Ten for Dying (John the Lord Chamberlain Book 10)

by Mary Reed

  He realized he had stepped out into the midst of a group of young men, immediately identifiable by their partly shaved heads, braids of long hair worn in the Hunnish style, and rich, if barbaric, billowing garments with close-fitting sleeves.

  Followers of the Blue chariot racing team.

  “Why, it’s Captain Felix.” Their leader, a tall man with a scarred face, smiled in jovial fashion. He was standing much too close to Felix, blocking his path.

  “Stand aside! I’m engaged in important imperial work!” Felix could hear his words were slurred.

  “By the smell, you’ve been assigned to test the purity of wine,” chimed in another of the group.

  Felix pivoted, unsteady on his feet, to address the new speaker and before he could bark out a word, his arms were pinioned from behind, a hand clamped over his mouth, and he was dragged toward an archway leading into the Hippodrome.

  There were a few people in the street who could not have helped seeing what was happening. They hurried on, faces averted. A knot of beggars settling down for the night inside the Hippodrome entranceway shouted encouragement to the Blues as they dragged Felix past.

  Felix had no hope of escape. After all the wine he’d consumed he was barely able to stay on his feet, let alone put up a fight. The young men carted him as helpless as a baby through dark, deserted corridors.

  What did they want?

  Was it robbery? Then why address him by name?

  Chilling gusts of fear began to clear wine mists from his head.

  He bit the fingers covering his mouth. The hand jerked away reflexively but before Felix could yell for help one of his captors delivered a blow to the back of his skull.

  A torch seemed to explode into sparks behind his eyes

  The next thing he knew he was on his back staring up into the night. Above him, silhouetted against a dome of sky faintly illuminated by the city’s innumerable lamps and torches, loomed a gigantic serpent, reared up as if to strike.

  He cried out and tried to roll over and unsuccessfully push himself to his feet.

  Coarse sand stuck to his palms.

  Strong hands yanked him upright. A bolt of pain shot through his shoulder. His head throbbed and an ocean-like roar filled his ears. He blinked, bewildered. Row after row of seats glimmered in the gray light.

  They were in the Hippodrome. His assailants had carted him out to the wall of the spina in the middle of the race track. The serpent was one of three huge, intertwined snakes which had once supported the sacred bowl at the Delphic Oracle before being carried off to Constantinople.

  “Do you want to know your future, captain?” came a voice. “That prophesy is not very mysterious, is it?”

  Felix saw what the man meant. From the serpent head jutting out over the track dangled a rope with a noose at the end.

  Felix looked around, trying to control an overwhelming sensation of dizziness. “Who is in charge?” he demanded, trying to keep his voice steady. “Everyone knows Justinian supports the Blues, but if you believe the rumor that he exempts your faction from the law you are mistaken. When he finds out—” Someone shoved him from behind. He hit the ground face down, lifted his head, spitting sand, and took a boot to the ribs.

  Idle class though the Blues were—for only the well-to-do could afford the extravagant clothing they preferred and the idleness in which they had earned their foul reputation—they hunted in packs like jackals, and once a group had their prey at a disadvantage, they dared any violence up to and including murder. They feared nothing, knowing Justinian was of the same racing persuasion.

  The toe of a boot stung his shoulder. He averted his face, trying to protect himself as blow after blow descended. At some point he lost consciousness and returned to the world sputtering after a bucket of water was emptied over his head.

  He started to turn to see his tormentors. A powerful hand forced his head down, grinding his face in the sand. Then it yanked his head up by the hair, pulling it back until he feared his neck would crack.

  He could see the rope hanging, the hungry open maw of the noose waiting expectantly.

  “What happened to the courier?” came a hoarse whisper.

  “Courier?” Felix felt blood trickling from his forehead.

  His interrogator pulled his head further back. “When you are hanging by your neck and gasping for the next breath which you will never draw, you’ll wish you could talk. So you had better do so now. As you well know, I am asking about the man sent to your house who has not been seen since. More importantly, for men are many and riches few, what have you done with the relic?”

  “Relic?”

  “I see you are intent on trying to out-echo Echo,” The whisperer’s tone became more impatient. “The relic I am talking about is the relic you have been expecting. Since I have no objection to plain speech, I mean the holy mother’s shroud.”

  The voice was dry and raspy. The voice of a man much older than the young thugs who had attacked Felix. And despite being muted it hinted at a sonorous quality, almost familiar. Felix tried to turn again and again was prevented from doing so by the hand on the back of his head. He decided to throw the knucklebones at a venture. “I admit I saw the courier but I don’t know where he is now. As for the shroud, he may have had it once but he didn’t when he came to me.”

  “Why would he arrive empty-handed?”

  “That’s exactly why I’ve been trying to find the scoundrel, to question him.”

  “Don’t try to be clever, captain. We know he had it and we know he came to your house. I’ve had you followed all day, hoping you might lead us to the relic, but time grows short. Wherever you’ve hidden the shroud you’d best retrieve it quickly because it will be called for a day hence. We will find you, wherever you are, and you’d better have it in your possession when we do. I intend to take charge of the matter personally. Let’s hope you recover quickly enough not to need further reminders of what you are required to do!”

