by Mary Reed
“So perhaps it will indeed all end in fire and bloodshed,” Anatolius muttered. “And as for me, it appears I am fated to remain hidden away here until the accusations against me are finally heard. If they are ever heard.”
After John left Anatolius lay down. He could faintly hear the steady beating of waves, as if the sound of the sea was communicating with him through the earth upon which the building sat.
Then he realized it was the beating of his heart that was thrumming in his ears. He tried to pretend that the cold floor was just another of the many beds he had known. Uninvited, old lovers arrived to whisper to him. He forced them from his thoughts. But there was one more insistent than the rest. Anatolius was not able to convince her to depart. Lucretia seemed to kneel beside him, intent on comforting him, but his vision of her brought only further torment to this terrible place.
Chapter Twenty-two
Lucretia wiped her forehead ineffectually with the back of a grimy hand. She was exhausted. The quiet shrine where she had hoped to find refuge was now a crowded hospital, its fetid air filled with the sounds of pain and hope, prayers and curses. She could barely pick her way through the crush of the sick still hoping to dream cures and the wounded who had so recently fought on the field of battle outside the building.
Michael’s acolytes had changed residence to a nearby villa in order to make more room for the patients. Michael himself, however, had remained at the shrine and so as Lucretia went about her work, she occasionally glimpsed him moving silently among the afflicted, bending to bestow a blessing or to gently touch a palsied limb or a horribly twisted face.
Lucretia had no blessings to bestow, only her labor. She spent her time washing and feeding, sweeping and carrying. Sweat glued her hair to her aching head and her tunic was stained and splotched. Her knees ached from kneeling beside straw pallets and her back had begun to twinge in sympathy, a protest against unaccustomed lifting.
Suppressing a sigh, she stooped to examine a cluster of sufferers. Her glance swept across them, past a man leaning against the wall but unnaturally still and over a younger man sprawled at his side, his ragged breath slowing gasp by gasp. They were beyond help now. But between them and another unconscious man huddled under a cloak lay a woman whose lips moved feebly. Lucretia set her basin of water down and knelt. She gently began to sponge the feverish face.
“We’ve been here two nights already and she’s dying.”
Lucretia looked up, startled by the growling voice. The speaker, a peasant by his callused hands and coarsely woven garment, was hunkered down in the shadows. His long face and straggling hair gave him a feral look.
“I’m afraid my woman isn’t long for this world unless she dreams a cure more quickly,” he went on.
Lucretia nodded and resumed her ministrations.
He launched on a narrative of how they came to be there. “We expected we’d have to make a sacrifice. That was the custom in Oropos in the old days. They say those who wanted a cure went there and made an offering of gold or silver to the sacred spring. Then they had to sacrifice a ram and sleep in its skin. We thought it might be the same here. We couldn’t have afforded that.” His voice was harsh but as he spoke he gently stroked the semiconscious woman’s hand. “We were desperate. Somehow she found the strength to walk here. They said they didn’t need gold and silver. She had only to pray and when she slept a cure would be revealed.”
The woman seemed less restless now. Had she fallen into a refreshing sleep or begun her journey along the poppy-edged road leading to the bank where the dark ferryman waited to row the dead over the river Styx?
Why had that pagan image come into her head, Lucretia wondered. It was something the poetic Anatolius might have said. This was a Christian shrine but still she could sense the inexorable undercurrent of ancient belief that everywhere seemed to run just below the surface of life. Why would these Christian peasants have expected a cure to require the sacrifice of a brute beast? Why did they hope for the sort of dreams ancient healers had dealt in?
“Tell me,” she asked the man, “have you heard of anyone being healed here?”
The peasant nodded his head. “Oh, yes, indeed. Only a day or so before we arrived, so I was told, there was a man who had suffered some terrible accident or other. I don’t know any of the details, but anyhow after only one night here he arose from his pallet and declared to all that would listen that he had dreamed of a certain cure for his condition.”
Lucretia inquired about the prescription.
The man barked out a laugh. “That he should marry a rich woman and live thereafter in idle luxury! Those who have wealth need never fear illness or getting old, for what they cannot do for themselves, their servants will do on their behalf.”
Lucretia was about to rebuke the man for his harsh words but his unpleasant smile had been replaced by a look of grief that immediately stayed her tongue. She averted her gaze. Was this how her servants had felt? Surely not.
The sick woman gave a weak cry and flung out her arm, knocking over Lucretia’s basin. The man leaned closer, holding her hands between his grubby palms until she lay still again.
“I’ll get more water,” Lucretia told him, beginning to rise. But he stopped her.
“Let me get it, lady,” he offered.
Before she could protest he had scooped up the basin and slipped away. As she turned her attention back to the woman she saw that the man lying next to her patient had regained consciousness and was staring at her.
“Lucretia?”
She looked at him in alarm. The broad, bearded face, marred with bruises, was hauntingly familiar.
“Lucretia, what are you doing here? Does Anatolius know?”
“Anatolius? That was a long time ago…”
Felix blinked and let out a ragged sigh. “Of course, you’re married now. Senator Balbinus.” He tried to lift his hand but the effort was too much. The clotted blood clinging around the broad gash above his left ear told its own story.
