Eight for Eternity

Chapter Thirty-Two

John stood in front of the Hippodrome and surveyed the Mese while he caught his breath. There was no sign of the demon he had pursued across the spina. The creature might be right around a nearby corner, or halfway to the city walls. Even if the demon were still lurking around a corner, John would be unlikely to find it. Constantinople with its crooked alleys, slanting streets, and unexpected squares boasted as many corners as there were stars in the sky.

There wasn’t time to waste. In not too many hours, it would be a week since the two faction members were killed at Saint Laurentius. John felt he had barely begun his investigations. Who had he spoken to, after all? Only a handful of people had told him anything useful.

As he looked up and down the street with its fire-gutted shops and ruined colonnades, he reminded himself there were reasons for his lack of progress. It was dangerous and difficult to traverse the chaotic city, and harder yet to locate anyone. Many had fled, or were missing. It was impossible to say who, amongst them-people John did not even know-might have been able to lead him to the killers.

Then too, he had to deal with the Anastasius family. Justinian should never have asked him to host three troublesome aristocrats while undertaking a vital investigation. But he couldn’t say that to the emperor.

He considered the information Porphyrius had given him, the location of Hippolytus’ house. It wasn’t too far away. The charioteer thought the young aristocrat kept apartments in the family mansion. Perhaps the family would be able to tell John what their son had been involved in, and who his associates were.

The streets were relatively quiet. John cut through the Copper Market. The metal working shops which predominated there offered little to attract the wrath of the mob. He could still see the plumes of smoke to the north which he had noted on his way to the Hippodrome. At any time his way might be blocked by a wall of fire.

What he feared more was finding himself suddenly surrounded by fires, or in the path of a blaze driven by the gusty wind.

After awhile the streets ran steeply uphill. The wind hit him in the face, numbing his skin. He blinked, trying to drive away the sharp, icy pain just behind his eyes.

He paused to look behind him. From his elevated position he could see through a gap in the buildings all the way to the Augustaion. Samsun’s Hospice and the Church of Saint Irene were on fire. Whether they had been specially targeted or were victims of fires set elsewhere, it was impossible to say.

When the crest of the ridge he was climbing came into view he was greeted by another dismal sight. The riots had cut off John’s newest line of inquiry. The house where Hippolytus lived had been reduced to a fire-gutted shell.

The front of the house had toppled into the street. If there had been a courtyard it was buried in rubble. Parts of the colonnade along both sides of the street were crushed. However, a short distance away a couch with red upholstery sat on an undamaged portion for the colonnade roof. John wondered whether it had fallen there, incongruously, when the house collapsed or if someone had moved it there. For what reason? To have a good seat from which to view whatever had been taking place in the street?

Although the place was obviously deserted, John picked his way through the ruins. There wasn’t much to see. One interior wall, still standing, bore bright frescoes of chariot races. Water glinted from beneath a pile of bricks, marking the remains of a fountain. An enormous rat crawled from the bricks, and skittered away.

In one spot John’s gaze was caught by bits of charred parchment protruding from the ashes, waving in the wind like dead leaves on a winter tree. Scuffing with the toe of his boot turned up burnt scrolls and codices, little more than charcoal. He saw what he guessed, from what could still be seen of the elaborate binding, was a gospel. Had its teachings prepared the family for the senseless loss of both their home and their son?

The stables had also been destroyed. Whether the family had escaped, John could not say, but the overpowering stench behind the house told him that the horses had not. One breath sent him back rapidly through the ruins. He had just exhaled when a dark shape came hurtling off the top of a wall at him.

He caught a glimpse of its moving shadow first, from the corner of his eye, and spun out of the way. All he could think of was the demon. Had it followed him here?

Then he saw a large, black cat, stirring up a cloud of ash. The cat whirled and slashed with its claws, a blur of motion. There was a high pitched shriek. The cat’s prey, a rat, burst free.

The rat turned back toward the shelter of the ruined fountain from which John had seen it emerge earlier. It was not just any rat but a truly imperial-sized rat. But before it could reach safety a mottled brown and white shape darted from the rubble. The small cat clamped its jaws on the rat’s back. It looked hardly bigger than the rat. The captured rodent squealed and writhed but the small cat’s hold remained firm.

The much larger black cat trotted forward. The two cats looked at each other. Their differing colors made John think of the racing factions. Then the small cat ran off, carrying its huge, struggling meal away. The black cat followed.

Would they share the bounty or fight over it?

John didn’t wait to see. He picked his way back through the ruins.

Once on the street he paused. He had wasted another hour learning nothing.

From the top of the ridge he could see out over the northern harbors and across the waters of the Golden Horn. The molten orange globe of the sun hung in a coppery mist of smoke. John imagined he could almost see the disk moving as time raced past.

