Four for a Boy

Chapter Thirty-One

John and Felix took a circuitous route to their destination. They dodged in and out of narrow passages and cut across noisome and noisy courtyards to avoid better traveled thoroughfares. Once they were on their way, the chilly air revived John further and they were able to make steady progress.

Before long they entered a crooked finger of an alley pointed toward the Mese. Halfway down its dim and debris-strewn length they were startled by the sound of running feet.

Felix’s hand went to his sword, but the noise was nothing more than a pair of filthy boys. The two urchins raced around the bend in the alley, straight toward John and Felix. Behind them limped a beggar, yelling promises of obscene punishments for some unspecified misdeed. From the way he hobbled, it was obvious he had no chance of catching the culprits.

In fact, the boys had time to stop and spit in the direction of John and Felix before disappearing from sight.

Felix reddened with rage, but allowed them to escape.

John, however, took several swift strides and grabbed the beggar’s shoulder as he turned to limp back the way he had come. “You!” he shouted, viciously shaking the ragged man. “You’re the one who bet his boots on our deaths! The cart driver came to our aid, but you were placing wagers we would die!” “Not so, good sir!” Alarmed, the beggar took a couple of steps backward until the rough masonry wall of a tenement overlooking the alley brought his retreat to a halt.

Felix trotted over and looked the beggar up and down. “You do appear to have lost your footwear. Unless you consider rag wrappings to be adequate. I’m not surprised you couldn’t catch those two. My advice would be to never wager what you can’t afford to lose.”

“No, no, you don’t understand. It was those…er…children. They stole my boots while I was asleep.” The beggar’s voice was feeble. He held up a deformed hand as if to ward off a blow.

John shook the man even harder. “No!” he shouted. “It was you! Do you think I wouldn’t remember your voice, making a wager like that? Furthermore,” he looked at the grubby man more closely, “when was your miraculous cure?”

Felix gaped at John for an instant. Then understanding dawned. “It’s the mute beggar we tried to question a few days ago!”

“Mute?” croaked the beggar. “Of course I’m not mute. As you can hear. There’s the proof! You must be thinking of the…uh…the mute beggar who hangs about in the Mese. An easy enough mistake to make. He’s my brother. People confuse us all the time.”

John grabbed the man’s dirty wrist and slammed his hand against the wall.

“I see you’re also missing two fingers, just like this mute brother who so closely resembles you. What a remarkable coincidence.”

Felix gripped the hilt of his sword. “You lying bastard! What are you hiding?”

“Nothing, nothing at all, good sirs,” the man replied in a wheedling tone. “I admit it was me you spoke to. It was just that I didn’t want to get involved with people in authority. Especially when they come around asking about someone dying. Can you blame me?”

Felix looked thunderous. “You’re telling us you know something about the murder we’re investigating and deliberately concealed it?”

The beggar’s expression crumpled at the words and the threat they carried. John thought if the man could have turned around he would have begun leaping up the tenement wall like a trapped mouse in a futile attempt to escape.

“No,” the beggar gasped. “I don’t know anything about any murder. It was an accident!”

“A man gets a blade in the ribs and you call it an accident?” Felix growled. “How could anyone be careless enough to accidentally fall on someone’s blade?”

“Stabbed? But I thought-”

“We were questioning you about the death of the man who was murdered in the Great Church,” said John. “What did you think we were asking about?”

The beggar opened his mouth, but whatever lie might have been forming died on his tongue when he saw the fury in John’s eyes. “When you said death, I thought you meant the death of the grocer’s boy. Timothy’s son. He was run over by a cart just the other day.”

Mithra’s light flared in John’s mental darkness.

The bits of information he’d accumulated, like fragments of colored glass, until now glistening and tantalizing, but meaningless, had finally converged into an image.

“Such accidents are common enough,” he replied. “Why didn’t you want to talk about it? Were you involved?”

“It wasn’t my fault, sir,” the man whined. “It was those accursed boys. The ones who spat at you. They were friends of the grocer’s son. The three of them were always tormenting me. My own personal Furies, they were. Then when I went after them that particular day, they ran away across the Mese. Right into the path of a cart. It ran the boy over and crashed into the column in front of his father’s shop. They’re still trying to repair it. But I had no part in his death! It was the carter’s fault anyhow. It was a small cart. Far too small for that huge marble it was hauling.”

“The sculpture of Christ, you mean? The very one Hypatius died in front of?”

