by Mary Reed
He was just about to leave when Felix appeared.
“I hoped you’d be here, John.”
The excubitor looked pensive. John inquired about his meeting with the emperor.
Felix summarized the conversation. “I think the hardest fate for a military man like Justin is dying by degrees far from the battlefield. I hope neither of us suffers that fate. Tell me, John, what is your favorite tree?”
John said nothing. He expected to detect the reek of wine about the excubitor, but there was none. “You’ve come here to ask me about trees?”
“Well, if you understand…but if you don’t…”
John realized what he was really being asked. He offered Felix a thin smile. “I suppose I would have to say the fig.”
Felix visibly relaxed. “It is said the fig is sacred to certain proscribed deities.”
“To Mithra, you mean?”
“To Mithra, yes. You called upon Him when we were attacked, my friend. You mention any number of deities and personages when you become angry, and in most unflattering terms. You speak Egyptian well, don’t you?”
John looked at Felix, bemusement in his expression.
“Then I suggest you curse people in Egyptian henceforth, at least in public. It might be safer for you. For now, come with me.”
***
The shadowy mithraeum the two men entered was familiar to John, even though he had never set boot into this hidden underground temple situated on the palace grounds. He had seen several mithraea in his time, the first one in far-off, misty Bretania. This place of worship could have been any of them.
To reach it, he and Felix had passed through a doorway set deep inside the armory behind the excubitors’ barracks and then progressed through a series of subterranean corridors that reminded John uncomfortably of the path he had taken from the imperial dungeons to light and air only a few days before.
Finally they reached a stout door. An armed excubitor swung it open and they stepped into the mithraeum.
Felix kept his hand on his sword and a close watch on John. Passing between the statues of Mithra’s twin torchbearers, Cautes and Cautopates, flanking the entrance, John bowed his head to the bas-relief set at the far end of the low-ceilinged room. It was illuminated by the shifting light of a small fire on the altar before it.
A man wearing the dark mask of a raven stepped forward to greet them.
“Welcome, brothers in Mithra,” he said.
“This is John, a fellow adept,” Felix replied.
“I am accepted as such?”
Felix grinned. “Had you not given homage to Lord Mithra, you would not have lived long enough to tell anyone about it,” he said. Turning to their raven-headed companion, he added, “The ceremony will begin soon?”
“As soon as the Father and the initiate arrive.”
John glanced around the narrow space. A dozen or so men, some wearing the masks of their Mithraic rank, stood talking. Torchlight threw strange shadows across the walls, flickering across the sacred scene behind the altar where Mithra, cloak flying in an eternal wind, had plunged His dagger into the Great Bull, releasing its blood to gush forth to create animals and vegetation.
The new arrivals sat down at the end of the low bench running along the right-hand wall as their fellow worshippers took their seats both beside them and on the bench against the opposite wall. A hush settled over the cave-like temple, the only sounds the crackling of the sacred fire and the torches set in brackets.
John gazed at the holy figure of Lord Mithra. He had found praying to his god calmed his mind when it persisted in twisting and turning in on itself, the Furies raging back and forth inside his head until he felt it would split open.
The familiar scene depicted Mithra, Lord of Light, and to him he prayed nightly for acceptance of the terrible fate his rashness had brought upon him.
There was a clash of cymbals and those assembled stood as the Father entered the mithraeum. Behind him walked the man to be initiated, naked, his eyes covered in a red cloth tied tightly at the back of his head, his hands bound around with entrails and stout rope. His two burly escorts, wearing masks whose flowing manes identified them as adepts holding the rank of Lion, guided him to the altar where the Father waited.
The Lions pushed the initiate down on his knees and stepped a few paces back as the Father raised his hands in prayer.
“Lord of Light,” he intoned, “we assemble tonight to admit a new follower, Petros, to Thy service and to honor Thee, Slayer of the Bull and Guardian of all who serve Thee.”
One of the Lions who had escorted the initiate to the altar stepped forward, drawing his sword with a whisper of oiled metal. The blindfolded man turned his head toward the sound and then back toward the altar, coughing in smoke drifting from its fire.
Looking down, the Father addressed the kneeling initiate.
“You are a soldier and have fought for the empire and seen the aftermath of battle, when Mithra’s ravens come to cleanse the field and escort the souls of the faithful up His seven-runged ladder. Those who know not the mysteries of Mithra call His sacred bird carrion, but if you complete the ordeal then you will become a member of the first rank, a Corax, named for that very bird.”
Petros nodded silently.
“It is difficult indeed to live the life that Lord Mithra demands of His followers,” the Father went on, “for He demands all those He accepts to be honorable, chaste and obedient. Therefore, the adept guards his honor, does not defile himself or others, and never refuses aid to another follower. Above all, he loves the Lord of Light.”
The Father paused and turned his head in the direction of the Lion with the drawn sword as he continued sternly, “Acceptance is not easily gained. First, you must die.”
As he spoke, the Lion’s sword sliced down and laid open the initiate’s shoulder. The man swayed, but remained kneeling. He made no sound although his fists clenched the slippery entrails tied around them more firmly, their dark drippings running down onto his bare knees. A second sweep down of the sword and blood was running down his back.
