by Mary Reed
Hypatia leaned further out over the wall, enjoying the freshening breeze. As they both fell silent, she became aware of the press of the crowd behind them, the acrid tang of fear in the air, their tense voices.
Her companion finished his apple and tossed the core over the sea wall.
The fiery hand of God descended to the waters.
There was a brilliant flash that hurt their eyes, followed by a line of crackling, leaping flames, snaking out of the mouth of the Bosporos and into the Golden Horn. A spitting, fizzling roar, the sound of a jug of water thrown onto a hot brazier, accompanied it but so loud that it echoed back off the dome of heaven.
The fire leapt greedily upwards, taller than the height of two men. Ships floating at anchor and the cluttered docks at which they rode were suddenly alive with running figures starkly illuminated by the advancing wall of flames.
The roar of the approaching conflagration formed a terrible duet with the screams from the crowd and the men below.
Heat slapped Hypatia’s face. She blinked, her eyes dazzled. Steam gouted from the water, swirling in wild, hellish shapes as if a demon army were pouring up out of the underworld. Ships caught fire as the inferno spread its deadly tendrils along the shoreline. A sail burst into flames, ripped loose from its blazing mast and came spinning upward, a wayward spark in the maelstrom.
A choking cloud of thick smoke rolled into their faces, mercifully obscuring the carnage below, but the screaming could still be heard.
A man pushed by them and climbed onto the sea wall.
“Look,” he screamed. “It’s coming for us. It’s coming for us!”
He flung himself over the edge, his thin wail trailing away as he disappeared into the fiery hell below.
Behind them the crowd was running, screaming, pushing to get away. Belatedly aware of her dangerous position, Hypatia struggled to move back from the sea wall before she fell or was pushed over it. A heavyset man knocked her sideways as he fled. She went down to her knees, dropping her basket. Another man kicked her back down as she struggled to get up, shouting obscenities at her. She screamed, afraid she would be trampled in the general panic.
A muscular hand latched firmly onto one wrist and she was pulled upright, sobbing.
“When you get home tonight, lady,” her blonde bodyguard informed her, shouting to be heard above the noise of the panicked crowd, “tell your family that your life was saved at the cost of but one apple. I think they’ll agree that a better bargain could not be found in the entire city.”
Chapter Nineteen
Anatolius burst out of the study, disheveled and as pale as a demon. The young servant half asleep on the floor by the doorway scrambled to his feet in alarm.
“Simon,” Anatolius said rapidly, “I am going out shortly. Ensure that a watch is kept every hour of the day. Under no circumstances is anyone to be admitted until I return except John or Felix.” His voice was hoarse, his eyelids red.
“Master,” Simon stammered, “the streets were filled with rioting all night.” He looked around in sleepy confusion. “It is still night.”
“I have business that can’t wait on the sun.”
“But…”
“You have your orders. Besides, we’re still alive and the house isn’t a smoking ruin yet, so it would seem the Prefect’s men are containing the worst of it.”
“But your father?”
“His rites can wait! I’ll see him avenged before they are held, for now I know the murderer. I intend to take care of this matter myself. Even if the authorities caught up with the cowardly bastard…well, justice is a fickle thing. Besides, I’m looking forward to blessing my blade with his blood.”
“Justice is the Prefect’s work, master. Shall I fetch him?”
“No, Simon. This is something that I must attend to myself. My father’s shade will be proud of me!”
The sun had barely risen above the rooftops as Peter hastened to open the heavy nail-studded door. Had John finally returned home or did the thunderous knocking echoing up the stairs announce some terrible explanation for his master’s absence?
He was shocked to find Madam Isis standing outside. A bloodied Darius loomed over her with a large sack dangling from one huge hand.
“Let us in,” Isis begged. “We’re not expected but we’ve had no time to arrange better quarters.”
Peter admitted them, pity for their state overtaking his umbrage at Isis’ unwitting insult to his master’s house. After all, she was acquainted with his master in a perfectly chaste manner. And he could hardly refuse refuge to one of the master’s friends. Still…
Isis looked very different than she had when he’d seen her passing by Senator Aurelius’ kitchen on the night of the fatal banquet. Then she had been perfumed and dressed in fine silks. Now her clothing was ripped and her unpinned hair fell in a tangle over plump shoulders.
“There’s violence everywhere,” Darius muttered. He limped as he crossed the hall.
“And the master has been away for two nights now,” Peter replied heavily, ushering them upstairs to the kitchen.
Darius uttered an oath to some deity whose name Peter did not recognize. He pretended not to hear.
“The master’s guest was up half the night, looking out the windows,” Peter went on, “trying to guess from the smoke and glare where the worst rioting was breaking out. What’s been happening? How are the streets?”
Darius shoved the sack under the kitchen table as he sat down. “Yesterday,” he began, “we heard some confused tales about an attack on the Michaelites. First Michael was supposed to be dead. Then the attackers had been driven off by heavenly hosts. Nobody knows exactly what happened except that much blood was spilled.”
Peter made the sign of his religion. “This is dreadful, dreadful,” he said in a shaking voice.
