by Mary Reed
There was no point in waiting.
After the shock of Theodora’s death had worn off, she had made plans. She had done what needed to be done in the palace, and now she had taken the first step on the way to her new life outside the palace.
Although she had lost almost everything, it was some consolation that she happened to be wearing her favorite dark green stola. It was no coincidence she practically coruscated in the morning sun, thanks to her jewelry. She’d prudently worn every piece she owned every day since the empress died.
Besides, she needed to look attractive for what she had to do.
She needed to make it plain that she was a lady now.
Kuria was not a beauty, but when she put her mind to it she was able to project an air of assurance that indicated a much higher station than she held.
A pair of laborers, judging by their dusty breeches and stained tunics, moved aside deferentially as she strode along.
Good, Kuria thought.
She was almost there.
She was prepared.
But it was also necessary for her to find a little of the young whore she’d been, to apply a dab of that garish makeup. Enough to say that she was a lady, but willing to be a bit more exciting than most ladies.
She passed the Hippodrome and crossed the street that ran along the side of the racecourse. She didn’t glance at the one-legged beggar sitting on a pile of rags near the intersection.
She never knew he was there until he was dragging her through the doorway of a vacant shop.
Chapter Forty
Instead of looking John in the eye, Anatolius stared down at the skull depicted on his desk top. “How could I turn him away, John? My father knew the Cappadocian well. You remember how much father wanted me to take up the legal profession. How could I refuse legal aid to one of his closest associates?”
John had broached the subject as soon as he set foot in the study.
“I am amazed Senator Aurelius would have allied himself with a man like John the Cappadocian,” John replied, keeping his voice level. He couldn’t help thinking of the Cappadocian’s escapades as described by Pulcheria. Nor could he see Anatolius’ staid, respectable, and happily married father engaging in such behavior or even wanting to be associated with a man suspected of such outrages.
Anatolius finally looked up. “That’s unfair, John. I know what people say about the Cappadocian. My father had a different view. He used to tell me people hated the man because of his reforms, because they didn’t like change.”
John wondered if he were, in fact, being unfair. He was angry that his friend had concealed the presence of the Cappadocian in the capital from him. “I admit I never dealt with the man. His reputation is unsavory.”
“I have no opinion on his reputation for licentiousness, if that’s what you mean. Mostly rumors, no doubt. My father worked with him in a purely official capacity. He respected what he did as Praetorian Prefect. Before he took over, the prefecture had become an empire unto itself, paralyzed in tradition like so many bureaucracies,” Anatolius replied. “There are those who devote themselves to writing histories of bureaucracies-the prefecture, the Master of Offices. They have a ready audience in their fellow civil servants. A clerk might spend his time poring over the the accounts of estates, adding up taxable goats and sheep, but at the end of the day he wants to read he is a valiant soldier, battling for the empire in an institution stretching back to the age of Augustus.”
He paused. “The Cappadocian had the temerity to imagine that the prefecture was supposed to function for the benefit of the emperor rather than for the benefit of its bureaucrats. Naturally, he was resented and hated. The civil servants didn’t care about doing things more efficiently. They loathed having to use Greek rather than Latin, for example.”
“You sound as if you are preparing to be a Cicero for your client, Anatolius. It is commonly said the Cappadocian was guilty of endless financial depredations. How do you defend him against that charge?”
“He merely enforced the tax laws others refused to enforce. If the rates are onerous, well, it is the doing of the emperor.”
“You should have told me he was in the city.”
“Why? It is my job to represent clients who come to me for legal advice. Do you tell me about every private discussion you have with the emperor?”
“His being in the city might well have a bearing on my investigations. He was one of Theodora’s bitterest enemies. Everyone knows that. He’s an obvious suspect in her murder.”
“But you said you do not believe the empress was murdered.”
“At the time I thought the Cappadocian was safely confined in Egypt.”
Anatolius’ expression was unreadable. Apparently the flighty and emotional young poet of the past had learned some lawyerly skills.
