by Mary Reed
“As I have been trying to tell you,” Felix was saying, “the senator will not be seeing anyone again. He is dead.”
Senator Balbinus abruptly ceased fulminating and his face settled into a frown. John noted the dark smudges under the eyes and the half-healed wound, a long scratch, running along one cheekbone.
“It’s true that we had our differences of opinion,” Balbinus said, “but still, I am very sorry to hear this most shocking news. A great loss to the senate and to the empire. But if I may inquire…”
“There will be an official announcement in due course,” said John. “And now tell me, senator, what business did you intend to conduct here at such an early hour?”
“It was of a personal nature.” Balbinus’ hand moved to the nascent scar on his cheekbone. Catching the glance exchanged between the other two men, he blustered on red-faced. “The streets become more unsafe every day. A couple of Blues set upon me within sight of the Chalke. The factions grow bolder by the hour. Where are those engaged to protect good citizens like me?”
“I’m sure those ruffians took to their heels when you unleashed your oratory at them,” snapped Felix, taking the senator’s question as a personal insult.
Balbinus ignored his remark. “Please extend my sincere condolences to his son. He is a most astute young man, for a poet.”
After Balbinus departed, Felix made as if to spit his disgust but looked at the artfully patterned tile floor and refrained. “There’s one who’ll obviously be happy to deal with the son rather than the father,” he said tartly.
“There are plenty of others like him,” observed John. “They might be surprised when the time comes.”
“I hope so,” sighed Felix. “But I wouldn’t bet on it. If I were still a betting man, that is.”
Chapter Eleven
It took longer than John might have guessed to examine Aurelius’ house in the brighter but no more revealing light of day. With the task completed, he went directly to the palace, where he was kept waiting for hours before being informed that the emperor was not available. Exhausted, John returned home. The short nap he intended to take turned into a death-like sleep that lasted until the next morning.
Despite his chagrin at such weakness, it did not matter because that day Justinian was still receiving no one. The emperor’s instructions were that all communications were to be conveyed to him through Theodora, who was also authorized to act in his stead on matters of urgency with his full knowledge and approval.
The elderly silentiary who recited this information gave John a toothless smirk. Both men knew very well that when Justinian was engrossed in theology he wouldn’t notice Satan squatting atop the dome of the Great Church. Although whether Theodora was likely to issue orders that would gain the emperor’s attention too late, was, John thought, an open question.
“I imagine that a number of officials have decided it is an excellent time to visit their country estates,” remarked John evenly after he received the news.
The silentiary chuckled. “Isn’t that always the case when the political weather changes? But as far as that goes, I’ve heard it said that heavenly fire is but a candle flame compared to the wrath of the empress.”
With a brooding sense of foreboding John made his way across the palace grounds, past deserted pavilions, the richly decorated houses of court dignitaries, and half bare flower beds waiting for summer to bring back their colorful displays of blooms. His destination was the Hormisdas Palace where, as the silentiary had informed him, Theodora was holding audience that morning.
The smoky corridors in the Hormisdas were as crowded and noisy as the city streets, and just as malodorous. Theodora had lived here with Justinian before he became emperor, but now the rambling building housed the empress’ collection of heretics.
No one could say whether the religious refugees sheltered there owed their temporary good fortune to the empress’ sympathy for the downtrodden, her tolerance for various beliefs, her political machinations or to simple perversity. What was certain was that Justinian was, as always, ready to indulge his wife’s whims. Thus, between the high ceilings and floral mosaic floors of rooms ringing with a babble of prayer, chanting, and disputation, fleshy bishops rubbed shoulders with their emaciated and hobbling lesser brethren.
John walked swiftly down a corridor on whose bright walls unfolded the progress of a tiger hunt. The striped fur of the stately beast blended with the lush foliage through which its hunters pursued it, the thick undergrowth concealing not just the tiger but the ever present danger it posed to those that sought to catch it. It was, John thought, a fitting decoration for one of the most dangerous buildings in the city, the more so as the tiger, endlessly pursued, yet remained free. Many laboring in the tangled warren that was Justinian’s court must surely envy it.
Passing under the elaborately carved lintel of the tall door at the far end of the corridor, John stepped into Theodora’s gilded audience hall. A wild-eyed man, clad only in a yellow loincloth, bowed away from Theodora’s elevated throne as John approached, almost colliding with him. The half-naked man gasped in terror and hastily stumbled out.
Theodora emitted a sharp laugh. “Jubal appears to believe that he’s still in the desert. He probably mistook you for a scorpion, Lord Chamberlain. How could he know you have no sting?”
“Highness, I had hoped the emperor would grant me an audience,” John replied, bowing his head to her.
“I regret that is not possible,” Theodora replied, an amused expression in her eyes. “But of course you must feel free to discuss matters with me as you would with him. That should not present a problem. You are granted audiences so often that such consultations will be second nature to you.” The scimitar of her smile wordlessly informed John that it would be extremely foolhardy for him to speak to her in as straightforward a manner as he did to the emperor. “And now tell me, what business of the empire is it that brings you here today?”