“Not as dreadful as what happened next,” Darius told him. “The Prefect had been managing to keep things more or less under control, with assistance from the military, that is. But last night the Bosporos caught fire, just as predicted. It was the hand of God, so they say. Naturally the streets immediately went up in flames, except of course that was the work of a thousand human hands.”
Isis wiped her eyes. Kohl had streaked darkly down her cheeks. Despite his disapproval of her profession, Peter found himself asking about the safety of her employees.
“My girls?” Isis said. “They’ve all gone to their special friends. They’re safe enough for now.”
“All but one. All but Adula,” added Darius mournfully.
Peter noticed the bruise rising in imperial purple on Isis’ cheekbone. Her ears were bloodied. Intercepting his stare, she fingered one ear gingerly. “Darius suffered worse. If it wasn’t for him, we’d never have escaped with our lives. He’s a hero.”
Slumped on his stool, Darius grunted disagreement. “A hero? My job is to guard your door, not to flee for my life with you.”
Isis reached across the table to lay her small hand across Darius’ bloodied knuckles. “No one could have done more than you did, Darius. These zealots have opened a Pandora’s box with their damnable threats and holy fires.”
“But surely they would not engage in violence?” Peter was genuinely shocked.
“Perhaps not,” admitted Darius, “but there are always scum ready to take advantage, skulking about the back ways and waiting in the shadows. Too cowardly to fight but brave enough to rob and steal the weak while others are engaged upon matters of war.”
“And unfortunately that sort always survives to go back to its lair and see another day,” Isis put in gloomily, straightening her torn clothing.
Peter thought about John again, gone for two days. He tried to direct his attention to other concerns. “What of your house?” he asked.
Isis rubbed her face, smearing kohl further. “Just after I sent the last of my girls away, Darius and I were discussing where we could find sanctuary for the next few days. We should have decided that already, of course, but I
had arranged for my house to be guarded by some Blues.” She shook her head. “Well, Peter-it is Peter, isn’t it? — you may wonder at that, for it’s true their faction may lose its running battle with the Greens, but you have even odds that they won’t. So your property has a good chance of being safe, at least.”
Peter said that that seemed a reasonable assumption, given the circumstances.
“At any rate,” Isis went on, “I was collecting up a few things to take with me as we discussed where to go, but a gang of ruffians broke in and surprised us.”
“We shouldn’t have sent the other guards away before the Blues arrived, madam,” Darius pointed out.
“Perhaps not, but I was thinking of their safety rather than mine,” Isis replied. “But Darius kept the bastards busy while I fled out the back door. After they had finished beating him, they threw him out after me. I crept back, and found to my relief-not to mention my surprise-that he was still alive. So we took to our heels. Fortunately, the guards at the Chalke had seen me often enough under happier circumstances. They let us into the palace grounds and so, here we are. Now you see why I say Darius is a hero.”
Darius smiled wanly. “Yes, Peter, I was extremely heroic while being beaten, just as madam said.”
“You must have been outnumbered ten to one,” Isis said. “And, Peter, it seems by the time they’d finished with him, they’d had enough fun for the time being and I’d apparently been quite forgotten. And lucky that was for me, since you could easily have run away and left me to their mercy, or what there was of it.” The woman shuddered.
Darius declared firmly that a man did not desert his family. “Or,” he added quickly, “his employer. And what do you think that we have here, Peter?” He nodded at the sack under the table.
Peter had no notion what one might try to save from a house such as Isis’. “Candlesticks? Statues? Jewelry?”
At the last word Isis let out a strangled sob and dabbed afresh at her eyes. “Jewelry? We had no time to gather up my jewelry. I even lost the earrings I was wearing. Some bastard accosted us in the street and ripped them right out of my ears. They were my favorites too, understated but elegant. Gold wire amphorae with a pearl inside each one. And now they’re probably decorating some low class tart’s filthy ears.” The irony of her words struck her and she gave a small, snuffling laugh.
Peter noticed for the first time that her throat was marred by the red imprint of splayed fingers.
“Oh, dear,” Isis went on, wiping away tears of mixed merriment and grief, “what a fool I am to worry about earrings at a time like this. But then again, no doubt some will be vastly amused to hear that I, the owner of the one of the richest houses of its kind in Constantinople, fled from it with only a sack and the clothes on my back, exactly what I had when I first arrived here from Alexandria. And that was longer ago than I care to remember.”
“Christians do not mock the afflicted,” Peter noted stiffly.
Isis looked unconvinced. “I’m glad to hear that. You may be asking yourself what I managed to save? Well, there’s two silver dishes and the djeds I brought with me when I came to the city.”
Peter murmured sympathetically, wondering what a djed might be. Something barbaric, no doubt.
“And,” Isis snuffled, “more importantly, my silver fruit knife and…” Tears began to roll down her bruised face, “…and an apple. So these are the only things all my years of labor have gained me-two silver dishes, a knife and an apple.”
Trying to think of some words of comfort, Peter hesitated and then asked awkwardly, “But surely your house at least is safe, if not its contents?”
Isis could not stop the flow of tears.
Peter looked helplessly toward Darius, who had turned away to stare out the window as if he could not bear to look at his distraught employer.
