An Empire for Ravens

by Eric Mayer

  The heat was almost unbearable. Basilio was beating at a spark threatening to ignite his elaborate robes as John reached his side. The air was thick with the sickening smell of burning flesh.

  “Are you going to stand here and be torn to pieces?” John shouted to the guards. “Get to the church. Use your weapons if you need to.”

  Shocked by this stranger’s sudden appearance they began to move.

  John pushed and at times half-carried Basilio through the raging crowd.

  Basilio shrieked in anger. Cursed the mob, cursed John, cursed the guards, and even God, then he wept with terror.

  A gnarled hand shot out of the melee and fastened itself to Basilio’s arm. John whacked the hand away with the flat of his sword. A guard received a flying brick in the face and went down in a shower of blood. Before John could move to his aid someone retrieved the brick and brought it down on the man’s skull.

  John kicked aside the assailant and stepped over the guard’s body.

  Rain hissed down on the fire, dampening its flames as John dragged Basilio up the church steps.

  Rioters grabbed flaming sticks from the fire and flung them at the church. Many fell short and landing in the crowd set fire to unfortunates who ran screaming or rolled on the ground.

  Most of the laborers had fled in the confusion. The guards stumbled up the steps and into the church. As the crowd surged after them, John helped lean against the church door, forcing it shut.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Basilio gulped wine from a cup held in shaking hands. The only coloration in his pallid face came from the blossoming bruise on his cheek, the result of a thrown rock. Rain streamed down the windows as thunder shook the church and lightning flared in malignant bursts of brilliance.

  “Thank you for coming to my aid, Lord Chamberlain. Has the crowd dispersed?”

  John indicated that it had.

  “Consider the lesson this storm is teaching the faithful,” Basilio said, “that heaven and man protect the church! Imagine that kind of behavior erupting at a funeral. Where is respect for the dead?”

  John had no answer. He stared out into the rain. Basilio kept talking.

  “Roman honor is dying. And without honor what are we Romans? A man who loses honor is truly destitute, be he wealthy or a pauper. Fighting and bloodshed disrupting such a solemn occasion…may the Lord forgive them.” His eyes filled with tears. Genuine tears, John thought.

  They were in the room where John had encountered Basilio polishing the silver chalice. The room where a frescoed Thanatos pointed out a painted window at a three-sided structure. The weather outside the painted window was sunny.

  “Who was the man you cremated?”

  Basilio peered uneasily over the rim of his upraised cup. “I might as well tell you since you’ll find out soon enough. It was that rogue we talked about a few days ago, Hunulf.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Basilio’s eyes looked unfocused. Recovering from the shock of the riot, he had drunk too much. “Oh, yes. The body was in bad shape when it was found. He’d been dead for days, but I wouldn’t mistake a man who was such a troublemaker when he worked for me.”

  “The body was found where?”

  “In the catacombs. My workers discovered it.”

  “What are your men doing down there?”

  “Trimming and refilling lamps and attending to various small tasks to keep the resting places in good order. Just because the dead are buried does not mean they are forgotten.”

  “Why did it fall to you to conduct the funeral, if you weren’t on good terms with the man?” John put it as delicately as he could, but what he meant was who had authorized Hunulf to be cremated publicly by a man most Christians would consider a heretic and imposter?

  “He had no family in the city,” Basilio replied. “I felt an obligation to conduct his rites, given he had once worked for this church, although I am sorry to say we did not part on friendly terms and even sorrier he came to a truly terrible end.”

  John inquired in what way.

  In the silence that followed the sound of rain thrumming at the windows filled the room. Basilio looked confused. “Didn’t I just tell you, Lord Chamberlain? No, I suppose I didn’t, in all the excitement. Hunulf was murdered. He had been badly wounded. Stabbed and bled to death. A trail of blood led my men to his body.”

  There was a certain dark irony in a murdered man being discovered hidden away among the tombs of thousands, and doubtless Basilio considered Hunulf’s death sacrilege of the highest order, John thought. To an extent he could sympathize with that point of view.

  Basilio gave a wan smile and continued. “My men talk of seeing a shade. Despite my pointing out on more than one occasion that the dead lie in peace and do not casually roam the corridors, such foolish whispers still occur. There has to be an explanation for these supposed sightings. A trick of the eyes, a flickering flame throwing unusual shadows, perhaps even too many cups of wine to fortify the courage before entering the realm of the dead. Not everyone is comfortable working in such proximity to the departed.”

  “You do not think Hunulf was murdered by a phantom?”

  “I don’t. My workers, on the other hand…” Basilio’s voice trailed off and a look of terror passed over his face. “I saw them fleeing when the fighting broke out. What if they don’t return? And my guards…where are they? What will I do?”

  A handful of Basilio’s guards remained, if only because the church had offered the nearest refuge from the mob. It wasn’t difficult for John to find a man willing to talk for a coin or two.

  “After that funeral, who’s going to come to Saint Minias, let alone fill Basilio’s—um, His Holiness’—coffers?”

