a spy for years?”
“Almost certainly ever since he first arrived in Constantinople,” John confirmed. “For after all, where would anyone find talk looser than such an establishment, one whose patrons included courtiers and palace officials?”
“Indeed! And now, since you’ve described to us this plot on the part of the philosophers and their fiendish fire weapon,” said Justinian, “do you believe it was Darius alone who was responsible for all the deaths we have spoken of?”
“Not to mention those who died on the docks,” Theodora put in, glaring at John.
John admitted that obviously the entire truth could never be known.
“But Caesar,” he continued, ignoring the empress and addressing Justinian directly, “although it may not have been Darius who placed the murderous clothing into the stylites’ baskets, it could only have been he who provided the deadly robe in which Adula died at Senator Aurelius’ house. And it was Darius who poisoned the wine jug in the senator’s study. He had the run of the house, assisting Isis and her girls preparing to present their entertainment. And as for Philo…” John again glanced at Anatolius but the young man was staring at the floor, shoulders slumped.
“As for Philo,” John went on, “I am certain that his fateful appointment was to meet one of his former colleagues. Since he was both extremely bitter about his exile and very vocal about it, I have no doubt that colleague would have felt safe in revealing the plan to him.”
Theodora interrupted to draw her husband’s attention to the fact that John appeared to be criticizing his closure of the Academy. John’s spirit’s sank to his boots. Justice was going to prove elusive, after all. The faces of the two men beside him reflected the same grim thought.
“Not at all, not at all,” Justinian said, stepping away from the throne. “The Lord Chamberlain merely reports his deductions. Not that I shall necessarily accept their truth, John, but carry on with your explanation.”
John collected his thoughts rapidly. “Thank you, Caesar. As I was saying, no doubt their plan was revealed to him. A spy in the Lord Chamberlain’s house would be extremely useful, would it not? And, after all, Philo had suffered too.”
“Suffered?” snapped Theodora. “They should all have been thanking their pagan gods for the mercy shown by their emperor in allowing them to come home.”
Justinian smiled benignly at her words.
“Indeed that is so, highness,” nodded Balbinus with perhaps a shade too much enthusiasm.
Justinian ordered John go on.
“But Philo, I think, would not have thrown his lot in with them,” John said. “He was nothing if not contrary. Besides, despite some of the things he said, it is obvious to me that he had really turned his bitterness on himself. I cannot see him harming others. And a man so preoccupied with beauty and order would have found no appeal in the philosophers’ plans for death, destruction and chaos.”
Theodora laughed. “Do you practice magick, Lord Chamberlain, that you can read the thoughts of another, and a dead man too?”
“No, highness, but as my teacher he offered his thoughts to me and many of them I have made my own. I am sure he balked at the chance to work with his former colleagues. They could not afford the risk of allowing him to reveal what he had been told. So when, thanks to me, Darius arrived on the scene to bring him home, he was ordered to dispose of Philo immediately.”
Justinian, seemingly lost in thought, was gazing at the hall’s great bronze doors. His florid features had sagged into the unreadable expression that too many opponents had mistaken for vacuity.
John knew that his life and the life of more than one other in the room were being weighed. Finally the emperor spoke, “Although this is not exactly proof as would be acceptable in a court of law, Lord Chamberlain, your chain of deductions does seem possible. I have always trusted your insights and intelligent discussions of difficult problems. Besides, I cannot imagine my soft young secretary as a cold-blooded murderer of old men. I am certain that the empress agrees.”
Theodora’s venomous stare skewered John, contradicting Justinian’s words even as they were spoken. Although a slight smile quirked the emperor’s lips briefly, he appeared not to notice her look. “So I have decided that the matter is now closed. Guards, unchain my secretary!”
John caught the slight widening of Theodora’s eyes and the flare of her nostrils. He thought her near to combustion with no need of inflammable concoctions. Perhaps she had hoped that Anatolius at least would not escape.
“That may be,” the empress said, her smooth voice revealing no hint of her rage, “but there is still the matter of the Lord Chamberlain’s treason in defying you, his emperor, by returning from exile. Not to mention Anatolius’ complicity in all his machinations. Perhaps the young poet here was not man enough to wield a blade against one he suspected of killing his father, but he was observed copying an important and secret state document-the first message from Michael. Such an offense is punishable by death.”
Justinian turned a questioning look on Anatolius.
John knew there was no use denying the allegation. “A misunderstanding, as you will doubtless have realized, Caesar,” he put in quickly. “Anatolius was unable to speak with you although he knew how urgently I needed the information. He assumed you would have given your permission.” As he spoke, John hoped that Justinian had forgotten his refusal to allow him to examine the document in question. “As I have explained, it was the content of that message that set me on the right track. I acknowledge that the action was rash, but it enabled the plot to be defeated.”
“A knotty question to be resolved indeed,” mused Justinian. “Should the emperor behead the general who wins a battle by disobeying orders or commend him for achieving the victory?”
“I am not convinced that the battle is won,” declared Theodora. “Although the philosophers are under arrest, this Michael person has escaped. And while the excubitor captain whose detachment escorted the Lord Chamberlain to the shrine has been executed for his carelessness in allowing the holy fraud to get away-not to mention his assisting the Lord Chamberlain to defy your orders-yet consider. What is to prevent Michael from returning to incite the mob again?”
Justinian looked thoughtful. “Surely he would not be so insane as to come back, having escaped our wrath once? And yet it is an intriguing possibility.”
His hand made an almost imperceptible gesture and the two excubitors flanking Anatolius grabbed the young man’s arms roughly. Others stepped toward Balbinus and John.
“What is your answer to this most important question, Lord Chamberlain?” Justinian demanded.
“Caesar, what I shall reveal may be hard to believe,” John began, willing his voice to remain steady. “It is well known that people see what they expect to see. How many of Aurelius’ guests realize they observed Darius commit murder? While their attention was on the girl playing Calliope, it took but the wink of an eye to push Adula into the fountain, immediately setting her robe afire. But since everyone expects water to quench fire, what appeared to be happening when they looked around was Darius attempting to douse the flames and save the girl.”
“You have already described that scene, Lord Chamberlain,” Theodora pointed out.
“But I remind you of it, highness, because Michael was practicing just such a deception and also in full view. Because of that, his followers will not be pleased or inclined to remain when they learn the truth of it.”
An almost child-like eagerness suffused Justinian’s features. “Fascinating! And what is this deception you imagine will render the heretic powerless, should he return?”
“Michael is not a holy man, excellency,” replied John, “but rather a woman.”
Epilogue
“So Michael’s past betrayed her, like a new wife’s old love letters?” mused Anatolius as he and
John strolled around the Lord Chamberlain’s garden not long before sunset.
John had explained that the dark lines mistaken for the onset of mortification had been what remained of a djed tattoo, the mark of an Egyptian prostitute, which Michael failed to erase.
