An Empire for Ravens

by Eric Mayer

  “Never met him before.”

  “Had you ever seen him before?” John wanted to establish whether Junius might have been in the company of a burly German with a big beard, but this time the leathery ancient disappointed him.

  “Never saw him until the Goth attack.”

  “But you’re certain his name was Junius?”

  “Only reason I know is I heard someone cry out ‘Get Junius to the hospital’ when he went down.”

  “So he was carried away to the hospital?”

  “To the morgue more likely, with that arrow in his throat.”

  “Which one is Junius?” The old man with the parchment skin stretched taut over his skull looked out over the crowd of wounded lying on straw pallets covering the floor of the long room.

  The big, broad-faced youngster at his side nervously consulted a wax tablet. “There, in the corner, if I’m not mistaken.”

  The refectory of an empty monastery had been turned into a hospital following the Goth onslaught. As the two men picked their way through the pallets, hands grasped feebly at their robes and voices cried out for aid. The air smelled of death.

  “General Diogenes appreciates your agreeing to aid us, Martyrus,” said the young man. “We badly need someone with medical skills.”

  “His Holiness was happy to release me from my duties to help tend to his flock, Decius. But I am an herbalist. It has been many years since I assisted at an infirmary and now with these hands…but I can advise you as you proceed.”

  Decius glanced around as if searching for an escape route. “I was taking instruction from the garrison’s surgeon. He collapsed this morning. Been going without rest dealing with casualties. He insists this man Junius requires an immediate amputation. Life and death, he said.”

  “Do not fret yourself. Life and death are in the hands of the Lord. Is this the man?”

  Decius bent closer to a man snoring loudly and unnaturally. “Yes.”

  “But he appears to have a neck wound.”

  “That isn’t as bad as it looks. The wound in his leg is worse. The surgeon said it’s already infected.”

  Martyrus undid the bloody dressing. “The leg is to be amputated below the knee?”

  “That’s right.”

  Attendants carried Junius into what had been the kitchen and laid him on the wooden table formerly used for chopping vegetables and meat. He moaned and thrashed around like a fish about to be gutted.

  “He’s waking,” Martyrus muttered. “The leg should have been taken off while he was still senseless.” A steaming pot and a length of iron sat on a brazier. He inspected the pot. The odor it emitted stung his nose. “The unguents I sent earlier are ready.”

  Attendants arranged themselves around the table, holding down Junius’ arms and legs. His eyes opened. “Wha…wha…?” He made gurgling sounds and his injured neck started to bleed.

  “Have you done this before?” Martyrus asked Decius.

  “I…I watched…I’m not a medical man, you see. My task is to retrieve the wounded from the battlefield. The surgeon said that at least I know what every kind of wound looks like. As to healing them…”

  Martyrus sloshed vinegar from an earthenware jug onto Junius’ bared leg. “To cleanse the wound,” he explained. With a knobby finger he traced a ring slightly below the knee. “Cut here. Leave a flap of skin to fasten over the stump.”

  He tied a leather tourniquet further up the leg. Decius helped him tighten it, then hesitantly picked a scalpel up from a stool beside the table.

  Junius struggled and bellowed inarticulately.

  “You have an injury of the neck,” Martyrus told him. “You cannot speak but as I pray you may accompany me silently.”

  His prayers were drowned out by Junius’ strangled shouts. “Nnn…no…nnnn…” He threw his head back and forth on the table as the attendants struggled to keep him still.

  Decius lowered his scalpel toward the quaking leg. His hand trembled more violently than the limb.

  “Be quick,” Martyrus snapped. “Speed is everything. The Lord will guide your hand.”

  Blood blossomed around the blade. Decius made a sweeping cut as he’d watched the physician do. He dropped the scalpel, took up a double-edged knife, and ripped apart sinews and muscles.

  Junius howled.

  Decius grabbed a saw and tried to find the bone in the red gushing ruins of the leg. Spurting blood covered his hands and the saw slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. He scrambled to retrieve it.

  Junius screamed and screamed. Decius was crying as the fine-toothed blade bit into the bone.

  An attendant turned his head away and vomited.

  Junius’ shrieks were inhuman, matching inhuman pain. He was already a lost soul consumed in the fires of hell.

  The saw stuck fast. Decius yanked it free, lost his grip again, and the saw flew out of his hands and skittered across the floor.

  Abruptly Junius stopped screaming.

  In a panic, Decius jerked the leg upwards and in the sudden silence the remaining bone cracked like a piece of dry kindling. Decius dropped the leg on the table and recoiled, sobbing. Blood gushed from the ragged stump.

  “Ligatures!” shouted Martyrus. “Tie off the vessels!”

  Decius stared at him blankly.

  Martyrus pushed him aside and grabbing twine from the stool put a gnarled hand into the wound. Blood spattered his face. He blinked it out of his eyes. His hands were clumsy claws. Useless.

  “Cauterize it with the hot iron!”

  Martyrus wiped his face. The blood-spattered attendants turned away. They no longer needed to restrain Junius. He lay still.

