An Empire for Ravens

by Eric Mayer

  When the practice was over and charioteers and workers came off the track, John was watching from near the starting gates. He followed Aurelius out into the street. There was enough of a crowd for him to keep out of his quarry’s sight.

  Shops and taverns had been built into the side of the stadium under its tiers of seats. Most were boarded up but several remained open. John paid no attention to a fellow who emerged from a shadowy corner offering to take a wager in advance of the next races.

  Aurelius hurried into the first latrine he came to. After a long time—long enough that John feared he had taken another way out—he emerged, looking over his shoulder, as John ducked out of sight.

  Just as pedestrians started to thin out, Aurelius disappeared through a doorway.

  John went after him. He was enveloped in a miasma of cheap perfume and unwashed silks. Several women more or less masked by makeup lounged on worn couches.

  A brothel.

  “Mithra!” John cursed under his breath. The memory of Felix was following him like a phantom. First there was his friend’s namesake and now this brothel, reminding John of Berta, the young prostitute Felix had unwisely planned to marry. That had never happened. Just as his affair with Theodora’s sister had come to nothing. Perhaps a good woman from his own social level would have made Felix happy. Now there was no chance of that ever happening.

  Aurelius spotted John just as an emaciated blonde, face whitened and lips reddened, laid a hand firmly on top of Aurelius’ leather helmet. Caught between two pursuers, he opened his eyes wide in terror and started stuttering. “W…w…w…wait. You d…d..don’t understand…”

  “Oh, but I do understand, dearie,” the blonde purred in the tones of a cat with catarrh. “It’s your wife who don’t understand.”

  “I wasn’t aware you frequented brothels, Aurelius,” John said, brazening his presence out.

  “I…I don’t.” Aurelius grabbed at his helmet and dodged out from under the blonde’s hand. “I am here to investigate.”

  Two of the women on the couches tittered and made rude suggestions as to what he might wish to investigate.

  Aurelius threw back his shoulders and tried to look as dignified as was possible for a red-faced, rotund, spindle-legged, sweating man concealing his bald pate under a leather helmet. “I am looking into the murder of my daughter!”

  “Murder?” The blonde drew back.

  “Why come here?” John asked.

  “To look for Hunulf. This is exactly the sort of wretched place I’d expect to find a dog like him!”

  “You still think he killed your daughter?”

  “I intend to find out.”

  “Look here,” said the blonde. “We don’t know any Hunulfs. We don’t have anything to do with murder here. If you want to talk about murder do it outside.”

  Aurelius insisted on describing Hunulf, bringing forth only more vehement denials of knowledge from the woman. “And you, Lord Chamberlain, why are you following me?”

  The mention of the title brought the women in the room to their feet. One who had probably been a raven-haired beauty when Theodoric was king of Italy suggested that such an important man could choose to indulge in more pleasurable activities than discussing murders with a common laborer.

  John ignored her. “Aurelius, you claim not to indulge in this vice, but what about gambling?”

  “Vice,” cried raven-hair. “You call us indulgers in vice?”

  “I never gamble,” said Aurelius. “I’ve seen the sorry results.”

  “You work at the racetrack. You’d recognize gamblers, wouldn’t you?” John went through his list yet again.

  Aurelius insisted he wouldn’t know a gambler if he tripped over one. By now he looked so disconcerted John suspected the man was ready to flee, and likely trip over his own feet in doing so.

  The blonde stamped her foot. “Murder! Now gambling! If this is your business, gentlemen, take it elsewhere! This is an honest establishment.”

  An enormous man emerged from a back room. He took a threatening step in John’s direction just as Viteric ran in from the street, sword drawn.

  Viteric looked around and shook his head. “Lord Chamberlain, you are a difficult man to track.”

  Chapter Twenty

  John came awake in the gray light of morning with the realization that he had already been in Rome for a week. His time for finding Felix’s murderer was dwindling quickly. That was what made him anxious. He gave no thought to what might happen after he solved his friend’s murder, how he would escape the emperor’s wrath, or even if he could.

  It must have been later than he guessed from the quality of the light. Eutuchyus was padding around serving breakfast to Viteric, who had invited himself into the dining room.

  “Has Diogenes ordered you to take advantage of my hospitality now?”

  Viteric chewed thoughtfully on a bit of hard-boiled egg. “The general is adamant that I should give you all possible assistance, and I know how impatient you are to be off and at work the moment you rise.”

  “Very considerate of you, Viteric.”

  When they finished their meal—frugal, suiting John’s preference as well as the available food—Eutuchyus removed the dishes, silent as a cat. The diners sipped the last of their wine. John added more water than usual. Gloom obscured the weed-overgrown garden on which the dining room looked out. The air in the room felt uncomfortably close.

  It was no better on the street. Dark clouds loomed over the city.

  “We are going to Hadrian’s mausoleum,” John answered Viteric’s question.

  “You intend to question the soldiers about those mysterious names? Perhaps you will have better luck there than you had on the wall.”

  True, everyone so far questioned had been unable or unwilling to assist, but the presence of Diogenes on the list suggested a strong link with the garrison. It was possible the guards at the mausoleum had heard rumors concerning their general.