Still he made no sound.
“It is well done,” the Father said approvingly. “But mark this well, Petros. If you betray your brothers in Mithra, your end will bring only oblivion, for you will be forever barred from climbing Mithra’s ladder to live with Him in heaven.”
Turning to the altar, he picked up a small bowl set beside the sacred fire.
“Remember too that in all things a Mithran is discreet and speaks not of his knowledge to anyone but Mithrans,” he instructed Petros.
The Lion bent forward and forced open the initiate’s mouth with the bloodstained point of his sword, cutting Petros’ tongue.
“And as the blood flowing from you symbolizes both the death of your old life and your rebirth, not of woman but into the care of the Lord of Light, then so too this…” The Father dipped a spoon of honey from the bowl and placed into the man’s mouth. Most of it dribbled out, mixed with bloody saliva. Sufficient remained for Petros to swallow as the Father completed the initiation ritual, by pouring another spoonful of honey onto Petros’ head as he continued, “…anoints you to silence and sweetens your soul, purifying it so that it is acceptable to Lord Mithra.”
John, as all the adepts present, recalled the salty-sweet taste of honey and blood when he, too, had undergone the ordeal of initiation.
“Take off the blindfold!” the Father ordered.
Blinking rapidly, Petros looked around when the blindfold was removed. After a quick glance down at his shoulder, he looked up at the Father, who now displayed the bloodied sword to him.
“This was the instrument of your death,” the Father said, “and now you cast off your old life—” a quick, dexterous slice of the sword removed entrails and rope from the new Raven’s hands “— along with these, the entanglements of the old life. You are now reborn to serve Lord Mithra in the rank of Raven.”
The new Mithran stood and was embraced by the Father. A cheer rang out as Petros was formally presented to the assembly, who now began to sing exultantly, praise rising to mingle with the smell of smoke in a heady mixture that intoxicated without wine.
John raised his voice with the rest, joyous to be able to worship his god in proper fashion for the first time in several years.
Lord of Light, we worship Thee
Thou art our strength, our life, our god
Protect us on the battlefield
Take us to Thee when we die
Lord of Light, we honor Thee
Thou art our hope, our shield, our sun
May we serve Thee long and well
Bring us to Thee when we die
Lord of Light, we follow Thee
Thou art our father, ruler, friend
And when our earthly race is o’er
Raise us to Thee when we die
Petros was handed a tunic and, having clothed himself and wiped blood from his chin, seated himself near the altar as the Lions distributed jugs of wine and platters of bread.
A short while later, Felix, passing a wine jug to John, asked, “So you were a military man?”
“For a short time,” John admitted, “I was a mercenary.”
“Explains your prowess with the blade, for a start,” Felix said, around a mouthful of bread. “Not to mention how you handled that business with the boy. I was in the army myself before I joined the excubitors. Everyone in my company was a Mithran. That’s how I came to be an adept.” He stopped and looked at John expectantly.
“And you, John,” he asked, when his companion said nothing, “how did you find Lord Mithra?”
“It was another man who found Mithra, really.” John looked into his wine. He could not make out the bottom of his cup through the dark liquid.
“A friend of mine, a fellow mercenary, was a Mithran,” he went on. “He spoke to me about it. I was initiated. Then he died. Drowned in a swollen stream. That was in Bretania.”
John took a gulp of wine. He did not like to talk about the past and the person he had been. “There was some comfort,” he continued, “in our belief that we go on to another life after this one ends, but I really began to think about Mithra only after the young mercenary that I was had also died.”
“You have found some comfort then?”
“Comfort? Every morning, because I open my eyes again, I believe Lord Mithra has ordered me to continue living, and so I do. But as to you, Felix. Have you been long at court?”
“Not that long,” Felix replied. “It’s still a bit strange, to say the least. After years spent campaigning, guarding an emperor is quite different from chasing barbarians along the frontier. For one thing, here enemies are not hiding behind trees or in thickly wooded gullies. In Constantinople you’re far more likely to see them out in broad daylight, walking in procession and covered in silks and jewels.”
John, thinking of Theodora, agreed.
“It’s all too subtle for a simple man like me,” Felix continued. “Intrigues and plots and poisons and loyalties shifting every time the wind changes. Just think, John, in their own way, half the city wear masks of one sort or another. For most, including lowly folk like us, there are enemies everywhere.”
“Especially for a slave?” John asked.
“Especially for a slave that someone in a position of power decides knows too much or asks too many awkward questions.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
John slipped away from the Great Palace just after dawn as a bronze sun climbed through the forest of crosses covering the rooftops of the city. He left long before he was scheduled to meet Felix to discuss their next step, for he guessed that the excubitor would not approve of his desire to warn Anna of the danger in which her father was placing himself—and her.
Ironically, now that they shared the bond of Mithran brotherhood it appeared less likely than ever that John and Felix would be able to cooperate effectively. When John had related his conversations with Dominica and Fortunatus, Felix had immediately dismissed John’s theory about the work of art’s connection to Hypatius’ murder.