“They set fire to the house, of course,” he muttered to Peter. “As we ran for our lives, we looked back and saw the flames.”
Peter had scarcely returned to the kitchen from escorting the weeping Isis to a bedroom to rest when a blessedly familiar rap echoed in the entrance hall.
He hurried downstairs as fast as his aging legs could carry him, throwing the stout outer door wide open to welcome his employer home. The fear and anxiety of the past two days was forgotten, a heavy weight lifted from his bent back-or at least for the short time it took to register that he was admitting not a well-dressed court dignitary but a haggard man, wearing a filthy tunic reeking of smoke and the gutter.
John looked at Peter with eyes red-rimmed with fatigue. “Please heat water and find me clean clothing, Peter,” he said quietly. “But before you see to that, I would like some wine.” Noting the other’s aghast expression, a smile skittered across his weary face. “You are not to worry. We will be quite safe here.”
“Master, that is as well. Madam Isis and the man Darius arrived not long ago, fleeing for their lives. The poor things.” He hesitated. “I wasn’t certain what to do, but, well, I thought you would wish them be admitted.”
John secured the door, telling his servant that he had indeed done what John would have wished and concluding by remarking that doubtless Philo was having plenty to say to the new arrivals.
“He went out not long ago,” Peter said reluctantly. “He said he had an appointment.”
“At this hour? In these conditions?” John was extremely angry, Peter realized, despite his even tone. Not that he blamed him.
“The meeting was arranged for the first hour after dawn, he said. He claimed that the situation had calmed by the time he had to leave.”
“Of course, that’s exactly what he would say if he wanted to go out badly enough.” John’s shoulders had sagged at the news. “Keeping Philo from placing himself in harm’s way is proving more difficult than undoing the Gordian knot of these murders. Unfortunately I cannot emulate Alexander and solve the mystery by slicing it in half, since the solution is concealed somewhere in its coils.” He muttered a curse. “Did the old fool mention where he was going?”
Peter was shocked to hear his master speak of Philo in that fashion, and valiantly strove to conceal it. “Opposite the Chalke, it seems. He claimed that the unrest wouldn’t be allowed to approach so near to the palace.”
“A forlorn hope, considering the mob was all but battering its way through the Chalke not that long ago. And the rioting is all over the city. There’s no pattern at all, you never know what’s waiting for you around the next corner. It took me most of the night to make my way home. At times the situation was so dangerous that I had to take shelter and wait for my chance to move on.”
“Come and sit in the kitchen, master,” Peter said. “You look exhausted. You need to rest.”
“Not yet, Peter. I’ll have to go out and bring Philo back before he gets hurt. Thank Mithra Anatolius has sequestered himself, or he’d probably be wandering around unarmed in the thick of it, gathering impressions for an epic verse to rival the Iliad.”
Darius appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Lord Chamberlain! I couldn’t help overhearing. Will you allow me to rescue your straying guest? We came through the Chalke not long ago and he wasn’t there then. He’s probably wandering around the Mese. Very foolish if you ask me. You’re dead on your feet and as for me, well, if anyone’s looking for a fight, I’m more than ready to accommodate them.” The smile that broadened his bloodied mouth was not a pleasant one, despite his light tone.
“You seem to be making a habit of rescuing Philo, Darius,” John observed. “Very well. I’d welcome your help. Since surely even Philo has the wisdom to stay fairly close to the palace, he shouldn’t be too hard to find. Now, is there news of Felix?”
Peter shook his head wordlessly.
John leaned his folded arms on the kitchen table, nestled his head down on them and immediately fell asleep. Happy to see his master safely home, Peter charitably overlooked the fact that John’s filthy hair was straggling on to his well scrubbed table. That coul
d be set to rights later.
The elderly servant stirred up the brazier as quietly as possible. Honey cakes, he thought, now I wonder if the master would like a honey cake when he wakes up? Of course, he did not normally indulge in sweet confections, but who knew what he had been eating in the past couple of days? By the look of him, not very much.
But as soon as Darius got back with the errant Philo and sanity and order were restored within the household, they could all retire and have a good night’s rest. Yes, it would be good to sleep snugly abed. If they could slumber at all, that was, what with the sound of distant and not so distant violence beating at their windows. It was quieter now but, having spent many years in the city, Peter fully expected the disorder to break out with renewed force when night again fell and darkness cloaked evil deeds.
As if summoned by the very thought, the ugly undercurrent of sound that had droned all day long swelled louder into a brief cacophony of shouts and cries before falling back into a sullen muttering. Peter glanced uneasily out. Here and there columns of smoke marked another house or workshop looted and set on fire. It was as if the city, having convinced itself it was next to suffer, was not content to cower while waiting for heavenly fire to descend upon it, but rather was undertaking to cleanse itself voluntarily.
He busied himself setting the last few honey cakes out on a platter and filled the wine jug as he pondered how he would feed this sudden influx of house guests, not having ventured to market that morning. He could not very well instruct an excubitor from the barracks across the way to go out and ask the first market stall holder he found to demonstrate his allegiance to Justinian by provisioning the Lord Chamberlain’s household.
