Eight for Eternity

Chapter Twenty-Six

“Porphyrius isn’t at the Hippodrome today.” The young charioteer eyed John suspiciously. The tall stranger in the dirty tunic and threadbare cloak did not look the sort of visitor Porphyrius would deign to see.

“He is at his home?”

“So they say. Packing up his gold and silver in case the fires come any closer. Not that it’s any of your business.”

John returned to the Mese. He had dressed in plain clothing before setting out for the Hippodrome and taken the precaution of dirtying it and his face and hands. Any person caught on the streets even suspected to be from the palace was not likely to survive the fury of the mob. Already several courtiers who had attempted to flee the capital had been killed in sight of the guards at the Golden Gate. Under orders not to interfere, they had watched the slaughter. It would have been a better plan, John thought, to depart by sea but for the fact the only two vessels lying in the palace harbor were already loaded with furniture, silk, gold and silver plate, and other valuable items on the order of the emperor.

Most of the shops he passed were charred ruins. Rubble blocked the colonnades in places, forcing him to move out into the street. The fires had jumped some buildings, however, particularly those not constructed primarily of wood.

The air smelled as if it were itself singed. In one spot there hung an unpleasant odor of charred meat. John could not recall whether a butcher’s shop had occupied the gutted shell.

He thought not.

As he walked he couldn’t help thinking about Haik. What had been on his friend’s mind as he hurried to his meeting with Porphyrius?

After speaking with Hypatius and Pompeius John had returned to the room where his friend’s body lay, decently covered with a linen sheet. He and Felix had searched every bit of the room, seeking a clue to the murder but had found nothing. They would have found the adoption documents Hypatius had spoken of, had they been there.

They had not, however, searched the body.

John had done so.

Haik had not been carrying the documents. Or, at least they had not been anywhere on the corpse.

John did not like to think about it. He was relieved to reach Porphyrius’ mansion, so he could turn his mind to something else.

The building could barely be glimpsed through the nondescript barred gate in the archway under the colonnade. Only when John had satisfied the guards that he was truly on business from the emperor, had walked down the alley between the brick walls of several surviving shops and stepped into the graveled courtyard, did he see what hundreds of racing victories could buy.

The facade of the house reproduced almost exactly that of the emperor’s box in the Hippodrome, right down to the carved images of Pegasus on the capitals of the towering columns supporting the portico. Inside, frescoes in the entrance hall depicted Hercules cleaning the Augean Stables. A waterfall poured down the far wall of the atrium beyond. Heroic sized statuary occupied massive pedestals strewn around the enormous space. John waited in front of a gilded quadriga which would have accommodated a cyclops.

Porphyrius came to meet him. At home, in contrast to the peasant’s tunic he wore at the stables, he had outfitted himself in a jeweled blue dalmatic. The straps wrapped around his muscular calves in charioteer style appeared to be woven with golden threads.

“You have an impressive house,” John remarked. “The four bronze horses in front are particularly fine. You might have spirited them out of the Hippodrome. They look identical.”

Porphyrius smiled. “Mine of course are copies, whereas the emperor’s are the originals, cast by Lysippos himself, or so it is claimed. The old Greek created beautiful equine portraits, even if he didn’t get the ears quite right.”

“Some of the many equine ears in the stables must have heard things I would like to know. If only horses could speak. They might be more forthcoming than the people I talk to.”

“I hope you aren’t implying that I wasn’t honest with you. A horse will obey the whip. I’m not a horse.”

“A man will look out for his own welfare. A few days ago you spoke to the Syrian traveler Haik. Your patron Hippolytus was present. Now both are dead.”

John studied the charioteer’s homely features as he told him how Hippolytus had been hung, rescued, and subsequently killed and how Haik had been poisoned. Did the nostrils in the squashed nose flare slightly? Did the lips tighten all but imperceptibly? Was Porphyrius trying to remain impassive?

“When you’ve been around the track as many times as I have, nothing surprises you. One instant you’re headed to the finish line. The next, you’re being dragged to death, tangled up in your own reins.”

“Under the circumstances, are you sure you aren’t tangled up in your own reins, or something equally deadly, right now?”

Porphyrius reached into his dalmatic, pulled out a vicious-looking curved knife, and waved it in John’s direction.

John stepped back quickly.

Porphyrius chuckled. “I’ve found myself caught in the reins more than once and used this to cut myself loose every time. I admit on one occasion I owed as much to my physician as to my blade.” He put the knife back in its sheath. “I carry it even when I’m not racing. It makes me feel safer.”

“Whoever killed Hippolytus and Haik might not be afraid of a charioteer’s knife. And whoever it is may be exceptionally adept at getting into places where one would feel safe.”

