Nine for the Devil (17 page)
When he reached the bottom of the stairs leading down from the servant’s quarters, John paused. He was exhausted. After a day of investigations, followed by a largely sleepless night and then being dragged out to his interview with Justinian, he felt as if he were carrying the dome of the Great Church on his shoulders.
He went into his bedroom and lay down to take a brief rest before deciding what to do next.
He opened his eyes to total darkness.
It took him a little while for his eyes to adjust and grope for the lamp and striker on the bedside table. Hypatia must have closed the shutters to keep out the dust stirred up in the square by the constant comings and goings of the excubitors.
What time was it? He checked the clock in the corner. The water in the basin had sunk to the eighth hour of the night.
Dawn was four hours away, even if they were the shorter hours of summer, but now John was awake he decided to take a walk.
John was familiar enough with the layout of paths and gardens to make his way around the palace grounds by the vast dome of starlight. He usually untangled problems while he walked, but tonight, though he turned his thoughts toward the various matters bedeviling him, his peregrinations did not seem to help.
Perhaps he should seek assistance elsewhere.
He left the path and plunged into a sculpture garden where ghostly white figures depicting mythological figures stood in consecutive circles, as if poised to dance with each other. Pan blew his pipes opposite a stately Minerva, Zeus stared haughtily at that troublemaker Eros, the lame god Vulcan leered at Venus, at whose narrow feet a bold and exceedingly stupid lover had left a bunch of now fading roses.
John walked on, leaving behind ordered flower beds and groves. Passing by a chapel he was misted by wind-blown spray from the fountain set beside its entrance.
As he moved further away from the more cultivated areas he took a nearly invisible track between flowering shrubbery nearly twice his height. Beyond lay an artfully designed wild area planted for the delight of those who enjoyed less formal gardens.
John had long regarded the wild area as a useful place for those inclined to plot ill will, since it boasted numerous hiding spots and was well away from the more traveled parts of the grounds.
His footfalls deadened by moss, he soon approached the low buildings housing the imperial storerooms adjacent to the kitchens.
A guard nodded to him in recognition. Perhaps the man wondered what the Lord Chamberlain was doing prowling around the palace in the middle of the night, but it was not his place to ask.
John passed through a shadowy alcove which seemed to have been constructed of stacked amphorae, went through a side door, and entered the rear portion of the kitchens. Here and there unquenched embers in long braziers sent ghostly, shifting fingers of dim orange light up plaster walls and into the rafters. The light glittered off enormous copper pans hanging from the walls like shields. It sparkled on multi-colored glass bottles crowding shelves and tables, reflected dully from myriads of earthenware jars filled with everything from spices and olives to honey and nuts.
Someone coughed nearby.
John peered through the brick archways opening into the middle portion of the kitchens and saw the vague silhouette of a man moving past tables and braziers and storage shelves.
He had only a brief glimpse of the figure before it passed through a doorway and was gone.
It was enough. He recognized Justinian.
Rumor had it the emperor never slept. That he wandered the buildings and grounds of the palace at night, often without his head.
At least the emperor had not discarded his head this time.
It had been impossible to tell whether his face had relaxed into the demonic aspect certain people swore they had glimpsed as he passed by.
John knew for a fact that the emperor kept strange hours but then, tonight at least, so did John.
At the far end of the room a shadowy figure guarded an obscure door which looked as if it might conceal a cupboard. The man, dressed in laborer’s garments, issued a challenge, “How was he born?”
“From a rock,” John responded, referring to Mithra.
The man opened the door and stood aside. There was no formal gesture of acknowledgment to one of superior rank, for in Mithra all were equal and this entrance was one of two ways to reach the hidden underground temple dedicated to John’s god.
John made his way through a network of subterranean corridors and chambers, his footsteps echoing on stone floors. Some doors stood open to reveal piles of amphorae containing wine, sacks of grain, barrels holding the pungent fish sauce known as garum, and similar comestibles stored against those occasions when one or another was late in arriving from various parts of the empire.
Penetrating to the deeper parts of the labyrinth John finally arrived at a stout wooden door.
Behind lay the mithraeum, the temple to Mithra, a long, narrow, pillared room lit by torches set in brackets on roughly dressed stone walls. Above, a ceiling encrusted with shards of pottery suggested a cave.
John descended a short flight of steps and bowed his head briefly to the altar at the far end of the room.
He held the high rank of Runner of the Sun. The honor of the post he offered to Mithra, being content to remain at that level since he could not devote the amount of time to religious matters that would be required if he rose higher, not least because in an officially Christian court Mithrans were proscribed and subject to harsh penalties if discovered.