  With that, at a word to the group of men clustered nearby, the boots resumed their work until the dark heavens swooped down upon Felix again.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Dedi pressed back against the shadowed wall of the Hippodrome as a gang of Blues erupted from an archway, cursing and laughing.

  “So much for that!” one grunted.

  “A rope necklace solves a lot of problems,” laughed another.

  Dedi had halted abruptly just beyond the light from the torch beside the entrance. His attention shifted instantly from his own quarry to fear that he might spotted by the Blues and become a quarry himself.

  Not that he would escape them for long.

  Fortunately one of the beggars who clustered around the archway at night extended a grubby palm. Either he was blind or his humors were deranged, Dedi thought. Nobody begged from a Blue.

  A Blue kicked the beggar’s legs out from under him. The pack moved in and the man was reduced to a bloody heap in scarcely less time than it took them to cross the street singing a ribald song after they’d finished.

  Suddenly there was a figure bending over the moaning beggar. It had appeared from nowhere, as if precipitated out of the thick, rank night air by the evil Dedi just witnessed. The figure straightened up and with a thrill of horror Dedi recognized the face of the hellish being for which he had been keeping a watch, the thing that had taken the form of Antonina’s servant Tychon.

  When the thing set off at a rapid pace parallel to the Hippodrome, it had two shadows. One its own, the other Dedi.

  Its destination proved to be Baths of Zeuxippos. Why not? A creature mimicking a human would mimic human habits, Dedi reasoned as he stayed close on its heels. The creature paid the small fee to enter the baths and disappeared into the echoing portico.

  Dedi, delayed at the entrance, finally located his quarry again near a fountain in the vast atrium. It wa
s talking to two men seated on a curved bench. Dedi pretended to study the inscription on the base of a nearby statue of Demosthenes. From what he could overhear, the men were discussing palace scandals and whether the Green team had a chance of beating the Blues in the next round of chariot races.

  “If the Blue charioteers are as savage on the track as their partisans are on the streets, the Greens don’t stand a chance,” the thing passing as Tychon said, and went on to describe what the Blues had done to the beggar. “He had a few coins on him. Enough to pay my way in here and buy me a drink.”

  The bronze orator looked on, tight-lipped, as if expressing disapproval of the artless conversation.

  At last the demon set off again. Turning down one corridor after another, he came to a cold pool, deserted at this time of night.

  Dedi lurked beside its entrance. Venturing a peek around the corner of the doorway he saw the thing begin to strip off its clothing. He held his breath. Perhaps it hadn’t bothered to retain a semblance of humanity beneath its garments, nor would it bother to do so with no one, so it seemed, around.

  Dedi braced himself for some vision of horror, hooves, a scaly tail.

  There was only a pair of buttocks, paler than twin moons.

  The cunning creature padded off to the pool. Dedi saw the thing dangle its legs into the water, which did not sizzle and boil at the touch of the infernal flesh as Dedi half expected.

  Moving quickly Dedi crept into the changing room, pushed aside the tunic left crumpled on a bench, grabbed the woven belt underneath, and slipped silently away.

  Unseen.

  He hoped.

  DAY FOUR

  Chapter Twenty-two

  John stood in the prow of the Leviathan staring into the fog. He could not make out the shore or even the waves rolling the deck under his sodden boots. Toward the stern crew members moved in and out of the mist, dissolving and materializing like phantoms, accompanied by the murmur of the unseen waves, the groaning of timbers, the creak of wet ropes, and occasionally a muffled, disembodied voice.

  It was almost as if the sea had actually succeeded in catching him during the storm and dragging him into a dismal underworld. As he slid down the deck during the storm he was certain he was going to die. Perhaps he was dead and had not realized it yet.

  The Lord Chamberlain—the man he had been—had died when the Leviathan sailed from Constantinople.

  He tried to put the morbid thought away. An entire day and night had passed since the storm. The wind had gradually diminished, the heavy black shroud of clouds giving way to gray rags. A feeble sunset had glistened across the wet deck before another night of fitful sleep in the oppressive, rocking accommodations below.

  Yet he could still feel himself sliding down the tilting deck.

  The day had passed slowly, yet he could not recall exactly how he had spent it. He and Cornelia had not talked much. They found themselves adrift between a lost past painful to speak of and a future too uncertain to discuss comfortably.

  Scanning the length of the ship he could make out a dull orange sun, the illuminated window of the captain’s cabin. John wondered whether Captain Theon was inside drinking again with the mysterious passenger who lodged there.

  To hear the sailors gossiping with each other, the captain had started drinking before they were out of sight of Constantinople. The two submerged rocks along the coast were clearly shown on the charts. A sober man could never have miscalculated the ship’s position so badly.

  The Leviathan had grazed one of the rocks, damaging a section of hull and the rudder. Anchors had been thrown out to keep the ship from being driven into the rock broadside until the seas calmed enough to attempt repairs.

  These details John had learned by listening. The crew did not gossip with passengers.

