by Mary Reed
“I was referring to the fact that patrons come and go as they please.”
“That’s true. They’re always under foot. But without them…well…bowing and scraping to rich fools and weaklings is part of the job, like shovelling manure.”
“Are you bowing and scraping now?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—”
Their conversation was interrupted by the clatter of hooves. Stable hands led a procession of horses past. The animals tossed their heads and whickered in distress.
When the passage was quiet again John asked, “One of the faction members who was murdered at Saint Laurentius—the Green—he visited Porphyrius, didn’t he?”
Junius looked genuinely puzzled. “I can’t say. Why would a Green visit Porphyrius?”
John paused. He was afraid he had already said too much, without eliciting any useful information either. No doubt everything he’d asked would soon get back to Porphyrius. “I take it that it isn’t difficult to sneak women in here when the races aren’t going on?”
“Couldn’t be easier. It’s a huge place, with all sorts of back doors, and deserted most of the time.”
“What if a woman wanted to watch the races?”
“It’s still not that hard to get in, if you know where the merchants bring their wares in or the entrances the laborers use. With thousands of people packed into the stands, intent on the chariots, no one’s paying much attention to whether there’s a woman on the next bench. Especially if she’s wearing men’s clothing.”
“Have you seen a girl disguised like that recently?”
Junius stiffened. “Some aristocrat’s daughter’s run off. Is that what this is about? You don’t suspect me, do you? I only wish I had some sweet, wealthy creatures like that thronging to me. Maybe when I’ve won enough races. I’m happy with a baker’s daughter right now.”
John refrained from asking him how he could be certain a baker’s daughter who’d disguised herself as a man to creep into the Hippodrome wasn’t really a female cousin to Justinian, pretending to be a baker’s daughter pretending to be a man. “You’re free to go now, Junius. Where can I find Porphyrius?”
“He’s out on the track.” Junius waved a hand toward the ramp ascending from the archway. “He’s convinced all the trouble in the city is due to curse tablets, so he’s out there digging for them.”
“Junius!” someone shouted. “The weapons are here!” The rattle of cart wheels echoed in the passage.
John saw a donkey cart piled high with sacks and a variety of lances, swords, and armor. It might have trundled straight from the imperial armory.
Junius must have noticed John questioning gaze. “We’re not joining the insurrection,” he blurted. “Some of our supporters—senators—have arranged to send weapons to guard the horses. The Greens might decide to cripple them….though there’s also the fact that horse meat makes a good meal, and there’s little food in the city. And, well…Porphyrius thinks they’re needed. It’s not for me to question him.”
“No, it isn’t,” John agreed. “It’s up to me. You had best attend to your business.”
***
“Those weapons will allow us to protect the horses and equipment, not to mention ourselves and the Hippodrome.” Porphyrius stood, muscular arms crossed, beside the wall of the spina at the far turn of the sandy track, overseeing several men who were up to their waists in the holes they were digging. “You can’t fault people for trying to preserve their livelihood. We’re taking every precaution, not only against the rioters, but against supernatural threats like curse tablets and natural dangers as well.” He nodded toward the stands.
John saw workers with buckets moving along the tiers damping down the wooden seats to prevent the structure from catching fire. The scattered flakes of ash that swirled down into the arena were black and cold, but they might be replaced by sparks at any moment.
“Don’t you trust the urban watch?”
“They didn’t manage to protect the Great Church did they? Or their own Praetorium, or those two poor wretches at Saint Laurentius. I hope we never have to use those weapons. I’m a charioteer, not a soldier.”
“You led an attack in Antioch many years ago, and you rallied the populace to Emperor Anastasius during the insurrection by Vitalian.”
“Once a man becomes famous they say all sorts of things about him. A man is skilled at one thing and suddenly he is considered skilled at everything.”
“You deny your role in those events?”
“My role has been exaggerated.”
“So you plan to hang back and wait for an attack? Then defend yourself? That isn’t your racing style.”
“I am a great charioteer, not a great general. This is the third day in a row you’ve visited me,” he added with obvious annoyance. “Am I under surveillance?”
John made no reply.
Porphyrius strode over to the nearest excavation. One of the workers stopped and leaned on his spade. “You see we’ve gone right through the lime and crushed brick,” the digger said in querulous tones. “Shall we try somewhere else or do you expect us to continue on to Hades?”
Porphyrius planted a boot in the complainer’s back and shoved his face into the hole he had dug. “Keep going until Cerberus bites off your nose, you fool! How many times do I have to explain? The riots are getting worse, but they began here and that means curse tablets are buried here somewhere! And the turn is one of the favorite spots for them.”
One of the spade wielders working further along the track called out to them. “Found one!” He waved a grayish cylinder hardly as big as a finger.
Porphyrius trotted over, took the rolled lead artifact, and pulled it open. He began reading the words inscribed on the tablet aloud. “Demons of night and wandering untimely dead, you who go by the powerful names of Hecate of the crossroads and Resheph, bringer of plague, bind the horse Servitor, steed of the Blue, Gentius. Hobble his feet and make him fall at the turn with his driver—”
Porphyrius broke off, grunted, and balled the tablet up in his fist.
