One for Sorrow (7 page)
John walked home from the docks alone, having parted with Anatolius at a tavern.
He wanted time to himself to think.
He had barely spoken to his former lover and his daughter before Cornelia had ordered Anatolius and him off the ship. Had she been angry, confused, overcome by some other emotion? He couldn’t tell.
One thing hadn’t changed in all the years since he’d been with Cornelia. She was beyond his understanding. At night, when they were together in the darkness of their tent, he imagined she withheld no secrets from him, yet in the light of day, she was often a mystery.
John made his way through the press of laborers in rough tunics, ragged beggars, bent old men in patched robes. He was relieved Cornelia had not wanted to speak with him at length because there were matters she needed to know which he was not ready to tell her.
He thought of the relic that the self-styled knight Thomas claimed to be seeking. The Grail. The “heal-all,” as Thomas had also referred to it.
He had heard legends. The world was full of magical potions and charms possessing powers far beyond those of physicians. The Christians claimed their god could not only heal people but bring them back from the dead. Unfortunately, the potions and charms and miracle workers everyone believed in were never to be found.
What if the Grail were really what Thomas claimed, as unlikely as that might be? And what if it actually were to be found in Constantinople?
Could such a wonder exist? At times it had seemed to John that his splendid civilization was but a toy boat floating precariously on a bottomless sea of mystery. And did he take the tales of his own Lord Mithra at face value? If a fig tree had truly fed and clothed Mithra, might this holy relic have power to heal even wounds such as he had suffered?
He had reached the top of the steep incline leading up from the docks. He paused. Looking back he could see across the open market square of the Strategion and over the seawall to the ships resembling toys lining the docks and scattered across the northern harbor. From this distance he could not identify the
Anubis
.
Had Thomas arrived on one of those ships? Was he really what he claimed to be? He said he had spoken to Leukos, but Leukos’ head clerk Xiphias denied having seen such a visitor.
John continued on to the circular Forum Constantine with its two-tiered colonnade and turned down the Mese. As he approached the lofty wall of the Hippodrome he recalled seeing Thomas speaking to the charioteer Gregorius outside the Inn of the Centaurs. Thomas had explained that he had been chiding the man over his behavior at the inn. It hadn’t looked that way to John.
Perhaps he should speak to the charioteer. He took the street which ran alongside the Hippodrome, descending toward the sea and the southern harbors. He had crossed the narrow peninsula on which the capital was built.
At the sea end of the Hippodrome where the land fell away, a series of huge archways gave access to the substructure beneath the race track. John went through one of the archways, moving from brassy sunlight into the cool dimness of a curved corridor.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the change. The smells of stables and sweating humanity accompanied him as he strode past a series of rooms whose open doors revealed men working on chariots, grooming horses, or clustered at games of knucklebones. Charioteers were an elite fraternity and he did not need to question very many of those he encountered before he ran his quarry to ground. Gregorius was sitting on an upturned bucket and in conversation with another charioteer wearing the colors of the Blue faction.
Gregorius looked around and leapt to his feet as John entered the small room, evidently a storage space where horse feed was kept. “Lord Chamberlain!”
His companion hastily excused himself and hurried away.
“I’m surprised you know me, Gregorius.”
“Oh, well….you were at the inn.”
“We weren’t properly introduced. If I recall, you had your head in the fountain.”
Gregorius managed a sickly smile. “Everyone knows the emperor’s Lord Chamberlain.”
“Your friend Thomas didn’t tell you who I was?”
“I wouldn’t call him a friend. He’s staying at the same place I am. We’ve talked about the races.”
“Do you race for the Blue team? I noticed the man you were speaking to just now was a Blue.”
“As a matter of fact, I do. But we charioteers tend to get along, whether we’re Blues or Greens. We’re all in the same profession. It’s the partisan factions who fight.”
“Is Thomas a supporter of the Blues?”
“I couldn’t say. I’ve only known him a few days. I came from Antioch last week for the races and he arrived around the same time.”