  The fog swirled slowly beside him and a voice spoke. “Let us hope an angel of the Lord stands beside us, as it did beside Paul when he was shipwrecked.”

  John recognized the pilgrim Egina accompanied by the shadow of her silent companion.

  “This will be my final voyage,” Egina said. “What a story I will have to tell my sisters! It is fortunate we have a number of anchors at the stern, as Paul’s ship did, otherwise we would have found ourselves dashed upon the rocks.”

  “I am certain your prayers were of assistance,” John said, diplomatically, recalling her incessant supplications during the night.

  “I can tell you are a man of faith. When you reach my age you will understand that God assists those who can anchor themselves.” She made the Christian sign and drifted away into the fog.

  John walked carefully back along the slick deck and down into the hold where Cornelia was trying to nap, having been unable to sleep during the night. She sat up as John entered their tiny compartment. “It seems the fates are against your departing from Constantinople quickly,” she said. “Peter tells me we are barely a day’s ride from the walls.”

  “Provided one’s horse is a strong swimmer or Pegasus.” He sat down on the mat beside her, glad to be able to stop bracing himself against the ship’s pitching.

  “How bad is the damage? Can the ship stand being shaken around like this?”

  “The crew seem more angry than worried. They have drawn cables around the hull, just in case, to hold us together.”

  Cornelia put her arms around him. “You frightened me. When I called and you didn’t answer…”

  “I couldn’t hear anything above the wind and the waves. I thought the ship was going to capsize. But let’s not talk about that again.”

  With her pressed against him, John could make out a remnant of the scent she often wore. He supposed it probably would not be available in Greece.

  “I hope they can make repairs soon. You know Justinian’s whims. I don’t like being so close to his reach.” Her grip on John tightened.

  “The emperor’s reach extends to the limits of the empire,” John reminded her, then added, “I can’t help wondering how Felix is faring.”

  Cornelia shook his arm in irritation. “That’s all behind you now, John. Felix is no fool, he’ll manage. If you want to wonder about someone what about that aristocratic looking man who rarely emerges from the captain’s cabin? I wager he has something to hide.”

  “You may be right. He’s got the look of the court about him. Peter overheard him speaking to Captain Theon. He didn’t catch the man’s name.”

  “You haven’t set Peter to spying, have you?”

  “No. He finally persuaded Theon to let him use the brazier in his cabin, on condition he would make some honey cakes and cook a meal or two for the captain and his companion, this fellow you just mentioned.”

  “I hope the ship’s cook isn’t upset. And that there’s honey on board!”

  “I suspect the cook’s happy to do as little as he can get away with, given he’s just a member of the crew who was assigned culinary duty. But I wasn’t supposed to tell you. Peter wanted you to be surprised when he cooked our meal.”

  Cornelia chuckled. “I will pretend to be surprised. But what about this nameless aristocrat who is going to be enjoying Peter’s honey cakes? Why is he on board?”

  “That I can’t say. Perhaps he’s been sent to inspect some seldom visited family estates or he wishes to visit old temples.”

  “And recite poems to himself while he strolls through the ruins?” Cornelia scoffed.

  “The muse might appreciate it if nobody else did. No, he’s definitely more than he seems. Alert, watchful, carries a blade that’s meant for use, not decoration.”

  Cornelia paled. “Is he…could he be an assassin?”

  “You mean do I think Justinian sent him to dispose of me? If the emperor wanted me dead, he could have had me executed rather than sending me into exile.”

  “He might not simply want you dead, John. It might serve his purp
ose to see you dead by a particular means in a particular place.”

  John pulled her closer to him. “I’m glad we’re going to Greece, Cornelia. You’ve been living at the palace for too long.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Vast black wings beat around Felix, beating with the sound of a thunderous heart. Was he waking or slipping into unconsciousness? In his memory he saw a raven perched on a dry fountain.

  “One raven stands for sorrow,” John explained. “It is a fortune-telling rhyme I heard from the farmers when I fought in Bretania. Two black-feathered birds signify joy, three a letter, four for a boy.”

  But John was no longer in the city.

  Five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret…

  The rhyme chased itself through the pulsing darkness in Felix’s head. One for sorrow, two for joy…

  Repeating itself maddeningly, it blotted out all coherent thought. Around and around it spun, like the sand beneath Felix’s back.

  Five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told…

  The wings beat in the darkness and Felix felt the wind of oblivion against his face.

  Eternity. Eight was for eternity, nine for the devil.

  And ten, what did ten black birds mean?

  What did those dark specks soaring into the limitless blue dome of sky predict?

  Did he see ten or nine ravens?

  Felix realized he was awake, although groggy, and still alive, lying on his back, staring straight upwards. He remembered where he was. On the track at the Hippodrome.

  He could feel his heart pounding. With each beat pain flared in his sides, reminding him of the beating he’d taken.

  A shadow passed across his face, retreated, returned.

  He dared to move his throbbing head slightly, and was relieved he could do so. Until he saw again the rope hanging from the sculpture of the giant serpents. The rope with the noose he had seen hours before.