  As John approached the former monastery where Junius had been taken he became aware of an almost imperceptible sound, reminding him of the singing which filled the dome of the Great Church and floated out over Constantinople’s crowded streets. He glanced toward Viteric but he showed no sign of hearing anything.

  As they drew nearer the sound became a dirge and finally resolved itself into the groans, cries, imprecations, and prayers of men in agony.

  A harried attendant directed the pair to what had been the former abbot’s quarters. The surgeon in charge of the makeshift hospital lay propped up on a cot, addressing an old man spattered with blood. A young soldier sat on a stool against one wall, head lowered, weeping into crimson hands.

  “These are Decius and Martyrus,” the surgeon said, after John had introduced himself. “Martyrus is an associate of Basilio.”

  “Holy Father,” Martyrus corrected him.

  The surgeon ignored him to address John. “What do you want of me, sir?”

  “I am seeking a man who might have important information. Junius.”

  “You are too late. Junius died while my visitors here were attending him.”

  “I killed him, may the Lord forgive me,” sobbed Decius.

  Viteric stared at the distraught youngster with unconcealed contempt.

  John was speechless. He had allowed himself to hope he had at last found someone on Felix’s list. A person who might shed light on Felix’s death. “Were you able to have any words with him before he died?” he finally asked Martyrus, who shook his head.

  “Nor did I,” added the surgeon. “He was unconscious when he was brought in.”

  Had John missed a vital clue by not racing to the hospital immediately? He was wondering whether there was anything useful to be learned there when a hawk-nosed man appeared in the doorway.

  Archdeacon Leon took a step towards Martyrus. “So, it is you, Martyrus. Treacherous blasphemer!” He looked around. “And the meddling Lord Chamberlain is also at hand, I see.”

  “Have you come to see me?” The surgeon spoke in a harsh whisper. His face had turned white.

  Leon went to the cot and advanced his sharp n
ose to the surgeon’s face. “Are you ill? You look as if you’ve got less blood than there is on the floor of the next room.”

  “He’s exhausted,” put in Decius who had gathered himself together. “I’m his assistant. If you need to know anything, ask me. Don’t tax him.”

  “I’ve only come to inspect the sorry results of General Diogenes’ intransigence. I assume you are here for the same reason and will be reporting them back to him, Lord Chamberlain?”

  “I came here in search of a man who is now dead,” John replied, going on to ask Leon about the names on Felix’s list.

  “A clergyman meets many people. I don’t recall any of those. Will you be asking Diogenes if he is ready to make peace with Totila yet or does he prefer to see more carnage? I remind him I remain willing to negotiate on his behalf. The Goths will pay attention to a man of God.”

  Martyrus coughed out a dry laugh. “Man of God? You’re a tool of the devil!”

  “You have outlived your good sense, Martyrus,” Leon snapped. “You should have died before you decided to abandon the church. You will pay for your sins soon enough unless the Lord takes mercy on a foolish old man!”

  “This foolish old man is a part of God!”

  “According to your ridiculous heresy!”

  “Ridiculous? We are told the Holy Spirit dwells within us but truly we are made of the Holy Spirit. As water freezes to ice when thrust into the cold, so the Spirit hardens to flesh when immersed in our physical world.”

  Now Leon laughed. “That fraud Basilio had plenty of time to meditate on the effects of cold when he was holding down the steps in front of the church he’s now occupied. What you say is blasphemy! If true we would all be God, just as the Son is God.”

  “That is so.”

  “How can it be? Do you know what God knows? You’ve seen the maimed men in the next room, bloody, broken, do they look like the Lord to you?”

  “Does water flow free when it is frozen? The Spirit is only released when death releases it from this cold world. When that happens the Spirit that is in each of us flows back to God, of which it is a part.”

  John excused himself. As he went out he noticed Leon had left a trail of red footprints behind him, marking his progress through the abattoir called a hospital.

  Theological arguments often led to blood.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Compared to the stench of the hospital, the smell of dust and horses in the Circus Maximus was refreshing. Under a sky pockmarked with fluffy clouds blown along by a light breeze, two charioteers were practicing tight turns. A sparse crowd scattered around the seating observed them with much lively talk.

  As John made his way into the stands, Viteric, exasperatingly, hung close to his shoulder. John wished he could shoo him away as he would a horsefly.

  “Who are these people you keep inquiring about, Lord Chamberlain?”

  “I was given to understand they were acquaintances of General Felix,” John answered, without elaborating. “I intend to find out whether he might have known them from the racetrack. I can approach a stranger and strike up a conversation more easily if I’m alone, so if you’d take a seat, you can keep me in view. I know you have your orders.”

  Viteric didn’t bother to deny it. Looking reluctant, he sat.

  John asked onlookers who a newcomer might best consult about the state of racing in the city. A pair of well-dressed men who were discussing the merits of the drivers directed him to a fellow seated alone near the starting gates.

  “You’d think he’d followed the races here since the Republic,” one of them asserted. “There’s nothing and no one he doesn’t know.”

  “And he puts his knowledge to good use when it comes to wagering,” added the other. “In fact, he’s so lucky everyone calls him Felix.”

