Nine for the Devil (26 page)
In the middle of the night the Augustaion was a desolate plain receding into darkness beyond the pool of light spilling from the Great Church. The statue of Justinian on his steed, indistinct against a gray sky, hovered on its column like some watchful mythical creature on guard above the roofs and colonnades surrounding the square.
John looked up at the statue as he wondered what to do next. At sunrise Anatolius would be dragged from the church. Whether to the dungeons or to immediate execution, only the omnipresent and omnipotent emperor could say. And Kuria, Theodora’s lady-in-waiting, who might be able to convince Justinian of Anatolius’ innocence, could be anywhere in the city.
If she was still in the city.
Given enough time he would have questioned people at the palace, sought out ladies-in-waiting other than Vesta who might have known something useful. He would have enlisted the aid of Pulcheria to spread the word among people on the street to watch for the girl. He would have begun to visit likely tenements, seeking her.
But there was no time.
He was crossing the square as he pondered. Where would Kuria have gone? Where could she go? The only life she knew was that of a prostitute and then, very briefly, a penitent at Isis’ refuge. Normally John would have expected her to return to the home she had known before Theodora had plucked her from the refuge and transported her to the palace.
But Kuria had slashed a rival, Isis had told him. She would not have such a girl back. So she had said.
Did Kuria believe that?
Would Isis really turn a former employee away?
John’s only hope was the answer to both questions was no. It was not a good wager, but it appeared to be the only wager available.
He entered the darkness at the edge of the square, passed through the archway beyond, and set off along the Mese.
Isis greeted him, her face puffy with sleep. She wore a plain linen robe. An enormous silver cross dangled from a necklace and bounced comfortably against her ample bosom.
“I told you I would not take a girl like Kuria back,” Isis pointed out after John questioned her.
“I remember what you told me, Isis. Is she here?”
Isis’ shriveled rosebud of a mouth quirked into a smile. “Ah, you know me too well, old friend.”
“Yes,” John agreed, humoring her. “Even as a young woman in Egypt, you always had a heart much too kind for your line of work.”
“A kind heart may be lacking in most madams but it never hindered me,” Isis replied.
“I guessed Kuria would come here, Isis. She knew you couldn’t turn her away.”
“Ah, but she didn’t seek me out of her own accord. Your informant, Pulcheria, brought her.”
John expressed surprise.
“Pulcheria said you had asked her and her friends on the street to keep an eye on a beggar who attacked Hypatia. You suspected he might be more than a beggar. No doubt you will hear from her soon.”
“What did she tell you?”
“He’s a familiar menace in the area. He camps out near the Hippodrome because he used to be a charioteer, until he fell out of his chariot during a race. He either banged his head on the track or a horse stepped on it. At any rate, it knocked all the sense out of his skull. He’s assaulted more than one woman. Always women wearing green, probably because he raced for the Blue faction.”
“Why hasn’t he been brought in front of a magistrate?”
“He has. Time after time. They all know him from his racing days. He won them a lot of wagers back then, so they always let him off.” Isis clucked disapprovingly. “There’s nobody less qualified than a magistrate to administer justice. Any bricklayer would be fairer. I’m thankful I don’t have to bribe magistrates any longer, now I’ve changed the nature of my establishment.”
Isis paused. “I fear Kuria was hurt, John. Badly beaten. She was lying unconscious all day before word got back to Pulcheria the former charioteer was acting as if he had been up to no good again, that someone had been told by someone else that something or other had been glimpsed by a passer-by. Knowing the rogue’s methods, Pulcheria found the girl in a burnt-out shop near his begging spot. Kuria will survive. She’s tough. The beggar was reportedly seen bleeding profusely from wounds in his face.”
“I’m glad there’s someone I can rely on,” John said, “even if it is a street woman with a three-legged cat.”
“Pulcheria confided to me Kuria was not happy to see her. She kept shrieking that Pulcheria was a demon, no doubt because of her scarred face. Pulcheria told her she wasn’t a demon, but her guardian angel. But you said you wanted to see her.”