That a temple, albeit a secret one, could be built on the very grounds of the palace was a testament to the courage and fellowship of the anonymous men who created it. He had heard its sacred statues and beautifully chiseled marble bas relief had been brought openly to the palace in large crates the cart drivers claimed held special items to decorate Theodora’s quarters and therefore had not been opened and inspected.
It was amusing to think Theodora, a supporter of monophysite heretics to the chagrin of the orthodox, had been an unwitting accomplice of pagans whose views even she would have disapproved.
Here, John hoped, he might find some inspiration in solving his task.
His gaze had, as always, been drawn to the sacred scene depicted in the bas relief behind the altar. The shifting shadows thrown by the fire burning on the altar animated its depiction of Mithra slaying the Great Bull.
As Lord of Light, Mithra was honored thrice daily by prayers offered by the Father, the priest in charge of the temple.
On this occasion, however, John had arrived as a brief ceremony was concluding with a final prayer.
“…fallen far away defending the frontier and even now ascending to thy realm of light though buried without the appropriate rites for one who loved and served thee. Grant that he be found worthy of living in thy radiance,” the Father intoned.
Three men ranged behind the Father responded as one with John and the Father.
“Lord of Light, we beseech thee!”
The five Mithrans bowed to the altar before the trio of men took their seats on a bench and waited in silence as the Father greeted John.
“As you heard, we have lost another adept, John. A brave man, one advancing rapidly in the ranks.” The Father was about John’s age, a familiar face at court though considerably outranked by John. “We are losing others too. Lately many are neglecting their religious duties.”
“Have you seen Felix recently? Of course, he’s been rushed off his feet since Theodora died.”
“I’m afraid he’s one who has fallen away. I haven’t seen him for months. I intended to ask you where he’s been.”
John exchanged a few more words with the Father and then sat on a bench in the quietness of the sacred place.
He had hoped to compose his mind, to think about the problems he faced. But the absence of Felix from his usual place of worship had given him yet another matter to worry about.
“The captain hasn’t been in this morning,” a clerk told John. “He may be inspecting the barracks.”
“I expected him to have left word for me.”
The clerk, a thin, pallid creature and clearly not a military man, pawed through scrolls on Felix’s desk. “I’m sorry, Lord Chamberlain. There’s nothing but routine paperwork here.”
Early morning sun slanted across the paved courtyard visible through the window. The plaster walls were bare except for one of the official crosses installed all over the administrative complex. It was not a salubrious office, but then Felix never spent much time behind a desk.
John went into the corridor. Clerks and minor officials were wandering into their offices, blinking sleepily.
He had spent a long time meditating in the mithraeum and then had come straight here, to see what information had been gleaned during the night by the watch Felix had put on Anatolius’ house. The fact that Felix had not been waiting for him, had left no word, seemed to indicate no one of interest had been seen entering or leaving the house, but John would have preferred to have been told that was the case. Apparently Felix had not thought it necessary.
He left the palace and found Pulcheria in her usual spot. She had moved from the shadows to sit in a patch of sunlight and her multicolored rags resembled a wild, formless mosaic, the perfect adornment for a church of some sect whose views would make even the most blasphemous of heretics flush with disapproval. Tripod the three-legged cat peeked from behind her, a lurking demon glaring malevolently at John as he hunkered down to talk to Pulcheria.
“What of the assignments I gave you? Have you learned anything yet?”
“About the one matter, nothing yet,” Pulcheria replied. “But as to the more pressing question, concerning your friend—”
“So you were able to observe Anatolius’ house last night as I asked? Did you see anything?”
Pulcheria divided the last of the fish on which she was breakfasting, ate one bit, and gave the other to the cat. She looked slyly at John with the good side of her face. “Oh yes, Lord Chamberlain. I followed your instructions. Your largesse will buy me many a fine meal, but I think you will find it was money well spent.”
“Did you see that young servant I described to you? Did she arrive early and spend the night as I expected?”
Pulcheria wiped greasy fingers daintily on her colored rags. “No. Your friend was not up to his usual antics, not last night at least. I hired an acquaintance of mine to help me. The poor fellow is lacking a leg but his eyesight is excellent. I set him to watch the front entrance and he says he didn’t see anybody unusual going in.”
“Is this acquaintance reliable?”
“Certainly, Lord Chamberlain. He is a former military man. Unfortunately, he squanders his pension on wine.”
