Eight for Eternity

by Mary Reed

  Chapter Twenty-One

  His meeting with the emperor convinced John that he needed to talk with Hypatius and Pompeius. He could not drive from his thoughts Theodora’s remark that his personal safety depended on him keeping his guests safe. It reminded him of a bit of history he had read once. In the days when Rome was still the capital of the empire, Juno’s shrine was graced with a bronze of a hound licking at a wound. The figure was considered priceless and such was its worth that those into whose custody it was given insured it under the threat of losing their lives should it come to harm.

  John feared he was in a similar position to the custodians of that remarkable statue, except that a bronze hound would not be likely to get itself into any trouble. The same could not be said for a pair of aristocratic brothers and a headstrong young girl.

  He found the brothers in his dining room. Pompeius lay on a couch, drinking. His flaccid bulk reminded John of half decayed remains he had seen washed up on the shore. Hypatius was trying to string a bow. His hand shook too badly to manage the task.

  John wondered if Justinian would still consider the pair a threat if he could see them.

  A brazier warmed the air. The screens were closed but enough light fell through the windows overlooking the garden to dispel the gloom. Assorted strings and arrows littered the marble tabletop.

  “If you’re afraid the palace will be stormed, I’ll ask Felix to provide you with more suitable weaponry,” John said.

  Pompeius emitted a sound somewhere between a burp and a laugh. “Aren’t you afraid my brother will fight his way out of the house?”

  Hypatius slapped the bow down on the table. He half turned in his chair, eyes wide with alarm. “I wasn’t thinking of fighting. Can the rioters overwhelm the guards at the walls? Wouldn’t Justinian leave the city first? Certainly there are enough ships available to transport the whole court.”

  “The palace isn’t in danger,” John replied. “If you weren’t thinking of fighting why were you stringing the bow?”

  “I love to hunt. I’d planned to spend the week at one of my estates. There’s nothing like stalking partridge, pheasant, and hares when the weather’s crisp.”

  “I keep telling him he should keep a few wild boars in his preserve,” Pompeius put in. “But he wants nothing to do with boars.”

  “There’s no sport in boar hunting,” Hypatius said. “The hounds corner the beast and you spear it. Now flushing out a pheasant and hitting it with an arrow in mid-flight, there’s a challenge for you.”

  “Also, pheasants do not have long, sharp…tuss…tuss…tusks.” Pompeius struggled to get the words out.

  “You must excuse my brother,” Hypatius told John. “It’s the wine talking. He used to hunt himself, before he became too fat to climb onto a horse.”

  Pompeius made a rude noise.

  “It’s much more pleasant to be riding around a forest than cooped up in the city like this,” John observed.

  “You understand. The ancients said that hunting and hounds were invented by the gods Artemis and Apollo, and yet a Christian may pursue the sport, don’t you think? Many fine warriors have honed their skills during the hunt.”

  John had done a lot of hunting during his mercenary days, simply out of the necessity to eat. However, knowing how to spear a deer properly was not very useful when it came to hand to hand fighting on a battlefield.

  “It’s been a favorite sport of many emperors,” he said. “There are those in the city who want you to take up more than an emperor’s pastimes. I just came from the Augusteus. As I passed by the walls near the Hippodrome I could hear the populace chanting your name.”

  Hypatius’ face turned the color of the ash that littered the palace grounds. “Surely not!”

  “You are the nearest relative to Anastasius left in the city.” John pointed out. “The old emperor is recalled fondly by many, especially those who share his religious beliefs or feel they have been wronged in one way or another by Justinian and Theodora.”

  “The whole city, in other words,” put in Pompeius.

  Hypatius ignored the remark. “The reign of Anastasius is long past. It’s been fourteen years since he died.”

  “Dead emperors are always wiser and more benevolent than living ones. You are the nearest embodiment of him. You have his face.”