Isis led John through narrow hallways lined with doors to cramped rooms which functioned as simply and well for penitents as they had for her girls when they practiced their former profession.
Kuria lay curled up on a wide shelf that served as a built-in bed on the back wall of her tiny cubicle. The thin mat serving as a mattress must have been a penance for someone used to sleeping on a palace bed. An earthenware plate holding a half-eaten scrap of bread and several olive pits sat on the floor.
The girl whimpered and rolled over, as if the entrance of John and Isis had triggered a nightmare. As her eyes opened she cried out.
“Quiet! You’re safe here. Don’t you recognize the Lord Chamberlain?” Isis said sternly.
“My apologies for startling you, Kuria,” John said. “Isis has told me about what happened. I need some information without delay.”
Kuria squirmed into a sitting position. Her triangular little face looked crumpled by fear and confusion. There was a purpling bruise on one temple, scratches down her cheeks, and her lip was split. “What is it you want to know, Lord Chamberlain?”
“Did you entertain Anatolius years ago, while working here?”
“Anatolius?” Isis asked. “I thought it was Felix who favored her? My memory definitely isn’t what it used to be.”
“Is it true, Kuria? Anatolius says he used to seek you out regularly. He says he gave you a copy of a poem he wrote about Theodora.”
Kuria rubbed her eyes. Her wounded mouth quivered as she nodded. “Yes. That’s true. About seeing him and the poem. How did you know?”
“The poem was found in your room at the palace,” John told her.
“You stupid girl,” Isis muttered. “That filthy verse! Didn’t I instruct all of you to discard everything of that nature when we changed our direction? You kept it! You had it here in my refuge, before Theodora took you away! And you took it with you, precious to you as it was! If I had known…what was I thinking to take pity on you?”
“Oh, please don’t turn me out, madam…I mean…Mother Isis. I…I…couldn’t bear to part with that verse. It was written in his own hand.”
“You were fond of Anatolius?” John prompted.
“Yes, Lord Chamberlain. I know it was foolish. He’s an aristocrat and I was just a, well, even so I was sure he was fond of me. Only it was impossible, the way things were, and I accepted that.”
“I doubt it,” Isis put in. “Tell the truth, Kuria. Didn’t you fancy yourself another Theodora and Anatolius your own Justinian?”
“I know you don’t believe me, but the situation was different after I started to work at the palace. I thought Anatolius might see me in a better light. A lady-in-waiting has some dignity. Only…only…” She buried her face in her hands.
“Only what, Kuria?” John asked.
“He was having an affair with Vesta!” She raised her face from her hands and her eyes were full of anger. “The lying bitch was off to his house at all hours, and she pretended to be my friend. It all came out when I showed her the poem he gave me. She was horrified about his gift to me. She blurted out he was hers or words to the effect. Right away she wished she hadn’t, but it was too late. I started thinking about her comings and goings. It was clear enough what she was up to.”
“When you were attacked, you were on your way to visit Anatolius, to see if you could rekindle the old feelings you imagine he held for you,” John suggested.
“Yes. And now I’m in no condition to do so.”
John recalled how he had taken her for a helpless, befuddled young girl after their first meeting in the gardens.
He had been badly mistaken.
“Did you tell Vesta about your hopes?”
“Certainly not. I let her think it was over between Anatolius and myself years ago.”
Isis snorted with a sound more appropriate to a madam than the head of a refuge. “Girls are all so silly. I’m glad to be out of the business!”
“Kuria,” John continued. “Isis told me you attacked a rival not long before you left here, quarreling over a favorite patron. Was it Anatolius?”
Kuria glowered at John but said nothing.
