by Mary Reed
“Exciting? It’s not very exciting here, is it?” Pompeius shook his head. “More likely she’s taken a chill from spending all her time out in your garden.”
“Quite possibly.” As John straightened up the white haired physician Rusticus entered in his usual flurry of words.
“Apologies, sirs. Your guard had to drag me out the barracks. Been there half the night. Belisarius got into a tussle in the streets. I’ve been treating wounds that would made Galen weep to see them.” He pulled a stool up to Julianna’s bedside. “Fainted, you say?”
“That’s right,” Hypatius confirmed. “Fell down as if she were poisoned.”
Rusticus took hold of the girl’s chin and turned her face to him. “Look this way, child. Show me your tongue. The lips aren’t blue.”
“I’m fine,” Julianna protested weakly. “I just feel a bit sick.”
“You think you’re sick, do you?” Rusticus rambled on. “Be glad both your leg bones aren’t protruding from your skin. You’d be sick then. And that wasn’t the worst.” He placed a hand on her abdomen. “Breath now. There, you can breath. If you’d been hit with a brick, it might be a different story. Home-made weapons are the worst. Some untrained ruffian with a splintered board in his hands or a jagged shard of pottery isn’t as likely to inflict a wound as a trained soldier with a proper sword or spear. Oh, but when he does he makes a nasty wound indeed. At least a well honed blade, precisely placed, will kill you on the spot. A plank full of rusty nails just rips your guts open. Tortures you for days before putting you out of your misery.”
“Are you sure she’s all right, Rusticus?” demanded Hypatius.
“Fine. Fine. A touch of woman’s complaint most likely.” The physician struggled up off the stool. “I can give her something for it.”
“I don’t need anything.” Julianna’s voice sounded slightly stronger.
“You’ll take what Rusticus thinks best,” said Hypatius. “I don’t want you visiting Antonina for any of her evil concoctions.”
Rusticus shuffled to the door, followed by Hypatius and Pompeius. John took a last glance around the room. The family had not had time to bring much from their homes. He noticed a wooden chest, probably filled with clothes. On a marble topped table a tiny, painted horse sat surrounded by perfume bottles and fancy enamelled containers of the sort that might hold unguents and make-up.
He was alone in the room with Julianna, who was looking at him.
“Thank you for being discreet,” she said in a whisper.
“Please try to be more discreet yourself. No more excitement.”
He went out into the corridor where Hypatius was gesticulating at Rusticus. “You’re sure it isn’t poison? Haik could have been poisoned outside the palace. Everyone agreed. It might have been slow acting.”
“There would be signs,” Rusticus said. “Why I recall, back when Senator—”
“But what if there’s a poisoner among us?” interrupted Hypatius. “Or a murderer with access to this house? I could be next. Or my brother.”
Pompeius put a hand on Hypatius’ shoulder. “Come away now. Have some wine with me. For all you know you might be poisoned already. The pain might start any moment.”
Hypatius looked stricken. Pompeius chuckled, then began to sway on his feet. His hand tightened on his brother’s shoulder. Hypatius grabbed Pompeius’ arm to steady him.
“You’ll be nearby if my brother should need you, Rusticus?” Hypatius asked. “Or if I should?”
Rusticus gave a curt nod. “Yes. The last thing either of you need is wine. I will send a concoction for Julianna, and a sleeping potion for the two of you.”
“I’ll accompany you out,” John told the physician after the brothers had departed. “Perhaps you should just stay at my house. You seem to visit the family constantly.”
“Mostly Pompeius. Julianna is healthy as a horse.”
“I suspect she would appreciate your saying so.”
“The last time I saw her was when I treated her uncle, right after the executions. It was Pompeius who was on his sick bed that afternoon. Julianna had come over to tend to him until I arrived. The two houses are practically next to each other. She’s a strong girl. Not squeamish. Demanded to hear every detail of what I’d witnessed. Did I describe the executions to you?”
“As a matter of fact, you did and it was most interesting,” John said quickly, as they walked into the atrium. “Please excuse me. I have something to attend to.”
He left the elderly physician beside the statue of Aphrodite.
An image of Haik floated through his mind. The dream was already dissipating from his memory. Haik had said something about Persians, hadn’t he? Felix said that the Persian emissary traveled with Belisarius. Haik had also accompanied the general’s troops to the city. Then too, Julianna had been with Pompeius when Rusticus had treated him. These were connections John had not known about. They formed new possibilities.
***
It took only a few inquiries before John was being ushered into the Persian emissary’s rooms at the Daphne Palace. No one sought to deny him entrance. It was perfectly natural that the chamberlain in charge of the imperial banquet might wish to confer with the honoree. The only puzzle was why preparations were still ongoing, given the state of the city, but then the emperor was known as a man of strange whims.
The quarters had been decorated in wall hangings with Persian motifs. The emissary was sitting at a table, poring over something there. When he rose, John saw he was a tall man, not much older than John, with a black spike of a beard and hair that hung to his broad shoulders in glossy ringlets.
John’s breath caught in his throat before he could speak. He recognized the man, from his time in captivity.