John noted that Gregorius’ voice had wavered, a sign of nervousness. “I’m surprised you could talk about racing without discovering where his allegiance lies. Do they race in Bretania?”
“We spoke of other things too, I can’t recall exactly what. A few cups of wine, and—”
“What is his business here?”
“Why would he tell me? I barely know the man.”
“It would be best for you to tell me the truth.” John’s tone was soft but unmistakably firm.
“Do you mean his search for that relic? I’m not convinced such a thing exists. However, I understand there are many wonders in this city.”
“Do you travel widely, following the races?”
“Yes. After I’m finished here I’m off to Thessalonika.” Gregorius shifted his feet and glanced at the doorway, as if looking to escape.
Before he had a chance to make an excuse to leave John continued his questioning. “What do you know of the soothsayer staying at the inn?”
“As little as possible, Lord Chamberlain. He’s a clever rogue, taking advantage of ignorant people who believe men can foretell the future. I’ve avoided him.”
“It’s been my experience charioteers are superstitious. Racing is dangerous. Don’t you own a protective charm or two?”
Gregorius stiffened. “I trust in my skills. And, no, if you were wondering, I would have no interest in this relic Thomas is seeking.”
“Now that you mention it, a charioteer might have some use for a heal-all,” John observed.
Gregorius’ jaw tightened.
John sensed the charioteer wasn’t going to say more. If he pressed him further he might very well leave the city immediately, taking with him whatever information he might be holding back.
John left the room. Instead of retracing his steps he wandered through the stables and work spaces beneath the track, thinking, trying to see connections between Leukos’ death, Thomas, the charioteer, the soothsayer.
Charioteers traveled widely. They would be in a good position to secretly obtain relics and transport them on their journeys across the empire.
Perhaps Gregorius had not been telling the truth about his lack of interest in the relic Thomas sought.
A snort interrupted his thoughts. He had chanced on the stable being used by Cornelia’s troupe.
None of them was around but John spent a long time leaning on the rail, admiring the three magnificent bulls, sacred animal of his god Mithra, and the animal that had carried Cornelia into his life.
Was there a connection between those things?
John awakened to darkness and the sound of raised voices.
He had been dreaming. Not of Cornelia, strangely, nor of his daughter, but of his childhood. He had been running across a summer field. Not pursued and with no destination. Simply running, skimming over the top of the wiry grass. The stones and tussocks, the sun-hardened depressions where cattle hooves had sunk into mud, none of these tripped him. He glided over all of them. Although he was running and not flying, he felt at the crest of every hill that he might take to the sky and soar. He was tireless. His legs did not weaken. His breath did not grow labored. He could run, effortlessly, forever.
Now he was awake, his heart leaping, his breath catching in his throat. The careers of palace officials ended as often with unexpected midnight visits as with presentations of commemorative diptychs before the assembled senate.
John rolled off his bed, hastily donned clothes, and grasped the dagger he kept close to hand. Without lighting a lamp, he moved toward the door of his bedroom.
Voices echoed from the atrium downstairs.
As he trod quietly down the wooden stairs, John saw Peter holding a lamp and looking perturbed. He was blocking the way of a slight figure fantastically dressed in beaded tights and colorful plumes.
It was Hektor, a court page and one of Justinian’s decorative boys. John thrust his dagger back into his belt.
Hektor caught sight of John. He feinted to his right, and then darted around Peter’s left. The old servant’s slow swipe at the agile boy found only the bobbing end of a feather.
“You, John,” shrilled Hektor. “Your master wants you!”
“You don’t give orders to the Lord Chamberlain,” protested Peter.
“I speak for Justinian, old fool.”
“Never mind, Peter,” John reassured his servant. “Bring my cloak.” He turned his attention to Hektor, who was posturing insolently at the foot of the stairs, hands on hips. The boy’s reddened lips shone in the flickering light from Peter’s lamp. “What does the emperor want in the middle of the night?”
“You’ll find out when we get there. Hurry up!”
John pulled on the cloak Peter offered. The old man scowled at Hektor.
