arrived from our most gracious empress.”
The servant’s demeanor and formal method of address alerted John that the message-bearer was within earshot. He nodded silent thanks and emerged into the hall to see Hektor, resplendent in yellow tunic and emerald hose, lounging a few paces away near the top of the stairs, turning one foot this way and that as he admired his exquisite yellow boots. He looked up with a gleeful grin as John appeared.
John said nothing. He had a strong suspicion that the lad had not arrived to bring good tidings. He was not mistaken.
“Well, my dear Lord Chamberlain,” the boy began with a sneer, “you will have to explain yourself to the empress. I for one will be very interested to see what possible explanation you can make up to save yourself this time.”
“Indeed?” John replied, ignoring the boy’s studied insolence. Fortunately Peter had shuffled off to the kitchen and was not present to be outraged at the manner in which his master was being addressed by this perfumed creature.
“Indeed, indeed,” Hektor echoed mockingly. “You are to go immediately to the empress. And just in case you were thinking of suddenly taking a trip to the country, there’s a detachment of excubitors here to ensure that you make all possible haste to obey her summons.”
A loud pounding at the front door reinforced his statement.
“Then I shall go immediately,” John replied, refusing to give Hektor the satisfaction of inquiring as to Theodora’s reasons for requiring his presence. “It is not often that the empress sends a mere page to announce such a summons, although I seem to recall that it has been known to happen on odd occasions in matters of extremely minor import. And your detachment of excubitors seems to have lagged behind somewhat. You must have stepped out smartly to have arrived here before they did.”
Hektor bridled. “I did not say that I was actually with them.” Raised voices echoed up from the entrance hall as he continued. “I arrived ahead of them in a sort of unofficial manner, because,” an unpleasant smile spread over his small face as a heavily armed excubitor loomed at the top of the stairs, “I thought it kinder to inform you quietly that your dear friend Anatolius has just been arrested for the murder of your other dear friend, the philosopher Philo. My most sincere commiseration upon this tragic event, dear Lord Chamberlain.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Anatolius was not squeamish about sleeping in strange beds. He had spent the night in many- and not alone-perhaps in more than he would have felt comfortable admitting even to John. But until now he had never had to contemplate sleeping on what his poetic imagination had once dubbed the altar to Hypnos, slumber’s personification, in such depressing circumstances and surroundings. Not even Ovid, he thought, would have been able to find any hint of romance in the emperor’s dungeons.
It did not seem so long ago that he had been sitting in John’s warm kitchen rather than on a cold stone floor. When John went in search of the missing Philo, Anatolius had insisted he accompany him. But John would not hear of it. Anatolius was to rest, he had said, and although he and the others certainly wanted to know the story behind Anatolius’ sorry, blood-spattered condition, it could wait until Philo was back and they were all safe under one roof.
Would it have made any difference, Anatolius wondered, if had he remained there rather than departing on John’s heels? He had had no desire to relate the less than heroic events that had culminated in his being carted to safety over Darius’ shoulder, as if he were a sack of grain. Besides, he had to be certain his home had not suffered the same fate as Isis’ establishment.
When he reached his house he discovered it had remained untouched. Moreover, on the way there he ascertained that the disturbances had been quelled, at least along the Mese and in the immediate vicinity of the palace. So, discarding his ruined tunic he hastily donned fresh clothing and set off for the baths, determined to enjoy that luxury while it was still available. He suspected the unorchestrated riots that had swept the city were but petty upheavals compared to the organized chaos that was surely being planned. And who could say if the new day might not bring further miracles of destruction?
Returning home again refreshed in body and spirit, he had almost reached his front door when it swung open and an excubitor stepped outside. Simon followed. His cringing bearing conveyed his abject fear before he even spotted Anatolius.
“Master,” he cried, distressed, “we could not refuse them entry!”
The excubitor’s appraising stare at the approaching Anatolius took on a harder edge. The man was holding the bloodied tunic Anatolius had lately discarded.
“Why are you here?” Anatolius demanded hotly as more armed men emerged from his house.
“By imperial order and in the name of the emperor, we are here to arrest you,” the man holding the tunic declared. Despite his firm tone and hard look, there was a hint of uncertainty on his face. Perhaps he was not yet accustomed to arresting members of the court. “You are under suspicion of murdering a certain man by the name of Philo,” he added, completing the formalities.
“Philo?” Anatolius was incredulous. “But surely he’s at the Lord Chamberlain’s house?”
It was obviously a ghastly misunderstanding, he thought. With all the disorder in the city someone along the chain of command had received garbled instructions. But his father would soon set things right. No, he corrected himself quickly with a deep pang of pain, his father was no longer able to aid him. But there again John would be able to straighten matters out just as swiftly.
“I suggest that you consult the Lord Chamberlain on this matter,” Anatolius said, “for it is quite evident that a mistake has been made.”
“Our orders are to arrest you. They are our only orders,” the excubitor replied, resting a hand suggestively upon the hilt of his sword.
Anatolius demanded to know who had made the accusation.
The excubitor did not reply but looked pointedly down at the reddened tunic hanging over his arm.
Anatolius was marched smartly away through the dark and unhealthy network of narrow lanes pressing closely around the wall encircling the Great Palace. Even as he was escorted to a row of cells beneath the ruins of a small temple left picturesquely intact in a less frequented part of the palace grounds, he remained convinced that his detention was an error. Mistaken identity, perhaps, or some other simply explained misunder- standing. Had Felix been in charge of the excubitor detachment sent to arrest him, it would all have been cleared up in the wink of an eye.
Now, hours later, leaning against the rough wall of his cell, he wondered if he would be released soon or if he would be forced to make his bed that night upon the cold floor. No sound came from the corridor. He might as well have been already buried and forgotten.
Thinking of burials gave birth to unfortunate recollections of certain rumors and gossip. One day a courtier was received with smiling favor, the next he found himself ordered confined to his home until he died or hastened his own death. Had imperial policy changed, become yet stricter? Were such unfortunates locked away from the world now, left to starve to death with none knowing where they were hidden away?
Anatolius knew as little of the law as he cared to-which was almost nothing. As he recalled, Romans were seldom sentenced to imprisonment but rather to fines, forfeitures or death. The thought did not cheer him.
He rubbed his gritty eyelids. Why should the emperor, whom he saw nearly every day, whose words he worked diligently to embellish, treat his trusted secretary in such a barbaric manner?
He reminded himself at present it was Theodora who was in charge although the orders issued bore Justinian’s name. He recalled Theodora’s exotic scent, her warm breath on his face. Had she perhaps detected some forbidden interest in her in his demeanor?
Of course, he’d also copied out Michael’s letter for John. Could Theodora have learned of that? Did it explain her sudden animus? She would need little excuse or reason, in fact none at all, to strike out at a close friend of her enemy the Lord Chamberlain, especially when that friend’s execution would result in his newly acquired estate reverting to the coffers of the empire.
Yet he would not hold an estate were it not for the death of his father. The thought brought another of those