“Why, indeed sir. That is true. You know everything.”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“His father’s shop.” Felix’s tone was thoughtful. “That means the shopkeeper has a reminder of his son’s death every time he looks out.” John did not reply. His thoughts were on the intricate mosaic that had formed in his mind’s eye. He barely heard the beggar.

“And the boy was his only child,” the ragged man was saying. “Thank the Lord Timothy does not know how it came about. I would fear for my safety if he did. Yet,” he concluded sadly, “I would not blame him if his grief unhinged him. I had a son myself once, but I don’t know where he is now, or even if he is still alive. At least until I know otherwise, I can believe he is living somewhere in the city and that I may see him again one day. Timothy does not have that comfort. Not in this life.”

John was not listening. He had already begun to walk away in the direction of the Mese. Felix followed.

“John, what is it?”

“Fortuna has smiled on us, Felix, by bringing us here. She has allowed us to complete our interrupted investigation. We’ve found the final fact I’d hoped to find. Not that I had guessed exactly what it would be.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Timothy the grocer’s son is the final piece. Now the picture makes sense. We knew all the deaths were connected to the sculpture, but not why.”

“Well, so the boy’s death was connected to the sculpture too. The cart ran him over. You mean… the cart driver? He killed the boy and also…but Dio, wasn’t he killed after-”

“The boy died first, Felix, as the marble was being delivered. It was his death that started it all. One might blame the cart driver, certainly. But then, if one were grief stricken, one might also blame the Christ figure itself.”

“And everyone associated with it,” murmured Felix. “We had better get to the grocer’s shop at once.”

***

They were almost too late.

As John and Felix hurried across the Mese, a man bolted from Timothy’s emporium, raced down the street, into the Augustaion, and headed toward the Great Church.

John and Felix gave pursuit. By the time they reached the church vestibule the man had scrambled up onto the high pedestal supporting the sculpture and was embracing Christ’s legs. The man began to harangue the shocked onlookers.

“Don’t put your faith in the Lord!” he screamed, his agonized tones echoing in the cavernous space. “For He is full of deceit! He did not allow me time enough to complete my task!”

“That’s the gray-haired fellow who tried to help the carter the other day.” Felix looked at John in confusion. “I thought we were after a murderous grocer. Why did this man run off when he saw us?”

The man heard him and shouted down, with a twisted smile. “Because I realized you were coming after me. I am the man you’re seeking, fool! It was me, Timothy, who delivered the death blow!”

He tightened his grip on the figure of Christ. “Yes,” he shouted even louder, “that carter often passed down the Mese in the course of his work. I had to watch him, the murderer of my son, drive past almost every day. Ah, but I was just waiting for my chance. When he gave it to me by coming to your aid, I stabbed him. In all the confusion no one noticed. You might say I helped him. Helped him on his way to Hell!”

A woman screamed and made the sign of her religion. Some men began shouting virulent curses at Timothy. Curious spectators were filling the vestibule, a number of them drawn from the church itself by the commotion. A group of Blues, sensing the anger in the air, appeared from the street to add their vulgar jeers.

John caught bits of panicked conversations.

“What is it? What’s happening?”

“…dead. Murdered!”

“…treachery, so they say.”

Suddenly several more Blues, obviously intoxicated, burst into the vestibule. “Beware the Gourd!” They surged unsteadily through the crowd to join their companions. “We’re in for some sport now!”

“Justinian’s dead!” one of the new arrivals screamed. His shrill, slurred cry cut through the clamor echoing in the vestibule.

“No!” another shouted even more loudly. “Justin was murdered! His bodyguards have all been executed! Justinian has proclaimed himself emperor!”

Archdeacon Palamos appeared from the body of the church, shooing away several small boys who sought to follow him. “Someone remove that blasphemer immediately!” he shouted in thunderous outrage, pointing at Timothy.

Felix grabbed the grocer’s legs and got a boot in the face for his pains.

“Archdeacon,” John said swiftly. “You must hear what this man has to say.”

Palamos stared at Timothy in horror. Wild haired, his eyes glaring, the grocer resembled a demon.

“Yes, listen to me, archdeacon!” Timothy demanded. “I executed the cart driver and others too, all of them connected with this blasphemous statue. I started with Hypatius, one of those who sponsored it. That was as quickly done as it was with the cart driver. Yes, I wept tears of joy over the carter. It’s amazing what you can do in the middle of a rioting crowd without being noticed.”

