Ten for Dying (John the Lord Chamberlain Book 10)

by Mary Reed

  “There is that also.”

  “If the theft was in aid of a plot all the more reason I need to be at my post.”

  “All the more reason our protection must be found and returned, Captain.” The emperor’s tone was sharp, a sudden contrast to his previous lassitude.

  Felix uneasily shifted his feet, resisting his habitual nervous tug at his beard.

  As a Mithran he had never given much credence to the Christian god and his relics. It was wise to treat them with respect, of course, whether those of the Olympian gods, or local deities, or the handiwork of sorcerers, just in case. There were supernatural powers, both good and evil, abroad in the world.

  Justinian was rifling through parchments and half unrolled scrolls on his desk. “Though the saints are everywhere at once, they still linger most strongly in the vicinity of their relics. I was reading a treatise only days ago, but I can’t seem to put my hand on it. It all has to do with lines of force. Since a saint’s relics were once a part of his person or in contact with him, there remains an attraction between saint and relic, the attraction that holds spirit and matter together in the earthly sphere. Ever since the shroud was taken I have felt an absence, as if an invisible cloak of protection has been lifted from the city. Basilius tells me the Church of the Holy Apostles feels empty to him now.”

  “The reliquary in which the shroud rested was most certainly empty, Caesar. But if you will excuse me—I am an ignorant soldier. Why could not the shroud protect itself?”

  “Ah, I see a military man may also be a philosopher. That is a good question, captain, and the answer is clear. We are being tested by God. Of course the shroud could have reduced the thieves to dust or brought lightning down on them. Even now the Lord could drop it right onto this desk. But that is not the way He works. It is up to us to please Him and not the other way around. Yes, it is even true the emperor must please God. To do that I must see the shroud returned and I am depending on you to assist in its recovery. Don’t disappoint me.”

  ***

  Felix’s stomach churned as he left the Great Palace. He was suddenly aware of the innumerable crosses pointing to heaven from the rooftops, of the magnificent churches he passed on many streets. The mithraeum where Felix worshipped was hidden underground. Symbols of Mithra were nowhere to be seen in public nor, if one was wise, in private also. The Jesus that Christians talked about—that Anastasia and the emperor worshipped—was not Felix’s sort of man, not with all his prattle about love and peace. Yet somehow he and his followers had achieved what the sword had not, the subjugation of the Roman Empire.

  And no doubt He wanted His mother’s shroud returned. What son wouldn’t?

  Felix tugged at his beard in consternation. He had visited Justinian hoping to find the emperor was not really concerned about the matter of the relic and that Felix could let his investigation slide without angering him. Now he wasn’t only risking the wrath of the emperor but the emperor’s omnipotent god as well.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  As Felix walked into the Hippodrome he hoped this interview would be more successful than the last one.

  He didn’t bother to see if anyone had taken down the hanged man. Surely the corpse would have been noticed and removed hours before. Instead he took a ramp behind the starting gates and descended into the maze of stables and storage rooms under the racetrack. The sound of his boots hitting the concrete echoed back into the corridor. He smelled horses, hay, and dust despite a strong draught blowing from the direction of the great arena.

  He was almost certain Porphyrius was the man who had threatened him. The aging charioteer wanted the relic for one reason or another, so why not start with him?

  Felix did not find him in the stables. Try the track, he was told. He returned the way he had come, hurting with every step as if he were filled with shards of broken glass.

  The great charioteer was sitting in the stands overlooking the track, the sole spectator in an arena designed for tens of thousands. He was instructing a younger man driving a chariot, shouting a mixture of praise and lurid oaths.

  As Felix clattered up the marble benches Porphyrius leapt to his feet and bellowed “You’ll never win a race like that. Stick as close to the inside of the track as you can instead of wandering all over it like a child in the market! It’s a sure way to end up crippled or worse!”

