by Mary Reed
Or rather, Zoe had been there, all the years Felix had been visiting the house. Now there was only a jagged space, where tesserae and plaster had been torn away, leaving the bare wall behind.
He reached out and touched the gap.
Could John have taken Zoe with him?
He couldn’t imagine his friend doing such a thing.
A furtive gleam caught his attention. He picked up a tiny piece of glass from the floor. It was pure, glossy black. Part of Zoe’s somber, all-knowing eyes?
He was pondering the mystery when he heard footsteps downstairs.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“That’s an ugly burn. You’re going to have a scar.” Antonina smeared white unguent along the side of Anastasia’s hand, then wrapped a scrap of cloth around the affected area. “Perhaps it’s time to end this little romantic adventure of yours.”
Anastasia drew her lips into a pout. “Just when it’s getting exciting?”
“It’s also getting too awkward, don’t you think? It’s one thing to want the men to burn for us, but to use hot coals…”
The two women were sitting beneath the gaze of the painted empress in Antonina’s reception room. Anastasia couldn’t help feeling that Theodora—long time champion of General Belisarius—was frowning at her in a reproving fashion. “You don’t approve of Felix because he’s allied with Germanus.”
“I do wish you had made a better choice, but let’s not speak of that again. There’s no point allowing our men’s rivalries to come between us.” Antonia replaced the lid on the ceramic unguent jar, sat it down on the side table, and picked up the jewel box there. The box was of polished wood, inlaid with ivory crosses. She opened it to reveal a collection of amulets.
“I pray for Felix every day,” Anastasia said. “But he refuses to let go of that pagan deity of his. Do you think the Lord answers prayers for pagans?”
“The Lord works almost as mysteriously as the emperor. Still, you’re probably right, an amulet can’t hurt. Although, from what you told me, it may already be too late.” She rummaged through the collection, which ranged from smooth pebbles one might pick up on the sea shore to medallions made of precious metals.
“I prayed for him in the Great Church,” Anastasia went on. “I think prayers work better there. When I pray in my room I feel as if I’m talking to myself. In the church I feel a presence, in the light and the shadows up in the dome.”
“How about this one?” Antonina handed over a carnelian suspended from a silver chain. “It’s been engraved with magick symbols. How you intend to give it to him however…?”
“He’ll find his way back to me.”
“Indeed. I can tell you are still under the captain’s barbaric spell. A brawling ruffian is quite a change from courtiers who fight with poisoned tongues. You’re like our dear Theodora, except she kept her bears caged and you prefer them in your bed.”
“And what about you? You like keeping wild things around. Didn’t you say that many of your servants had been recruited from the factions because you liked their spirit?”
“That’s not to say I sleep with all my servants.”
“Oh? You have always advised me that the best way to stay young is to remain open to new experiences. Since we’re talking in confidence, what happened to that young man you brought back with you from Italy? You are keeping him well hidden. He never showed his face at the court.”
“Karpos? I couldn’t tell you where he is right now. I don’t keep my men on a chain, regardless of what people say.”
“I thought maybe you didn’t trust me. I might try to steal him.”
“Really Anastasia! I would never suspect you of such a thing. It’s servants who steal things. In fact lately I’ve noticed petty thefts—a bracelet missing, a jar of cosmetics.”
“Perhaps the thief is that demon your servants were afraid of?”
“More likely it is Tychon. A tough fellow. One of my wild things as you put it. In his case the faction was the Blues. I suspect he’s been helping himself to my wine on the sly. I have devised a little trap for the thief, whoever it turns out to be.”
“When you catch the culprit, let me know who it was. Maybe it is Karpos!” Anastasia stood up. “I’d better get back to Felix’s house now.”
“If you must. Do you really expect him to elude the emperor?”
“If he doesn’t then I shall have something to say about it!”
“I’m sure you will. Be careful. These are not normal times. This game might not turn out as you wish.”
“Oh, Antonina! You’re just cross because you know Belisarius will be retired and underfoot before long and Felix will commanding troops in Italy!”
***
Felix took a step toward the door’s barred window before the chain around his ankle brought him up short. Feeble light from a torch somewhere in the corridor made its way through the bars and trembled around the bare and otherwise windowless cell. Leprous plaster fallen from the walls revealed the bricks beneath. White flakes littered the concrete floor.
This diseased hole in the earth was the last place he was likely to see.
Narses had allowed him to escape, hoping he would lead the guards to the stolen relic. It should have been obvious. How could Felix have been so stupid as to imagine he was really outrunning trained military men half his age?
He’d put up a good fight, however, when they’d cornered him in John’s study. At least one of those callow bastards was going to have a permanently flattened nose to remind him of Felix.
Felix kicked and yanked at the chain, which was firmly attached to the wall.
Mithra!” It was a curse rather than a prayer. He didn’t feel like praying, either to his own god or Anastasia’s Christian one. They could both go to Hell as far as he was concerned, along with Narses and Justinian.
