Ten for Dying (John the Lord Chamberlain Book 10)

by Mary Reed

  “He asks John for assistance in his investigation of the theft of the Virgin’s shroud.”

  “Do you believe that is all he wants assistance with? He also suggests John return to Constantinople in secret.”

  Justinian released a sigh akin to a death rattle. “I do not wish to distress Anastasia. I expected Felix’s visit to the dungeons might dissuade her from this particular little adventure. If only Theodora could speak to her! Anastasia was always wilful and insists on going out in the city without attendants even though she knows how dangerous it is.”

  That was the least of her transgressions against good sense, Narses thought, while maintaining a respectful silence.

  “Returning to the matter of the relic,” Justinian went on. “We are in the grip of evil, Narses. Where will it lead? I must study the problem further and pray for guidance. You have my authority to take what steps you think best.”

  ***

  At least he was out of the dungeons, Felix thought as he approached the street where the Jingler had his lair. He ought to be grateful for that. Grateful that Anastasia had saved him.

  Thinking about her assistance made him wince. He should have been able to save himself. He was on his guard now, determined not to be surprised again. He didn’t trust Justinian’s whims. The emperor’s mood changed hour by hour. It worried him leaving Anastasia alone at his house even if she was the late empress’ sister so she had promised to spend the afternoon safely at the palace.

  Why did she remain by his side? A man she had known for a couple of weeks? Love? The sheer excitement? Theodora’s sister wouldn’t be harmed, in the end, would she? How much power did the younger sister of a deceased empress possess really? It might well benefit her to be married to a leading commander for Justinian’s new supreme general, Germanus, supposing the emperor’s cousin did replace Belisarius as everyone at the palace expected. A husband of high military position would enhance what standing she gained through wealth and family connections. If Germanus succeeded Justinian as emperor Felix might well take over Germanus’ position. And who knows, Germanus might die…

  Although only a short walk from the palace Felix was day dreaming about, the area where the Jingler lived might have been in a different world. A drifting miasma of smoke from the forges in the Copper Quarter dimmed the sun and the rickety tenements, blackened by years of soot, leaned tiredly against one another. Pedestrians trudged along as if employed in transporting the weight of the world. Even the feral dogs looked discouraged.

  Felix told himself it was just his imagination.

  He scratched idly at the back of his hand.

  Those cursed red bumps. Was he falling ill? Well, a few spots on his hands and face were the least of his problems.

  He went up the stairs to the Jingler’s rooms. The stuffy air inside the building was hotter than outside. It smelled of boiled fish and onions and mildew. By the time he reached the top floor he was breathing hard and wishing he didn’t need to inhale at all. His head had begun to throb. He touched the lump under his hair and winced.

  Catching his breath and trying to put the pain out of his mind, he rapped at the Jingler’s door. To his shock it swung open.

  In the middle of the cluttered room, Julian was hanging by his neck from a rope. The lifeless body, twisting slowly, jingled a faint dirge.

  Felix stared.

  The pounding in his head was worse and there was a roaring in his ears.

  He scanned the hallway. It was empty.

  A fat fly buzzed out of the room straight at his face. He slapped it away.

  There was no sound except for the awful jingling of Julian’s useless charms and amulets. The poor man’s eyes were bulging as if he was surprised all his magick had failed him.

  The foul stench of old cooking was suddenly overpowering. Felix gagged and started down the stairs moving as quickly as possible without making a racket.

  He guessed the Jingler hadn’t been dead for long. His killers might be lying in wait.

  He reached the street without incident, then thought of Anastasia. She was involved in this business almost as deeply as the Jingler had been. For all Felix knew whoever had killed the Jingler had gone straight to Felix’s house. Murderers and those who gave them orders didn’t necessarily care what one’s position at court might be.

  Felix broke into a run.

  As he neared the archway that led to the entrance to his house he saw Anastasia walking along the colonnade.

  He sprinted across the Mese and grabbed her arm, just as she was about to pass through the archway.

  She spun around, breaking his grasp. Her eyes blazed with fury, her fists were clenched. Then she recognized her assailant and her snarl turned into a puzzled smile. “Felix! What do you think you’re doing?”

  He bent down. He saw that the dusting of ashes he had left under the archway—barely noticeable given the dirt and litter in the streets—had been disturbed, and not by only a single pair of feet.

  “It looks like the whole Army of the East has been through here,” he growled.

  He led Anastasia around the corner, down a side street, and ventured a furtive glance down the alley leading past the back of his house. “There’s a guard at the gate. Narses must be back.”

  “You didn’t extend them a dinner invitation, I take it.”

  He laughed grimly. “What’s more, the Jingler’s dead. Hanged.”

  They moved away as quickly as possible without drawing attention.

  “You’re too closely involved with me,” Felix said. “Whoever killed the Jingler might want you out of the way too. You have a safe place to stay. Go back to the palace and don’t come out again. Better yet, leave the city. You’ve told me you prefer your country estates.”

  She took his face between her hands, pulled his head down, and kissed him. “Do you imagine I’d abandon you, foolish bear?” She pulled a ring off her finger and pressed it into his hand. “Go to the Hippodrome and ask for Maria, the widow of the bear-keeper.”