  “So I’ve been told. A strong family resemblance. Does Justinian think I want my face on the empire’s coinage? That I would incite the throngs? Is that why he’s locked us in here?”

  “He questions your loyalty.”

  “But Pompeius and I came to the palace for safety’s sake as soon as this unrest began! We were afraid the ruffians would drag us out of our houses and demand we betray the emperor. That must be clear to Justinian?”

  “Being inside the palace would also serve a traitor well.”

  “But what could we possibly do, confined to your house like this?”

  John studied Hypatius’ face with its noble, overly long nose, the square, small chin. The man appeared to be terrified. Perhaps too terrified for someone who had commanded of the armies in the east, however poorly. “Have you had any visitors?”

  “Of course not. Who would dare to visit? The emperor suspects we’re spies. Isn’t that so?”

  “You could have followed Probus when he fled to the countryside. You would be hunting right now.”

  “We considered it more loyal to stay by the emperor’s side!”

  “Is that true? Or did you want to insure you were giving an appearance of loyalty by remaining in the capital?”

  Hypatius looked away from John, toward the hunting equipment spread out on the table. “Do you think I wanted to place myself under arrest at the palace? And make no mistake, we all realize that is exactly what it is. I may have sought sanctuary but it is in a prison. Do you recall Vitalian?”

  “I was fighting in Bretania two decades ago. I am aware, though, that Vitalian challenged Emperor Anastasius. He claimed that he wanted to force the emperor to accept orthodoxy.”

  “So he claimed. But everyone knew that although Anastasius was a monophysite he was not averse to listening to those whose beliefs differed slightly from his own. In that case I led the fight against the traitor. By ill fortune I fell into his hands. I spent a year in captivity before the emperor paid my ransom.”

  “Our uncle was always parsimonious,” put in Pompeius.

  Hypatius glared at his brother but continued. “Can you imagine how difficult it was for me to allow myself to become a captive once again? When I discovered you don’t use your dining room I decided to spend more time here. It feels less confining than our rooms.”

  Was Hypatius’ telling the truth? John had spent time as a captive of the Persians. He had been left with permanent physical wounds, though he preferred to believe that his spirit had not been wounded. “I can see that this must be very distressing to you,” he told Hypatius. “Justinian is a prudent man. He is ever alert for possible danger. He means you no harm.”

  “Are you certain?” Hypatius’ tone was almost pleading.

  “Knowing the emperor as I do, I am as certain as I can possibly be.” John omitted to add those who knew the emperor well understood better than others that his thoughts were utterly unreadable. “Are you certain you didn’t have a specific reason for taking refuge here? Were you approached by opponents of the emperor? Disgruntled faction members, perhaps?”

  “No. I swear it. We came here practically as soon as the rumblings began.”

  “That is supposing the unrest started spontaneously. There are those who believe it was planned. That the fire was intentionally set.”

  “If we had assisted we would surely have remained outside of Justinian’s reach, in order to take advantage.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t expect things to get so far out of control. You might have had second thoughts. Or you may be here to hide your complicity.”

  Hypatius stared at John
in distress. “How can we prove our innocence if the emperor has set his mind against us?”

  “Justinian hasn’t set his mind against anyone. He’s trying to find out who is responsible. He would be grateful to anyone who helped lead him to the culprits.”

  “If I had any information I would have shared it with you already. Do I strike you as a man who would try to withhold information from the emperor?” He held up a hand. It trembled like a leaf on an aspen tree. “Just the idea I might be under suspicion is torture to me, let alone….”

  “The emperor has no intention of moving you to the dungeons.” As John uttered the assurance he couldn’t help think of the unfortunate old commander Sebastian, the commander who had failed in his duty at Saint Laurentius, being led away to a terrible fate.

  Pompeius let out a gurgling laugh. “All of us at court know the dungeons are right beneath our feet.”

  John shot a glare at him but the man had already buried his face in his wine cup again. “Did you know any of the faction members who were executed?”