  Viteric’s presence complicated John’s investigation. He wondered if he could devise some reason to talk to a soldier or two alone, out of his companion’s earshot.

  Hadrian’s mausoleum, now a fortress, lay on the opposite bank of the Tiber, outside the city wall but connected to it by a bridge. A high, cylindrical tower set atop a base shaped like a cube, the mausoleum was famous as the site of a battle during a previous siege of Rome. The defenders stationed there were famed not only for their bravery but also their unusual weapons when heavily pressed—marble and bronze decorative statues of horses and men torn from their niches and thrown down on the besieging army.

  As John and Viteric started across the bridge a chilly breeze announced the imminent arrival of a storm. Viteric glanced upwards apprehensively. “General Diogenes has suggested that Felix may have been killed by someone he was blackmailing.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “It’s a common motive for murder, sir.”

  “General Felix would never have engaged in blackmail!”

  “He was deeply in debt and found it necessary to obtain funds by any means possible, or so General Diogenes has said. He was always out and about, looking for information, talking to people. Who knows what he might have found out that could have been of use? Besides, he had a high position at court and might have known things about certain current residents of Rome.”

  “Totila had all the aristocrats deported from the city,” John pointed out. “Who is in residence here today who would have any connection to the court at Constantinople except for myself?”

  Fat raindrops started pattering down. They felt cold as they hit John’s head. His hair was thinner than it used to be. He had not considered Felix might be blackmailing anyone. As absurd as it seemed, Viteric was right. It was a good way for someone desperate for money to get himself killed. John couldn’t ignore any possibilities. Perhaps
he was getting too old to want to face such an unpleasant fact about a friend.

  The pattering turned abruptly into the roar of a downpour, plastering their hair to their heads and soaking their clothing just as they arrived at the end of the bridge.

  A grizzled soldier, a veteran of many campaigns, going by the scars on his face and arms, greeted them at the foot of a spiral ramp in the mausoleum’s vestibule. “Lord Chamberlain, what brings you to this outpost?”

  Unfortunately, John thought, his fame had spread quickly. He noticed the fellow was fighting to suppress a smile at the sodden discomfiture of the visitors.

  John instructed Viteric to investigate if there was any wine on the premises since they both needed something to warm them up. As soon as he was out of earshot, John turned to the veteran, whose suppressed smile had turned to unconcealed surprise. “I realize it is highly unlikely wine will be found in a guard post,” John told him, “but some conversations are not meant to be heard. I wish to consult you in strict confidence concerning a matter of importance.”

  The veteran said nothing but gave a brief nod.

  “Excellent, a man with discretion. However, what I am seeking is the opposite: a man or men who talk too much, who pass around rumors and gossip.”

  “Indeed, sir? On what topic?”

  “Have you heard anything whispered about Diogenes and let us say a lady friend?”

  “No, sir, never, not a word. Such matters soon become common knowledge in a garrison. General Diogenes does not consort with the ladies. He observes the proprieties.”

  “I find that surprising. Generals do as they please, don’t they?”

  “Most, yes—the general from Constantinople, for example. We all knew about that. If I may say so, sir, I felt that while the arrangement was private, it also was not conducive to discipline, especially as my men are constantly warned not to get involved with women of the town. A general should set a good example in all ways!”

  “General Felix was involved with a particular woman?”

  “That is correct. I am making no accusations. I am only telling you what people other than myself have been saying.”

  “I understand. And what did these others say the name of the woman was?”

  “Clementia. A glorified servant, no less!”

  Viteric came clattering down the ramp as the veteran finished speaking. He shook rain from his cloak. “Not a drop in the place.”

  “As it should be, but sometimes is not.” John turned away from his informant with a nod of thanks.

  “So,” Viteric said. “Did you find out what you wanted to know in my absence?”

  John couldn’t help smiling to himself. Viteric was an adversary but no fool.

  They made their way to the top of the mausoleum where sentries stared forlornly into a rising fog as rain sluiced down over them. Most days it afforded a magnificent view of the ancient capital and its surroundings. Today the nearby Church of Saint Peter was nothing more than a ghostly image and the thick mist concealed the city. What remained of once-great Rome might as well have been swallowed up in the vastness of time as, indeed, was the ultimate fate of all cities and men.

  John questioned the sentries, learning nothing. Either they were not aware of any rumors concerning Felix or were reluctant to speak out.

  “You don’t seem to have a large force here,” John finally observed.

  “No, sir,” replied the man addressed. “Most of my colleagues are keeping dry, but there aren’t many. We are here to keep an eye on the wall for infiltrators. There are stretches Belisarius did not have time to rebuild entirely. Individuals manage to come and go at will, but the Goths won’t be able to hide the movement of an armed band past us.”

  “Even in this fog?”

  “Within the hour this fog will be so dense, I doubt the Goths could even find the wall.”

  It was still pouring by the time John and Viteric left the fortress and crossed the bridge back into the city. Thunder rolled over the rooftops and an occasional blinding lightning flash forked across a dark sky. To Viteric’s relief, John chose to duck into a tavern at the foot of the wall near the bridge.

