Nine for the Devil

Chapter Sixty-one

There was as yet no sign of dawn when John emerged from Isis’ refuge and set out at a trot for the palace. The black shapes of ox-drawn carts making night deliveries materialized from the darkness and creaked past. A dog barked frantically as he went by its resting place, a niche sheltering a statue of a once illustrious general.

John had lost all sense of time. He was afraid to look at the sky for fear he would see it brightening.

But even as he raced to save Anatolius, his thoughts kept turning toward Cornelia.

What had happened to her?

Where was she?

He imagined her imprisoned somewhere, having been abducted. Terrified, perhaps injured.

He recalled his own abduction, lying in the dark in the carriage, not knowing its destination, expecting only that the trip would end in his death.

What might Cornelia be feeling right now. Or worse yet…

No, he forced his thoughts away from the idea. And yet he had seen so much violent death he could entirely prevent unbearable images from forming in his mind.

But what would be gained by harming Cornelia? If someone wanted to use her to protect themselves against John’s investigation why had he heard nothing?

He realized he could not afford to let his mind wander away from the most pressing problem-the imminent danger to Anatolius.

Cornelia might be in just as much danger.

The hours were flying by.

He tried to convince himself Cornelia’s disappearance must be connected to his investigation, that continuing his pursuit of Theodora’s murderer, clearing Anatolius of wrongdoing would in the end serve Cornelia.

He must go directly to Justinian. The emperor must be made to believe Kuria’s explanation for the incriminating herbs she had left in Vesta’s room. Vesta, whose frequent visits linked her to Anatolius, who was linked to his client the Cappadocian and the Cappadocian’s ally, Germanus. The men arguably had reason to want Theodora dead, but neither had access to the empress. Remove Vesta and the whole imagined plot fell apart. And besides, Vesta wanted Theodora to live, so that her mistress Joannina could marry Anastasius.

It was obvious.

Provided one believed Kuria.

Provided the emperor would pay attention to her. John pictured the pathetic girl on her hard bed in the refuge’s narrow cell, her meager half-finished meal on the earthenware plate. Why would the emperor pay attention to her?

Because she had been a protegée of Theodora. A favorite. Surely he would pay attention, or at least delay any action against Anatolius until he heard the girl’s story. He would feel he owed as much to his late wife.

Isis was right now helping her get clean and chastely outfitted, readying the wretched girl for the imperial audience John hoped to arrange.

But if Justinian believed Kuria and allowed Anatolius to go free, where would the emperor turn his ire next?

Many in the city held a grudge against Theodora. More than half the court might imagine advancement for themselves in her absence. Everyone John spoke with pointed him toward one of their enemies, as if their word would be sufficient to dispose of them.

Kuria had been more cunning than the aristocrats, for only she had supported her self-serving accusation through physical evidence: herbs which could not lie about their purpose.

Objects were more trustworthy than people. They did not seek to mislead, but neither did they readily offer up what they knew.

If dawn was breaking it was still concealed beyond the black bulk of the palace as John arrived back. The reception hall where he had met Justinian was vacant except for smoky phantoms created by smoldering lamps.

“He did not ask for guards to be summoned to accompany him yet he’s walking on the grounds, Lord Chamberlain,” said the silentiary on duty. “It makes it very difficult to ensure his protection.”

Yes, John thought, it would also be difficult not to be able to sleep at your post for fear the emperor might suddenly appear and catch you at it.

Where would Justinian be?

There was nowhere in the palace the emperor’s nocturnal journeys did not take him. On the night John had gone to the mithraeum he had encountered Justinian in the kitchens. Surely, however, one place he would never miss visiting was the room where Theodora had died.

The room was empty.

John stepped inside. So deep was it in the interior of the palace, Justinian had not bothered to keep a guard on the door. Compared to the riches all around there was hardly anything of value here. The dismantled bed sat in the corner, as he had last seen it, beside the marble-topped table and wooden chest. The only light was from a wall lamp several paces down the corridor.

He turned slowly to survey the room.

With a start he noticed two men staring at him with shining eyes.

No, it was only the icon depicting the healing saints.

The air smelled sweet, as if someone had been burning incense.

He completed his survey. As before, the room did not lie to him, but neither did it tell him anything.

Theodora had not left its confines for weeks. She could only have been killed by one who had entered here, as John had, but unlike this night, the room had been closely guarded and few had gained admittance.

John had hoped to explain to Justinian that Vesta, who had served Theodora, had not, as the emperor had apparently convinced himself, murdered her at the behest of Anatolius, on behalf of Germanus and the Cappadocian. And, John reminded himself, Felix, for hadn’t he been visiting Germanus too? Nor had the murderer been the lady-in-waiting Kuria, whose word-if Justinian accepted it-would exonerate Vesta and Anatolius.

Very well. Who had entry to this small room? The two ladies-in-waiting had spent a great deal of time with Theodora. Gaius visited often, but now he was dead he could not satisfy Justinian’s wrath even if John were inclined to blacken his friend’s memory.

He looked at the grim-faced holy men depicted in the gilded icon. They had seen the murderer.

Christians believed that saints interceded in earthly affairs, and that their power was more concentrated in the vicinity of holy icons, relics, and the like.

But Cosmas and Damian did not seem inclined to aid a Mithran Lord Chamberlain.

John turned his gaze elsewhere.

Spartan as the room was compared to most of the palace, it was luxurious compared to the cell in which he had interviewed Kuria. Theodora’s deathbed had been soft.

There came to John’s mind an image of the plate in Kuria’s cell. The half-eaten bread, the olive pits.

He opened the inlaid wooden chest, crouched down, and pushed aside bottles and pots until he came to the carefully wrapped bundle he sought. Cushioned inside the fabric was the lidded ceramic jar from the imperial kitchens he had seen when he first examined the contents of the chest at the beginning of his investigations. An image of an olive tree was embossed in the clay.

There was a footstep behind him.

“Have you stooped to robbing the dead, Lord Chamberlain?”

John turned.

In the half light, the emperor’s scarlet boots looked the color of blood.