What evidence did Narses really have against Felix? Not that it mattered. He had trapped Felix by bringing that jeweled cloak to the house and having his guard pretend to find it. If Felix swore the courier hadn’t been wearing the cloak he’d be admitting he had, indeed, found the courier in his courtyard and disposed of the body.
How the stinking eunuch had enjoyed ordering Felix to lie on the floor of the emperor’s reception hall. When Justinian ordered Felix to stand he was pleased to see a huge, red blister on Narse’s naked scalp, the result of one of the hot coals Anastasia had flung.
“I am deeply troubled, captain,” Justinian had said, his bland features looking as untroubled as one of the marble busts decorating the hall. “Is there no one left whom I can trust? No one except Narses? The theft of the Virgin’s shroud is not the only matter for which you have to answer. In addition, you were observed talking to the disgraced Lord Chamberlain not long before he left the city. Narses has told me he suspects a plot. I tend to agree.”
He would. Justinian’s predecessor as emperor, his uncle Justin, had been captain of the excubitors, although in Justin’s case he had outmaneuvered a scheming Lord Chamberlain to seize the throne.
There was no reason for Narses to fabricate such a plot on Felix’s behalf. Theft of the relic was more than enough to cost him his head. No doubt the treacherous eunuch wanted an excuse to pluck John out of the safety of exile.
Felix wished he could warn John.
But the best he could hope for was to resist confessing to Narse’s inventions under the ministrations of the imperial torturers.
And that was a doubtful proposition. He had seen what was left of those from whom the torturers had torn the desired confessions—mindless, bleeding husks. By the time their mouths had babbled the required words any semblance of reasoning or humanity had long since fled.
This was what Felix anticipated in the near future. Not only death but agony beyond imagining and the knowledge that in the end he would surely betray his friend.
He
shuddered. The malodorous air was clammy, but the chill he felt had nothing to do with the moisture. He stared through the bars into the corridor. The flickering torchlight gave no clue as to the time. What difference did time make here? For those who entered the emperor’s dungeons time had ended.
But surely, in the world above, it must be near dawn.
Felix heard voices. Approaching steps.
The light from the corridor dimmed, blocked by a figure in front of the cell door. A huge man.
A key rattled in a lock and the door swung forward, its hinges giving off the high, thin shriek of a terrified woman.
DAY FIVE
Chapter Thirty
At sunrise a placid sea cradled the Leviathan, which still lay at rest, helpless as a baby. Already the sound of hammering echoed through the dim hold. The crew had worked through the previous day without managing to finish repairs. John suspected that the damage to the hull must have been more severe than anyone wanted to admit. Obviously Captain Theon did not trust the vessel enough to pull up the anchors and escape the rock upon which they had run partly aground.
Or so John understood. He might have grasped it wrongly, given when approached Theon gave nothing but short grunts of annoyance. After all, who was John to be wasting the captain’s time? Just another passenger, additional cargo. The crew seemed to have been ordered to say nothing about their predicament so John was forced to piece the situation together from inadequate snatches of overheard conversation. It was frustrating for a man to whom Justinian had confided the secrets of the empire.
He was also left to worry that a weak spot might suddenly, catastrophically, give way, allowing the sea to burst into the hold and drag the Leviathan down.
John sat below, trying to distract himself by watching Hypatia, seated on the mat that served for a bed, make protective charms.
“In case the weather turns foul again,” she explained.
Peter assisted her, dutifully tearing strips off an empty grain sack. Hypatia tied intricate knots in each strip before fastening the ends to form a loop. She held one of them out to John. “You might want to wear it around your wrist, master.”
John slid the loop over his hand to be polite. It didn’t ease his anxiety. At times he wished he could believe in magick. “Why does this bring good luck?”
“Knots keep things secure, don’t they? And these are very special knots. They hold onto good fortune.”
“I should think a cross would be sufficient,” Peter sniffed.
“Perhaps,” Hypatia replied, “But in Egypt we think differently. And what about what you call your lucky coin? The one you found in Derbe when you were on campaign?”
“Oh, but that’s different!”
“Is it?”
Peter looked baffled and fell silent.
John heard Cornelia’s laugh. She came in from her walk on deck, dropped down beside John, and poked him in the ribs with her elbow. “I think Hypatia has won that argument, at least for now! All the same I’ll be happy when we reach dry land again.”
John nodded. Thinking of the greedy sea slapping on the wooden boards at his back made him uneasy. He distracted himself by turning his mind toward the matter of the stolen relic.
Hypatia had advanced a possible explanation for the visions those in the church had seen. Would it be of assistance to Felix?
“I wonder if Felix has located the stolen shroud yet?”
Cornelia looked at John sharply. “You shouldn’t dwell on that business. Felix can take care of himself. Besides, there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“I could send a letter.”
“A letter from the exiled Lord Chamberlain? You might as well send him a bottle of poison.”
“Yes, you’re probably right.” He looked away from her scowl and watched Hypatia’s fingers move almost too quickly and nimbly for him to follow. She might indeed have been tying up Fate. The knots she was forming looked more complicated than those needed to hold anything physical.