  Hypatius shook his head. “Why would we? A gang of low ruffians, weren’t they?”

  John thought he saw an indication of surprise cross the man’s face. Was it because the question made no sense to him or because it did make sense but he had never expected John to ask? “Were they all low ruffians?”

  “I…I’m sorry,” Hypatius said. “I don’t know why you would be questioning me about some criminals. I admit, it is most puzzling why Justinian didn’t just release those two from the church. Yet he removed three of his closest advisors. Are some anonymous Blue and Green more valuable to him than them?”

  “Well of course,” interjected Pompeius, “since they were pulled safely off the gallows by the hand of God.”

  It did not seem wise to John to reveal too much. And to question Hypatius further on the matter would be to stress the emperor’s interest in it. That was the sort of information a spy would find valuable. Not that he could imagine the two brothers as spies. “Where is Julianna?” he asked instead. “I wish to speak to her.”

  “Justinian doesn’t suspect her too, does he? She’s just a girl!” Hypatius looked horrified.

  Pompeius snorted. “She’s better off here, Hypatius. Except she should be kept under lock and key to keep her away from that slut with the evil eye, not to mention—”

  Hypatius leapt out of his seat and flung his arm in a wide arc. Pompeius’ silver cup flew into the screen with a bang and clattered to the floor. Pompeius stared dumbly at his empty hand. “That’s enough of that! You’re disgusting!” Suddenly Hypatius did not sound like a frightened man.

  Hypatius sat back down. “My apologies. It is true Julianna frequently visited Antonina. She is a friend of the empress, hardly a slut. Nevertheless, for a girl Julianna’s age to befriend a woman such as…that is to say…a woman so much older…”

  “The excubitors will prevent her from leaving the house,” John pointed out.

  Hypatius shook his head. “She’s probably in the garden. She’s spent all her time out there. Reading. She found several codices in her room. Or it could be she’s merely sulking. Being confined is even more vexing to Julianna than it is to me.”

  John looked toward Pompeius. He seemed to have fallen asleep. He was motionless. One swollen hand hung limply over the side of the cushioned couch. A ragged snore offered the only evidence of life.

  “My brother intends to spend this crisis in the company of Bacchus,” Hypatius said with a feeble smile. “He told me so and advised me to follow his example.”

  “Bacchus makes for a most untrustworthy friend in times of trouble. Not that most of us haven’t sought him out at one time or another.”

  “I hope you will assure Justinian that Pompeius offers no threat. In his present state he couldn’t find his way to the throne, or sit upright on it if he did.”

  That appeared to be true, but John had been at court long enough not to trust appearances. The nephews of Anastasius had survived and apparently thrived for years. Perhaps it was because they were, in fact, too inept and lacking in ambition to threaten anyone. On the other hand, they might find it useful to give such an impression.

  He exchanged a few more words with Hypatius, then went out into the garden, shutting the screens behind him. He glanced around at the unkempt vegetation, the yew trees growing up into the blue rectangle of sky in one corner, statuary peeking out from shaggy bushes. Not surprisingly he didn’t see Julianna right away.

  He took a few steps down a partly overgrown path. On a bench at the end of the path lay a leather bound codex. He picked it up. Xenophon’s treatise on horsemanship. The house’s previous owner had been fond of horses.

  There was a rustling in the bushes. Julianna pushed branches aside and stepped onto the path. Her face was flushed and she was breathing hard. “I’ve been clearing weeds away from a few of the little horse statues. The garden is full of them.”

  She did not appear to be dressed for such work. Her robes were green silk, dyed in a hue so brilliant as to be almost iridescent. Again John was struck by her resemblance to Cornelia. He remembered with a pang how she had come to him, after a performance, flushed and nearly breathless. He had been able to feel the heat radiating from her slim, muscular body. It was not something he should be recalling under the circumstances. Wherever Cornelia might be, she was no longer a girl and John was….

  He forced the memories away and realized Julianna was giving him a puzzled look.