It was not necessarily a description that would have led John to consider a man reliable. However, he made no comment. Pulcheria had always been very reliable. He would trust her judgment.
“I thought if anyone wanted to come to the house unobserved they wouldn’t go to the front door,” Pulcheria continued. “So I found a cozy space with a clear view of the back of the house.”
“Did you notice any excubitors watching?”
“No. They must have concealed themselves well.”
“As they should have,” John said. It surprised him that excubitors, even without their uniforms, could have hidden themselves from a street beggar. And what could she have noticed that they had not?
“I settled down quite comfortably before sunset,” Pulcheria went on. “I’m not particular where I wait when I am keeping watch.” The undamaged side of her mouth lifted in a laugh. “A couple of men came and went before dusk. One delivered a crate. Another brought a big sack full of cheese. I could smell it when he walked by. I had to grab Tripod by the scruff of his neck to keep him from leaping out. He is very fond of cheese.”
“But eventually you saw a suspicious visitor?” John prompted, aware Pulcheria was enjoying drawing her story out.
“Oh, very suspicious, Lord Chamberlain! But many hours passed first. Several drunken faction members wandered by quarreling about their racing teams, pushing and shoving one another. After they’d gone I found a nummus one had dropped. Well, then, it was nearer to dawn than sunset when a visitor arrived. The house guards looked practically asleep at the back gate, but they raised their lances until they saw who he was, then they ushered him in, most obsequiously.”
“A man,” John said, trying to hurry her along.
“A big man, yes. Powerful once, but gone to fat. Looked middle aged. His head was tonsured and he wore a burlap garment. Surely he was a monk or cleric to judge by his looks most would say? But I knew better, Lord Chamberlain. I recognized the scoundrel. It was that vile tax collector, John the Cappadocian.”
For an instant John looked at Pulcheria without speaking. “Are you certain?”
“The gate is well lit by wall torches. They revealed his obscene face clearly. He is more bloated than he was before being exiled. He is quite deserving now of the nickname given that rapacious protegé he appointed to rob the provinces—Flabby-jaw. Yes, the visitor was definitely the Cappadocian.”
John was silent, absorbing the information.
“You are perhaps doubtful I would recognize him?” Pulcheria asked.“But don’t forget, in the profession I practiced before my accident forced me to beg on the streets, I knew many high officials very well, and knew other girls who knew other high officials. Girls who had loose tongues. What I could have discovered for you in those days would have much more value than what I can observe now!”
She sighed. “I made a better living then. But the Cappadocian…to think of him revolts me even now. He would hire a dozen girls at once and have them lie down naked in his private room. Then he would eat delicacies off their bodies, gorging himself until he vomited into a golden basin. He wasn’t satisfied until he sated every one of his horrid appetites, preferably all at the same time. He would watch an enemy being tortured while the poor girls performed certain services for him as best they could manage while trying to ignore the victim’s pitiful screams. Why, I heard he had girls come to his bed clothed only in golden jewelry and a thick coating of fish sauce!”
“Very little surprises me after years of hearing court gossip.”
Pulcheria cackled and glanced at her cat. “You’d like fish sauce, wouldn’t you, Tripod?”
John pushed himself to his feet.
“It seems to me some people aren’t human, Lord Chamberlain.”
John gave Pulcheria quizzical look.
“Seeing that evil creature gave me a fright. It made me think. People all appear to be the same flesh and blood, and maybe they are. But the same jar can contain wine or poison. Do you think there’s something different inside a creature like the Cappadocian than in you or I? Perhaps such things should not be called people just because they look like people on the outside?”
“Some call such people demons,” John said. “Or monsters, like the person who harmed you.”
Pulcheria ran a delicate white hand down the scarred ruin that made up one side of her face. “The man who threw the burning lamp at me wasn’t a monster, Lord Chamberlain, just a drunken fool.”
John pressed another coin on her and she did not protest.
He left the square, walking slowly.
He was almost sorry he had hired Pulcheria. It wasn’t right to spy on a friend, was it?
But John had merely wanted to explain Anatolius’ odd behavior. He had expected to learn Anatolius had resumed his old ways with women, that he had taken the young lady-in-waiting for a mistress, the sort of backsliding not uncommon with middle-aged men who were noticing the gray in their hair. He had never expected to implicate him in…in what?
There could not be any innocent explanation for the Cappadocian’s secret presence in Constantinople when he was supposed to be in exile in Egypt.
Reluctantly, he turned in the direction of Anatolius’ house.