“Come down and speak to us privately,” Palamos coaxed.

Timothy simply laughed and continued. “The sculptor, Dio, he was another.”

“You were outside the monastery and overheard Fortunatus tell me where Dio could be found?” John guessed.

“You are clever, Excellency,” Timothy said, “but not half as clever as I am. I already knew where Dio lived. Hadn’t Hypatius bragged all over the city about the expensive sculptor he had employed? No, Dio would have died sooner had he not been away the day I first visited his studio. However, when I overheard Fortunatus say he would shortly be back, I was there first thing next morning to warm his homecoming.”

“And to set the Prefect’s men on me,” John said.

“A marvelous stroke of good fortune, that was. I noticed you coming up the Domninus as I was leaving. I’d been keeping my eye on you as much as I could anyway, ever since my assistant told me you’d been asking about Hypatius. So I helpfully alerted the first of the Gourd’s men I could find.”

“You wouldn’t have to look far,” Felix growled. “They’re everywhere. What’s more, they’re sure to be here soon to deal with this disturbance. John, we’d better grab him and make our escape while we can,” he muttered in an undertone.

John shook his head. “We must make certain of the facts, my friend, while we have the archdeacon as a witness. Tell me about Viator, Timothy.”

“Viator! Wasn’t that a wonder? I asked for the Lord’s help in finding all the people who were involved with this disgusting sculpture, and was granted heavenly aid! It was a true miracle! To begin with, at least. Even you and your friend were part of it,” he said to John. “I hadn’t yet been able to find out from whose warehouse the marble had come. Then you obligingly led me to it. Not only that, you also frightened the importer so badly that he ran away practically unguarded. I soon stopped his flight with a blade in the ribs!”

“So Dominica and Fortunatus were spared because they chose not to talk publicly about their co-sponsoring the sculpture with Hypatius?”

“Again you are wrong! I knew them for the murderers they were. I own a perfume shop too, you know. My wealthy clients tell me many things. They might have thought nobody knew, but their contributions were common knowledge among the high born.”

Timothy’s gloating grin turned into a sorrowful scowl. “The problem was they were too well protected. The widow never stirs without a small army of guards. As for Fortunatus, it’s true he has a name of good omen, yet he does well to skulk in the monastery. I had planned to climb over the wall one night and see if I could catch him at his devotions.”

Palamos shuddered. “I’ve heard enough. This man is Satan himself.”

“You think I’m Satan?” screeched Timothy. “Think it then. I’m just doing the Lord’s job since He wouldn’t do it Himself.”

“Satan walks among us all right,” bellowed a nearby Blue, a young man with a spotty face. His voice was thickened by wine. “It’s not the madman perched up there, though. It’s the King of the Demons who’s just mounted the throne, not to mention the new empress!”

A portly, middle-aged man with the look of a clerk in his stooped shoulders and pale face pointed an accusing finger at the younger man and yelled furiously at him.

“Whoever rules, the populace is going to suffer! You should be on your knees asking for forgiveness instead of stirring up trouble!”

The young man he addressed replied with an exaggerated low bow. “Such fine talk from one about to die!”

“Not at your hand, you idiotic fop!”

“Is that so?” The Blue drew his blade. “I think you are wrong!”

The Blue grabbed the man’s throat, but before he could make another move a familiar voice cut through the tumult.

“No, my young friend. I believe he is right.”

It was the Gourd. He strode through the crowd, which shrank away from him, clearing his path as if by magick.

“No indeed,” he remarked in a conversational tone. “He’s not going to die at your hand. In fact, it is you who will die at mine. But then, you already knew that, didn’t you?” The Gourd hardly paused before casually running his blade through the Blue’s stomach.

Felix stepped between John and the Gourd.

The Gourd nudged the lifeless body at his feet with the toe of his boot, then addressed the stunned and silent onlookers. He tilted his monstrous head toward a knot of Blues. “Quite a few of you may soon be joining this fellow in the afterlife. As I have warned, riots will be crushed without mercy. I do believe that one was brewing here.”

Archdeacon Palamos stepped toward the Gourd. “More killing won’t resolve anything. In the name of the Lord, I command you to leave this holy place immediately!”

Dozens of the Gourd’s men poured into the vestibule, herding terrified people before them. Another contingent emerged from the nave, having entered through a side door.

The operation was well planned. It would not be long before troublemakers, real and imagined, would be hauled off to the dungeons. Nor would it be long before the Gourd’s men, methodically examining the crowd, discovered the tall thin Greek whom their master wanted dead.