He feared that time was running out for his investigation and for the emperor and the empire itself. Already, in the half-light created by the haze, the panorama before him looked unreal, like an aged wall painting. The haze lent its coppery tint to everything, not just the water but the buildings and streets and the ships in the harbor.

Across the harbor lay the monastery of Saint Conon whose monks had rescued, temporarily, the two condemned faction members. Almost from the outset of his investigations, John had dismissed the idea that the monks might be involved in any plot. Yet the directions in which he had chosen to take his inquires had mostly turned out to be dead ends.

Rather than turning back to the palace, John began to walk down the hill toward the docks.

***

At the docks commerce had come to a halt. Crates, amphorae, and sacks lay neglected in haphazard piles in front of the warehouses at the base of the sea wall. The crowds ignored them. They had not come to loot but to escape. John could barely see the water for sailing vessels of every shape and size, from merchant ship to wooden planks.

Here and there those desperate to flee the burning city haggled with ship masters desperate to earn as much as they could while the opportunity lasted.

“How could I pay a fare like that?” John overheard one man shouting. “I’m a baker. Do I look like the emperor to you?”

Elsewhere he saw several husky men dressed in the plain tunics of laborers lashing together a collection of charred beams to make a raft.

John had little difficulty hiring a boat. When on the emperor’s business he went well prepared to offer bribes, though he rarely did so. The amount requested in this case amounted to a bribe.

Once he was out on the Golden Horn, John wished he had searched out a larger boat. The water looked perilously close to him where he sat. He didn’t dare stand. The boat’s owner, mindful of the coins to be made with each passage, rowed as if he were being chased by demons. As he toiled at the oars he stared at his passenger appraisingly.

“Take me as near as possible to Saint Conon’s monastery,” John instructed him.

“I’d never have guessed you for one to join a monastery, sir. I’ve already taken two there but they were such as had to haggle over my price. They said there was no use going further. No one could outrun the four horsemen.”

“I’ll be returning to the city shortly,” John said. “Wait for me. Don’t worry, I will compensate you.”

He didn’t bother displaying the imperial orders. In this case, Justinian’s money spoke loudly enough.

He came ashore on a stretch of waste ground littered with debris and the remains of chariots. The scaffolds hurriedly erected to execute the faction members were still standing. He gave them a wide berth. Shoddily constructed, they leaned into each other like drunken men in front of a tavern. The ropes had been removed.

The Blue and the Green twice lay crumpled on the ground under those scaffolds. Hours later the men floated in the cistern from which John had pulled the Blue.

Had dying three times sufficiently punished them for their transgressions?

The strange coppery light gave the scene the same appearance of unreality John had noticed earlier as he stared across the water from the ridge by Hippolytus’ burnt house. It lacked only suffering figures to turn it into a painting of Christian martyrs.

Beyond the scaffolds a stony path led through tall, brown weeds and squat thorn bushes. The path ended behind the monastery, a long, box-like structure, that might have housed government bureaucrats rather than holy men.

Between John and the monastery lay a patch of flat ground which served as a garden in warmer seasons, to judge from the wooden frames, sagging trellises, and tilted stakes festooned with blackened vines. A man in a brown tunic knelt beside a rosemary bush, one of several green highlights in the otherwise drab expanse of earth.

He looked up at the sound of John’s boots crunching across dried, discarded stalks. He might have been a sailor from whose gaunt face the sea had weathered all signs of age.

“I must speak to the head of the monastery,” John said.

“You are. I am the abbot of Saint Conon’s.” He put a few sprigs of greenery into the basket at his side. “The way the wind howls across us here we’re fortunate to have plenty of hardy herbs. Every plant has its seasons, though.”

John almost expected him to add that there was a lesson in that, but he didn’t. Instead he got to his feet and brushed the dirt off the front of his clothing. “If you seek refuge, we would not turn you away. But we are far too crowded to offer any degree of comfort. To the body at any rate.”

“I am here on the emperor’s business,” John told him.

“What could the monks of Saint Conon’s possibly have to do with the emperor’s business?”

“A few days ago you interfered with it.”

“Ah. You are speaking of those hanged men.”

“There are grumblings at court. Some accuse you of involvement with the emperor’s opponents.”

The abbot’s leathery face showed no reaction. “A serious accusation. Totally untrue. But what proof could I offer? Should I invite you to search the monastery to see that none of Justinian’s enemies are hiding there?”

“Proof of any entanglement will come out eventually, when the insurrection is defeated and the plotters are arrested and questioned. I am giving you the chance to make the emperor’s task easier. As you know, he is a devout man. If you are willing to give him useful information, I am sure he will not look so harshly on your past transgressions.”

“So I should confess to you and expect forgiveness from the emperor?” The abbot smiled faintly. “Alas, I have nothing to confess.”

“Why did you rescue the hanged men? Are you so concerned with earthly matters?”