She handed a knotted loop to Cornelia, who put it on.
Peter tore off a new strip to add to the pile beside him. He got to his feet. “That should be enough for now. I need to start preparing our meal. Captain Theon is well provisioned, but I can never find the proper utensils.”
As Peter left, John noted that despite his protest, the servant was wearing his own bracelet.
“If Felix hasn’t found the shroud, he must have at least unearthed new facts about the theft,” John mused. “The question is whether they are sufficient to lead him to the solution of the mystery. If I were there just long enough to hear the results of his investigations, I feel I could help.”
Cornelia gripped his arm and dug her fingers in. “John! What are you thinking?”
“A letter might be intercepted. But if I were to ride back to the city, in disguise, for just long enough—”
“No! Don’t even think about it!”
Hypatia averted her eyes, embarrassed. Who was Cornelia to give orders to the Lord Chamberlain?
“You can’t leave us, John,” Cornelia continued, her voice urgent. “You wouldn’t return. You know that. The emperor would find out and…”
“Yes, you’re right, Cornelia.” John excused himself and went up on deck. He walked with small, uncertain steps, like a sick man, ever aware of the slight rolling of the anchored ship. Wasn’t anyone else troubled by the incessant motion? Would he ever feel solid ground beneath his feet again?
From somewhere below came a burst of hammering.
Then there was an inarticulate cry, followed by shouts, running footsteps.
Crew members were converging near the rail beside the captain’s cabin, looking down into the water. Someone pointed.
He made his way to the crowd as fast as he dared.
The pilgrim Egina was there. She turned an anguished face toward him. “Sir! It’s your servant. He’s fallen overboard.”
Chapter Thirty-one
The enormously fat jailer loomed in the doorway to Felix’s cell. Behind him, two guards held short lances at the ready.
“You are wanted now.” The jailer’s thick lips formed an unpleasant smile as he lumbered in and bent with a grunt to unlock the shackle around Felix’s ankle.
Felix went out into the corridor without protest. There would have been no point in resisting.
Once outside the cell Felix saw that the jailer’s tunic was filthy with stains, as if worn by a butcher. Perhaps the man was a torturer rather than a jailer?
Felix was led past a series of thick plank doors, banded with iron, each with a tiny barred window. From behind one door came low moans of pain, from behind another there issued an even more chilling sound, a snatch of mindless, bubbling laughter.
Here and there the walls and floor were slimy with a rusty excrescence which could have been either mineral or mold. Moving numbly, Felix slipped once and stumbled against a cell door. The jailer—Felix preferred to think of him as a jailer—turned ponderously to grab his arm to steady him. The fat man’s fingers were incongruously long, pale and delicate, the fingers of a woman’s hand.
The air began to have the stench of an abattoir.
They passed through an open doorway into a room brightly lit by oil lamps.
Their light danced across shining metal instruments hanging from the walls and piled on shelves, a display of a variety of cutting edges and razor-sharp points to put an armory, or a surgeon’s office, to shame. Amongst these were countless weirdly articulated devices whose purpose Felix did not care to guess at.
The jailer came to a halt and looked around, the gleam in his eyes matching those of the metal instrumentalities surrounding them. He turned his head toward Felix. The tip of his tongue emerged maggot-like from between his bloated lips, then withdrew as the wistful look of a departing lover passed over his porcine fac
e.
“Ah, what a waste,” he sighed, before grasping Felix by the arm and dragging him forward, through another doorway, and into a whitewashed room with benches along the walls.
The man seated there looked up as Felix entered. He had the profile of a classical Greek sculpture. Though not as old as Felix, his thick curly hair was tinged with gray.
Felix recognized him.
John’s good friend, Anatolius, the lawyer.
***
Anatolius was a lawyer now but Felix still thought of him as the foppish poet he had been when younger. The two men were well acquainted, largely because they had tolerated each other for John’s sake. Now they studied each other uneasily across a wobbly round table at the back of a tavern next to the Baths of Zeuxippos.
With barely a word of explanation, Anatolius had rushed Felix away. Both knew Justinian might change his mind and decide to have Felix arrested again as quickly and inexplicably as he had agreed to his release.
Felix never imagined he could be so happy to see the a cloudy sky or to simply walk out of the palace gate. The sour tavern air smelled sweet. His wine cup shook as he drank deeply, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and shuddered.
“I keep expecting to be arrested again,” he muttered. “How was it you knew?”
“A senator, who insists of remaining anonymous, contacted me, on behalf of a person whose name he was not at liberty to reveal.”
“I…I have to thank you, Anatolius. I was convinced I was a dead man. I don’t know how you managed to persuade the emperor to let me go. You must be a better lawyer than a poet. That is…I mean…”
“I will take that as a compliment from you, Felix. As it happened, Justinian didn’t need much convincing. I suspect he had already made his mind up to release you. He may have some ulterior motive. I can’t say. It was definitely on his orders you were arrested.” Anatolius leaned forward on his elbows and said in a near whisper. “What in the name of Mithra have you got yourself involved with now, Felix?”