  The name was a common one, but still John found the coincidence disconcerting.

  This particular Felix was a lean man whose battered face and missing teeth hinted that in his youth he had been quick with his fists and not very good with them. In fact he turned out to be jovial and friendly. Sitting down next to him, John asked which team he thought was the best.

  “The Blues! The Greens will lose their followers a fair bit of money as usual.” He pointed to a gray-haired man with a crooked back standing on the spina shouting instructions and upbraiding the practicing charioteers. “See him? Euprepes, that’s his name. Used to be a charioteer but now he trains the Greens. He’s a fool. Consider his name.”

  John expressed puzzlement.

  “It’s not his real name. One day, after he had lost a race by chance when his chariot was clipped by an inept rival, he swore he would change his name to one more pleasing to the gods It was a jest, you understand, made while he had taken too much wine. But when he was sober, he decided to actually do it and being a fool, chose a name which could not do anything but tempt Fate. A famous name in chariot-racing. One every follower of the sport knows as that of a man who won over seven hundred races.”

  “And did this bring him good fortune?”

  “In truth it brought him the sort of fortune he might have expected had he thought further about it. You see, the original Euprepes was executed by Emperor Antoninus for supporting the wrong racing faction. Not very sporting of the emperor, was it? At any rate, the first time the charioteer raced under his new name he was thrown from his chariot, dragged by his horses, run over by his rival’s chariot, and his body mangled.”

  John looked across the track again at the man his companion had pointed out.

  “And it didn’t end there. No, not at all! He was one of the favored at the time and there were many who had put their money on him. They were not happy. For a while after that few wagered on the Greens, in case his bad luck rubbed off on the entire team. The owners weren’t happy either. There was even talk about curse tablets being involved. Racers are a superstitious crowd and the wonder of it is he would take such a name, but so he did and so he remains.”

  “You and Euprepes were among those who returned to Rome after Belisarius reclaimed the city?”

  “That’s right. It was a sorry day for the charioteers and their followers when Totila ordered everyone out of the city. You won’t find tracks in towns and villages, and racing is what we live for. Many of us came back.”

  This garrulous fellow was the sort who loved to show off his knowledge. “What would you tell someone like me, new to the city, who might like to place a wager or two?” John asked. “Your name means lucky and I hear you are fortunate in wagering.”

  Felix laughed. “It’s the name I earned, not the one I was given.”

  “Or gave to yourself, like poor Euprepes?”

  “That’s so. These days I live up to my name by concentrating on the Blues. As I told you, they are the best team. Forget the Greens. There’s not much more to say. The state of racing here is not what it was. The charioteers are amateurs. None are reliable. And the horses aren’t of the best. In fact, horses are harder and harder to come by. There are horse buyers here every day.”

  “The buyers are trying to make sure they have horses to race?”

  “Race? No. That’s the problem. They want the horses to eat, in case the Goths lay siege until the food supply is gone. They take them home and fatten them up, just in case. So we have a shortage of horses fit to run.”

  John winced at the idea of such beautiful animals, bred to race, being served up on a plate instead. He turned the subject back to wagering. “But it is still possible to turn a profit?”

  Felix gave him a crooked smile. “You are a businessman? Let me give you some advice, if you intend to wager seriously. A stranger should not allow debts to go unpaid for long. If you lose, paying the same day is the best policy. Some of the men you will deal with are not averse to breaking the odd limb if payment is delayed. Make certain you pay on time and after a while you may well
be able to wager without money changing hands immediately. My father once told me that paying a small debt will obtain the payer a lot of credit.”

  “I sometimes wish I were an aristocrat or a high official. No one worries about lending to them, no matter how slow they are to pay them back.”

  “That is true. I happen to know several men who extended credit to a general because they thought he would be able to cover higher amounts than they would generally accept as a bet. He lost again and again and now they can’t collect what they are owed.”

  “General Diogenes?”

  “No, no. Diogenes settles his debts. I mean General Felix, the man with my name. I knew about all his transactions. Everyone kept telling me about him. They’d say ‘he shares your name but not your good fortune.’ I got sick of hearing about him. He kept assuring everyone that he would be able to pay soon. He was about to put his hands on some money. Isn’t that what they all say?”

  “Do you know who the general borrowed money from? How about Junius or Bassus?” John ran through the people Felix had written down.

  His loquacious companion suddenly looked suspicious. “I don’t know any people going by those names. Why do you ask? Where did you get them anyway?”

  “They were given to me by a man I met outside the race track. He said for a few copper coins he’d sell me a list of people who could advance me money on good terms. Was I cheated?”

  John’s companion gave a gap-toothed grin of relief. “I am afraid you were, but then you did say you were new to Rome.”

  As he spoke to Felix and studied the man’s expressions John was also automatically scanning the stands and race track. Because of this he noticed a movement on the spina and realized that a familiar face had vanished behind an obelisk. A face which had been turned in his direction.

  Aurelius apparently did not want John to see him.

  All the more reason to talk to him immediately, John decided as he rose and thanked Felix for his assistance. He couldn’t bring himself to call the man by the name of his old friend.