other?”
“It’s been my experience that the most magical aspect of prophecies is how much clearer they appear in retrospect. There might have been something useful to be gleaned by examining that letter.”
They had crossed the square and were now walking down a street behind the Great Church.
“I shall be going home momentarily,” John continued, “but first I wanted to inspect where Philo stumbled across the dead beggar. Felix gave me directions this morning, having got them from Darius, who, by the way, says that on your last visit to Isis’ house a certain composition was very well received. I understand her girls are all hoping you will write poetry for them too. You seem to be quite a popular young man with the ladies, Anatolius.”
Anatolius, who appeared preoccupied, muttered a noncommittal comment. He tended to be intolerably voluble during one of his frequent periods of longing after a lady, but when his love was requited he became belatedly discreet. This consummation occurred far less frequently than anyone would have guessed, given his rank, poetic turn of mind and a face that might have been chiseled by a sculptor of the classical era-one who wasn’t busy creating statues of wise old philosophers. But it was no puzzle to John, who had observed over the years how his friend invariably set his heart on women who were either hopelessly below or too far above him in the city’s stratified society and therefore well out of reach.
One day, John feared, Anatolius would suffer the misfortune of actually making an unsuitable match.
They passed through a small forum where one of the city’s ubiquitous stylites still preached, for the mysterious deaths of the three had not come near to even decimating their population. Soon they plunged into one of Constantinople’s countless narrow byways. There was a lingering aura of darkness about it, as though the previous night had not quite seeped away but remained puddled along the base of the walls hemming in its narrow length. They paced up and down for a time, kicking at reeking piles of refuse that yielded up only a few outraged rats.
Anatolius asked John what it was that he sought.
“I don’t know. The poor die in alleyways all the time. I thought if I examined…” John’s voice trailed off. “Nothing suggests itself, I’m afraid.”
A moment or so later they had regained the sunlight. John’s spirits lifted somewhat as he recounted what Felix had imparted when he stopped briefly at John’s house that morning, not long after Philo had completed detailing his investigations.
“According to the information Felix received, no one in the vicinity of the columns saw anything out of the ordinary when the stylites burst into flame-unless you count a brawl between a Blue and a Green a few hours before not far from where Luke stood, although you could hardly call that out of the ordinary.”
Anatolius laughed. “In other words, Philo has thus far uncovered about as much useful information as the captain of the excubitors and all his informants and in a shorter time. Perhaps my father could use Philo’s services after all-to spy on me! He may uncover some shortcomings I have as yet unguessed!”
John finally allowed himself to comment on his friend’s foul humor. “You have argued with your father again?”
“Why not ask if the sun has risen? We are so unlike in character, John, that I sometimes wonder if I am not my late mother’s bastard child and that is why he despises me so.”
“All men disappoint their fathers, or at least suppose that they do.”
“Even you, John? A man who is Justinian’s Lord Chamberlain?”
“I do not care to speak of my own family. I left that life behind long ago.” John’s tone was uncharacteristically curt. “But you, Anatolius, although you are young, you are already a man of substance. As secretary to Justinian, privy to so much of the emperor’s confidential correspondence, you hold a most responsible position. You have also risen to the rank of Soldier of Mithra. You have been anointed with the blood of the Great Bull. Your father is proud of you, I am certain, although he may but rarely say so.”
“No, John, I am derided for acting like a boy. I am told I do not carry myself with the appropriate gravity. When my father strides naked through the baths men address him as senator! Senator! As if that title means anything these days. A senator’s worth as much as the land he holds and nothing more.”
When they arrived at John’s house, he invited Anatolius into the quiet garden. “If we go upstairs I am afraid Philo will insist on regaling us with another of his orations. I am too tired for that at the moment.”
“An intruder in your own home,” Anatolius remarked, not even attempting to make a jest of it.
“I can’t bring myself to say so. He was my tutor once, after all. But it certainly feels that way.”
“Unfortunately, I must be off, John. I would not idle away more of my time. After all, there must be some grand task I can accomplish, some act of manly bravery. I must go forth and search for it.”
“Put your efforts into seeing that the banquet goes well, my friend, and don’t brood too much over your father’s harsh words. He’s had much difficulty with that bladder stone and Gaius tells me the pain it brings can be hellish. And of course these Michaelites pose a real threat to us all. Such trials would make any man’s temper short.”
“But my father, the senator, will of course set the situation to rights,” was the sarcastic reply, “and that is as certain as it is obvious that I never could accomplish such a thing, given my supposed hot headedness and hasty tongue.”
Anatolius turned to go but John placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Wait. I hesitated to mention this, but now I think I must. Don’t you see why Justinian chose your father to assist in his negotiations with these people?”
Anatolius gave John a questioning look.
“It is because he is a pagan,” John said. “After all, although such things are never publicly acknowledged at court, there is no doubt that they are known. And he is from old and aristocratic Roman stock so such beliefs would almost be expected, if not talked about too loudly. But nevertheless, just as we ourselves both are, he is a pagan in a city where only Christianity is officially recognized.”
Despite the fading light, John could see horrified understanding draining the color from Anatolius’ face.
“You have grasped the situation correctly,” John said evenly. “If negotiations with Michael fail, your father, as an extremely high ranking official-but a pagan-will make a convenient sacrifice. If worst comes to worst, Justinian will have no hesitation in ascertaining if the mob can be placated with a senator’s blood.”
After the shaken Anatolius had departed, John remained sitting beside the garden pool, listening to its soothing, hypnotic trickle. Around him, the garden’s friendly darkness rustled as night creatures ventured out. He sighed. What he really wished to do was sit in his study and commune with Zoe. Was it possible Philo might have put his game aside and retired early?
He had just decided to go indoors and find out when an indistinct figure drifted like a white mist towards him, having appeared from behind a large clump of lavender bushes.
“Philo! What are you doing?”
“My apologies to be barging about your flower beds, John. I seem to have lost my path in the dark.”
“My garden lately seems to offer all the privacy of the Forum Constantine. No matter,” John said quickly, hearing in the philosopher’s long pause the promise of a lengthy classical quotation that would be trotted out as surely as the flight of an arrow follows the groan of the bow. “Were you looking for me?”
“Yes. There’s something I wish to ask you.”
“Well, come inside and we can talk about it.”
Philo instead lowered himself onto the bench. “No, I prefer that we discuss it out here. It’s a matter I wanted to mention this morning, but I didn’t think it proper with that inquisitive servant of yours flapping his ears so obviously.”
A cold breeze rustled the shrubbery, bringing with it a hint of frost as well as the sweetly clinging scent of the herb. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be brief, Philo,” John said. “It grows cool and I’d like to warm my hands. What is it?”
He could barely see Philo fidgeting, smoothing down the baggy himation that had been disordered by his stumbling progress through the bushes. His white hair and beard and pale clothing gave him a spectral appearance.
“It is this, John,” he finally said, choosing his words with care. “As I was talking to people in the street during