“As you just admitted, John,” Felix had said, “neither Dominica nor Fortunatus has suffered for their involvement. So now you have investigated the matter and that’s the end of it.”
“Neither has been attacked, but we still have had three deaths.”
“Three unrelated deaths of people from totally different classes,” Felix pointed out.
“But linked by their involvement with the project,” John persisted.
“Consider, John,” Felix had replied. “How many people can you contrive to connect to that wretched statue? Let’s see, there’s the carter who transported it. What about the owner of the ship that carried the marble here, or the ship’s captain? What of all those brawny fellows on Proconnesus who hauled the marble to the ship or cut it out of the earth, for that matter. What of the men of law who drew up the agreement to buy the marble? We mustn’t overlook all the ecclesiastical officials who approved its placement in the Great Church! Would they include Palamos? The Patriarch? For that matter, what about—”
John had held up his hand. “Enough. I see your point. You think it is just coincidence.”
“Exactly. This conspiracy against Justinian, though, now there’s something concrete, if not marble. We must venture down that avenue.”
John had all but reached the same conclusion. From what Fortunatus had told him about Opimius it appeared, even to John, that the murder could have political ramifications, just as Justinian feared. He was still not prepared to accept that it had been politically motivated, or did not have something to do with the sculpture. The connection between the dead and the Christ figure continued to tug at his mind. He should at least speak to Dio.
Whoever the murderer might be, Senator Opimius’ intrigues had definitely placed his daughter in danger, he thought. A cloud of gulls rose noisily from the almost deserted street, leaving a few feathers drifting in his path. No, Felix would not have accompanied him to Opimius’ house. He doubtless would have said it was both reckless and foolish and ordered him to abandon the notion.
By the time John arrived at his destination he had concluded that Felix would have been right. After all, what would Anna be able to do if she were alerted to the danger? If she took any action at all it might be one that was rash. And a visit from him would not remain a secret from Opimius for very long.
Anna’s safety lay in finding the murderer. Her father was not the villain, of that John was certain.
From the street Opimius’ mansion gave no hint of the luxury within or of the spacious garden lying behind. The building appeared nothing more than a nondescript box masked by a heavy, metal-banded street door. A few narrow windows interrupted its second story.
Was there movement behind one of those windows?
John suddenly feared that Lady Anna might see him and run out to meet him.
He ducked down the alley beside the house.
If Opimius noticed him lurking around he’d almost certainly send for the Gourd’s men. Stamping down the narrow way John muttered a rich variety of curses, mostly called down on the thick head of Opimius. As he emerged into the next street he realized that he had been declaring his opinion of the senator to the world. It was fortunate that here at least there seemed to be only a few seabirds to hear his tirade.
Perhaps, on reflection, Felix’s odd suggestion that if he must curse in public he should do so in Egyptian was a better one that he had originally thought. Yes, John decided, he should certainly practice doing so. Given his opinions of everyone from Justin downward it would turn out to be more sparing to delicate ears, not to mention saving his neck from the murderous caress of a sharp axe.
He considered returning to the palace. Felix had made it plain he wanted to continue their original line of investigation. While John had to admit it seemed the most sensible cour
se at present, nevertheless he could not shake the strong feeling that the three deaths were connected.
This indecision was unusual for him. His mind was in a turmoil and at a time when it was most important he should think clearly. He willed himself to reason things out.
What should he do next? As it happened he was as close to the address Fortunatus had given him for the sculptor’s studio as he was to the palace. That decided it, then. He should visit Dio.
***
The sculptor’s residence nestled within an enclave behind the Domninus, north of where that colonnaded thoroughfare intersected the Mese, in an area populated by bakers, metal workers, and artisans.
An archway leading from the Domninus admitted John to a courtyard around which stood tiny shops selling glassware, jewelry, dyed goods and furniture. The sound of hammering, the thud of mallet on chisel, and the smell of sawdust, all gave evidence of workshops behind the shop fronts. Blankets, draped to air at open windows punctuating the upper story of the enclosure, disclosed the presence of residences.
John noticed several premises displaying marble pieces at their doors, but his eye was drawn to one emporium. Over its entrance loomed a huge, carved lintel. The doorway itself was surrounded by small squares and rectangles of marble, wood, metals, painted plaster, and mosaic chips, each repeating in miniature form the single word chiseled deeply into the lintel: Signs.
Curiously, however, the sign-maker’s sign did not announce his name to prospective clients.
The proprietor, a red-faced man, appeared in the doorway and smiled expectantly as John approached.
“Good morning, sir,” he said jovially. “What can I do to help you? Do you seek a sign for your business premises? A plaque announcing your name and profession?”
John wondered what he would do with a bronze plaque engraved with “John, Slave.” Perhaps, he thought ruefully, he could wear it around his neck.
“Let me guess what you will want emblazoned on your sign.” The man turned his head to one side and squinted hard at John. “I can always tell the professions of my clients. Tall fellow, aren’t you? Little trace of calluses on your hands, I see. By your looks Greek perhaps? And you have the bearing of an aristocrat, sir. Definitely from the palace.”