  The guard knew where Hunulf’s body had been found. He led John across the cistern and through the catacomb entrance from which John had first emerged into Rome. “Basilio doesn’t want us taking strangers into the catacombs, but I’ll be needing to search for a new job soon anyway, and since you have been generous…”

  He continued around several corners until he arrived at a spot where a dark stain covered the floor. In torchlight it presented a rusty color. Hunulf must have run out of strength here, stopped moving, and bled to death.

  Stopped crawling, to be precise, John decided. There were no footprints but only a smeared trail of blood, leading back into darkness. “Where did he come from?”

  The guard said he did not know.

  “Didn’t anybody follow the trail to where it began?”

  “Not that I heard of. Not that I can blame them. Who knows who might be waiting at the end of it?”

  John wondered if Basilio’s men had killed Hunulf for being in the catacombs under the church. But if so, why would they have let him crawl away afterwards? “I’m going to follow this blood. Will you accompany me?”

  The guard shook his head and turned away.

  “I’ll pay you.”

  “No, sir. It’s not worth it. Death stalks these tunnels. From here you can see the last of the torches we keep lit. Follow them back.” He indicated the faint glow at the end of the tunnel, then hurried off.

  John was left alone. He took a torch and began to follow the trail of blood into the maze. Had Hunulf died before John entered Rome?

  He heard the guard’s footsteps fade until there was no sound but the ringing in his ears. He was surrounded by a profound silence.

  He chided himself aloud for hesitating and commenced retracing Hunulf’s route.

  The trail ran along the floor, turning up and down corridors in a seemingly random pattern that might have made sense to a mind flickering on the verge of extinction. Judging from the amount of blood, Hunulf had been a dead man at the start of his last journey. Had he realized it, in the Stygian darkness, his wounds invisible? He would have felt his life flooding out of him. It must have bee
n terrible indeed. This was perhaps a fitting place to be buried, but certainly no place to die.

  The walls were filled with burial niches, most sealed by marble slabs or terra-cotta tiles with names engraved or carved into them. More than one lay open. The exposed bones had been indifferent to the doomed man struggling past. The dead had not turned vacant-eyed skulls to watch him dragging himself toward the destination they had long ago reached.

  Here and there a crimson puddle had stained the floor. Places where Hunulf had paused to rest. How he must have wished to see the light one more time before darkness took him forever.

  Suddenly the trail ended. Was this the spot where he had been killed?

  Peering around, John realized that wasn’t the case because he could see intermittent blood stains beyond. Hunulf must have fallen here after staggering this far.

  Following became more difficult. In places bloody handprints on the wall marked where the dying man had steadied himself. He had leaned on the tomb of Gemella who was resting in peace and later on a crude depiction of the Good Shepherd.

  John stopped.

  He heard a mournful sighing.

  No doubt it was just the wind finding its way in through a ventilation shaft. John did not believe in phantoms.

  He wondered if he might come to believe in them if he spent enough time down here.

  The splotches of blood on walls and floor became less frequent. Hunulf’s wounds had bled more as he forced himself to keep moving. From the first, his clothing must have soaked up the flow.

  Finally John was forced to bend down, holding the torch low, searching for scattered droplets he would never had noticed if he didn’t know they were there to be found.

  It appeared that Hunulf had been stabbed and immediately fled, bleeding more and more as he ran, then walked, and finally collapsed and crawled.

  But who could have been lurking here, so deep inside the catacombs?

  The hooded figure John had followed? But who, or what, was that?

  Surely there was no possibility two men could have met by chance in the midst of such a maze.

  John continued slowly. His torch illuminated the rough floor and the burial markers in the walls and threw his shadow up onto the low ceiling. He turned a corner and the light unexpectedly spilled out into a larger space.

  He straightened and moved the torch around. There couldn’t be any doubt. He had arrived, from a different direction, at the mithraeum Cassius had shown to him, not far from the place Felix had been killed.

  He turned his attention back to the blood droplets. The trail petered out finally, but not until it had led him almost as far as where Felix’s body had been lying. The conclusion seemed inescapable. Hunulf and Felix had both received fatal wounds at almost the same spot. Had they been killed at the same time after attending the same Mithraic ceremony? Or had Hunulf followed Felix’s path and fallen into a trap? Had they both been ambushed?

  John looked around warily, half afraid he might be the next victim.

  There were no telltale sounds from the silent hallways.

  He couldn’t make sense of it. He could see why the guards and workers wanted to believe in murderous shades. That would be the simplest solution.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  John returned to his lodgings to find the kitchen occupied by four agitated people. Viteric paced back and forth while Eutuchyus oversaw a bubbling pot of stew. Julius played with a knife at the table. Clementia sat silent in a shadowy corner.

  As John stepped through the doorway the others burst forth in a chorus of raised voices. Viteric’s emphatic “Lord Chamberlain, I feared you had come to grief!” was loudest. “That boy has been thieving!” was Eutuchyus’ contribution, while Julius contented himself by shouting “Liar. It was you!” and throwing the knife at his accuser. It clattered harmlessly to the floor near the brazier at which Eutuchyus stood. Whether Julius had actually intended to hit the steward was unclear.

  Clementia sobbed. John passed a weary hand over his face and gestured for silence.

