Eight for Eternity

Chapter Fifteen

“You’ll appreciate that I don’t have time to spare. We’ve had more reports of trouble in the streets.” The Urban Prefect Eudaemon did not move as if he were in a hurry as he led John slowly down a corridor at the Praetorium. He was a big, soft, wide-hipped man with dull eyes and a thick lipped mouth. Dressed like a soldier in a cuirass, his tunic cinched at the middle with a wide leather belt, leather boots reaching to his knees, he reminded John of the cow that had originally worn the leather.

The prefect would not have needed reports of unrest had he glanced out the Praetorium’s entrance. A noisy gang surrounded the building, flooding the Mese back to the archway into the Forum Constantine.

The sounds did not penetrate to Eudaemon’s office. The standard cross on the wall was accompanied by a bust of Justinian on a table. Codices were strewn across a marble-topped desk.

Eudaemon stood by the desk. “When I was informed you were here to see me I was inclined to refuse. Then I was told you are on the emperor’s business. Even so….” He sighed. He was dressed for battle but gave the impression that fighting was the last thing he wanted to do.

“The Green and the Blue who survived their hangings. Who were they?”

“As to the Blue, I can’t say. No one came forward to identify him. The Green, I learned after the hearing, was named Hippolytus. An unfortunate name for a patron of the racing teams. Charioteers are such a superstitious lot you’d think they would want nothing to do with a man whose name meant undone by horses. Still, gold smooths many a rough patch and stills fears in a remarkable fashion.”

“You hang men without knowing who they are?”

“Why do I need to know a man’s name when I know his crime? Under the laws of our great emperor we hang men for their crimes not for their names. Hippolytus was a wealthy man. The Green no doubt a worthless ruffian. A baker’s son perhaps. There’s justice in all her beauty. A rich man and a baker’s son hanging side by side.”

“Nevertheless, I would expect a magistrate to inquire into a man’s name before condemning him.”

“I acted as magistrate. Should I beat a man’s name out of him if he won’t cooperate? I admit the hearing was conducted in haste. There’s been no time to waste lately and the emperor’s orders were plain. The executions were meant to serve as an example to the populace. To show that the emperor sides with neither faction. He allies himself only with the law. Even handed justice is what was wanted.”

“Everyone is trying to be even handed lately,” John remarked, thinking of Porphyrius’ recent demonstration at the Hippodrome. “When did you find out about Hippolytus?”

“Shortly after those meddling monks carted him off to Saint Laurentius several miscreants showed up here to petition for his release.”

“You sent them away?”

“Justinian’s orders were to execute the criminals. It wasn’t for me to contradict the emperor.”

“How politically active was Hippolytus?”

“Active enough to get himself hung.”

“What were his crimes, exactly?”

Eudaemon pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Exactly? Well…that’s hard to say. I’m sure a lawyer could find the appropriate offenses, given more time than was available. Hippolytus instigated a riot against the emperor the night before the execution. He and his friends went on a rampage, all the while calling for the emperor’s head. To be precise, they broke into a butcher’s, stole the carcass of a swine, dressed it in a purple robe, and decapitated it in front of the Praetorium. Do you doubt there’s a law against that?”

“I’m not a lawyer.”

“And, you are…what? I’m not sure you mentioned your position.”

“I’m a chamberlain to the emperor.”

The prefect’s face reddened slightly. “Yes, I see. My apologies. I am trying to be helpful. It’s just that I’ve been rushed off my feet.”

“I understand the gallows had to be constructed in a hurry.”

“It’s true I had short notice.”

“Could that account for the failure of the ropes?”

“I can’t see how. We keep our equipment in the storerooms next to the prison. There’s quite a collection of devices. The empress in particular often has whims. The ropes were simply not up to the task. It happens. Whoever sold them to us will suffer for it, when I have time to go over my accounts and determine who that was.”

“I was thinking that someone could have tampered with the ropes. There must have been a lot of confusion in the rush.”

“It was the usual crew. Of course, these Blues and Greens insinuate themselves everywhere. There’s always bribery. But that would mean the ropes had been cut and they weren’t. Not according the reports I received.”