To John, the boy’s rudeness meant nothing. It was the emperor who concerned him. Few in Constantinople were closer to Justinian than the Lord Chamberlain, but the emperor was no man’s confidant. He was a Janus. John had watched the emperor jest affably about favored charioteers with courtiers whose glib tongues and evasive eyes would be sitting at the bottom of a torturer’s bucket before the next sunrise.
Outside, the cobbles glistened in the light of the moon, a thin clipping from the edge of a silver coin. Hektor raced ahead. John followed.
As they neared the Octagon, John could see light in its windows. Lights always burned in the emperor’s residence. Justinian did not sleep like other men. Perhaps he didn’t sleep at all. Perhaps he wasn’t a man. It was whispered abroad that he wandered the hallways all night.
“Perhaps the imperial demon will have forgotten to put on his human face at this time of the night,” suggested Hektor. “They say he is as unnatural a man as you.”
John ignored the impertinent remark. He did not believe such superstitious tales. He understood that the emperor had an abnormal capacity for imperial business. Did part of Justinian’s success lie in the fact that his sleeplessness having given him more time to learn, he had already lived—and had time to master the lessons of—a natural life span? It was a trait John might have envied had he allowed himself such weakness.
Having passed numerous guarded doorways John was ushered—thankfully without Hektor—into a small, plain room. Here in the center of his private quarters Justinian had discarded his amethyst-studded collar and brocaded cloak and was dressed in a simple tunic and hose. He had, however, retained his imperial pearl-studded red boots.
“John,” he said, turning away from a desk piled with codices and scrolls. “How good of you to arrive so quickly.” He assumed the smile John had seen him give to allies and condemned men alike.
John inclined his head. “My good fortune, Caesar.” He doubted the emperor had any idea of the late hour. “I see you are busy.”
“A new theological treatise. At the Hippodrome celebrations—was it only a day or two ago?—it occurred to me how I might help reconcile some of these quarreling sects who are so troublesome. Have you given much thought to the nature of Christ? How is it possible to intertwine the divine with the human? A tangled knot indeed.”
“It is said Alexander took the expedient of cutting the Gordian knot.”
“Yes, a simple enough solution for a mere conqueror, but I am an emperor. I will order Anatolius to make a copy of my conclusions for you. I know you study such things.”
John bowed his thanks.
Physically Justinian would have been lost in the crush of the rabble which was never allowed to approach closely enough to see his face. He was of average height, his face pudgy and splotched red as if he drank to excess, although in fact he abstained from wine entirely. He was of such unprepossessing appearance that more than one ambitious man had forgotten that the life of every person in the empire hung on the fragile thread of Justinian’s whim.
“I am sorry about your friend Leukos,” Justinian continued. “Replacing him will be a vexing problem for me. He was a most trustworthy man. Meanwhile, I intend to give you free rein, John, to honor him to the height of your ability, which will be very high honor indeed. But first, there is the question of the manner of his death.”
“The prefect informs me that an investigation is under way,” John said softly.
“An official investigation, yes.”
“It would appear to be nothing more than a common street murder.”
Justinian smiled. “Do you believe that, John?”
“I do not yet have enough facts to form any belief, Caesar.”
“Then you shall proceed to find out the facts. I wish you to ascertain, in confidence, who was involved in this so-called street crime, and the real reason for it.”
John nodded. “I will report to you and no one—”
“I’m sure you need your rest now,” Justinian cut in.
Dismissed, John turned to leave, but arrested his step when the emperor added, “About that ill-concealed weapon beneath your cloak, John….”
The guards at the door raised their swords instantly. John’s heart seemed to stop. Half asleep, he had neglected to remove the dagger he had thrust into his belt back at the house. He forced his suddenly clumsy tongue to move. “Caesar, in my haste to see you, I must have forgotten….”
Justinian’s expression was as smoothly blank as the walls of the room. “If I did not know you so well….” He paused and his full lips tightened slightly, although his eyes betrayed no emotion. “But then, how well can one man know another?”
“I will be more careful.”
“We must all be careful, Lord Chamberlain. Especially an emperor.”