For an instant he was back in the Persian encampment. A military officer with a sharply pointed beard walked down the line of chained men. “This one, and this one,” he said, and the men were dragged away to the waiting executioner. Only a handful had been spared, John among them. Spared to be led into a tent, where they were tied to a table and a man with a razor-sharp knife relegated them to a worse future than the condemned whose heads already had been piled up in blood soaked baskets.
No, John realized. That commander would have been much older today. The emissary was the same age that other Persian had been when John’s life had been so drastically changed, more than ten years ago, an eternity.
The commander had worn the same style of beard, and was Persian. There was no other similarity.
Nevertheless it was only with difficulty that John managed keep his voice from shaking as he returned the emissary’s greeting.
“Please tell your emperor that I appreciate his hospitality all the more in light of the crisis with which he is dealing,” the emissary said. “You speak Persian well. You have spent time in Persia, perhaps? One hopes your stay was pleasurable.”
John made no reply. His heart was still racing from his initial, mistaken impression. What had the man said his name was? Bozorgmehr? How peculiar. That translated as Great Mithra. So the Christian emperor was negotiating an Eternal Peace with Mithra, John’s god. “I wanted to insure the banquet arrangements are suitable,” John said. He showed him a proposed menu he had written out on a sheet of parchment.
John had no clear idea of what he might learn from his visit. He hardly dared question the Persian official directly. Particularly if his reasons for being in the city were other than diplomacy. Bozorgmehr’s crimson tunic bore a decorative pearl-outlined roundel of a boar’s head. The boar stared at John while the emissary studied the parchment. Over the Persian’s shoulder John saw what the man had been looking at so intently on the table. It was a rectangular board of light, polished wood inlaid with long triangles of darker wood. Several rows of flat, enameled disks had been laid out in lines along some of the triangles.
Bozorgmehr must have noticed the direction of John’s gaze. “That is the ancient game known
as Nard.” He handed the menu back. “Your choice of courses is excellent, Chamberlain.”
“Thank you. I imagine a game like that would be a good way to pass the time during a tedious journey.”
“True enough. That is why I brought it with me, in part. But in addition, I have been refining the rules. Rather as your emperor has been organizing the welter of your old Roman laws. I find games to be exquisite miniatures of life.”
“Assembling a guest list and arranging seating for a banquet is not unlike placing pieces on a board,” John remarked.
“Exactly. Men are fascinated by games, even if their outcomes change nothing. The wealthy and the poor are passionate over the races, though the wealthy have no need to win more than they already possess and the poor are not made wealthy by cheering for the winner.”
“Charioteers have a financial stake in racing, however. Their game is their life. Perhaps it would please you if I seated Porphyrius within speaking distance. Or have you had the chance to speak to him already since you arrived?”
Bozorgmehr displayed no reaction that John could see beyond genuine perplexity. “Why would I have spoken to Porphyrius? I know him only by reputation.”
“My apologies. He is one of the city’s most famous residents and I am certain would have been highly honored if you had granted him an audience. I fear that in my eagerness to provide suitable entertainment for you the thought was father to the assumption.”
“Certainly I have heard of this Porphyrius,” the other admitted.
“In Constantinople,” continued John, “who has not? And his name is known even further afield. If you happened to speak to Haik, a fellow traveler on your journey here, you would have heard a great deal about Porphyrius.”
Still, John could see nothing but puzzlement in the Persian’s long, angular face.
“I do not recall speaking with anyone named Haik.”
“He accompanied Belisarius, as you did. I know him from my time in that part of the world. A hearty, hawk nosed fellow. A pistachio grower.”
Bozorgmehr betrayed no awareness that Haik had ever lived, let alone that he was dead. “General Belisarius escorted a large number of people to Constantinople. I stayed with my own retinue.”
“Ah. Then I should strike Haik off the guest list. I wondered how he would know such a high official as yourself. No doubt he was playing his own game—to win an invitation to an imperial banquet. It is a good thing I came to speak to you.”
The emissary laughed. “I see. That would explain it. Why don’t you invite him anyway? Allow him to win.”
John wondered whether he could risk questioning Bozorgmehr further. He gave no evidence of knowing either Haik or Porphyrius, but then Chosroes would doubtless have sent as his representative a man highly skilled in diplomacy, which invariably required more than a little expertise in duplicity.
Their conversation was ended, however, before he could decide which way to turn it.
Narses walked into the room.
Was it possible the treasurer was having John followed and had decided to purposely break up his talk with the emissary?
“John,” said Narses. “I am surprised to find you here. I am sure you will excuse us.”
Narse’s expression made it clear that he was ordering John to leave.
“I hope you have come to take me up on my offer to teach you this game of mine,” said Bozorgmehr. He thanked John for his efforts.
John went out. It was hard for him to imagine Narses taking any interest in a game played on a wooden board with inanimate pieces, considering the games to be played at court with real people. There was one advantage such games had over the great game of life, however. You knew in a short while who had won or lost, and then could play again. You had only a single chance to win or lose at life, and you could not be certain what the outcome was until the very end, which could be a knife to your back.
