“I would prefer not to think so, Anatolius. Where is the Cappadocian staying when he is not here seeking your aid?”
“I cannot say.”
“Does that mean you won’t say, or that he hasn’t told you?”
“It isn’t my business to know where he’s living.”
“Spoken like a true lawyer.”
“I’m surprised, John. You’re a man of principle. I thought you would understand I have my own duties as a lawyer.”
“We also have duties as friends, Anatolius. Your association with the Cappadocian puts you in grave danger. And yes, before you say it, if I fail to find a murderer for Justinian, I am in danger too.”
Anatolius started to reply, stopped. His gaze wandered from John’s face, fell to the skull in the desk top. He pushed an opened codex over the leering face. “So you intend to offer up the hated Cappadocian as a sacrificial lamb?”
“That’s not what I meant,” John snapped with evident anger.
“I apologize, John.” Anatolius paused. “We shouldn’t argue over this matter. We both have our duties. I will arrange for you to speak with the Cappadocian. Will that suffice? Perhaps he will see fit to tell you things he has not told me or that I am not at liberty to reveal. But not here. Not at my house. I will make arrangements. Come back tomorrow and-”
“No. Today, Anatolius. I will speak with the Cappadocian today.”
“I can’t guarantee that my client…” Anatolius stopped and shook his head wearily. “All right, John. I will see what I can do. Come back after midday.”
***
The sun was a blinding orb of molten glass as John walked slowly and pensively back home. The streets throbbed with heat, all surfaces-the pavements, columns, bronze statues, brick edifices, and John’s skin-blazed with it.
Felix and Anatolius had both lied to him.
His two oldest friends.
Felix had either concealed the fact one of his watchmen had spotted the Cappadocian, or he had lied about sending watchmen. Did Felix know Anatolius had been meeting the Cappadocian and yet had not told John?
And what was the real reason Felix had not been seen at the mithraeum for so long? Were Vesta’s visits to Anatolius truly about legal matters? If the men had lied to John about the Cappadocian how could he expect them to be telling the truth about anything else?
Had he got anywhere at all with his investigation? Had he learned anything beyond the obvious fact that numerous powerful people might have wanted the empress dead?
Artabanes would have seen it as revenge for Theodora foiling the marriage he desired. Antonina, on the other hand, could save her daughter Joannina from the marriage Theodora had been forcing upon her. With Theodora’s interference gone, Germanus might finally be elevated to the level of power he was arguably entitled to as Justinian’s cousin. And now there was the Cappadocian, who would not only revel in the death of his imperial persecutor but also, perhaps, be allowed to return to power.
He had at least confirmed that very few had had access to the empress-ladies-in-waiting, clergymen, a physician-none of whom appeared to have any reason to wish her dead. In fact, all had every reason to want her to continue to live, if only to keep their employment and remain free from possible accusations.
As he crossed the square to his house John found his thoughts instantly drawn away from these puzzles by concern for his daughter Europa and for Peter.
“Mithra,” he muttered. Was he getting old to be unable to concentrate on his work, distracted by family matters?
Hypatia answered his knock, tears in her reddened eyes.
“What is it, Hypatia? Peter?”
She wiped her eyes, nodded, and showed him a trembling smile.
“He’s cured, Lord Chamberlain! Completely himself again and furious his broken leg won’t let him jump out of bed. It’s as if one of his angels visited during the night.”
Chapter Forty-one
John didn’t believe in miracles. How could a smear of lamp oil on a forehead heal? Why would an elderly man who had journeyed to Egypt and obtained a flask of oil be cured while elsewhere in Constantinople other old men, who had never set foot far beyond the city gates, were dying?
He did not believe in omens either. Lightning had struck the column of Arkadios because it towered above anything else in that part of the city. The strike had not presaged the death of Theodora or calamity for the empire.
However, John the Cappadocian did believe in omens. It was said he consulted oracles and sorcerers. Was that why he had arranged to meet with the Lord Chamberlain at the column of Arkadios?
The Forum of Arkadios was comparatively small, populated with ancient statuary, a peculiar gathering of all but forgotten pagan gods and unfamiliar emperors.
John entered the forum warily. There were only a few passersby. The sun was still high enough to press the full weight of its heat down onto the open space.
John was not certain he could trust Anatolius’ word that he was not being sent into an ambush, and his lack of trust distressed him.
There was no sign of the Cappadocian.
Had John been tricked?
He walked toward the column. Constructed of dark green serpentine, it rose from a massive base of red granite. A continuous frieze winding around the column depicted the military triumphs of an emperor who, like Justinian, had never ventured onto the battlefield. A sculptor’s chisel could make a man a hero as readily as his own sword, and with considerably less risk.
A charred line ran down the side of the column. Where the charring ended, the pavement had cracked and exploded upward. Jagged pieces of masonry lay about, some at the forum’s far edge, the result of the lightning strike. Apparently city workers had been too busy with the imperial funeral to begin their cleanup. Those who claimed the top of the column had been sheared off or that Arkadios’ image had been reduced to a molten mass had exaggerated.
“Lord Chamberlain.”
The voice came to John clearly, yet there was no one nearby.
He looked up and made out a figure standing on the railed platform upon which sat the silver statue of Arkadios.
John went through the door in the base of the column and started up the spiral stairway inside. Shafts of light fell through narrow, scattered openings. The bright, intersecting lances created a confusion of brilliance and shadow on the steep, open stairs. John kept close to the wall, aware of his vulnerability.
No one lay in wait and at the end of his climb he was greeted by the corpulent figure of the Cappadocian. According to rumor, the Cappadocian’s oracular advisors had convinced him he would one day wear the robes of Augustus, but this afternoon he wore what might have been the clothing of a beggar, a shapeless brown garment. His broad-featured face was ruddy. He was tonsured, just as described by Pulcheria.
Looking past the Cappadocian John noticed something he had not seen from the ground. The lightning bolt had blasted away half of the platform. A length of railing dangled out into space, resembling the twisted metallic limb of a dead tree. The Cappadocian stood near the platform’s edge, seemingly unconcerned by the steep drop below.
“We won’t be overheard here,” John observed.
“If Theodora were still alive I would not be so sure of that,” the Cappadocian replied.
He might have been tonsured and humbly dressed but John saw the thick, loose lips of a debauchee and the
