“Yes. But what are you doing here? Were you here during the attack?”
Lucretia admitted that she had been present.
“But what was your husband thinking of, to put you into such danger?”
Lucretia bit her lip. “I…I’m not living with Balbinus any more.”
Felix closed his eyes and Lucretia thought he had drifted into unconsciousness. But then he was looking up at her again.
“You ran away,” he stated, “to join a holy order! Mithra! The bastard beats you?”
Lucretia denied it. “No. Never. What makes you think that?”
“The bruises on your face, for a start. And for what other reason does a wife leave her husband?”
Lucretia did not have the heart to tell the captain that one of his own men was responsible for the condition of her face, although the blows had been struck in order to save her from worse.
“I am not a thing to be bought and sold,” was all she said. It barely expressed the desperate revulsion she felt at her arranged marriage. Not that Felix looked to be in any condition to grasp a fuller explanation, even if she had been inclined to give one.
Felix muttered almost too quietly for her to catch his words. “When I am back on my feet, I’ll tell Anatolius. He’ll make sure that Balbinus pays, senator or not.”
His voice trailed off as his eyes closed again.
“Felix?”
There was no answer but at least he was breathing.
Her attention was engaged by a sudden clamor in the aisle. She heard voices raised tremulously, beseechingly, as the peasant reappeared. He was accompanied by Michael.
She had seen him only from a distance, not daring to approach closer. He was slight of build and not much taller than herself. Strange to think that such powerful words could issue from the mouth of such a man.
“My woman is dying,” the peasant was saying. “You must heal her. We walked a long way. You owe it to her.”
Michael bent and touched the sick woman’s flushed forehead. Ignoring the peasant’s passionate stream of pleas and entreaties, Michael next passed his hands over face of the dying man next to Felix. Then he moved on to the excubitor captain, gently touching the head wound.
“You must understand,” Michael said, “that mercy must extend even to those who attack the innocent.”
And now he addressed Lucretia directly. “A new handmaiden, I see, come to serve the lowliest. You will surely be rewarded, my sister.”
Lucretia looked up into his dark, compassionate eyes, huge under the bald head. How could she doubt him?
“Holy one,” she faltered, “the only reward that I ask is your blessing.”
Michael laid his hand upon her head. “That you have. But your soul is troubled. May you gain peace of mind at least, if you do not find whatever you believe you are seeking here.”
The peasant was kneeling also, asking Michael’s blessing for himself and the woman he loved. Michael granted his request and moved away.
Her companion quickly looked down at the sick woman.
“Doesn’t look that much different, does she?” he said harshly, a hint of yellowing teeth showing again. “If you ask me, she looks worse. Perhaps nothing can bring her back to me now. Not that I’m all that surprised,” he concluded.
Lucretia, surreptitiously wiping her eyes, asked him what he meant.
“Didn’t you see? If this Michael has really been blessed with his saintly namesake’s healing powers, for that’s what folks around here are starting to say, why does he have half-healed sores around his ankle?”
Smiling at her startled expression, he nodded importantly. “Oh, yes, you just look. He’s coming back this way.”
Michael was moving down the aisle again, blessing the unfortunates crowding the narrow space. As he passed by Lucretia bowed her head. It was not her right to question, but, hating herself for it, she quickly glanced at the thin ankles visible beneath the hem of his robe.
It was just as the peasant had said. She suddenly felt soiled, as she had with Balbinus.
“You saw, didn’t you?” the peasant was asking her. “And by the look of them dark bits, his flesh is starting to mortify. A few days from now, his leg will be blowing up and he’ll be smelling like a dead cow left out in the sun.”
He leaned forward to confide in a whisper. “I’ll tell you what I think, lady. He’s an imposter. I’ve seen that sort of sore before. He’s been held in shackles and that very recently. But why is he out here and what does he really want?”
Lucretia had no answer, nor did she care to ponder the question. She struggled to her feet and staggered outdoors. She needed fresh air. She felt very ill.
Chapter Twenty-three
The rhythmic swaying of John’s mount as he rode up the Mese would have been almost soothing had it not been for his lingering vision of Anatolius’ bleak cell.
He wondered how long Anatolius’ stoicism would endure. Soldiers who had silently borne the most grievous battlefield wounds could be reduced to whimpering madness by extended periods of enforced hopelessness. It was something John had witnessed on several occasions. And more than once, out of mercy, he had counseled Justinian to sentence a miscreant to death rather than imprisonment. He prayed to Mithra he would not have to counsel such kindness on behalf of his friend.
His black thoughts about Anatolius’ confinement, circling like birds of ill omen, were not all that distinguished this second diplomatic mission to Michael from the first. John’s world had changed since then. Senator Aurelius, his companion on that first occasion, was dead. So was Philo. Felix was missing. Isis and Darius had been reduced to refugees, the madam’s girls were scattered, one had been horribly murdered. Even the reliable Peter was no longer his usual self, beset as he was by ill health.
The city seemed to reflect the ruins of John’s life. He and the handful of guards accompanying him rode through wide blackened swathes, where fire had claimed the ill built buildings which crowded closely behind the colonnaded main thoroughfare. As they passed along the way, the hooves of their horses stirred up clouds of ashes. The acrid dust burned eyes and nostrils. Everywhere the air brought the sharp taste of smoke to the back of the throat.
If he accomplished his mission, would Theodora look more kindly on his entreaties on behalf of Anatolius?
John urged his mount forward. It was not until the shouts of his guards broke through his dark musings that he realized he had, for some time, been racing madly down the Mese at a full gallop.
“Michael has agreed to an audience,” the acolyte announced.
Outside the shrine, John had observed the scattered remains of cooking fires, shattered pottery, a sandal lying abandoned on the churned earth, things that together with the remarkable abundance of stones around the shrine’s steps informed his trained eye of stealthy attack, a panicked rout, and a determined counter-attack. Mute confirmation was provided by the dried blood staining the ground here and there. The number of the mounds of fresh earth ranged beside the nearby stream bore witness to the cost. He would not have buried the dead beside an encampment’s water supply, he thought. Despite the Michaelites’ recent martial success, it was obvious that their leader had had no military training.
Now, as he followed his guide through the crowded building, John glanced around its packed interior, searching for a glimpse of Felix.
Michael had not chosen to meet him in front of the altar this time. Instead, the acolyte led him to a small room in the back of the shrine. “This is the master’s chamber,” he revealed, before announcing John.
The room resembled a cell, but unlike Anatolius’, it possessed an unlocked door and a tiny, square window