  Viteric took a sip of the wine they were served and grimaced. “This is vinegar, sir. The proprietor must not do business with anyone but men from the fortress. Off duty soldiers will drink anything.”

  “I have tasted worse.”

  The tavern resembled a rabbit hole scooped from the city’s massive wall. Dim and dingy, it smelled of spilled wine and mold. The monotonous drip from a leak somewhere could be heard over the hiss of rain coming down outside the doorway. John and Viteric were the only customers.

  Viteric had grown increasingly curious about the lean, tanned Greek across the table from him. Not in the way Diogenes was, however. “If you’ve tasted worse than this it must have been on a march,” he ventured. “I’ve heard you were in the military?”

  “I was a mercenary.”

  “I didn’t believe it until I saw how you handled yourself when the Goths stormed the walls.”

  “Why didn’t you believe it? Many men are soldiers during their youth.”

  “Well, but not a Lord Chamberlain,” Viteric responded, feeling uncomfortable because that was not the entire explanation for his doubts.

  John emptied his cup and filled it again from the jug on their table. “During my military career I developed a taste for cheap Egyptian wine. General Felix often joked about it.” He spoke softly, more to himself than his companion.

  “He was a good friend, wasn’t he?”

  “Does Diogenes want to know?”

  “No, sir. I was just making an observation.”

  “You are very observant, Viteric. That is why Diogenes has you spying on me.”

  “Diogenes assigned me to assist you in your mission, since you’re a stranger in the city. He does ask for reports on your progress but—”

  “We both know you’re spying on me.”

  “Well, sir, Diogenes sees plotters everywhere. He’s read too much about Julius Caesar. He’s convinced a conspirator is going to put a dagger into him someday. Of course, General Conon was murdered. So, yes, you could say he’s instructed me to spy but I don’t want you to think I enjoy the job.”

  “Don’t you?”

  Viteric scowled into his cup. “I did. At first.”

  “Until you saw I could use a sword?”

  “I respect a man who can fight.”

  “And you couldn’t respect a…Lord Chamberlain?”

  Viteric stared into the rain beyond the doorway to avoid looking into John’s eyes. “I’m a soldier, sir. I like simple and straightforward men. I have no use for high officials and aristocrats who resort to lies and cheating rather than steel. General Diogenes was wrong to pick me for this job. He’ll regret his choice and make sure I regret it even more.”

  “He surely realized you weren’t going to deceive me. It was obvious from the start what his orders were intended to achieve.”

  Viteric shrugged. “Soldiers follow orders or pay the consequences. I’m not expecting a promotion any time soon and I have a family to support. Two sons, sir, both fine boys. My wife’s father was not happy when we married. As he said, soldiering is a bloody profession and we should not bring our families onto the battlefield with us.”

  “He was right. Thoughts of them will slow down your reflexes.” John paused, gave a thin smile, and continued. “You’d better hope you’re retired, living on your own plot of land and a military pension, enjoying your family, and having no further use for fast reflexes when you’re my age.”

  Viteric’s gaze wandered around the deserted tavern. “What were you doing at my age, sir?”

  “Very often I was sitting in a pestilent tavern just like this one, drinking execrable wine.”

  “When you weren’t in a tavern, I m
ean, what were you doing as a mercenary? I just thought I might learn something from your experience.”

  “Young people never learn from the experience of their elders. They only learn from their own experiences. You’ll find out in time.”

  “If I have time, considering we are outnumbered and surrounded by Goths.”

  John’s narrow features were an impenetrable mask but Viteric thought he glimpsed dark depths in the weary eyes. He took another sip of wine and let his thoughts roam back to his wife and children.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The beggar Paulus stumbled through the frantic crowd pouring out of the Circus Maximus. He was as wet as Noah on the deck of the ark. The storm boomed and crashed around him. At the first rumblings people had feared the Goths were at the gates again. By now, he thought, most of the population must have convinced themselves the end of the world was at hand.

  Seldom had he seen such a storm and he had seen many firsthand, from the unsheltered streets where he made his living.

  If he’d had a coin for a cup of wine he would have taken refuge in a tavern but charity had been declining. The city’s populace wasn’t what it had been and most of those with coins to spare had departed and not returned. To make matters worse, beggars had flocked to the city to take advantage of the free housing offered by its countless empty buildings. The competition on the streets for largess was fierce.

  Unfortunately, having claimed a spot near the race track, Paulus found himself far from his lodgings. A cold wind plastered his soaked clothes to his skin. He shuddered.

  “There are waterspouts on the Tiber,” someone shouted.

  “No! There are strange beasts swimming up the river! Demons! The ocean floor has cracked open, all the way down to Hell!”

  “It’s the Lord’s continuing vengeance on a sinful city!”

  Paulus was crossing a forum. Everyone appeared to be running, but none seemed to be getting anywhere, because the forum wasn’t emptying out. The pavement trembled beneath his feet. He had a vision of the city pulling itself up by its concrete roots and fleeing.