“But there is no connection between Hippolytus and Haik. Haik simply happened to be present when Hippolytus arrived, unexpectedly. I never saw your friend in my life. I’m positive Hippolytus never met him before. Haik had just come from Syria.”

“And you insist that you didn’t know Hippolytus was among the condemned faction members or any of what followed?”

“Not until you told me just now. If I’d known I would have said so the first time we spoke.”

“It is hard to believe no one thought to inform you that one of your wealthy patrons had been murdered.”

Porphyrius shrugged. “I have more wealthy patrons than I can count. Hippolytus wasn’t a major supporter. He was trying to convince me to return to the Greens. I belong to the Blues. If the Greens knew he was dead they’d have no reason to give the news to a Blue.”

“My impression is that both the factions respect you.”

“I’m the enemy of the Greens.”

“We can respect our enemies.”

Porphyrius crossed his arms. He didn’t raise his voice when he spoke but John could see the sinews in his huge forearms tighten. “What else can I say? The city’s in turmoil. Many people have died already. I’m sorry to hear about Hippolytus and your friend Haik. But the deaths have nothing to do with me. Do you think I spend my time collecting gossip? I’ve been exceptionally busy the past few days preparing for the races. And thanks to the commotion in the streets, I’ve had no new callers, aside from yourself.”

“I might be able to accept that you did not withhold from me knowledge of Hippolytus’ death. However, my friend informed me that he came to see you about a document. You never mentioned that.”

“He wanted me to put in a good word for him respecting a business venture. There weren’t any documents involved.”

“This was not a commercial document. It was a written undertaking by which Emperor Justin agreed to adopt the Persian Chosroes.”

Porphyrius was silent. John felt the charioteer staring at him, as if trying to gauge how much he knew. He was deciding what course to take. Did he dare drive his horses toward the inside of the track? Would his opponent give him room or precipitate a collision? Or should he cut between the chariots ahead? If they continued to draw apart there might be room. “Yes, I admit,” he said after no more than an instant. “Haik did mention such a document. It was idle gossip. Small talk. He thought the foolish rumor he’d heard back in Antioch would interest me, since I spent so many years in the area. I didn’t think it worth mentioning. As I explained just now I am not one for gossip.”

“I cannot believe a man would spout idle gossip with his dying words.”

Porphyrius shook his head. “Men say strange things in their last breaths, when their senses are deserting them. Long ago I knelt in the sand of a racetrack cradling the head of a colleague who had been crushed by his horses. I could feel his blood pooling around my knees. He told me to look at the waves, how they sparkled, and to observe the whale. The whale was coming. What a magnificent sight. Now what do you suppose that meant except that the poor fellow’s skull had been cracked wide open?”

“I hope you are right, Porphyrius, that it was just a rumor. But if so, why was Haik murdered?”

Porphyrius uncrossed his arms and sighed. “Life is full of mysteries, isn’t it?”

***

John walked slowly back down the Mese.

As far as he could see, the problem before him was growing more complicated rather than less.

Haik had been found dead in John’s well-guarded house, inside the palace grounds. The Blue and the Green had been found murdered in a guarded room in the Church of Saint Laurentius. Had the same person managed to find a way to the victims? A person who could go wherever he wanted, at will, gaining access to guarded rooms? A person seemingly adept at magick?

On the other hand, there was no proof Haik had been poisoned at John’s house. It was more likely he had been poisoned elsewhere simply because it was so unlikely that a murderer could have managed to get into both the palace grounds and a guarded house within. Haik had died in his room, but he could have been poisoned anywhere in the city, or the palace. John had no idea where his friend had gone, aside from the Hippodrome.

And what about the mysterious visitor who had discovered the murders at Saint Laurentius? The old commander, Sebastian, claimed the man had an official seal. He could have been mistaken. Documents can be forged. Or Sebastian might have lied to cover his incompetence.

Then again, the visitor might have been sent by Justinian for purposes the emperor did not care to reveal. It was impossible to be certain what the emperor thought, or what his aims really were.

As John neared the palace he saw a sullen crowd gathered at the end of the Mese in front of the ruins of the Chalke gate. He stopped and surveyed the remaining length of the street. It was difficult to determine if the bodies slumped here and there in ruined porticoes were rioters who had quarrelled, intoxicated looters, or merchants killed defending their wares. Wisps of smoke rose from the shells of destroyed shops, swirling around a group of men breaking open amphorae of wine beside a blazing pile of broken furniture. Several women danced around the fire, yelling obscene songs and offering their services without cost to passersby. A small church that had escaped the general conflagration was now burning briskly, its door missing.

It would be better for him to take to the alleyways to reach the unobtrusive door by which he had left the palace.

Scattered shouts caught his attention. And another sound. Rising and falling in a measured cadence. Chanting.