John asked bluntly what, exactly, Anatolius was doing on behalf of the Cappadocian.
“In general, he wants me to investigate whether he can reclaim certain properties confiscated when he was exiled. He thinks it might be possible because Justinian did allow him to maintain considerable wealth in Egypt despite being disgraced. It is his opinion it was only on account of Theodora’s animosity that he was deprived of office. I can’t go into specifics.”
“In other words, he heard of Theodora’s illness, decided she would soon leave the world, and decided he should get a head start on returning to his former prominence?”
“He hasn’t said as much, but I gather that’s correct. You know what a favorite he is with Justinian. As soon as the emperor conquers his grief he’ll be issuing orders for the Cappadocian’s return.”
“How long has he been back in the capital?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“When did you first see him?”
Anatolius met John’s gaze. “You know I should not discuss a client.”
“He was here before Theodora’s death? That would make him an obvious suspect, as I have already pointed out.”
“I am representing him in land dealings, straining my eyes over dusty documents. I have had no reason to question him about other matters.”
“Both he and you are aware there are other matters involved, not least the fact he is in the city illegally, otherwise he wouldn’t be creeping in your back gate in the middle of the night. Whatever the Cappadocian might be up to, you will naturally be implicated. Justinian won’t care whether you were serving as the man’s lawyer or not.”
“You can’t think I am working against the emperor?”
“I would prefer not to think so, Anatolius. Where is the Cappadocian staying when he is not here seeking your aid?”
“I cannot say.”
“Does that mean you won’t say, or that he hasn’t told you?”
“It isn’t my business to know where he’s living.”
“Spoken like a true lawyer.”
“I’m surprised, John. You’re a man of principle. I thought you would understand I have my own duties as a lawyer.”
“We also have duties as friends, Anatolius. Your association with the Cappadocian puts you in grave danger. And yes, before you say it, if I fail to find a murderer for Justinian, I am in danger too.”
Anatolius started to reply, stopped. His gaze wandered from John’s face, fell to the skull in the desk top. He pushed an opened codex over the leering face. “So you intend to offer up the hated Cappadocian as a sacrificial lamb?”
“That’s not what I meant,” John snapped with evident anger.
“I apologize, John.” Anatolius paused. “We shouldn’t argue over this matter. We both have our duties. I will arrange for you to speak with the Cappadocian. Will that suffice? Perhaps he will see fit to tell you things he has not told me or that I am not at liberty to reveal. But not here. Not at my house. I will make arrangements. Come back tomorrow and-”
“No. Today, Anatolius. I will speak with the Cappadocian today.”
“I can’t guarantee that my client…” Anatolius stopped and shook his head wear
ily. “All right, John. I will see what I can do. Come back after midday.”
***
The sun was a blinding orb of molten glass as John walked slowly and pensively back home. The streets throbbed with heat, all surfaces-the pavements, columns, bronze statues, brick edifices, and John’s skin-blazed with it.
Felix and Anatolius had both lied to him.
His two oldest friends.
Felix had either concealed the fact one of his watchmen had spotted the Cappadocian, or he had lied about sending watchmen. Did Felix know Anatolius had been meeting the Cappadocian and yet had not told John?
And what was the real reason Felix had not been seen at the mithraeum for so long? Were Vesta’s visits to Anatolius truly about legal matters? If the men had lied to John about the Cappadocian how could he expect them to be telling the truth about anything else?
Had he got anywhere at all with his investigation? Had he learned anything beyond the obvious fact that numerous powerful people might have wanted the empress dead?
Artabanes would have seen it as revenge for Theodora foiling the marriage he desired. Antonina, on the other hand, could save her daughter Joannina from the marriage Theodora had been forcing upon her. With Theodora’s interference gone, Germanus might finally be elevated to the level of power he was arguably entitled to as Justinian’s cousin. And now there was the Cappadocian, who would not only revel in the death of his imperial persecutor but also, perhaps, be allowed to return to power.
