Darius shook his head. “I’ve spent hours thinking about it, over and over, trying to remember exactly how it was. But all I can remember is that one instant I was standing there and the next, there was a terrible scream. I looked at Adula and already she was being consumed by flames.”
John went to the kitchen window. Its glass was opaque with condensation. He ran a finger around one of the small rectangular panes and the lights of the city leapt into view.
“Everyone has said that, that the fire was suddenly just there. Yet it must have originated somewhere.”
“I believe it came from within, John. Her eyes… they looked as if there was an inferno raging behind them. I can’t forget that…”
“Perhaps you heard something?”
“Well, there was madam’s flute, poetry being declaimed, people talking and laughing. Just the usual things you would expect to hear at a gathering such as that.”
As Darius wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand, his sleeve slipped back to reveal oozing burns on his wrists. Most men with such wounded flesh, John reflected, would be crying from pain rather than with grief.
“It is a strange world, Lord Chamberlain,” Darius went on. “Everyone knows that you and Senator Aurelius were sent on a diplomatic mission to Michael. And now the senator is gone. He is not the only one dead, either. If I was asked, I would tell the emperor that if he wants these deaths to stop he should make peace with Michael. No human hand can stop him.”
Having secured the house after Darius’ departure, John retired. On the way to his bedroom, he paused for a moment at the doorway of his study. For once, his gaze was drawn not to the mosaic girl Zoe but to the pagan gods cavorting lustily in the heavens above the bucolic scene. As the flickering light from the lamp he carried gave lewd animation to the figures, he wondered afresh. Had that subtly shifting scene been specified in its owner’s original commission or was it a sly joke on the part of the artisan, directed at the despised tax collector who had owned the house until his head was sacrificed by Justinian in an attempt to placate an enraged populace?
The old gods in the mosaic reminded John of Aurelius, a staunch pagan yet, he sensed, despite his jesting almost convinced he had been granted a miraculous cure by a man whose religion he did not follow. Darius likewise was no believer and certainly no coward, yet he was already frightened sufficiently to counsel immediate surrender. It was obvious that if Michael could so easily persuade the minds of men like those, it was equally certain that Justinian would not be able to control Constantinople’s largely Christian population for very much longer.
John’s last glance around his study touched the shatranj board. A thin smile briefly illuminated John’s lean face. During his brief discussion with Darius, it had occurred to him that small though the scrap of parchment that had been hidden under it was, it was the only thing offering a shred of hope. Its message demonstrated that Michael was not as all-knowing as everyone appeared to believe.
Chapter Fifteen
By first light next day John was standing in the long shadow of a stylite’s pillar set at the center of a nondescript forum not far from the docks. Unlike three other columns in the city, this pillar was still occupied.
As red-gold light crept over the surrounding rooftops, the stylite, a tall figure dressed in a long black tunic, addressed the knot of pilgrims who had already gathered, despite the early hour. A cool breeze carried the rank smell of decomposing fish around the spacious forum along with the elevated man’s ornate phrases. This morning he warned of divine retribution against imposters who mounted pillars and subsequently preached falsehoods to pious pilgrims.
At John’s approach some of the faithful drifted away. He had dressed in a simple white tunic and thrown a dark woolen cloak over his shoulders, yet there was something in the quality of his clothing, perhaps the hint of silver thread along the hem of his cloak, that, coupled with his bearing, alerted even these simple travelers to at least some suspicion of his rank. And, John reflected ruefully, no matter how much senators and high court officials might boast of their efforts to better the lot of the general populace, those thronging the streets sensed their enemies as instinctively as a rabbit knows the fox. It was a pity that many ordinary folk apparently suspected anyone holding rank as inevitably harboring rancor directed against those lower on the social scale.
John accosted one of the retreating pilgrims. “What is the name of the man up there?”
“He is known as Joseph, master,” his informant answered without breaking stride, increasing his pace as he hurried away.
A few of those who had lingered were talking in undertones, casting furtive looks in John’s direction. It was as if they assumed he was there with some official and thus doubtless regrettable purpose in mind rather than just passing through on his way elsewhere.
Perhaps it was therefore not too surprising that the young man who had just removed a large empty basket from atop the pillar seemed to be in an extreme hurry to remove the heavy ladder he had just descended, which reached only as far as cast iron footholds embedded in the brickwork supporting Joseph’s perch. Acolytes would have to be nimble indeed to haul offerings up there, John thought as he stepped forward and offered assistance.
“May I ask you a few questions?” he asked after the ladder had been laid safely down on the trampled earth at the pillar’s base.
The acolyte glanced upwards before replying hesitantly in a low voice. “We are permitted to cooperate with worldly authorities.”
John asked how many served the man Joseph.
“Seven, master,” was the brief answer.
“You have not lost any of your number recently?”
“Lost? My brothers were all here earlier.” The acolyte was little more than a boy. Fresh nicks on his head showed he had recently shaved off all his hair but his chin was perfectly smooth, not yet in need of such ministrations.
“Do you know anything of an unfortunate man who burned to death not far from here?”
“What would I know about that?” The acolyte was puzzled rather than defensive.
“Have any of those who frequent this forum lately been absent?”
“I would not know, master. My eyes are turned ever toward heaven.” He picked up the empty basket. “I am sorry, but I must now go to market for we have not yet supped.”
John looked up at the stylite. “Perhaps he may have observed something unusual?”
The other shook his head. “Our most revered Joseph saw nothing, for it has pleased heaven to spare him the burden of having to look upon the sinfulness of this city or of the world. He is blind.”
After the boy departed John focused his attention to pilgrims and increasing numbers of passersby. After an hour of fruitless questioning, he decided wryly that no-one crossed the forum who was not blind or deaf and as near to dumb as fear of authority would allow them to be without inviting arrest. He realized that he would have to employ someone less obviously associated with officialdom than himself if he was to learn anything useful. One of Felix’s paid informers, perhaps? Yes, he would broach the matter with the excubitor captain immediately.
John turned his steps toward the palace. As he strode along, he became aware of a rising, sullen murmur. It might have been mistaken for storm-driven waves breaking against the sea walls but John recognized the sound immediately.
One glance as he reached the street corner confirmed his conclusion.
From his vantage point, he could see a torrent of humanity surging down the Mese, moving toward him in a flood wide enough to spill under the colonnades hemming the broad street. Hundreds of excited conversations punctuated with shouts and hoarse exhortations rose to affront the bright sky, mingling in an unintelligible roar growing ever louder.
A grocer who was swiftly closing up his shutters a few paces back from the corner called out to John.
“I wouldn’t go any further if I was you, sir. It’s those accursed Michaelites. You should get home as soon as you can.” He stooped to lock the shutters into iron rings set near ground level in the wall of his shop. “They’ll keep looters out, but as for the rest…” He made the sign of his faith and hurried inside, thudding the shop door shut. Bolts grated home.