“It’s Felix, isn’t it? Anatolius’ friend?”
“Yes. But what are you doing here? Were you here during the attack?”
Lucretia admitted that she had been present.
“But what was your husband thinking of, to put you into such danger?”
Lucretia bit her lip. “I…I’m not living with Balbinus any more.”
Felix closed his eyes and Lucretia thought he had drifted into unconsciousness. But then he was looking up at her again.
“You ran away,” he stated, “to join a holy order! Mithra! The bastard beats you?”
Lucretia denied it. “No. Never. What makes you think that?”
“The bruises on your face, for a start. And for what other reason does a wife leave her husband?”
Lucretia did not have the heart to tell the captain that one of his own men was responsible for the condition of her face, although the blows had been struck in order to save her from worse.
“I am not a thing to be bought and sold,” was all she said. It barely expressed the desperate revulsion she felt at her arranged marriage. Not that Felix looked to be in any condition to grasp a fuller explanation, even if she had been inclined to give one.
Felix muttered almost too quietly for her to catch his words. “When I am back on my feet, I’ll tell Anatolius. He’ll make sure that Balbinus pays, senator or not.”
His voice trailed off as his eyes closed again.
“Felix?”
There was no answer but at least he was breathing.
Her attention was engaged by a sudden clamor in the aisle. She heard voices raised tremulously, beseechingly, as the peasant reappeared. He was accompanied by Michael.
She had seen him only from a distance, not daring to approach closer. He was slight of build and not much taller than herself. Strange to think that such powerful words could issue from the mouth of such a man.
“My woman is dying,” the peasant was saying. “You must heal her. We walked a long way. You
owe it to her.”
Michael bent and touched the sick woman’s flushed forehead. Ignoring the peasant’s passionate stream of pleas and entreaties, Michael next passed his hands over face of the dying man next to Felix. Then he moved on to the excubitor captain, gently touching the head wound.
“You must understand,” Michael said, “that mercy must extend even to those who attack the innocent.”
And now he addressed Lucretia directly. “A new handmaiden, I see, come to serve the lowliest. You will surely be rewarded, my sister.”
Lucretia looked up into his dark, compassionate eyes, huge under the bald head. How could she doubt him?
“Holy one,” she faltered, “the only reward that I ask is your blessing.”
Michael laid his hand upon her head. “That you have. But your soul is troubled. May you gain peace of mind at least, if you do not find whatever you believe you are seeking here.”
The peasant was kneeling also, asking Michael’s blessing for himself and the woman he loved. Michael granted his request and moved away.
Her companion quickly looked down at the sick woman.
“Doesn’t look that much different, does she?” he said harshly, a hint of yellowing teeth showing again. “If you ask me, she looks worse. Perhaps nothing can bring her back to me now. Not that I’m all that surprised,” he concluded.
Lucretia, surreptitiously wiping her eyes, asked him what he meant.
“Didn’t you see? If this Michael has really been blessed with his saintly namesake’s healing powers, for that’s what folks around here are starting to say, why does he have half-healed sores around his ankle?”
Smiling at her startled expression, he nodded importantly. “Oh, yes, you just look. He’s coming back this way.”
Michael was moving down the aisle again, blessing the unfortunates crowding the narrow space. As he passed by Lucretia bowed her head. It was not her right to question, but, hating herself for it, she quickly glanced at the thin ankles visible beneath the hem of his robe.
It was just as the peasant had said. She suddenly felt soiled, as she had with Balbinus.
“You saw, didn’t you?” the peasant was asking her. “And by the look of them dark bits, his flesh is starting to mortify. A few days from now, his leg will be blowing up and he’ll be smelling like a dead cow left out in the sun.”
He leaned forward to confide in a whisper. “I’ll tell you what I think, lady. He’s an imposter. I’ve seen that sort of sore before. He’s been held in shackles and that very recently. But why is he out here and what does he really want?”
Lucretia had no answer, nor did she care to ponder the question. She struggled to her feet and staggered outdoors. She needed fresh air. She felt very ill.
Chapter Twenty-three
The rhythmic swaying of John’s mount as he rode up the Mese would have been almost soothing had it not been for his lingering vision of Anatolius’ bleak cell.
He wondered how long Anatolius’ stoicism would endure. Soldiers who had silently borne the most grievous battlefield wounds could be reduced to whimpering madness by extended periods of enforced hopelessness. It was something John had witnessed on several occasions. And more than once, out of mercy, he had counseled Justinian to sentence a miscreant to death rather than imprisonment. He prayed to Mithra he would not have to counsel such kindness on behalf of his friend.
His black thoughts about Anatolius’ confinement, circling like birds of ill omen, were not all that distinguished this second diplomatic mission to Michael from the first. John’s world had changed since then. Senator Aurelius, his companion on that first occasion, was dead. So was Philo. Felix was missing. Isis and Darius had been reduced to refugees, the madam’s girls were scattered, one had been horribly murdered. Even the reliable Peter was no longer his usual self, beset as he was by ill health.