“In part it concerns my investigation of the three stylites who recently died so mysteriously.”
Before he was able to complete what he had intended to say, the empress swept past him in a rustle of stiffly embroidered garments and musky perfume. “I have matters to which I must attend elsewhere, Lord Chamberlain, but you may accompany me and tell me of your inquiries. Have they been successful in ascertaining the cause of those deaths?”
“Alas, I fear not,” John replied, following her along the corridor, past the tiger hunt.
“Then I assure you that you have nothing to say on the matter that would be of interest to the emperor.”
“I have also appointed the captain of the excubitors to assist the Prefect in this matter, highness. Between us we will uncover the answers, given time.”
“Time is a thing that the emperor may easily take from a man but something that, alas, even the emperor cannot have newly minted.”
Theodora lapsed into silence. As they followed a circuitous route through the crowded corridors, she occasionally bestowed an imperious nod or a few words of greeting. The Hormisdas had undergone extensive changes since she and Justinian had made it their home, with numerous wooden and plaster partitions haphazardly erected, creating small rooms for its new inhabitants while simultaneously turning much of the building into a confusing labyrinth.
Most of those residing here, being Monophysites, were fortunate to have such a sanctuary, John thought. As a practicing Mithran, he was interested in such theological debates because they shaped the political terrain across which he and the rest of Justinian’s court traveled. Nevertheless, he was not quite so dismissive of such beliefs as some. Anatolius, for example.
“When theologians start debating how exactly to cut up their deity’s nature they remind me of butchers arguing over the best way to carve a cow,” Anatolius had once rashly remarked, luckily far from imperial hearing. Justinian and his wife might disagree on theology but they would no doubt have been united in seeing blasphemy where Anatolius saw only wit.
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br /> John broached the matter on which he had wished to speak to Justinian. “You are doubtless aware that Senator Aurelius died very suddenly the night before last, highness?”
“The unfortunate incident has indeed come to my attention,” Theodora replied shortly. “The quaestor’s office examined his will this very morning. It is amazing how negligent some of these senators have been in regards to such matters of late. Such a shame for his son. He’s such a handsome boy, have you ever noticed, Lord Chamberlain?”
John was not certain whether the empress was commiserating with Anatolius over his loss or whether she was referring to defects in his father’s will. The quaestor’s office, it was increasingly rumored, had been finding many such defects in wills resulting in more than one estate passing by legal default into imperial possession.
Theodora bent down to address a few quick words to what appeared to be a bundle of rags lying untidily in a corner where the corridor branched into three. The bundle moved and a bony hand with mottled skin emerged to stroke the empress’ amethyst and pearl-studded shoe.
It was as well that all who dwelt in the Hormisdas enjoyed Theodora’s personal protection, John thought, for anyone who dared to touch her outside its walls, even in such an innocent fashion, would have been arrested immediately. Their execution, however, would not have been as swift, however much they begged for it.
“You see, Lord Chamberlain, how much our subjects love us?” Theodora remarked, removing a ring and pressing it into the dirty palm of the extended hand. The bony fingers closed over their treasure and the hand disappeared back into concealment.
Somewhere in the hot, overpopulated rooms around them, a hoarse voice began to recite verses, presumably scriptural in nature, in a near scream that hovered vulture-like above the general hubbub.
The empress continued on her way, entirely unperturbed by the unseemly tumult all around her. Perhaps it was not surprising, John thought with a measure of grudging respect. After all, she was a bearkeeper’s daughter and had lived as both an actress and a prostitute, which amounted to much the same professions. She would naturally be equally at home prowling these untidy, crowded corridors as attending a banquet in the imperial dining hall.
“There is little more I can do at present concerning the matter of the stylites,” John continued. “However, once I have further information from various informants I can resume those investigations. Until then I had hoped for the emperor’s gracious permission to devote my energies to looking into the death of Senator Aurelius.”
Theodora stopped abruptly and pinned John in her unwinking gaze. “Absolutely not, Lord Chamberlain. The emperor and I must have an explanation for these stylites’ deaths before this wretched heretic Michael uses them further to his advantage. After all, the Greens and Blues and whole legions of religious factions are not ready to riot in the streets over the death of your friend’s father, however regrettable a loss it is to him and to you.”
“But they may well be prepared to riot over the death of a girl who also died at Aurelius’ home that night, since it would appear that she was consumed by the same supernatural fire that claimed the stylites,” John responded. “No doubt this has also occurred to you, highness.”
“I have, of course, been informed of her death, and I fully expect the Michaelites will seek to take credit for it. However, I have dismissed the possibility as of little consequence.”
“Highness, I have asked myself how could there be no connection between her death and that of Aurelius, in the same house during the same hour? And then Aurelius was Justinian’s emissary to Michael, as was I myself. I am absolutely certain that it is all linked together and so by looking into these two latest deaths, I will gain insight into the others.”