“Your executioner, Kosmas, doesn’t think they were cut. You met Hippolytus. Do you have any opinions? Is it possible who he was had anything to do with his escape or his murder?”

“In what way? I can’t think of anything.”

John had held off questioning Eudaemon about the guards who had been dispatched to the Church of Saint Laurentius and had failed so miserably in their task. Since it seemed he could learn nothing more about the executions, he mentioned their failure.

The prefect turned even redder. “Are you questioning my integrity?”

“I’m only trying to make sense of things. From what I’ve been told, a stranger bearing an imperial seal was allowed past the guards. However, the guards had already failed in their duty. The prisoners were already gone. As it happens they had been murdered. Whether they were killed in the church and dragged off to the cistern, or taken outside and killed near the church, isn’t clear. Nor is it clear who killed them. It was military men, apparently, who disposed of them. But it was a blind man who told me that. Were your guards responsible? Can you account for them all?”

“No. Several have gone missing. You see, I am being honest. But then again, I’ve lost a large portion of my force in the past few days. Not that my men are cowards, but they don’t necessarily want their families in the city if it goes up in flames. And others, I regret to say, are probably wearing the colors of the factions right now. As for the men sent to Saint Laurentius…if a few have vanished, can you blame them? If you were given the task of guarding prisoners in whom the emperor took a special interest and failed in your duties, you might decide to look for other work far from the capital. A reasonable man might conclude that before long an imperial official would be asking questions and looking for someone’s head.”

He gave John a pointed look.

“I’m not looking for anyone’s head,” John said. “Just for information. Those guards might have left Constantinople with hefty bribes. What can you tell me about Sebastian? He struck me as old and incapable for such an important command.”

“That depends on what capabilities might be required. It did occur to me that in this case we had more to fear from treachery than from direct, physical force. I assigned Sebastian the task precisely because he has served so long and with absolute, unquestioned loyalty.” Eudaemon’s gaze flickered in the direction of the bust of Justinian. “And see where his loyalty has got him.”

The prefect appeared genuinely distressed at the thought of his elderly commander imprisoned in the imperial dungeons. “I will put a word in for him,” John said.

“May I ask why you so interested in these two ruffians?” Eudaemon asked. “They should’ve been executed straight away. What difference does it make if their deaths were delayed by a few hours? Why should anyone care who was responsible? Justice is done.”

John’s reply was interrupted by a clerk who burst into the office, gasping for breath as if he’d sprinted down the corridor. John could tell he was a clerk because he still held his reed pen, although the agitated man didn’t seem to realize it. He waved his hands frantically, sending droplets of ink flying. “Prefect! Come quickly! There’s trouble at the prison. The mob is demanding the prisoners be released.”

“Is that so? If that’s what they want, that’s what they’ll get. We’ll hang every one of the prisoners from the portico in the front of the Praetorium. That will end the demands!” Eudaemon turned to John. “Excuse me, excellency. I will return as soon as I’ve given the orders.” Now Eudaemon did move fast, striding out of the office and following the clerk down the corridor.

John glanced around. The abruptness of Eudaemon’s departure had taken him by surprise. He walked over to the desk and studied the codices scattered across its marble top. City regulations and imperial proclamations. An account book lay against a partially opened scroll displaying what appeared to be classical poetry.

Eudaemon did not return.

John had intended to ask the prefect for an escort back to the palace. He waited for what felt like a long time, then decided further waiting was not a good idea. He stepped into the corridor. As soon as he did he could hear raised voices and smell smoke.

He started toward the vestibule.

A figure leapt from a doorway and slammed John into the wall. He had an impression of a blue cloak, an unnaturally high forehead where the hair had been shaved away in front, yellow teeth in a snarling mouth. Then something smashed into his side. He fell sideways and slid down the wall.

Another Blue, holding a splintered length of wood, loomed over him. Others emerged from the room opposite. Clouds of smoke followed. One of the men held a torch.

John tried to blink back the dark fog swirling at the edges of his vision.