The city seemed to reflect the ruins of John’s life. He and the handful of guards accompanying him rode through wide blackened swathes, where fire had claimed the ill built buildings which crowded closely behind the colonnaded main thoroughfare. As they passed along the way, the hooves of their horses stirred up clouds of ashes. The acrid dust burned eyes and nostrils. Everywhere the air brought the sharp taste of smoke to the back of the throat.
If he accomplished his mission, would Theodora look more kindly on his entreaties on behalf of Anatolius?
John urged his mount forward. It was not until the shouts of his guards broke through his dark musings that he realized he had, for some time, been racing madly down the Mese at a full gallop.
“Michael has agreed to an audience,” the acolyte announced.
Outside the shrine, John had observed the scattered remains of cooking fires, shattered pottery, a sandal lying abandoned on the churned earth, things that together with the remarkable abundance of stones around the shrine’s steps informed his trained eye of stealthy attack, a panicked rout, and a determined counter-attack. Mute confirmation was provided by the dried blood staining the ground here and there. The number of the mounds of fresh earth ranged beside the nearby stream bore witness to the cost. He would not have buried the dead beside an encampment’s water supply, he thought. Despite the Michaelites’ recent martial success, it was obvious that their leader had had no military training.
Now, as he followed his guide through the crowded building, John glanced around its packed interior, searching for a glimpse of Felix.
Michael had not chosen to meet him in front of the altar this time. Instead, the acolyte led him to a small room in the back of the shrine. “This is the master’s chamber,” he revealed, before announcing John.
The room resembled a cell, but unlike Anatolius’, it possessed an unlocked door and a tiny, square window overlooking the Bosporos.
Michael turned away from the view to face John. “I was sorry to hear of the death of your friend the senator,” he said before John had a chance to speak.
“Your miraculous cure was short-lived, I fear,” John observed tartly.
“It was not my cure, Lord Chamberlain. I am only an instrument for the heavenly physician.”
The shaven-headed eunuch appeared to John even thinner than at their first meeting. Perhaps it was the increased gauntness of the smooth, ascetic face, the tired stoop of the narrow shoulders.
John began to offer the empress’ felicitations but Michael interrupted the formal recitation. “She might have presented these greetings before she sent her excubitors.”
“The empress also wishes to express her sincere regrets regarding the undisciplined conduct of certain of the imperial excubitors,” John replied.
“They were, indeed, undisciplined,” the other agreed. “And now let us dispense with all these flowery ceremonial greetings and waste no more time. Can you tell me why I would wish to hear anything from one who sought to destroy me and my followers?”
John repeated the communication Theodora had ordered him to deliver. “Emperor Justinian has been cloistered, seeking to reconcile your theological views with those of the orthodox persuasion. He left the empress in charge.” He paused. Deception was not something he enjoyed but, like the sword, its use was sometimes necessary, if only in defense of one’s self and one’s friends. “I should not have to tell you,” he finally said, still repeating Theodora’s own words, “that the empress, as a woman, does not have the tight rein on the imperial military that…”
Michael raised his hand, again interrupting John. “Lord Chamberlain, let us speak freely. Do you really believe an empress cannot control those under her command? I most certainly do not. I notice you are extremely uncomfortable repeating this message from your gracious empress and I draw my own conclusions so far as that goes. But as for Justinian’s attempts at constructing a compromise…as has already been proved, we are not timid nor do we balk at the logical conclusions to be drawn from our beliefs. In short, if orthodoxy cannot encompass a Quaternity then there is no compromise to be found. It is as simple as that.”
&
nbsp; Michael half turned to look out of the window again. The sun shimmering on the restless waters of the Bosporos threw a rectangle of bright light across the stone floor, swept bare of even a single stalk of straw from the lumpy pallet in the corner.
“The empress wishes you to understand,” John said, “that in such a large empire as this there is room for many differing shades of belief, although not necessarily within the confines of one city’s walls. She wishes me also to point out to you that the patriarchy of Alexandria is an exceedingly high office.”
Michael’s pale, sexless face was framed by a nimbus of sunlight. John wondered if this was how others saw the person they so lightly referred to as ‘John the eunuch,’ not as a man who had been grievously wounded but as a creature neither man nor woman and, thus, a being not quite human or natural. His stomach tightened at the thought.
“Can it be that Empress Theodora is offering me the patriarchate of Alexandria providing that I abandon my followers and slink away in the night? Is that even an office that is hers to award?”
“The empress wields tremendous influence,” John replied truthfully, thinking of Anatolius’ plight as he spoke.
“Indeed? You have finally said something I can believe. But there again perhaps you can tell me why I should not simply remain here and take the patriarchy of Constantinople itself?”
John pointed out that continued stubbornness in the matter would eventually bring much larger detachments of military men with which to contend.
“Certainly in that case there is no doubt that they would prevail,” Michael said with a slight smile. “But it would be a pyrrhic victory indeed. Need I remind you that the mob in the street vastly outnumber all of the emperor’s men?”
“Will the mob follow one who is dead?” John countered.