Seven for a Secret

Chapter Thirty-Five

John and Anatolius intercepted Procopius halfway across the nave of the Great Church.

“I see my friend’s informant was right,” John said. “He indicated we could find you here.”

Anatolius had been waiting for John when he returned home following his discussion with Felix. He had inquired at the palace as to where Procopius might be found.

“I just finished speaking to a deacon,” Procopius replied. “I was interested in hearing his comments about the effect this wonderful structure has on worshippers. How else to describe the Great Church except by its effect?”

He waved the wax tablet he carried at their surroundings. His garments were as pristine as when John and Anatolius had recently seen him, and his hair as neatly arranged. John imagined that no matter where he came upon the man nor what time of day, Procopius would be just as perfectly garbed and coiffured.

“You’re researching for that work about Justinian’s buildings?” Anatolius asked.

“Yes, but I intend to finish my history of the wars first. Relating historical events is an easy task compared to describing such magnificence.”

“It would take a poet,” John agreed. “A skilled poet.”

Although John had attended innumerable ceremonial functions there in his capacity as Lord Chamberlain, the church never failed to surprise him whenever he visited. Its complexity was such that it could not be fully absorbed, let alone recalled in every detail. To enter the soaring space for the fiftieth time was to enter for the first.

Columned aisles and galleries rose up into a bewildering assortment of intersections, in the center of which the impossibly huge central dome floated like a golden sky. Light flooded in through countless windows, reflecting at every conceivable angle from gilt and marble, precious metals and glass, until the air shimmered with a glow which seemed to emanate from the walls themselves.

“I am only a thin-voiced scribbler,” Procopius said. “My desire is to describe what the emperor has wrought as simply as possible. The weight of the slightest verbal encrustation would bring my whole structure tumbling down.”

“And what did the deacon have to tell you?” asked Anatolius.

“Why, that we can easily imagine the Lord in this place, can we not? There are those who say we are no more than fleeting ideas in His eternal mind, and here, in the golden light from which every shadow has been banished, we might be at the very center of that mind. Do you know, it is said there are pagans who choose to worship in places made to resemble caves? I speak of Mithrans, who worship a sun god in such sad subterranean environs. What sort of man would worship in a cave who could commune with God here instead?”

Anatolius sneezed. The sound echoed around the vast space. “My apologies. It’s the effect of the incense.”

Procopius scratched a note on his wax tablet.

“I have been told you are a repository of rumors, despite spending most of your time off on campaigns with Belisarius,” John said.

“When I am in the city I make it my business to learn as much as I can. I have many works yet to be written. Who can say what may turn out to be useful? Did you know the wife of Senator Maximus is having an illicit affair with a minor functionary from the tax assessor’s office? The Senator came upon the two in his own residence, if you will believe it.”

“I have no trouble believing it. That’s the second such infidelity I’ve heard about today,” John said.

Anatolius looked thoughtful. “Perhaps I should abandon untangling matters relating to estates and concentrate on domestic disputes.”

“It depends on whose side you prefer to take,” Procopius said. “These days faithless women run straight to the empress and cry they’ve been slandered. They start countersuits. The husbands don’t even get a trial. It’s well known the empress sees to that. The unfortunate men are fined, whipped, and sent to prison. When they are allowed to finally trudge home their wives are often found entertaining lovers in the garden or the marital bed.”

He paused and smiled. “Or so it is claimed. All preposterous. These statements are merely the vicious lies of malcontents jealous of Theodora’s goodness and beauty. I studied at the law school in Berytus, you know. I am glad I do not pursue the profession any longer. I find writing to be more rewarding by far.” He regarded Anatolius. “Perhaps you should consider writing rather than law, young man.”

“You appear to spend a lot of time talking with malcontents,” John put in. “I hear you recently interviewed Menander again.”

“Poor Menander. Very sad news. I’m sure he still had many interesting stories. There was one he began to tell me, about a garden in the palace quarters occupied by the empress. A concealed garden, no windows overlooking it.”

Procopius licked his lips and pitched his voice lower. “This garden contained a number of large carved stone phalli, and Theodora was in the habit of taking moonlight strolls in it. But was Menander your house guest, Lord Chamberlain? What was he doing in your bath?”

“Don’t you know, Procopius? You seem well informed on most matters.”

“I only know the tales Menander related, which naturally never involved him personally. He was a careful man. He stored up anecdotes as well as treasures. He enjoyed showing them off in the same fashion. A prelate’s nasty predilections here. A pious lady’s dark little secret there.”

“And perhaps an illegitimate son of the empress?”

Procopius’ broad forehead furrowed. His gaze met John’s. His eyes were dark. They did not seem to catch the surrounding effulgence. “That? A cheap bauble, not worth bothering about.”