“It isn’t what you’re looking for?”
Porphyrius gave a snort of disgust. “This must’ve been lurking under the track since Anastasius ruled. Gentius was killed in an accident years ago.”
“On the turn?”
“Fell out the third floor window of a whore house.”
He instructed the worker to keep digging and made a circuit of the rest of the excavations, none of which revealed anything of interest.
After squatting down beside the final hole Porphyrius straightened up, moving with the fluidity of a man decades younger, and smiled at John. “You believe it’s all superstition, don’t you? You’re bemused that I would take such nonsense seriously.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. You’re a diplomat. But I can see that’s what you think. Charioteers have a different way of looking at things. Every time I step into my chariot I’m putting one foot in the Styx. We are all aware of how close the other world is to this one. Close enough that we are never more than a step, or a shove, from leaving this world. But what did you come here to ask me this time?”
“I’ve been pondering your meeting with my friend Haik. You admitted he hinted at the existence of a document by which Justin agreed to adopt Chosroes.”
“It was a rumor he thought I would find interesting.”
“Didn’t you think he might have been judging your interest in such a document? He couldn’t be sure how loyal you are to Justinian. There was no way of telling how you might react. Had he made it plain that he had actually brought such a document to the city, you might have reported him to the emperor for fomenting an insurrection.”
Porphyrius turned his attention to the track, tested the surface with the toe of his boot. Finally he said, “Haik did say that a document like that would be worth an enormous sum…to a collector of historic documents. If the
re were such a document.”
“Did he offer to sell it to you?”
“There wasn’t any document, so far as I know. It was simply speculation. I suspect he was trying to make conversation, to get me on his side, so I would endorse his business plans.”
John thought Porphyrius might be telling the truth. It would have been prudent to approach potential buyers cautiously. For all John knew Haik might have tried to to sell it to others—senators or wealthy aristocrats—or might have intended to do so. He preferrred to think that Haik was not involved in any plot but had simply been looking for monetary gain from an artefact he’d stumbled across. He’d admitted he was still a mercenary. Is that what he’d meant by the remark? Had Haik even believed that the document could be employed to any great effect? John hoped not.
He decided there was little more to learn from that line of inquiry. But there remained another question. “You told me Hippolytus visited when Haik was meeting with you,” he said.
“Hippolytus again? You think I have something to do with his death? Or with that botched hanging you told me about?”
John ignored the question. “Was anyone else present at that meeting?”
“No.”
“Did Hippolytus ever bring anyone else with him to the Hippodrome? A woman?”
“Women are not allowed at the races.”
“I’m not talking about the races. He may have brought a friend to meet you. There are racing fans who would rather touch your sleeve than dine with the emperor.”
Porphyrius smiled. “You flatter me. But no. I didn’t see Hippolytus very often. He never brought anyone to gawk at me or tug my sleeve. I appreciated his discretion. I did catch a glimpse of him across the stables one day, showing off Zephyrius to a callow looking fellow. When I mentioned it later he told me it was his younger brother. I invited him to bring the lad in to see me one day, but he never did.”
The charioteer bent down and ran a hand over the sand on the track. Then he stood, gave the track a few kicks with the heel of his boot, and shook his head. “The surface is too loose. Not surprising. Most of the workers who ought to be taking care of the track are nowhere to be found. Speaking of which, I can tell you where to find Hippolytus’ family. Your curiosity about him had me worried. I asked around, to make sure there wasn’t something he had neglected to tell me. I can’t be responsible for investigating the motivations and background of every would-be patron.”
He described to John a mansion located at the top of the ridge overlooking the northern harbors. “At least I’ve been told that’s where he lived,” he concluded. “No one seemed to know him well. Maybe you can learn what you want from his family.”
Porphyrius did not add that then John might also leave him alone, but his meaning was clear from his tone.
They were startled by a shout. The worker who had been kicked into the hole by Porphyrius yelled again and pointed up toward the spina. “Demons take you, Porphyrius! There’s that croaking harbinger of doom! He’s the one brought evil to the city, not these ridiculous scrawls on scraps of lead! They say he’s returned from the dead!”
With that the man threw down his spade, leapt out of the excavation and fled, swiftly followed by his fellow diggers.
John peered up at the confusion of monuments running down the length of the spina. There, in a golden bowl supported on a column formed by three entwined serpents, stood the same ragged, grotesque creature he had seen running across the roof tops. It scrambled over the side of the bowl, slid down the snake column, embraced one of the statues of Porphyrius which stood nearby and began singing an obscene song to its bronze visage.
“What’s that demon doing here?” roared Porphyrius.
John suddenly wanted to know that too. He pulled himself up onto the spina and sprinted toward the creature, dodging several marble emperors who obstructed his path.
The creature saw him, cackled, ducked beneath a replica of the she-wolf suckling Romulus and Remus, and was away. Cursing, John clambered over the top of the wolf.