He had at least confirmed that very few had had access to the empress-ladies-in-waiting, clergymen, a physician-none of whom appeared to have any reason to wish her dead. In fact, all had every reason to want her to continue to live, if only to keep their employment and remain free from possible accusations.
As he crossed the square to his house John found his thoughts instantly drawn away from these puzzles by concern for his daughter Europa and for Peter.
“Mithra,” he muttered. Was he getting old to be unable to concentrate on his work, distracted by family matters?
Hypatia answered his knock, tears in her reddened eyes.
“What is it, Hypatia? Peter?”
She wiped her eyes, nodded, and showed him a trembling smile.
“He’s cured, Lord Chamberlain! Completely himself again and furious his broken leg won’t let him jump out of bed. It’s as if one of his angels visited during the night.”
Chapter Forty-one
John didn’t believe in miracles. How could a smear of lamp oil on a forehead heal? Why would an elderly man who had journeyed to Egypt and obtained a flask of oil be cured while elsewhere in Constantinople other old men, who had never set foot far beyond the city gates, were dying?
He did not believe in omens either. Lightning had struck the column of Arkadios because it towered above anything else in that part of the city. The strike had not presaged the death of Theodora or calamity for the empire.
However, John the Cappadocian did believe in omens. It was said he consulted oracles and sorcerers. Was that why he had arranged to meet with the Lord Chamberlain at the column of Arkadios?
The Forum of Arkadios was comparatively small, populated with ancient statuary, a peculiar gathering of all but forgotten pagan gods and unfamiliar emperors.
John entered the forum warily. There were only a few passersby. The sun was still high enough to press the full weight of its heat down onto the open space.
John was not certain he could trust Anatolius’ word that he was not being sent into an ambush, and his lack of trust distressed him.
There was no sign of the Cappadocian.
Had John been tricked?
He walked toward the column. Constructed of dark green serpentine, it rose from a massive base of red granite. A continuous frieze winding around the column depicted the military triumphs of an emperor who, like Justinian, had never ventured onto the battlefield. A sculptor’s chisel could make a man a hero as readily as his own sword, and with considerably less risk.
A charred line ran down the side of the column. Where the charring ended, the pavement had cracked and exploded upward. Jagged pieces of masonry lay about, some at the forum’s far edge, the result of the lightning strike. Apparently city workers had been too busy with the imperial funeral to begin their cleanup. Those who claimed the top of the column had been sheared off or that Arkadios’ image had been reduced to a molten mass had exaggerated.
“Lord Chamberlain.”
The voice came to John clearly, yet there was no one nearby.
He looked up and made out a figure standing on the railed platform upon which sat the silver statue of Arkadios.
John went through the door in the base of the column and started up the spiral stairway inside. Shafts of light fell through narrow, scattered openings. The bright, intersecting lances created a confusion of brilliance and shadow on the steep, open stairs. John kept close to the wall, aware of his vulnerability.
No one lay in wait and at the end of his climb he was greeted by the corpulent figure of the Cappadocian. According to rumor, the Cappadocian’s oracular advisors had convinced him he would one day wear the robes of Augustus, but this afternoon he wore what might have been the clothing of a beggar, a shapeless brown garment. His broad-featured face was ruddy. He was tonsured, just as described by Pulcheria.
Looking past the Cappadocian John noticed something he had not seen from the ground. The lightning bolt had blasted away half of the platform. A length of railing dangled out into space, resembling the twisted metallic limb of a dead tree. The Cappadocian stood near the platform’s edge, seemingly unconcerned by the steep drop below.
“We won’t be overheard here,” John observed.
“If Theodora were still alive I would not be so sure of that,” the Cappadocian replied.
He might have been tonsured and humbly dressed but John saw the thick, loose lips of a debauchee and the small, glinting eyes of a rodent, a perfect image of the dissolute which monk ascetics inveighed against. Then again, John told himself, that was probably just a result of the man’s vile reputation coloring his features.