A procession of priests entered the Mese from the direction of the Augustaion. They wore rich vestments and carried painted icons. Some of the flat, wooden panels had been attached to long poles, others were simply held, by one or two priests, depending on the size. The haloed, gaunt holy men in the icons stared out at the sinful world through enormous, dark eyes like those of the starving children only too common in the streets.

The procession moved slowly, picking its way around the debris strewn along the thoroughfare. As the priests shook the poles or thrust the panels at the people in the street the golden details in the icons flashed.

Evidently the priests hoped the display would bring calm to the streets. A foolhardy gesture, John thought, but a brave one.

The procession reached the burning church and mounted the few steps to its narrow portico. Tongues of flame ran along the building’s roofline.

One of the priests brandished his icon above his head and began to admonish the throng in booming tones. “Brothers and sisters! Go home and repent your sins!”

John recognized the short, stout figure silhouetted in front of the red glow emanating from the doorway as Leonardis, the man he had spoken to at the Church of Saint Laurentius, who had appeared so fascinated by the fiery torment of his church’s martyr.

Many of the crowd, their attention drawn to the spectacle of the icons, moved toward the church.

“Return to your homes!” Leonardis thundered. “I command you, in the name of our Lord!” He moved the icon from side to side. The stern gaze of the Christian saint swept over the entire assembly. “Pray for the emperor’s mercy and justice!”

“What justice is there on earth, much less heaven?” A man who looked like a beggar pushed his way to the front of the rabble. He emphasized his words with flourishes of a splintered piece of wood stained in sinister fashion. “What justice was there for the Blues and Greens?”

A full throated roar of approval drowned the priest’s attempt at a reply. A dark object came flying out of the crowd. Leonardis raised his icon like a shield. The clot of dung splattered across the holy image.

The priest’s outraged words were drowned out by a roar of laughter.

The ragged man who had addressed Leonardis lurched forward with shocking suddenness, knocked the soiled icon from his hands, and spat on it. “Saints! Relics! Prayers! Do they fill our bellies or keep us warm?”

“No!” came the crowd’s response.

The man’s laugh sounded more like the wild cry of a gull than any sound formed in a human throat. “They’d keep us warm if we burnt them!” He grabbed the icon and tossed it through the open doorway. Flames spurted out.

John tried to move closer to the church but his way was blocked by the packed bodies. The priests on the portico huddled closer together, muttering terrified prayers as children began to throw stones and broken bricks at them. A filthy-faced girl dressed in an obviously stolen, lavishly embroidered tunic too large for her, approached the holy men and lifted up her garment to expose her dirty nakedness. “I’ll keep the lot of you warm!” she shouted. “Who’s going to be first?”

More laughter echoed across the broken buildings as the priests shrank back, their prayers growing louder. The girl grabbed the arm of one priest and willing helpers dragged him forward and threw him to the ground.

“Don’t be shy, dearie,” the girl said, “we’re all friends here.”

A woman suggested since her victim was insulting the girl by not showing interest, someone should make certain he would never insult a woman again. “And I’ve got a nice sharp knife!” She stepped forward to bend over the priest.

The man on the ground gave a shrill scream and fell silent.

It all happened quickly, before John could fight his way forward, before Leonardis could react. The stout priest was shaking. “What have you done? Are you animals? You will burn! Sinners! Murderers! You will writhe in eternal torment!”

The ragged man sprang at Leonardis, grabbed him by his vestments, and shook him. “You! I know you! You Judas! Betrayer! Your threats are worth as much as your lying promises of salvation! Oh yes, my friends are dead but I, I have conquered death! Now let’s see you do the same!”

With that he picked Leonardis up and flung him into the blazing church.

Then he swung around, let out a piercing howl of laughter and scuttled off the portico. A path opened in the now terrified crowd and almost instantly he was gone.

The way he moved sparked John’s memory.

Was it the madman he and Felix had seen perched on the rooftop cross on their way back from the Praetorium?

He had vanished now.

An angry knot of rioters pressed in toward the remaining priests. Some of the priests were on their knees, praying and crying. A couple of braver souls jabbed out with the poles bearing their icons. The hard reality of the painted panels did not deter the attackers any more than their symbolic power had.

There was nothing John could do. The crush was too thick. He was jostled, practically lifted off his feet. An inadvertent elbow jabbed him in the ribs. He was shoved from behind. It was all he could do to remain standing. Anyone who fell would be trampled to death.

Usually, in the streets, he could command respect with a glance, but not now. These were no longer human beings but rather a single, monstrous beast intent on mayhem.

“To the Augustaion,” someone cried. “Nika! Nika!” Other voices echoed the words and then John was borne along with the surging mob, as helpless as if he had fallen into the dark currents of the Bosporos.