“You placed the herbs in Vesta’s room and arranged for the note to be sent to the City Prefect, didn’t you, Kuria? Your room must have been near hers, since all the ladies-in-waiting live in the same wing. “
“It served her right, Lord Chamberlain! I almost put it off too long. Right after I got back from the gardens with the herbs I found my door nailed shut. Vesta was naive. After I convinced her I no longer had any interest in Anatolius she started extolling his virtues and confiding how she would soon be together with him. It would be a great romance, just like Joannina and Anastasius.”
Kuria’s scratched and bruised face twisted into a sneer. “The bitch wanted to be just like her mistress. Like a trained dog, she was. Didn’t you notice how she tried to dress like Joannina and wore her hair like her? She wanted her own aristocrat too. Wanted a romance that everyone at court would frown on, just to make it more exciting. She tried to steal my Anatolius from me.”
“Ha!” remarked Isis. “You flatter yourself, thinking Anatolius belonged to you!”
“He would have come back to me! He didn’t love Vesta. It’s easy to feel you’re fond of someone in a beautiful room with a soft bed and luxurious furniture, but to feel you love someone on a cold, bare slab like this…” She slapped the utilitarian shelf on which she was seated.
“And you think Vesta a romantic,” sniffed Isis.
“As a matter of fact,” John said, “Anatolius and Vesta were not having an affair. He was at his wit’s end trying to avoid the girl. He’s old enough to be her father, or yours for that matter, Kuria.”
Kuria’s looked at John hopefully. “Are you sure they—”
“It doesn’t appear to concern you that your jealousy placed Vesta in danger,” John said in a cold voice, “but doesn’t it bother you that you’ve put Anatolius in danger?”
Kuria’s face clouded. “But why?”
“Have you forgotten what that poem says about Theodora? The emperor is convinced Anatolius plotted to kill Theodora with your assistance.”
Isis chuckled grimly. “If everyone who pointed out Theodora was a slut was plotting against her…” She broke off abruptly and stared at John. “That means the emperor will have his men looking for Kuria.”
There was as yet no sign of dawn when John emerged from Isis’ refuge and set out at a trot for the palace. The black shapes of ox-drawn carts making night deliveries materialized from the darkness and creaked past. A dog barked frantically as he went by its resting place, a niche sheltering a statue of a once illustrious general.
John had lost all sense of time. He was afraid to look at the sky for fear he would see it brightening.
But even as he raced to save Anatolius, his thoughts kept turning toward Cornelia.
What had happened to her?
Where was she?
He imagined her imprisoned somewhere, having been abducted. Terrified, perhaps injured.
He recalled his own abduction, lying in the dark in the carriage, not knowing its destination, expecting only that the trip would end in his death.
What might Cornelia be feeling right now. Or worse yet…
No, he forced his thoughts away from the idea. And yet he had seen so much violent death he could entirely prevent unbearable images from forming in his mind.
But what would be gained by harming Cornelia? If someone wanted to use her to protect themselves against John’s investigation why had he heard nothing?
He realized he could not afford to let his mind wander away from the most pressing problem—the imminent danger to Anatolius.
Cornelia might be in just as much danger.
The hours were flying by.
He tried to convince himself Cornelia’s disappearance must be connected to his investigation, that continuing his pursuit of Theodora’s murderer, clearing Anatolius of wrongdoing would in the end serve Cornelia.
He must go directly to Justinian. The emperor must be made to believe Kuria’s explanation for the incriminating herbs she had left in Vesta’s room. Vesta, whose frequent visits linked her to Anatolius, who was linked to his client the Cappadocian and the Cappadocian’s ally, Germanus. The men arguably had reason to want Theodora dead, but neither had access to the empress. Remove Vesta and the whole imagined plot fell apart. And besides, Vesta wanted Theodora to live, so that her mistress Joannina could marry Anastasius.
It was obvious.
Provided one believed Kuria.
Provided the emperor would pay attention to her. John pictured the pathetic girl on her hard bed in the refuge’s narrow cell, her meager half-finished meal on the earthenware plate. Why would the emperor pay attention to her?