“Who’s that?” asked the man with the torch.

“He came out of the prefect’s office,” someone answered.

The Blue standing over John raised his irregular club. “It’s time you’re introduced to justice.”

Before John could react, the club dropped from the assailant’s hands and clattered onto the floor. A gurgling shriek came out of the Blue’s mouth, followed by a gush of scarlet.

The man’s companions turned and fled.

Felix pulled his sword out of the man’s back. It took several hard tugs, while the Blue convulsed like a speared fish and blood bubbled from between his lips. The burly excubitor kicked the body away and leaned over to help John to his feet. “I appreciated your saving me from my own folly in the gardens last night. I didn’t expect to repay the favor so soon.”

John stood up. Aside from a pain in his shoulder where he’d hit the wall, he seemed to be uninjured. “I thought you intended to go straight from the kathisma back to my house?”

“I did. But I thought I’d scout out the situation in the streets first. I didn’t like what I saw. People were pouring straight out of the Hippodrome and down the Mese. The factions weren’t fighting each other, either. They were setting fire to shops. I knew you were coming here to talk to the prefect.”

“I’m glad you came after me, my friend.” Belatedly John pulled from his robes the short blade he always kept concealed there.

Felix looked at the weapon dubiously. “Now we have to get back to the palace,” he said. “We’d better get moving. As soon as the rioters realize the prefect’s men are all battling at the prison this part of the building will be swarming.”

“Unless it burns down first,” John remarked as they ran into a roiling mist. He pushed part of his cloak over his mouth. The acrid fog burned his throat.

A confusion of shadows surged through the haze in the vestibule. No one challenged John and Felix. In the chaos they appeared to be just two more rioters.

They emerged onto the portico and stopped abruptly. The view of the Mese was partly obscured by a macabre curtain, a line of hanged men dangling from the front of the portico. Some inventive person had managed to loop ropes over the ornamental work and decorative statuary above.

John pushed one of the dead men aside to reach the steps leading to the street. The boot that swung round and nudged him in the back as he ducked past was military footwear. The guards had ended up being hung, not the prisoners.

He scanned the row of dead-eyed men. He did not see Eudaemon’s bovine form.

Felix bent over a body crumpled on the steps. He straightened up and held out a short spear. “John, take this. I don’t see any swords. At least it’s a better weapon than that little onion chopper of yours.”

John grasped the spear. He hoped it would serve him better than it had served its previous owner. He faced the street.

The palace wasn’t far away, not much more than the length of the Hippodrome, less than a single circuit of the racetrack. But a clamorous multitude blocked the way, clogging the thoroughfare and the colonnaded walkways on either side. Smoke poured out from beneath the colonnades.

He and Felix went down the stairs. An unarmed man in a cuirass stood at the bottom, gazing around vacantly. Half his face was blackened. John couldn’t tell whether it was soot or if the flesh had been burned off.

“You’re one of the urban watch, aren’t you?” Felix barked. “What’s going on?”

“We were sent on patrol.” The man rasped. “When I got back…the prisoners were gone…and….” He looked toward the line of hanged men and looked away.

“What’s it like elsewhere in the city?” John demanded.

“Just like it is here. The Blues and Greens are fighting together. I saw three churches on fire. They hung our patrol leader from the neck of the bronze bull in the Forum Bovis. I must report to the Urban Prefect.”

The man started to mount the low stairs and staggered.

“Forget that. Save yourself,” John told him.

The man gaped at John, one white eye staring unblinkingly out of the blackened ruins of his face.

“You are relieved of your duties by order of the emperor’s chamberlain,” John went on.

The man tottered away.

Felix grunted. “If only you could relieve the two of us-”

A deafening roar cut short his words. Pieces of masonry and glass rattled across the pavement around them. Glancing back at the Praetorium, John saw that a section of the wall had collapsed inward. Flames licked out of a jagged gap. Figures flooded from the main entranceway to the building. Some were on fire. Many ran straight into the dangling corpses. One unfortunate dislodged a dead man and became entangled in the rope. The two rolled down the steps in a gruesome embrace.

