the earth. He had fed the starving. Wasn’t I starving?
There are things that need to be done, the icon told me.
I walked back into the cistern and slung the body of the beggar over my shoulder. I’d had no reason to cross the cistern before but now I followed a line of pillars into the darkness, staggering under the dead man’s reeking weight, balancing my lamp in one hand, until I came to what remained of a concrete wall that had exploded inward, scattering massive chunks of masonry over a collection of chariots beyond.
I must be underneath the Hippodrome. There were ranks of chariots, all in good repair, except where portions of the ceiling had fallen on them. How long had they sat here? When had there last been a chariot race in Constantinople?
When I was done with the beggar I went back for Philokalas.
What was left of him wasn’t as heavy as the beggar, but I was shaking with revulsion by the time I’d shoved most of his bones under a chariot. A few had fallen out of his robes and rattled on to the floor of the cistern. I’d left them there. In the unlikely event the bodies were found, the natural impression would be the men had taken shelter during the earthquake and picked the wrong place.
Technically I was a murderer but I didn’t feel like one. It had been an accident. Taking my usual route early one morning, I’d seen Philokalas scuttle under the iron hound, and followed out of curiosity.
True, thieves were known to hide stolen goods in the abandoned depths of the city and it may have occurred to me that, if I discovered an illicit collection, who could fault a starving icon-painter from taking sustenance from a criminal’s hands?
Honestly, I had formed no particular plan as I slunk behind him, through the archway at the bottom of the rubble slope.
I saw the gigantic icon at the same time Philokalas saw me.
If only he had not been so hot-tempered! How else was I supposed to respond when he drew his dagger?
I used a piece of jagged brick, the same as Arabia. Luckily I had thought to pick one up as I followed him, just in case.
I didn’t hit him as many times as Arabia had hit the beggar.
The one crunching blow sickened me so much I dropped the brick and if I hadn’t hit Philokalas in exactly the right place — purely by chance — he’d still be alive.
As soon as I had examined the icon I recognized it but couldn’t work out how to use the knowledge to my advantage.
Now, standing beside the chariot that concealed the dead men, I wasn’t anxious to hurry back into the icon’s stern presence.
Why not explore?
Beyond the storage room lay an area which had been shaken by the last earthquake, or possibly previous tremors, until it resembled a natural cavern strewn with jagged boulders and stones. It might have been a basement or several basements. Dark passageways led off in different directions.
What drew my attention was the stone stairway leading upwards.
The stairs must have traversed more than one floor, but the floors were gone. I climbed to the top and peeped out through a small space between enormous double doors.
Scattered torches illuminated an otherwise dark courtyard. A grist-mill of the sort powered by a donkey sat in the middle. What I could distinguish of the surroundings told me nothing, although the little I could see of it showed that the building rising behind the courtyard looked uncommonly large. Twisting uncomfortably and craning my neck to see upwards I had a shock.
Over the roof the sun was rising.
How had I managed to misjudge time so badly? How could it be dawn already? I wouldn’t be there to meet Arabia when she arrived! I wouldn’t be on time for my appointment with Florentius!
Understanding arrived a step behind panic.
The orange glow was not the rising sun but the flames of a thousand lamps. I wasn’t far from the Great Church with its lighted dome. I might be looking into the rear courtyard of the Patriarch’s residence for that matter. At any rate, if I was close to the Great Church, I was close to Florentius. Here was the answer to how he might transport the icon.
A donkey brayed in the night as a dark figure moved across the courtyard.
I ducked away and started back down.
That was when the stairway tried to shake me off.
One instant my foot was coming down on the next step, then I’d lost my balance and was stepping into space. I flung my arms out in time to regain my balance and managed to keep hold of the lamp even as it splashed hot oil across my hand.
It was another earthquake. As frequent as they are, my surprise at their onset has never lessened, neither did my horror at the unnatural spectacle of solid earth rippling and walls bulging.
The stairway remained intact. So did I. I reached the bottom and stumbled over the heaving floor and into the chariot room. Clouds of dirt, dust, and plaster whorled out at me.
Half-blinded, coughing and choking, I staggered through the chariots, barging into wheels, tripping over yokes. The shaking made the chariots rattle and creak. I could have been threading my way through a cacophonous, ghostly race.
Finally, I was back at the cistern. As I started across the vibrating abyss there was a hollow boom. Then another. And another. If the ceiling came crashing down would I even know it or would the world just instantly end?
Suddenly a section of a column, several arm-breadths in diameter, rolled out of the Stygian depths. It roared towards me with terrifying speed. I threw myself out of the way and two rotating, leering satyr heads almost took my nose off.
My lamp hissed and guttered. I’d spilled most of the oil. I started to run.
The floor shook underfoot and I feared at any instant I would step into a freshly opened chasm.
By the time I arrived back at my starting point, the shaking was over.
Luckily the alcove had survived.
Arabia arrived some time later. I described my explorations, leaving out the part about moving corpses, and went on to formulate a more or less clear plan.
“Presuming Florentius can use that courtyard safely, you can meet him at the stairway and lead him through the chariot room and the cistern,” I told her. “If Florentius violates the arrangement — if he brings armed men, for example, or if you sense danger — take him somewhere else. Tell him the icon is hidden above-ground, show him down an alley, and bolt.”
The arrangement also had the advantage of keeping Arabia and myself apart which, I calculated, might make it easier for me to disown her if the need arose.
“Of course, Florentius will need to bring our payment in person,” she said. “He won’t cause trouble since he’ll be in the middle of it. And he knows if he’s caught with an illicit icon, Leo is unlikely to believe any excuses he might have.”
“And we take the money and run.”
Her huge eyes flashed. “Not run. Ride, Victor. We’ll be rich. We’ll buy the first horses we see! Then we’ll be off to Greece or maybe Italy. Anywhere we want. In a couple of days this dreary city will be nothing but a nightmare.”
“I hope so.” I couldn’t help thinking there was only one way that it can turn out right, and endless ways it could go wrong. And if it turned out right … what about Arabia? “Do you really want to risk your life for a few coins?”
She took hold of my arm and I smelled her perfume and felt her heat. “Not just coins, Victor. Gold coins. Lovely solidi with the emperor’s face on them. Imagine what fine things they’ll buy. Farms and jewels and silks.”
“Silks won’t do you any good if Leo has us hunted down.”
Arabia’s reddened lips curved into a scimitar of a smile. “Silk makes a better winding sheet than linen.”
