Nine for the Devil

Prologue

June 548

During the heat wave smothering Constantinople, blades were drawn and blood spilt debating the portent of a series of strange events.

The latest event to exercise the imagination of the sweltering populace was a lightning bolt to the statue of Emperor Arkadios during the same fierce storm that killed three people in their sleep. Loungers at the inn nestled near to the Great Palace between the Hippodrome and the Baths of Zeuxippos, displayed a lively range of opinion, though no inclination to resort to sharp steel to reinforce their arguments.

So far.

“I told my wife lightning strikes inevitably mean disaster,” observed a stout patron.

“Disaster for anyone struck,” interjected a young fellow seated near the door.

The patron studied the blurry reflection in his wine cup as if it might contain a revelation beyond the fact he had a double chin. “What about the beggar in the Copper Quarter who saw two eagles fighting above the Great Church? And a friend of a friend of mine who works on the docks swears he saw a two-headed snake boarding a ship bound for Italy. These are not things to be spoken of lightly.”

“I hear the wife of a high court official gave birth to a monster,” said the man seated beside the speaker.

The bald proprietor, cleaning cups with a wine-stained cloth, observed that speaking of monsters, the state of Theodora’s health was of great concern. “They say she has bishops praying night and day for her. We all should pray. Imperial deaths mean change, and change means trouble.”

“Quite a few will be happy to pray for her to depart and to do it soon,” said the man sitting near the door. “What worries me is how will Justinian react if she dies?”

The proprietor set down a cup with a loud bang, picked up another, and ran the dirty cloth around the inside. “There will be changes all right. I wouldn’t be surprised if the emperor brought back that exiled tax collector. I hope not. His methods were as persuasive as those employed by palace torturers. I can hardly pay my taxes as it is.”

“The Cappadocian? He’s safely in Egypt. And if I was him I’d stay there.” The stout imbiber took a sip of wine and tugged absently at the folded flesh under his chin. “But there are those at court who will benefit and others who will suffer. You know how Theodora meddles, how she favors her own family.”

“Look on the bright side,” said his companion. “If she departs, her heretical views might leave the empire along with her. Maybe Justinian will start to bring the heretics into line instead of trying to appease them.”

“Let’s not discuss religion,” said the proprietor. “No matter how many natures we might think Christ possesses, we all worship Bacchus here.”

The cup he was wiping slipped from his hand and shattered on the tiled floor.

“Another omen,” remarked the stout patron. He started to say more but was interrupted by shouting in the street. Every head swiveled toward the door as a dust-covered man rushed in, scarlet-faced with excitement.

“She’s dead! The whore is dead! The Lord be praised!”