  “One at a time,” he ordered. “Viteric, as you see I am safe. What has been happening in my absence?”

  “But you keep stirring so our meal isn’t burnt,” Julius ordered Eutuchyus and grinned at John.

  “Well, sir,” Viteric went on, “when I arrived Julius and Eutuchyus were yelling at each other in one of the bedrooms. I ordered them to be silent and asked your steward to explain.”

  Eutuchyus took the steaming pot from the brazier, set it aside, and confirmed what Viteric had said. “I happened to see an open door while about my duties, looked in, and caught Julius rummaging through Clementia’s possessions. Naturally, I demanded to know what he was doing.”

  Julius’ face turned scarlet with rage. “Liar! It was the other way around! You were in there poking about when I went by. You planned to steal something and blame it on me, didn’t you?”

  John held up a warning hand. “Continue, Viteric.”

  Viteric looked uncomfortable. “I ordered both of them into the kitchen so I could keep an eye on them until you returned.”

  “Does anyone know where the other servants are?”

  “Gone, sir, except for the cook and she is so upset she refuses to leave her room.” Eutuchyus gave a sniff of disdain. “They said they were afraid of being accused of theft and would not be returning. Their departure is a relief, if I may say so. It has been increasingly hard to feed extra mouths since Julius arrived and, begging your pardon, sir, with Viteric so often joining us for meals.”

  Clementia finally spoke, her voice cracking. “My beautiful reliquary was broken. The church dome was smashed.” She glowered at Julius.

  “You all suspect me,” Julius shouted before anyone could respond to Clementia. “Yes, I stole food to stay alive. You would do the same if you’d been alone and starving. Some will kill to keep on breathing!” He stormed out.

  Julius’ expression was so murderous, John thanked Mithra that the boy had already rid himself of his knife.

  John gave Viteric a questioning look.

  “It seems obvious enough, sir. As the boy admitted, he’s a thief.”

  John headed after Julius. Viteric followed him into the hall.

  “Sir! I sense that you dislike Eutuchyus. Still, whose word can you trust? That of a mature servant or a thieving boy? Don’t let your judgment be clouded.”

  John’s reply was cold. “Thank you for your advice. Please return to the kitchen and ask Eutuchyus to serve the meal.”

  He found Julius perched on the broken wall of the half-demolished house next door and sat down beside him. The clear night sky was pocked with stars and in the darkness, out on the street, there was a sense of occasional movement as people passed by unseen.

  After a while Julius spoke. “I’m a thief, Lord Chamberlain, but not a liar. My parents taught me to tell the truth.” He choked on his words and his voice trailed off.

  “Then tell me, on your oath, is what you said the truth?”

  “It is. My father’s highest compliment was to describe certain close friends as men who could be trusted in the dark. And I say there are people who should not be trusted in the dark—nor daylight either. I don’t trust Eutuchyus. More than once I’ve heard someone shuffling past my room at night. I knew it wasn’t you because you have a firm step. It wasn’t those two servants who just left either. They always stayed in their rooms.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “They barricaded themselves in. I discovered that because before I found the kitchen on my first visit I tried their doors and couldn’t open them. What’s more, they burst into prayer when I tried the latches. They’re not the sort to go wandering about in the dark.”

  “You never looked out to see who was passing by your door at night?”

  “No,” Julius replied. “I was afraid of seeing Genera
l Conon’s shade. Maybe that was what the servants feared.”

  John fell silent. Fear of phantoms hadn’t kept Julius from stealing food from the house and he was not unaware that capable thieves could also have a talent for lying. It was a talent he had encountered frequently in Constantinople. An innate talent. He had spoken with beggars who were far more plausible than senators.

  He felt a sudden rush of pity for the defiant youngster, liar or not. “It would be best if you stayed out of other people’s bedrooms from now on, Julius. That way there can be no misunderstandings.”

  Julius laughed. “That’s just the sort of advice my father would have given! And I suppose I should be careful about wandering dark streets and sneaking into houses. What does the emperor’s Lord Chamberlain know about what it takes for a poor boy to survive?”

  “More than you might imagine, Julius. I ran away from home too.”

  “How did you live then, without stealing? Did you find work?”

  “I became a military man. I was a bit older than you. I wasn’t always a Lord Chamberlain, Julius.”

  Julius looked at him thoughtfully. Maybe, John thought, he was reassessing him. Or maybe John only hoped he was. “In a year or two you will be old enough that the army won’t turn you away, if you still want to join. But if you continue to break into houses you will end up a criminal, not a soldier.”

  Julius jumped down from the wall. “All this excitement has made me hungry. I’m off to try Eutuchyus’ latest batch of stew. Let’s hope he didn’t poison it!”

  As they crossed the rubble-strewn space between the two houses John pondered on the events of the past hour. Had Julius been unjustly accused? Or, as Viteric suggested, had his own dislike of Eutuchyus caused him to believe the boy rather than the eunuch?

  Now there was another knot to untangle. Was Eutuchyus bartering stolen items for food? That would not only confirm Julius’ truthfulness but also explain the steward’s unlikely story about finding a pot of honey buried in the ruins of a bakery.