  Felix turned the ring over in his hand. It was a crude copper circle holding a bit of green cut glass. Hardly fit jewelry for an aristocrat.

  “I’ve know Maria since childhood,” Anastasia continued. “Theodora, Comita, and I grew up among circus performers. When you show her the ring, she’ll know I sent you. She’ll hide you.”

  “But for how long?”

  “Long enough for me to speak to Justinian again.”

  “You don’t really think you can keep persuading him I’m not guilty do you? Without proof?”

  “There will be proof soon enough. The former Lord Chamberlain will surely return to assist you once he receives your letter.”

  “My letter?”

  “The letter I urged you to write but you wouldn’t. I’ve written it for you. Hurry up now. Get yourself to the Hippodrome. I have things to do.”

  She gave him a push, as if he were a balky child. He took several steps and when he turned to speak to her she was already walking briskly off in the opposite direction.

  Chapter Forty-three

  The primary objective in a battle was to outlive your opponent. At a given moment you might not be able to press the attack, might be forced into retreat, but as long as you stayed alive the fight could be renewed and won later. Which was why, Felix told himself, he had again taken orders from a woman.

  That was the trouble with serving at the palace. You were always taking orders from women and perfumed courtiers and cowardly bureaucrats.

  Moving like a sleepwalker, Felix shivered as he passed from the glaring sunlight into the shadowed concourse at the front of the Hippodrome. Not that the heat was much diminished inside, but rather he immediately saw in his imagination the hanged man by the spina, slowly twisting at the end of the rope, and then the man with the demolished face became the Jingler, his magickal charms chin
king mournfully.

  Then he saw Porphyrius the great charioteer looming above him, staring down, whip in hand.

  This was not a mirage. It was the larger-than-life bronze statue that lorded it over the concourse.

  His hand went to the chains around his neck. Were his own protective tokens as useless as the Jingler’s had proved to be?

  He opened his other hand to see the crude ring he carried, it being too small to fit his thick fingers. He was to entrust his safety to a bear-keeper’s widow? A total stranger? A disreputable associate of circus performers?

  “Look where you’re going!” The man Felix had blundered into, a stable worker to judge by the stains on his tunic and his general air, gave him a shove.

  The stable worker’s companion made a disgusted noise. “He’s not even looking where he’s going. Must be demented!”

  Yes, Felix thought, he was demented if he was thinking about consigning his life to this Maria. Already Narses might have grown tired of waiting and begun to detail men to scour the city. Knowing Felix’s proclivity for racing, the Hippodrome would be the first place he’d search, wouldn’t it?

  Men ever fly for comfort to what they love.

  What did he know about the woman who had sent him here anyway? Nothing, except she was Theodora’s sister and she had lied to him about that by not revealing the relationship. Naturally he had taken her for an attendant to some great lady of the court. What else was she lying about? She was a friend of Antonina, the husband of Belisarius and thus the enemy of Felix’s patron Germanus. His patron, provided that Felix would regain Germanus’ good opinion after this crisis passed.

  How did Felix know Antonina had not persuaded Anastasia to spy on him to discover what Germanus was planning? Was that the real explanation for her strange interest in the captain of the excubitors?

  For all he knew Anastasia might be sending him into a trap.

  Did he truly distrust her, or was his vanity inured at the prospect of her rescuing him once again?

  But where could he go?

  Germanus was angry with him. John was gone. Anatolius?

  Anatolius had no real affection for Felix, did he? Besides, should a soldier throw himself on the mercy of a poet, even if the poet was masquerading as a lawyer?

  But what had Anatolius advised him? To visit Isis, as he had in the old days although this time for a different purpose.

  And why not? How long had Felix known Isis? Years. She would help.

  While he was coming to a decision the armed men he had been fearing arrived.

  Only his long ingrained military instincts saved him from detection. A murmur in the crowd, turning heads, caught his attention in time for him to dart through an archway leading to stairs just as the contingent tramped into the concourse, peering this way and that, swords at the ready.

  They hadn’t spotted him. He started down the stairs to the stables beneath the race track.

  Five Blues climbed toward him.

  Narses’ men weren’t the only ones Felix had to fear.

  The husky, extravagantly attired young men didn’t look familiar. There was no reason to think these particular faction members were being employed by Porphyrius. Holding his breath, Felix continued down. If it came to it he’d sooner be beaten to death inartfully by Blues than dragged to the palace by Narse’s men to suffer at the skilled hands of Justinian’s torturers.

  The pack went by him without incident, although purposely refusing to give way, forcing him to plaster himself against the wall.

  He continued on, as relieved as it was possible to be considering he had descended into the very lair of Porphyrius.

  Felix took a zig-zag route through what amounted to a vast, underground horse farm, complete with stables, storerooms for equipment and feed, and offices for various levels of estate managers, before emerging at the far end of the Hippodrome. From there he worked his way through alleys and side streets to Isis’ establishment not far from the Mese.

  The courtyard in front of the building was open to the public. A few women, dressed in the chaste robes common to holy orders, were seeking relief from the heat in the shadow of the peristyle. Quite a contrast to the women Felix had seen here on visits in the past.