Chapter Thirty-One
Deep in thought, John walked toward the southern end of the Hippodrome. Was it possible that the Persians supported the insurrection? He had no proof of it. But there was the coincidence of Haik having traveled to Constantinople with Bozorgmehr. Perhaps they were working together. Was it the Persian emissary who had brought the potentially dangerous imperial adoption papers Haik had revealed with his last breath?
Why would the Persians wish to see Justinian removed? They had arranged for an Eternal Peace with him, hadn’t they? Realistically, whatever the peace was called, Chosroes could hardly depend on eternity in this case to extend beyond Justinian’s death or exile.
Did the Persians want to see a weak emperor on the throne? A man less shrewd than Justinian? A bungler like Hypatius?
Or were they looking to place the empire into the hands of a man who had, perhaps, agreed to be an ally, or even a vassal, of the heir under the document, Chosroes? General Belisarius?
The millennium-long thread that lead back to the beginnings of Rome would then be cut. The Roman Empire would become nothing more than a part of the Persian empire.
There was no evidence for that. Should he question Porphyrius about the document again? He would certainly not betray a plot of such magnitude, but he might reveal a bit more, to see if it might satisfy John, provided he knew more. And then there was the new path of inquiry he had glimpsed during Rusticus’ most recent visit to treat Julianna.
There was one solution to it all, he was sure, no matter from what direction he finally reached it.
By the time John reached the stables beneath the Hippodrome he was blinking and wiping his stinging eyes. Smoke filled the air. New conflagrations had broken out somewhere to the north. From the street he had been able to make out gray plumes in the distance but there was no way to tell what exactly was burning. The winds driving the fires south swirled around the Hippodrome and carried the smoke deep into the stadium corridors. Trapped in the huge vaults under the track, it hung like a thick fog against the high ceilings.
Panicked horses plunged back and forth in their stalls.
He spotted a familiar face. Junius, the young charioteer he had encountered inspecting the quadriga, ran out of the haze.
John put out a hand to detain him.
Junius came to a halt. He was breathing hard. “You’re back? I don’t have time to talk.”
“Whatever errand you’re on is less important than the emperor’s business.”
Junius ran a hand across his sweaty forehead leaving a streak of grime. He looked ready to bolt.
“I wish to speak to you,” John said. “Do I have to show you my imperial orders?”
Several men rushed past to join others trying to control a horse rearing up in its stall. A hoof crashed into the side and sent shattered boards flying.
“Let’s get out of the way.” Junius led John through the chaotic stables into an enormous curved passage. Through a stone archway wider than four chariots abreast John could see the concrete ramp which ran up to the far end of the racetrack.
“I’m surprised the teams haven’t transported the horses out of the city.”
“Porphyrius still thinks we might race. Besides, trying to move all the horses through the streets under the circumstances….” Junius shrugged. “If we’d realized in advance what was going to happen…but no one expected the whole city to go up in flames. When the factions fight it’s usually blood in the gutters and an extra body or two to fish out the sea. Rats don’t set fire to their own holes.”
John thought that what was true for rats might not apply to humans. He coughed as thicker smoke eddied through the passage. Conditions were less than ideal for an interview. He decided to get to the point immediately. “There are women who take a special interest in charioteers, aren’t there?”
“You mean the whores who hang around the entrances to the Hippodrome?”
“No, I mean women who don’t call themselves whores.”
“Ah, well, charioteers do have their admirers, if t
hat’s what you’re asking about.”
“Despite the fact they are not allowed to view the races?”
“Everyone in the city knows the names of the winning drivers, whether they sit in the stands or not. Brothers and husbands and fathers talk about the exploits of their favorite teams over dinner.” Junius ran a hand through his dark hair. “Not that women don’t ever get into the Hippodrome. It’s not a monastery.”
“You mean they come to watch the races?”
“To see the races and…to see those they admire.”
“Do you have admirers?”
Junius grinned. “Oh, yes. Even the stable lads. Anyone with any connection with racing can have their pick of women.” The charioteer’s expression darkened suddenly. “You didn’t risk coming here to ask about women. Unless you’re looking for a woman for yourself.”
“No. I’m looking for information. How about Porphyrius, does he have women callers?”
“Naturally. He’s the most popular, old as he is. The most successful always have the best choice. Why, even the youngest girls want to explore the ancient ruins. I suppose they can picture they’re lying with one of the statues of him along the spina.”
John smiled. “Even as a youth Porphyrius could never have matched the idealized bronze and marble images of himself.”
Junius laughed. “Porphyrius rarely takes advantage of the girls anyway. His taste runs to high born women. There was one senator’s wife, Fortuna smiled on her all right! I brought a friend down here one night, to show her what goes into putting on a race, you see, and the racket coming from Zephyrius’ stall was enough to frighten the rest of the horses. Frightened my friend off too.”
“You suspect it was Porphyrius?”
“I suspected nothing. Next day Porphyrius bragged about it to me. He said it amused him to think of her husband orating about the glory of the Blues in the Senate House while he—”
“What about the wealthy patrons like that senator? Does their support buy them access to the charioteers?”
Junius sniffed. “I’ve known a few drivers who weren’t averse to being driven by men.”