John’s prey vanished behind a monstrous wild boar and reappeared swinging from its tusk. For an instant he hung from the tusk by one arm, let his head loll to one side, rolled his eyes back, and stuck his tongue out. Then laughing hysterically, he dropped and raced on.
The chase covered the length of the spina. John passed a brazen eagle with a snake in its claws and the monumental Hercules.
Though the demon gave the appearance of scuttling along like a monstrous crab, John couldn’t catch up. The creature was well ahead when it vanished behind the Egyptian obelisk at the end of the spina. In an instant it reappeared on the track.
John leaned wearily against a massive bronze leg, part of a monumental bull.
“Mithra!” He cursed softly as he watched the demon scramble across the track, feet sending up gouts of sand, before it reached the starting boxes and vaulted over a gate into the darkness beyond.
***
The ragged man skittered across the concrete, leaping, falling, sometimes upright, sometimes crawling on all fours. Shadows melted out of his path. The poor souls who inhabited this benighted place did not care to confront him.
At last he emerged into a cold wind. He could no longer hear the demon, could no longer smell the evil. The terrible creature had come swooping out of the sky and pursued him along the narrow precipice where the old gods stood, frozen forever in stone and gold. A feast for the eyes of idolaters.
But he had escaped with the Lord’s help.
He crouched down, hugging his knees to his chest, listening. He clutched the sacred shard of wood in his hand more tightly, felt hot pain as a splinter pierced his skin. Blood blossomed on his palm. He remembered the crosses reared up against the sky. He had been brought down from the cross.
To what purpose?
He turned the wood over, examining it. He knew what it was—a fragment of the True Cross. But the ribbon wrapped around it puzzled him.
His past was nothing but the fog of a dream, grasped at futilely as it slips away, unremembered.
He had traversed hell. Surely it was hell, where a man sat in a corner pulling his intestines away from a black dog. Where a child emerged from a fiery pit, face hanging in charred strips from a blackened skull in which eyes still glistened with life.
How long he had been in hell, he could not say. Forever perhaps.
And where was he now?
He scrambled around and stared upwards. A high, brick wall rose above his head.
Why did he feel he wanted to be here, in the freezing shadow of a wall?
He crept forward, keeping to the shadow. It wasn’t safe to stay long in one spot. The demons were always searching.
Even as he shivered at the thought of the demons, a cold hand grasped his.
No. Not a demon’s hand, after all, he realized. He felt the hard fingers of a statue.
Or, rather, a corpse.
The dead man’s arm extended from the alcove where the rest of his body lay crumpled in a heap of costly robes. What good was that gold thread now?
It was the new leather boots that caught the ragged man’s gaze.
Looking down at his own feet, he saw he had lost a sandal. When?
It didn’t matter. The Lord saw everything. The Lord provided.
The ragged man recognized the wall. He was outside the Great Palace. This was the place he had crossed hell to reach.
Because he had to speak to the emperor.
He remembered now. Because he could hardly meet the emperor while wearing a single filthy sandal. So the Lord had sent him this fine pair of boots.
Chapter Thirty-Two
John stood in front of the Hippodrome and surveyed the Mese while he caught his breath. There was no sign of the demon he had pursued across the spina. The creature might be right around a nearby corner, or halfway to the city walls. Even if the demon were still lurking around a corner, John would be unlikely to find it
. Constantinople with its crooked alleys, slanting streets, and unexpected squares boasted as many corners as there were stars in the sky.
There wasn’t time to waste. In not too many hours, it would be a week since the two faction members were killed at Saint Laurentius. John felt he had barely begun his investigations. Who had he spoken to, after all? Only a handful of people had told him anything useful.
As he looked up and down the street with its fire-gutted shops and ruined colonnades, he reminded himself there were reasons for his lack of progress. It was dangerous and difficult to traverse the chaotic city, and harder yet to locate anyone. Many had fled, or were missing. It was impossible to say who, amongst them—people John did not even know—might have been able to lead him to the killers.
Then too, he had to deal with the Anastasius family. Justinian should never have asked him to host three troublesome aristocrats while undertaking a vital investigation. But he couldn’t say that to the emperor.
He considered the information Porphyrius had given him, the location of Hippolytus’ house. It wasn’t too far away. The charioteer thought the young aristocrat kept apartments in the family mansion. Perhaps the family would be able to tell John what their son had been involved in, and who his associates were.
The streets were relatively quiet. John cut through the Copper Market. The metal working shops which predominated there offered little to attract the wrath of the mob. He could still see the plumes of smoke to the north which he had noted on his way to the Hippodrome. At any time his way might be blocked by a wall of fire.
What he feared more was finding himself suddenly surrounded by fires, or in the path of a blaze driven by the gusty wind.
After awhile the streets ran steeply uphill. The wind hit him in the face, numbing his skin. He blinked, trying to drive away the sharp, icy pain just behind his eyes.
He paused to look behind him. From his elevated position he could see through a gap in the buildings all the way to the Augustaion. Samsun’s Hospice and the Church of Saint Irene were on fire. Whether they had been specially targeted or were victims of fires set elsewhere, it was impossible to say.