Because she had been a protegée of Theodora. A favorite. Surely he would pay attention, or at least delay any action against Anatolius until he heard the girl’s story. He would feel he owed as much to his late wife.
Isis was right now helping her get clean and chastely outfitted, readying the wretched girl for the imperial audience John hoped to arrange.
But if Justinian believed Kuria and allowed Anatolius to go free, where would the emperor turn his ire next?
Many in the city held a grudge against Theodora. More than half the court might imagine advancement for themselves in her absence. Everyone John spoke with pointed him toward one of their enemies, as if their word would be sufficient to dispose of them.
Kuria had been more cunning than the aristocrats, for only she had supported her self-serving accusation through physical evidence: herbs which could not lie about their purpose.
Objects were more trustworthy than people. They did not seek to mislead, but neither did they readily offer up what they knew.
If dawn was breaking it was still concealed beyond the black bulk of the palace as John arrived back. The reception hall where he had met Justinian was vacant except for smoky phantoms created by smoldering lamps.
“He did not ask for guards to be summoned to accompany him yet he’s walking on the grounds, Lord Chamberlain,” said the silentiary on duty. “It makes it very difficult to ensure his protection.”
Yes, John thought, it would also be difficult not to be able to sleep at your post for fear the emperor might suddenly appear and catch you at it.
Where would Justinian be?
There was nowhere in the palace the emperor’s nocturnal journeys did not take him. On the night John had gone to the mithraeum he had encountered Justinian in the kitchens. Surely, however, one place he would never miss visiting was the room where Theodora had died.
The room was empty.
John stepped inside. So deep was it in the interior of the palace, Justinian had not bothered to keep a guard on the door. Compared to the riches all around there was hardly anything of value here. The dismantled bed sat in the corner, as he had last seen it, beside the marble-topped table and wooden chest. The only light was from a wall lamp several paces down the corridor.
He turned slowly to survey the room.
With a start he noticed two men staring at him with shining eyes.
No, it was only the icon depicting the healing saints.
The air smelled sweet, as if someone had been burning incense.
He completed his survey. As before, the room did not lie to him, but neither did it tell him anything.
Theodora had not left its confines for weeks. She could only have been killed by one who had entered here, as John had, but unlike this night, the room had been closely guarded and few had gained admittance.
John had hoped to explain to Justinian that Vesta, who had served Theodora, had not, as the emperor had apparently convinced himself, murdered her at the behest of Anatolius, on behalf of Germanus and the Cappadocian. And, John reminded himself, Felix, for hadn’t he been visiting Germanus too? Nor had the murderer been the lady-in-waiting Kuria, whose word—if Justinian accepted it—would exonerate Vesta and Anatolius.
Very well. Who had entry to this small room? The two ladies-in-waiting had spent a great deal of time with Theodora. Gaius visited often, but now he was dead he could not satisfy Justinian’s wrath even if John were inclined to blacken his friend’s memory.
He looked at the grim-faced holy men depicted in the gilded icon. They had seen the murderer.
Christians believed that saints interceded in earthly affairs, and that their power was more concentrated in the vicinity of holy icons, relics, and the like.
But Cosmas and Damian did not seem inclined to aid a Mithran Lord Chamberlain.
John turned his gaze elsewhere.
Spartan as the room was compared to most of the palace, it was luxurious compared to the cell in which he had interviewed Kuria. Theodora’s deathbed had been soft.
There came to John’s mind an image of the plate in Kuria’s cell. The half-eaten bread, the olive pits.
He opened the inlaid wooden chest, crouched down, and pushed aside bottles and pots until he came to the carefully wrapped bundle he sought. Cushioned inside the fabric was the lidded ceramic jar from the imperial kitchens he had seen when he first examined the contents of the chest at the beginning of his investigations. An image of an olive tree was embossed in the clay.
There was a footstep behind him.
“Have you stooped to robbing the dead, Lord Chamberlain?”
John turned.
In the half light, the emperor’s scarlet boots looked the color of blood.