John stepped aside to avoid being knocked over. He glanced down the crowded, chaotic street in front of them again. “I’d prefer not to fight my way along the Mese,” he said. “I know a better way.”

He broke into a run, leading Felix to what was little more than a crevice between the walls of the Praetorium and a neighboring church. He squeezed through the gap. He might have entered an inferno. The heat was unbearable. He touched the rough bricks and yanked his hand away as if from a glowing brazier.

“Careful,” he yelled to Felix. “There’s fire behind the wall.”

Felix cursed. “Are you trying to cook us?”

John squirmed forward as fast as possible. The burning building might collapse completely at any moment. Sweat poured down his face, blurred his vision. The heat radiating from the wall felt intense enough to blister his skin.

The crevasse between the buildings narrowed further. John forced his way sideways and stuck.

No, it was only his cloak caught on a nail.

He yanked the fabric loose, kept moving.

Then he was in an alleyway that ran behind the Mese. There was nothing here but the backs of buildings. No inviting targets for arson or looting.

Felix emerged, grunting and cursing.

The two men ran.

Here and there the alley turned to accommodate a larger building. Mostly they passed behind shops. More than a few were ablaze. Although the shops presented marble facades to the Mese, by imperial decree, the structures themselves were wood.

In one place the exotic scents of a perfumer’s mingled with the smell of burning. In another, they skirted rivulets of wax from a candle shop. A fine rain of ash continually fell from the sky, greying John’s dark, cropped hair and his short blue cloak and Felix’s beard.

Suddenly fire blocked their way. Flames leapt into the alley as if from the open door of a furnace. The air was alive with a deep, almost palpable rumble. The thick clouds of smoke accompanying the flames made it impossible to judge the extent of the inferno.

Without pausing, John flung himself into the flames.

Almost instantly he found himself in a semi-circular plaza where the Mese’s roofed colonnade curved inward. Felix was beside him, brushing sparks from his beard. John slapped out a glowing patch on his sleeve.

An obelisk, the height of two men, bore carving identifying the place as a sculptor’s workshop. Emperors and gods and goddesses, surrounded them-the artist’s wares, mostly copies of classical works.

On any normal day wealthy patrons would be strolling around, making their selections. Today a man had been hung up by his foot from the raised arm of a bronze Julius Caesar. The man had been set alight, a still living torch. He screamed as a several ruffians prodded him with lances. Concentrated on their amusement, the victim’s tormentors did not notice the two new arrivals.

John raised his own short spear.

Felix put his hand on John’s shoulder. “No,” he said in a whisper. “It’s impossible. There are only two of us. The poor man is beyond saving anyway. If those thugs spot us we won’t be able to save ourselves. I have an idea.”

They were standing next to a marble depiction of a stern, bearded old man on a throne, a much reduced copy of the mighty Olympian Zeus.

Felix stepped up on Zeus’ foot, pulled himself into the pagan god’s lap, then onto his shoulder. From there he was able to climb to the back of the throne, grab the edge of the colonnade’s tiled roof, and haul himself up.

John followed. He could see they had nearly reached the Chalke. The roof on which they stood led straight toward it, an elevated walkway. They soon would be back inside the palace walls.

Evening had fallen. The lurid glows of raging fires could be seen in all directions. Their yellowish red glare twinkled through the darkness of a city where decent people cowered behind locked doors and shuttered windows. Underneath the frantic screams of the burning man, John could hear a low, rhythmic roar like the beating of waves. The crackling of countless fires, perhaps, mixed with the shouted rage of thousands of rioters.

Movement caught his eye. Was the huge cross on the nearby roof toppling over?

No. There was a hunched figure perched on an arm of the cross, gesturing wildly, a silhouette against distant fires, ragged and demoniac.

“A fire fit to warm the demon emperor’s haunches!” cried the figure. Then it dropped and scuttled away.

The two men watched the strange creature vanish into the night. Then Felix started along the colonnade roof in the direction of the palace. John went after him.

Now he could pick words out from the roar of the city. The same words repeated again and again.

“Nika! Nika! Victory! Victory!”