John glanced at Timothy. The grocer still embraced the marble figure. Though no longer the center of attention, he grinned with apparent delight at the incipient slaughter.

Then John turned his gaze on the Gourd and drew his sword. He could do some good before he was discovered.

Felix caught his wrist in a crushing grip and shook his head slightly.

The Gourd’s men had closed their ring around the crowd, forcing it into a tight mass. The portly man cursed as he was crushed against the statue, and again as more men were forced against him by the tightening circle. A number of the crowd sought safety by clambering up onto the pedestal next to Timothy.

“The bastard’s going to set his men loose,” whispered Felix. “He wants a bloodbath. He’ll call it a riot afterward and who’ll contradict him?”

Even as Felix spoke, the Gourd began to raise his sword as a signal for the sort of slaughter John and Felix had witnessed near the Strategion.

Before the signal could be completed, the mass of men clinging to the looming sculpture unbalanced it.

The great Christ figure rocked backward and then toppled forward, shedding human barnacles as those who had sought its safety leapt away.

The sculpture hit the floor and shattered in a thunderous, echoing explosion. Chunks of marble went spinning and rolling across the vestibule.

An unearthly scream mounted into the shadowed vault overhead before trailing away in a chilling gurgle. For a heartbeat John thought of the death bellow of the Great Bull slain by Mithra.

Even the Gourd stood transfixed.

The Christ lay stretched out toward the church entrance like a toppled marble tree. The head lay in one corner. Here was a hand, there a part of the cross beam. One or two of the crowd lay moaning on the floor, but the only person seriously injured appeared to be Timothy.

John knelt beside him.

The grocer’s eyes were closed. Blood flowed from his mouth, but his chest still moved in a shallow fashion.

Felix was at John’s side instantly. “Hurry! We have to get out of here! You’re sure to be spotted!”

“No, Felix. There’s one last thing I have to know.”

He shook Timothy’s shoulder roughly. The grocer’s eyes opened. His lips moved. Blood bubbled out. He spat and began to speak. “He was my son. My only child. He was playing in the street. Didn’t the driver see him? Heaven should have blinded him for it. I have been faithful to the Lord all my life. Why did He take away my son? And do it with a cart carrying a likeness of His own son? Was it some horrible joke? What have I done to deserve this?”

John heard a choking sob. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Archdeacon Palamos standing a few paces behind him. He turned back to Timothy. “Yes, we understand that. But why did you attack Opimius?”

“I saw him talking to Hypatius here in the church…admiring that blasphemous piece…so I thought he must also be connected with it…”

“But in attacking Opimius you ended up killing a devout old servant trying to protect his master.”

“A master so arrogant…he went about with only a tottering old slave…for a guard! He’d still be alive…if he hadn’t fought so hard…I ran off and hid in my perfume shop after stabbing him…it’s in the Augustaion…very close to the alley by Samsun’s Hospice….” Timothy’s voice was fading. “But the old man should not have died…I have prayed for the Lord’s forgiveness…”

“You think your Lord will forgive you for snuffing out the lives of five people?” John said quietly.

“No, not five…I did not mean to kill the old man…so his death does not count.” Timothy’s eyes glistened. “I was only given time to kill four…four for a boy. Yet forty or four hundred…would not have been enough!” Anger made his voice stronger. “And there were others waiting to die too…that drunken physician at the hospice…said he could do nothing for my son…didn’t even try…”

“His Lord may not be very ready to forgive,” Felix observed quietly to John, “for it’s always possible that Timothy will live to see the inside of the emperor’s dungeons.”

“And so will both of you.”

John looked around. The Gourd loomed behind them, sword at the ready, several of his men at his back.

The Gourd inclined his massive head in John’s direction. “Or will you survive? There’s blood soaking through your tunic, I see, John. Been fighting, have you? What does heaven have in store for you, I wonder? I suppose heaven does as it pleases, but since we are not in heaven, what would please me most?”

“Halt!”

A man in full military regalia strode into the vestibule.

“Mithra,” breathed Felix. “It’s the captain of the excubitors!”

The captain, his face a mask of contempt, came to a stop before the Gourd. “By order of Justinian, I place you, Prefect Theodotus, under arrest!” he declared. “Arrest him, Felix!”

Felix grinned and clapped his big hand on the Gourd’s shoulder. “With pleasure!”