  The young charioteer grinned, flourished his whip, and came racing by, leaving his teacher coughing, choking, and cursing in a cloud of dust.

  Porphyrius had been a wonder in his day, admired and feted. Statues had been raised to him and he had made a fortune, wresting it from the sweat and fear of racing, somehow avoiding serious injury. Considering the number of years he had raced and given he had raced for both Blues and Greens at one time or another, it was a miracle he had survived not only racing but had also escaped a blade in the back from a supporter of one of the competing factions, intended to even the odds in the next contest.

  “Ah, the captain of the excubitors,” Porphyrius remarked as Felix approached. “A little early for the racing, are you not?”

  “It’s not racing I’m here for.” Felix sat down next to him. The sun had made the marble hot.

  “So then…?”

  Felix glanced at the man at his side. He was squat and powerfully built with a broad face and a laborer’s arms. Despite the gray in his hair, he looked like the sort of man you wanted on your side in a fight, the sort you didn’t want to oppose. And his booming voice was unmistakable. Felix was certain now that Porphyrius had been present on the spina the night before.

  Felix looked back toward the center of the track. No sign of the hanging remained. Having confirmed to his satisfaction the identity of one of his assailants, Felix was unsure what to do next. “There was a man found hanging on the spina this morning,” he finally said.

  Porphyrius looked away from Felix toward the far side of the track where his student’s chariot moved slowly, engaged in some exercise. “Is that so? The urban watch must have got out of bed earlier than usual this morning.” There was a sneer in his voice.

  “A murder on the racetrack could hardly have escaped your attention.”

  “I did hear some such tale when I arrived about an hour ago to put our latest recruit through his paces.”

  “Is the dead man’s identity known?”

  “Not to me. I didn’t even see the man.”

  “No? I’m surprised. Granted, from where I was lying on the track I didn’t have a good view. And the boots in my face didn’t help.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, captain.”

  Without being aware of it, Felix rubbed nervously at the sore spot on his neck. “If you suspect the poor fellow was involved in robbing the courier you should have allowed him to live. He might have had a better idea what happened to the relic than I do.”

  “Relic?”

  “The shroud of the Virgin stolen from the Church of the Holy Apostles.”

  “I don’t know anything about it beyond the fact it was stolen,” came the curt reply. “What good are relics anyhow, apart from enticing the ignorant geese to visit the city, the better to be plucked at the races?” Porphyrius broke off to shout another mouthful of abuse at the young charioteer now passing below them.

  It seemed to Felix that inexperienced charioteers were trained less kindly than their horses. “I’m surprised to hear you have no interest in relics. Charioteers are a superstitious lot, aren’t they? What about curse tablets? They’ve been found buried under the track and I remember members of both teams were more than upset. Why, there were fist fights in the stables over whose supporters were responsible.”

  Porphyrius shrugged his massive shoulders. “Indeed, fist fights are the least of it. But if I were attempting to ensure my team won I would do it in a more practical way. Tampering with the other faction’s chariot, s
ay. Not that it’s easy to get at them, given we all keep them well guarded. But what of it?”

  “It would be highly valuable for many reasons, such a relic,” Felix plunged on. He was developing a headache and jagged glass inside him kept shifting in agonizing fashion. He couldn’t seem to get his thoughts to march in proper order. “What was your role, Porphyrius? Were you involved in stealing it for someone for a considerable sum? Is that why you want it back? This is official business. I am investigating the incident on behalf of Justinian.”

  “Should I be impressed? Justinian is one of my greatest admirers. Why would you think I knew anything about this relic?”

  “You were here in the Hippodrome with several Blues last night and we had a conversation about it. A rather one-sided conversation.”

  “The sun has affected your humors, captain. You really don’t look well at all. I was nowhere near this place. I was visiting a lady friend, as a matter of fact.”

  “What you forget is your voice is very distinctive. You were just shouting at that young charioteer and sounded very like the man who shouted in my ears not so long ago, questioning me about that missing relic and what I had done with it.”