“Did Menander repeat the tale to you?”

“I have heard about this alleged son but you will appreciate I cannot divulge my source. If someone were to take this libelous information seriously the fact that someone possessed it might be, shall we say, misinterpreted.”

John thought a man might find he could divulge his sources quite easily when questioned in the emperor’s dungeons. It was, however, a reasonable excuse for concealing information.

“I am being honest with you when I say I know little about Menander,” Procopius continued. “He was an excellent source of gossip. He spent years living in the Copper Market among others who had once enjoyed the comforts of the court. Every sordid tale they are afraid to whisper while at the palace they are happy to bellow forth once they have been disgraced. They thereby prove they were indeed unworthy of our esteemed ruler’s loyalty. By their own vile tongues they demonstrate the emperor is not a petty and vindictive tyrant, casting them out on the flimsiest of pretexts. He is merely prescient. They are fortunate to be still alive.”

“Would you say any of them might be inclined to do more than just talk?” John asked.

“As I have already indicated, it was nothing but talk. There is no doubt that Justinian has set too many enemies loose. He forgives his opponents too readily, as everyone knows. An admirable trait for a Christian, but one that’s dangerous for an emperor. Yet the scoundrels have so far not risen against him. Thanks, perhaps, to the protective hand of God.”

Anatolius sniffed. Faint vapors snaked through the glowing air, eddies in a haze of incense and lamp smoke. John felt his eyes beginning to burn.

Procopius went on. “I form no opinion on matters for which I have no evidence, such as what we are discussing. Your legal friend will agree with me that is the best policy, Lord Chamberlain.”

“Indeed. Now, tell me about a matter for which you have no evidence. The matter of Theodora’s illegitimate son.”

“If you insist, I will tell you the story although it pains me to repeat such slanderous tales about our dear empress.” The sparkle in Procopius’ eyes gave the lie to his pious words. “While Theodora still lived in Egypt and performed on the stage, she accidentally became pregnant by one of the many men with whom she is said to have dallied. She realized her misfortune too late on this occasion and her efforts to abort the child failed.”

He leered at John. “I find it incredible that a woman of such reputation should either have failed to notice her condition, or that she did not possess the artifice to rid herself of what must have been a frequent inconvenience. Yet that is what some evil persons would have us believe about our devout empress.”

“I do understand that you do not approve of this story, Procopius, or believe in its veracity. Continue.”

“Thank you, Lord Chamberlain. I would not want to be thought disloyal. It transpired she was forced to bear the child. She was beside herself with rage and exasperation. How could she care for an infant and maintain her accustomed activities? Wantonness and lust left no room in her for motherly love. Even common whores, I am told, shed tears over their abortions and plead that the children they do bear not be sold as slaves. The father suspected, no doubt rightly, she would do away with his son before too long. So he took the baby and sailed to a far-off land. John was the name he gave to the boy.”

“The commonest of names,” John observed. “Is anything known of the father of this mythical child?”

“Nothing, except that the boy was supposedly told about his mother when the father was on his death bed. The boy was around fourteen by then. Theodora, as we all know, had repented her sinful life and made her way from the brothels and stages of Alexandria to the bed of the emperor in Constantinople as his devout and charitable wife and benefactor of the city.”

Procopius sighed. “It’s said the boy set sail for Constantinople as soon as he’d buried his father. Wouldn’t you, if you suddenly discovered you were the son of the empress?”

“Not knowing Theodora as I do,” John stated.

“Surely you do not give any credence to those who would have us believe she is now less than a Christian paragon, Lord Chamberlain?”

“No more than you do.”

Procopius may have smiled. It was hard to tell. “To finish the story,” he continued, “the young John presented himself to the empress’s chamberlain. When informed of the child’s presence, Theodora was stricken by fear. What if Justinian found out about the lad? Many had opposed his marriage to a former actress in the first place, and an illegitimate son would be fresh proof of her immorality. Gossip is one thing and easily ignored, but a young man in the flesh is another matter entirely. He’d also present a political liability, and then there’d be Justinian’s reaction when he discovered what had been concealed from him.”

“If he did not already know,” John replied. “The same sort of problems would arise if he were to reappear today.”

“Indeed. However, despite the rumors there is no chance of that happening. Theodora summoned this John to an audience. If the poor child expected some show of motherly affection he was sadly disappointed. The empress put him in the charge of a servant, a fellow employed for his loyalty, discretion, and brutality. The boy was never seen again. No one knows by what means he was removed from this world. No decent person would want to know.”

John’s lips tightened. “You are wrong, Procopius. I want to know. I am beginning to believe this tale is partly true, that Theodora’s son was removed from the palace, but not from the world.”