  Although they were probably mostly the same women, Felix reflected, since Isis had simply changed the nature of her establishment. He knocked at the door and let his gaze wander over the women, looking for familiar faces, nothing else being uncovered under this new regime.

  One, a stranger, appeared to be staring at him. A plump, painfully plain-faced woman dressed in what looked like her own shroud.

  She smiled.

  He gaped at the woman, removed a little weight, painted her face, and suddenly, shockingly, recognized the beautiful young prostitute with whom he had been enchanted before Isis’ regrettable conversion.

  “Well, what is it?” came a perturbed voice from the open doorway. Felix swiveled around to see a tall, stout woman holding what looked like a staff—the nearest Isis could find to a proper doorkeeper.

  “I have business with madam—that is to say—your…uh…mistress.”

  Isis, it turned out, was not pleased to see him.

  The plump former brothel owner, now clad like the other women Felix had seen in the plain white linen robes fit for the head of what she called her refuge, planted herself in front of her office door. He had hardly finished blurting out his story to her before she ordered him to leave, immediately.

  “But Isis, I don’t have anywhere to go. I’ve explained—”

  “—far too much. Suspected of smuggling relics indeed. Only suspected? Would you have half the city after you, as you claim? I’ve changed my ways, Felix. You should have changed your own sinful ways long ago.”

  “I never thought I would hear the word ‘sinful’ from your lips, Isis. But what of this Christian charity I am told about?”

  “Ah, Felix…you must realize I formed this refuge under the protection of Theodora and now she is gone, who can say what is store for us? I must think of my girls. If it were just me, it would be different.”

  “Yes, I understand. But—”

  “I’m sorry, Felix. I will pray for you.” She smiled sadly, as if she knew, despite her professed beliefs, how much good a prayer was likely to do.

  He remembered the cross he was wearing and for an instant considered showing it to her and averring he had converted. Anastasia had advised him that faith could stand one in good stead, hadn’t she? On the other hand should he risk offending either or both gods?

  If he’d thought things through he would never have come here. He was still stuck in the past. He left. He had no desire to cause his old friend trouble, even if she was no longer his friend. But where could he go next? No one at the palace would welcome him. Would he have to rent a room?

  Crossing the courtyard he stopped and glanced back at the women, lounging in the shade. He did not see the familiar yet unfamiliar face that had caught his eye. He walked over to the nearest of the women.

  “Do you know where Lallis is? I’d like to speak to her.”

  The woman eyed him suspiciously. “Men are not allowed inside any further than the atrium.”

  “I don’t need to speak to her inside. Out here would do. I’m an…an old acquaintance.”

  “I see.” She looked him up and down and smiled coquettishly. Old habits die hard.

  She left and soon returned with Lallis in tow. The woman—still a girl really—approached him almost shyly.

  “I never thought I would see you again Felix. I hope you realize—”

  “Don’t worry, I am not here for any…um…well…”

  “What is it then? Are you looking for spiritual comfort now?”

  He stared at her without being able to tell whether she was joking. “No. I’m in trouble. I was hoping Isis would hid
e me but—”

  “She is a stickler for the rules. But if you really need a place to stay I can help, for old times sake. We might renounce the pleasures of the flesh but we can never forget them.”

  She took hold of his wrist in a delicate hand. “Come with me. There’s a back door where no one will see us go inside.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  Dedi sat on a bench in the palace gardens next to a statue of Justinian and mournfully gnawed at a chicken leg stolen from the imperial kitchens while pondering what he might do next to revive Theodora. Dead, his former employer was of less use to him than the deceased chicken which was providing him a meal. For the time being he was managing to live like a rat in the walls but that couldn’t go on forever.

  He’d been thwarted in his initial attempt at the mausoleum, and a fine waste of frogs that had been! But what could you expect when demons were on the loose, interfering with rituals by raising the alarm? Clearly, his magick was powerful enough to achieve his aims. Look at how effectively he had controlled Tychon through the agency of the servant’s stolen belt. A pity the result had availed him nothing. On the other hand, the obvious lesson was to obtain a memento of Theodora. Except that being dead she was no longer likely to invite him into her inner sanctum to entertain her.

  Those had been the days! How Theodora had laughed when he presented the radish colored cat, a gray feline he explained as resembling a radish that had grown old and molded. And no matter how many times she had him tell the joke to her courtiers they laughed just as hard. Well, what choice did they have?”

  His appetite suddenly gone, he tossed the remains of the chicken leg into the rose bush behind the bench. Two cats—neither radish colored, one as black as night and the other brown and white—appeared as from nowhere and commenced a vigorous discussion as to which would eat the remaining scraps.

  It was at that instant he caught a glimpse through the rose bushes of Anastasia passing by.

  Lady Bast sends a sign, he breathed, ignoring the marble Justinian’s disapproving stare at such pagan blasphemy. For after all, was not Bast the protectoress of cats, women, and secrets? Surely his sacrifice of chicken to her sacred animals, unintentional though it may have been, would cause her to smile on his endeavor to use secret means to return the late empress to life?