“You may have more to gain by Theodora’s death than anyone in the empire,” John said. “Justinian is convinced she was murdered. How long have you been in the city illegally?”
“Not long. Weeks.” The Cappadocian surveyed the forum below. “No armed men that I can see. You could have had me arrested, Lord Chamberlain.”
“I promised Anatolius I would not.”
The Cappadocian’s heavy lips curved into an expression between a smile and a sneer. “And you always keep your word, as everyone knows. But naturally I must be suspected of violence against the empress.”
“You were not until your presence in Constantinople came to my attention.”
“The fact I’ve been working in the palace kitchens will make me appear even more culpable. There’s no reason not to admit what I’ve been doing. You’d surely find out soon enough. I respect your competence.”
“I am surprised no one recognized you.”
“No one expects a humble, junior cook to be the monstrous tax collector.”
“Where have you been staying?”
“Oh, here and there. I’ve moved around.”
John felt a trickle of sweat snake down his neck. Exposed to the harsh sun, the platform might as well have been on fire. He placed a hand on the remnant of the metal railing. It was hot to the touch and wobbled alarmingly.
“Anatolius believes you decided to return here in the expectation Justinian would soon invite you back anyway, and you wanted to begin regaining properties you had lost.”
“That’s correct. Your friend is a very capable man. I knew his father well, and so I felt confident I could trust his son. I wished to have some legal matters dealt with before I resumed my duties.”
“You expect to resume your duties?”
“Why not? Justinian satisfied the mobs by removing me from the prefecture during the Nika riots, but a year lat
er I was back in charge.”
“You’ve been absent for seven years this time.”
“Only because Theodora was involved. Yes, Lord Chamberlain, I had every reason to kill her, and opportunity too, considering how I was employed.”
“Why tell me that?”
“Because I didn’t kill her. You’re a man of principle. When you discover I didn’t kill her you will be honest about it. You will do everything in your power to ensure I’m not executed for a crime I didn’t commit. If not for your efforts I’d be offered up as a scapegoat. There are plenty of people at court who hate me. I’m counting on you, Lord Chamberlain, to save my life.”
“You may be overestimating my influence with the emperor.”
“I hope not.”
The Cappadocian looked east. From this height Constantinople formed a panoramic complex beyond comprehension. Wherever the gaze fell were colonnaded streets, churches, tenements, squares, monuments, warehouses, mansions. Smoke rose from manufacturies in the Copper Quarter. To the north could be seen the long, narrow bay of the Golden Horn, to the east and south the Sea of Marmara. Above ground cisterns reflected a glare of sunlight. The Aqueduct of Valens cut across the hilly peninsula. At the tip of the city the Great Palace and its gardens could be made out, falling in terraces to the sea shore. Somewhere in the welter John’s own home could no doubt be seen if one were to search long enough.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” the Cappadocian said. “Imagine ruling it all.”
“Those of us who are not Justinian can only imagine.”
“But like his empress, he will not live forever. And who can tell, he may pine away prematurely now his beloved consort is gone. Not that any decent person would wish such a thing, you understand.”
John looked away from the scene and back at the Cappadocian, who was smiling to himself. “You can’t still harbor ambitions to the throne?”
“Why not?”
“You are one of the most hated men in the empire. The powerful hate the tax collector as much as the poor do.”
“And what does it mean that people hate you? It is a sign they envy you, fear you, admire you. Men always hate their betters, but in the end they follow them. I’m no different than you, Lord Chamberlain. I served Justinian. The prefecture was in disarray, ineffective, tied up in tradition. I changed that. I collected taxes that were due, secured the revenues Justinian needed to rebuild this city and recapture Italy. Those who were used to evading their taxes hated me, but who was at fault? Those who flaunted the law or the man who insisted they obey it? Who better served the emperor, the wealthy who balked at paying to restore the empire’s glory or the man who forced them to share in the enterprise that benefits us all? They said I was a thief. Naturally. Not to mention a glutton, a pervert, a libertine. Their enemies are always thieves, gluttons, perverts, and libertines.”