“You don’t know the story of Saint Conon, do you? He was an Isaurian. When the Christians there were persecuted he was tortured for refusing to sacrifice to pagan gods. They say he was stabbed with knives. When the population heard, they took up arms and rescued him from his tormentors. He wished to suffer martyrdom but instead he lived for two more years. Given the history of our saint how could we stand by and watch the terrible spectacle down there?” The abbot nodded in the direction of the gallows clearly visible from where he and John stood.

“You are telling me you were acting in the tradition of your order,” John said.

“And out of human compassion. The palace is only a short boat ride from where we are standing, but it might as well be another world. Don’t suppose all people are villains and cynics just because those who reside at the palace are. The monks of Saint Conon’s serve the Lord. Believe me, there is not a constant undercurrent of intrigue between us and our Lord. We are simple people.” He pushed a stray green sprig back into his basket. “I admit too, that a few of us thought we were witnessing a miracle. Only the hand of God could grasp the hangman’s rope, twice, to save two men. We were being called upon to reenact Saint Conon’s story.”

“Did God’s hand clear a path to the gallows for the rescuers? Did it brush aside the imperial guards, lift your monks, and the condemned men into a boat and push it safely out into the water?”

“I believe so. His hand was the crowd which greatly outnumbered the guards and felt the same compassion and awe that we did. They made it plain that we were to be left untouched.”

John remembered that Kosmas, the executioner, had said much the same thing, that the restive spectators had assisted in the rescue.

“But what was the point in saving the lives of those men?” John asked. “Wasn’t it merely putting off the Lord’s judgment?”

A gust of wind made the dead vines clinging to stakes and trellises wave like pennants and brought tears to John’s eyes. The abbot did not invite John inside. Instead, he turned his face into the wind.

“You aren’t a Christian,” the abbot said.

John could not conceal his surprise.

“I can tell by the way the name of the Lord passes your lips,” the abbot explained. “Don’t worry, it does not distress me. Before I found my calling I traveled. I’ve been everywhere from Egypt to Bretania. Even Isauria. I stood on the spot where Saint Conon’s blessed blood was spilled. The Lord is everywhere, but people see Him in accordance with their own natures. Or so I believe. I would not confide that to the Patriarch.”

They were looking across the Golden Horn toward the city. Even from a distance they could make out huge swathes of burned out buildings. Pillars of smoke climbed into the sky.

“You can’t believe the Lord is over there?” John said. “Surely the city is more like the pits of hell.”

“Perhaps. If that is the way you are inclined to see it. People concoct their beliefs to cure what ails them. A pinch of earth from subterranean Hades. A few drops of fiery torment from the gospels. And why not mix in some demons, since pagans and Christians both believe in them?”

“You don’t believe in hell?”

“Hell is not a place. When we die we enter into the presence of the Lord. Those who love the Lord are joyful to be eternally in His presence. For those who hate the Lord, His presence is an eternal torment. But it doesn’t really matter how people picture these things. They are beyond human understanding anyway.”

“People can understand fire and demons easily enough.”

“Can they? Did you know that Saint Conon could command demons? Demons are part of creation too. They are perfectly able to serve the Lord. In fact-”

John cut the abbot off. “I don’t have time to discuss theology.”

“No. Of course not. You might want to return when you do have time.”

“You have nothing to tell me?”

The abbot met John’s steady gaze. “Rest assured, the monks of Saint Conon’s are not involved in any plot against the emperor.”

As the two men spoke a crow dropped out of the wind and alighted on one of the garden trellises. Several companions flapped down to join it. The black glass beads of their eyes seemed to stare at John and the abbot. It wasn’t hard to imagine they had been dispatched as spies by some demonic master.

“Eight crows,” John said. “When I was in Bretania the peasants had a fortune-telling rhyme. One crow meant sorrow. Two was for joy. But it only went up to seven-for a secret. Perhaps eight crows foretell nothing. That many are devoid of sense, like a mob.”

The abbot laughed softly. “Superstitious beliefs are even more varied than religious ones. During my own stay in that dreary land I learned a different rhyme from an old village woman who performed auguries. She said that seven was for heaven and eight for hell.”

“So those eight black harbingers are foretelling hell.” John looked away from the crows and toward the burning city. “That is more an observation than a prognostication.”

“Not to mention inaccurate. I tried to explain to the old woman, about heaven or hell not being places but simply the ways we experience the everlasting presence of the Lord, according to our natures. Seven and eight should both mean eternity. I could not convert her to such belief. It would have ruined her rhyme.”

“A bad rhyme, but better augury. Eight crows will always be right, in some sense.”

“Yes, we all face eternity. We are all a part of it, living and dead.”

“But perhaps we don’t always want to be reminded.” John clapped his hands. The crows rose in a flurry, circled once, and flew away from the city.