“If the Michaelites wanted to murder Aurelius they would have done so by fire, wouldn’t they?” Theodora said impatiently. “And that being so, let us go further and ask ourselves why they would choose to demonstrate their supposed power by killing only a little whore nobody will miss? Concentrate on the dead stylites, Lord Chamberlain. Find out what or who killed them, for it was certainly not the hand of God. We wish for this Michael to be completely discredited. Only then will calm be restored to the streets.”
John bowed slightly. “I would not seek to confound your wishes, highness.”
“Your tone already does, it is so cold,” Theodora replied. “Anatolius was much warmer to me.”
John made no comment. Theodora was obviously toying with him by making the merest hint of such an indiscretion. Surely even Anatolius could not have become so thoughtlessly reckless as to covet the affections of the empress?
Theodora appeared to read his thoughts. Her scarlet-lipped smile bloomed again. “What would you know of the longings of the heart?” she asked rhetorically. “But to return to the matter under discussion,” she went on after a slight pause, “I omitted to point out one thing to you, Lord Chamberlain, which is that in your negotiations with Michael your shortcomings will serve us well.”
John was silent.
The empress looked disappointed. “I have been told that Michael is one such as yourself,” she said, giving a cold smile as John’s cheekbones flushed red. “So now that Senator Aurelius is gone, you alone will continue these discussions with Michael until you obtain such evidence as is needed to expose him for the fraudulent blasphemer that he is. And at that time the only negotiations involved will be his futile pleas for his miserable life.”
“I will do my utmost, highness, but I feel I must point out that I am not the seasoned diplomat Senator Aurelius was.”
“But like Michael and unlike poor Aurelius, you are a eunuch. I expect you and Michael have the measure of each other.”
Chapter Twelve
Unlike Justinian, Anatolius finally agreed to speak to John. He would not, however, emerge from the study in which his father had died.
As John entered the room, Anatolius raised his head. His drawn face and red-rimmed eyes formed a sad contrast to the uncaring riot of cheerful godlings going about their merry business on the painted walls.
John sat down and the two friends looked at each other in silence for a long time.
Finally Anatolius spoke. “Well, then, is it not ironic that Fortuna would grant my father’s wish in such a strange fashion?”
His voice sounded lifeless, the result, thought John, of that freezing numbness that the kindly gods send to the bereaved for the first few days after a death, lest the too heavy burden of grief snap mind and spirit under its inescapable oppression.
There was nothing he felt he could say to help Anatolius cope with his loss. He could only listen to him and in that way permit his friend to give rein to his feelings. Public displays of these were not considered manly, it was true, but Anatolius, newly orphaned, had not yet learnt the emotional control which circumstances and years at court had thrust upon John.
“Just a day or so ago,” Anatolius went on, tears pooling in his bloodshot eyes, “I sat in that very chair you’re in, John, listening to my father talk about respectability and how he wished I would become more responsible, before I brought danger upon him and others.” He buried his wan face in his hands. “And I brought his death here,” he said, his voice muffled. “Now he is gone and I have gained all the respectability and responsibility he could have wished, because now I am the head of the household. If only I wasn’t! If only he were still alive!”
John felt moisture seeping into his own eyes in sympathy with the grief-stricken man before him, who was now valiantly trying to swipe tears discreetly away with his knuckles.
“Yes, Anatolius,” he replied quietly. “It is a fact that, by virtue of his being your father, he was always part of your world. And now he is gone, and that world is changed forever. It can never be the same. I think that now you are bitterly regretting all your hasty words to him, your disrespect. Wishing, too, that you had told him you loved him more often than you did.”
Anatolius looked at his fri
end in a wondering fashion.
John nodded. “That is exactly how I felt when my father died,” he said, “although I would never speak of it outside this room. Although it’s hard to believe now, time will smooth out the jagged edges of the pain in your heart, just as it has since your mother died.”
“There is not a day passes that I do not think of her, John,” Anatolius admitted, “although I rarely talk about her.”
“That is the way of it,” John nodded. “We speak little of the departed, even though our memories of them are our only comfort once they are gone. And as to your father, he was a good man and I know you will conduct yourself well when the time comes for the funeral rites. I’d be happy to assist you with those, if you wish.”
“Thank you,” Anatolius said listlessly, leaning his chin on his hand and staring down at the inlaid skull peering up at him from the desk top.
“But,” John went on, “one thing, Anatolius. You must not blame yourself for his death. A senator, indeed any man, always has enemies of whom he is not aware. It is part of life. Nothing that you did could possibly have caused his death.”
Anatolius looked up, a flash of anger in his tired eyes. “But I did, John. He gave me free hand with the banquet. I sent out the invitations. Therefore I must take the blame.”
John sighed, realizing it was too soon for him to attempt to persuade his friend that his reasoning was faulty.
“And the odd thing is,” Anatolius continued, hunching his shoulders and wrapping his arms around himself as if he was cold, despite the warmth of the room, “I was very careful not to invite persons whose presence might embarrass or distress my father. Senator Balbinus, for example. There’d been bad blood between them for some time. And there were one or two others, but you see, there must have been one that I somehow overlooked, the bastard who ate and drank and laughed with us and then murdered…” His voice trailed away and he looked down in dumb misery.