  “Perhaps it isn’t the sun affecting you. Have you gone back to drinking again? Spending your nights in the taverns? I see from your condition you’ve been brawling. The physicians say a blow to the head can cause all manner of strange results. Why, after one crash a few years back the Blue charioteer insisted he saw strange billowing curtains of color in the sky over the Great Church.”

  Felix glared at him. At least his companion now knew he had been identified as in some way involved in the theft. Although whether that made Felix safer or put him in even greater jeopardy was hard to say.

  The young charioteer drew to a halt in front of where they were seated and Porphyrius motioned him he could leave, then stood up. “If you are so concerned about this matter, shouldn’t you be seeking it, rather than talking to me? After all, time flies.”

  Felix rose painfully. “If I knew the identity of the man you had hanged last night it might be helpful. Despite what you may imagine I was not associated with him, though he probably had accomplices, if he was in fact involved in the theft. And they might know where it’s gone. Think about it.”

  “I will. You may be hearing from me later.” Porphyrius grinned in an unpleasant fashion. “By the way, I would see to it that puncture on your neck was well cleaned. More men have died from human bites than dog bites.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Another precious hour had passed before Felix turned down the street leading to the Jingler’s abode. He knew that his quarry, a slave to habit, would shortly emerge to make one of his regular trips to the Baths of Zeuxippos. Felix hoped he would prove more helpful than the beggars—and sometime informants—he had confronted after leaving Porphyrius. He had become increasingly angry and frustrated over their ignorance, or feigned ignorance. How was it possible not one of them had noticed a boisterous gang of Blues up to no good, or a fleeing demon?

  Not that there was much chance that anyone on the streets had noticed anything useful. But then Felix was given to wagering hopefully against the odds. Otherwise, he reflected ruefully, he wouldn’t be in the fix he was in.

  The Jingler had been as close-mouthed as Porphyrius during their first discussion but that had been before Felix had come into temporary possession of a dead courier and besides, this interview—by design—would take place outside the safety of the Jingler’s lair.

  Felix was looking for an unobtrusive spot to wait when he spotted another ragged professional acquaintance.

  The man must have seen Felix at the same time because he turned on his heel and hobbled in the opposite direction.

  Felix caught up with him in a few strides and clamped a hand on the man’s bony shoulder. “Wait, Euphratas. I need to speak to you.”

  Euphratas shuffled around to face Felix, reluctance plain in his white-bearded, wizened features.

  “I’m surprised to find you still in Constantinople,” Felix told him. “I thought you would have collected sufficient funds to complete your pilgrimage by now.”

  “Alas, the price of carriage travel is exorbitant. These old bones would never survive the accommodations aboard a merchant ship.”

  “The streets of Constantinople are much less taxing, I take it. How long have you been begging for your fare? Six years? Seven?”

  “The price of travel is shocking. If you could spare a coin to help a poor pilgrim return home…”

  Felix ignored the familiar request. “As a pilgrim, during your extended visit here you must have visited the Virgin’s shroud.”

  “Certainly…that is…uh…certainly not…or rather…did you say the Virgin’s church? These old ears—”

  “Hear perfectly, as you’ve bragged to me. Everyone overlooks an old man. They speak freely in your presence as if age made one deaf or simple-minded, or so you claimed whenever you had information to sell me.”

  Euphratas exhaled a humid blast of wine fumes that made it plain where his most recently begged travel funds had gone. “Time has passed since we spoke. It brushes by and we find it has robbed us stealthily as a pickpocket in a forum, until—”

  Exasperated, Felix interrupted by jamming a finger into the man’s chest, harder than he intended. Euphrates staggered back a step. “Speaking of thefts, what have you heard about the theft of the shroud?”

  The old beggar’s bloodshot eyes widened in their nest of wrinkles. “Theft?”

  “Don’t play the fool. Were you anywhere near the Hippodrome last night?”

