good view. And the boots in my face didn’t help.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, captain.”

Without being aware of it, Felix rubbed nervously at the sore spot on his neck. “If you suspect the poor fellow was involved in robbing the courier you should have allowed him to live. He might have had a better idea what happened to the relic than I do.”

“Relic?”

“The shroud of the Virgin stolen from the Church of the Holy Apostles.”

“I don’t know anything about it beyond the fact it was stolen,” came the curt reply. “What good are relics anyhow, apart from enticing the ignorant geese to visit the city, the better to be plucked at the races?” Porphyrius broke off to shout another mouthful of abuse at the young charioteer now passing below them.

It seemed to Felix that inexperienced charioteers were trained less kindly than their horses. “I’m surprised to hear you have no interest in relics. Charioteers are a superstitious lot, aren’t they? What about curse tablets? They’ve been found buried under the track and I remember members of both teams were more than upset. Why, there were fist fights in the stables over whose supporters were responsible.”

Porphyrius shrugged his massive shoulders. “Indeed, fist fights are the least of it. But if I were attempting to ensure my team won I would do it in a more practical way. Tampering with the other faction’s chariot, say. Not that it’s easy to get at them, given we all keep them well guarded. But what of it?”

“It would be highly valuable for many reasons, such a relic,” Felix plunged on. He was developing a headache and jagged glass inside him kept shifting in agonizing fashion. He couldn’t seem to get his thoughts to march in proper order. “What was your role, Porphyrius? Were you involved in stealing it for someone for a considerable sum? Is that why you want it back? This is official business. I am investigating the incident on behalf of Justinian.”

“Should I be impressed? Justinian is one of my greatest admirers. Why would you think I knew anything about this relic?”

“You were here in the Hippodrome with several Blues last night and we had a conversation about it. A rather one-sided conversation.”

“The sun has affected your humors, captain. You really don’t look well at all. I was nowhere near this place. I was visiting a lady friend, as a matter of fact.”

“What you forget is your voice is very distinctive. You were just shouting at that young charioteer and sounded very like the man who shouted in my ears not so long ago, questioning me about that missing relic and what I had done with it.”

“Perhaps it isn’t the sun affecting you. Have you gone back to drinking again? Spending your nights in the taverns? I see from your condition you’ve been brawling. The physicians say a blow to the head can cause all manner of strange results. Why, after one crash a few years back the Blue charioteer insisted he saw strange billowing curtains of color in the sky over the Great Church.”

Felix glared at him. At least his companion now knew he had been identified as in some way involved in the theft. Although whether that made Felix safer or put him in even greater jeopardy was hard to say.

The young charioteer drew to a halt in front of where they were seated and Porphyrius motioned him he could leave, then stood up. “If you are so concerned about this matter, shouldn’t you be seeking it, rather than talking to me? After all, time flies.”

Felix rose painfully. “If I knew the identity of the man you had hanged last night it might be helpful. Despite what you may imagine I was not associated with him, though he probably had accomplices, if he was in fact involved in the theft. And they might know where it’s gone. Think about it.”

“I will. You may be hearing from me later.” Porphyrius grinned in an unpleasant fashion. “By the way, I would see to it that puncture on your neck was well cleaned. More men have died from human bites than dog bites.”