  “I have been to see the emperor,” he heard himself saying stiffly. “He is concerned with your safety. You must inform me immediately if anyone seeks to contact you.”

  “Certainly, not that anyone is likely to get past the guards.” She wiped perspiration from her forehead with her sleeve. “Let me show you what I’ve found. Some of the sculptures are marvelous.”

  “I regret I have some urgent business. Tomorrow perhaps you can show me. Please take care.”

  He turned and went back down the path. “Take care,” he muttered to himself, as memories swirled around him insistently. “Take care.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  So far as those inside the palace could ascertain the violence of the previous night had tapered off. Now, as the Great Church, the senate house, and the baths smoldered, the angry masses congregated behind the ruins of the Chalke chanted slogans and shouted out demands. John left the palace grounds by an obscure southern gate.

  Not everyone had taken to the streets. At the stables beneath the Hippodrome the regular business of the factions continued. John sought Porphyrius and had no trouble finding him. He was in a stall where a knot of young men had gathered, easily identifiable as charioteers by the leather wrappings around their legs. The great man was partly hidden by the flicking tail of a powerful bay whose hoof he had stooped down to examine. He straightened up and spoke to a worried groom. “He’ll be fine. He’s got hard hoofs, like me.”

  The onlookers nodded and murmured to each other at this revelation.

  Porphyrius had the arms of a dock laborer. His receding hairline made him look older than his fifty odd years. He had a broad, flattened nose, perhaps the result of a racetrack accident. His square-cut unbleached tunic would have been more suitable for a slave than a man of wealth and fame.

  “A good looking animal,” John remarked. “One of your funales.”

  Porphyrius’ gaze located the speaker. “You know something about racing then. You can tell an outside horse from an inside one.” The charioteer’s half mocking smile indicated that he wasn’t impressed. A few of the young charioteers chuckled appreciatively.

  “It’s easy enough to see he is bred for speed more than strength,” John said.

  Porphyrius ran his hand over the horse’s back. “Zephyrius has served me well for many years.” He directed his words toward his admirers as well as John. “I’ve lost track of the palms he’s won. He’s an African, as I am. We both plan to retire to
some place where the sun is hot all year, if our opponents ever convince us it is time to retire.”

  “Never!” shouted several of the charioteers.

  “I must speak to you in private,” John said.

  Porphyrius gave his insolent visitor an appraising look. “Half the population of the empire wants to speak with me. I can probably see you later in the week, if the Hippodrome hasn’t burned to the ground by then.”

  John handed him his orders. Porphyrius glanced at the scroll bearing an imperial seal. “So it’s the emperor wishes my assistance,” he said loudly. “That’s different.”

  The charioteers buzzed excitedly as Porphyrius led John away, along a corridor and then up a wide ramp. They emerged into sunlight at the far end of the deserted race track.

  “We won’t be overheard here. There are many ears but only stone and metal ones.” Porphyrius nodded toward the statuary lining the spina, a motley collection including ancient gods and goddesses, emperors and heroes, animals real and imagined.

  “You have a large following,” John remarked.

  “It makes it difficult to work sometimes. Wherever I go, someone passes the word. The great Porphyrius walks among us. He is visiting the stables. He is inspecting the starting gates. He is using the latrine. Then they swarm and I am knocking people over with my elbows just to relieve myself. A man arrives home and orders his wife never to clean his boots again for the famous Porphyrius has pissed on them.”

  “You are both admired and influential. The crowds pay attention to your every word and even to the colors painted on your palms.”

  “I hope Justinian appreciates that my intended message at the Hippodrome was one of reconciliation between the factions. Since I have raced for both, they both respect me.”

  “But they have united to oppose the emperor.”

  “An unfortunate event and totally unexpected. Usually it is the clashes between the more unruly faction members which develop into riots. That is what I sought to prevent. This constant animosity between the supporters of our teams is burdensome to those of us who only wish to race.”