  “No, sir. Nowhere near. I was down at the docks looking to see if anything had been dropped. Found a coin or two.” Euphratas paused and scratched his beard, dislodging a scrap of grilled fish. “You’re thinking about those Blues attacking a beggar at the track last night, aren’t you? Glad to see someone taking an interest. The urban watch are useless. The only thing they’re expert at is telling people trying to sleep in a corner to go elsewhere.”

  While an attack on a beggar was not the type of information he sought, nevertheless from force of habit Felix asked “You witnessed this attack?”

  “No. I was at the docks, as I just said. Heard about it though. He was only sheltering in an entrance, minding his own business.”

  Felix studied the man. Was he lying? Had he, in fact, witnessed such an attack. Or had he actually seen Felix being dragged off? Even if he had, it wasn’t likely he’d care to identify Felix’s assailants, given the Blues ruled the streets on which Euphratas lived.

  He pointed out the doorway to the Jingler’s tenement. “Do you frequent this area? Have you seen anyone going in and out of there? Anyone unusual? At odd hours?”

  “I hardly ever come this way, sir, and never at odd hours. It’s not an area to be caught in during the night.”

  True enough, Felix had to admit. He put a coin into the man’s hand. “This should get you part way home, or as far as the next tavern anyway. When we get older we can become forgetful, so if you remember anything else about last night you can expect a larger reward. You can go now.”

  Old though he looked, Euphratas scampered away as nimbly as a child and Felix sought out a vacant entranceway, not to sleep in but in which to lie in wait for the Jingler.

  His vigil was brief. The door to the Jingler’s tenement opened a crack, then after a long pause it opened wider and the Jingler stepped hesitantly into the sunlit street looking this way and that, as twitchy as a hare emerging from tall grass. Felix squinted against the flashes where sunlight caught amulets of metal and cut glass sewn to the man’s garments and dangling from gold and silver chains.

  If only everyone were like him, Felix thought, adhering to a strict routine and so easy to find when needed.

  The Jingler went through what appeared to be a complicated ritual t
hat involved touching amulets, muttering to himself, and a peculiar pattern of footsteps. Felix remained out of sight until the Jingler finally started down the street and neared his hiding place, then stepped out in the man’s path.

  “Julian!”

  The Jingler stopped dead and turned the color of a drowned man. He trembled like a spindly, windblown tree, his amulets setting up a tintabulation. “What…what…is it? I…I don’t have time right now.”

  “I do, and what I want to know is—look out, there’s something behind you!”

  The Jingler swung around in terror, causing the amulets to chime more loudly. “What? Is it a devil? Kill it!” he cried tremulously.

  “Yes, yes, look, it’s going into your house!” Felix drew his sword and waved it around.

  His companion shrieked again and leapt at Felix, grabbing his arm. “Quick, get it before it can hide!”

  Felix pushed the Jingler away, slicing his palm on a sharp-edged charm in the process. “Too late. It’s gone.”

  The Jingler burst into tears. “I’ll have to move! Oh, they’re cunning, you know, very cunning. But I am more cunning still! They still haven’t managed to grab me and carry me off!”

  Felix sheathed his sword. “Yes. Don’t worry. It ran off when you screamed. It didn’t get inside. I wonder if it could be the same one that stole the holy shroud?”

  The Jingler was furiously rubbing at the hand with which he had touched Felix’s arm, apparently trying to rub off something visible only to himself. He looked at Felix, utterly bewildered. “But what would it be doing here? Are you sure it didn’t get in?”

  Felix glanced around before answering. The only living thing within sight was a young child curled up on a worn step, fast asleep despite the commotion, or more likely pretending to be asleep. He spoke in a near whisper. “Even if it’s not the same one, it might be another, after…well, certain items of which we better not speak.”

  The Jingler gasped. “You mean holy items may attract devils! Yes, it’s true!”