Chapter Fifty-six

Entering the light-filled building, John stood under a many-pillared gallery and glanced around the huge space under the soaring, many-windowed dome. Light from lamps suspended from the ceiling, set in wall niches, and on tripods, touched the silver seats used by priests and the gold and gem encrusted altar set with richly-decorated sacred vessels. Columns of polished green and white and purple marble pointed colorful fingers to glowing mosaics overhead.

John did not see Anatolius.

Those who sought sanctuary-which surely was Anatolius’ intention-often placed themselves beside the baptismal font.

He returned to the narthex and strode quickly along a wide corridor, his boots slapping noisily on the floor’s enormous polished marble slabs. At the end of the corridor he passed through the Vestibule of the Warriors, where guards were stationed when the emperor was in attendance inside the church. Felix had positioned a number of his excubitors there to prevent Anatolius from slipping away into the night.

The baptistery sat just beyond the vestibule’s exit.

John stepped into the high-domed octagonal room. Lamplight sparkled on jeweled crosses adorning the outer sides of the font. Waist high and the length of two men, it had been carved from a solid block of marble.

John spotted Anatolius sitting halfway down the steps descending into the basin. He hunkered down at the top of the steps. “Is this what we’ve come to, Anatolius? A Mithran seeking Christian sanctuary?”

“What could I do, rush to the palace and hide in the mithraeum? I doubt I’ll be safe here for long.”

“Felix has the church surrounded but he won’t drag you out. He takes his orders from Justinian, and the emperor respects the sanctity of churches.” He didn’t add Felix was even more likely to respect Anatolius’ taking refuge at the font, since the excubitor captain might himself be baptized in it before long.

The thought reminded John of Peter’s plea that he accept the Christian god. He could not imagine immersing himself in the enormous font, as if he were stepping into a bath at the Zeuxippos. What a pathetic way to acknowledge allegiance to a god.

Fortunately for Anatolius, the font was currently dry.

“I am not sure how long Justinian will recognize my right of asylum,” Anatolius said. “The laws specifically bar homicides, adulterers, and ravishers of virgins from enjoying the right, but treason is also a heinous crime.”

“Why did you run, Anatolius?”

“I had no choice. When Felix arrived with excubitors I realized he wasn’t visiting to arrest my cook, even if he does habitually burn the fish.” He forced a bleak smile.

“Flight always gives the appearance of guilt.”

“The excubitors were slow in approaching the house and made too much noise. Felix was intentionally warning me, giving me time to get away.”

“You don’t know why he was ordered to arrest you?”

“What does it matter? If Felix considered it prudent for me to escape, I wasn’t going to question his judgment. Every day someone vanishes. If I’d lingered to ask what the charges were I’d be dead by now.”

John couldn’t argue with that.

Anatolius was leaning back against the font’s inner wall. Light hit the top of his head, accentuating his gray hair. The shadows falling across his face deeply sculpted each incipient wrinkle in his tired, sagging features. John suspected he was seeing what Anatolius would look like as an old man.

Provided he reached old age.

John was not certain he could offer any useful counsel. He recounted what Justinian had told him about the poem found in Kuria’s room.

Anatolius’ grim laugh reverberated in the dry basin. “The follies of our youth come back to haunt us! That cursed poem! Written so long ago and now come to collect payment!”

“It was more than foolish of you to give it to Theodora’s lady-in-waiting.”

“Kuria wasn’t a lady-in-waiting when I first met her, John. Far from it. She was one of Isis’ girls. It’s touching she kept that little scribble so long.”

For a few heartbeats John could say nothing. He remembered what Isis had told him about Kuria’s frequent visitor. Had Isis got it wrong? Had it been Anatolius, not Felix, who had sought Kuria out years earlier?

In response to John’s query Anatolius hung his head. “Yes, for a time I was obsessed with the girl.”

If Anatolius had not been seeing Kuria recently-as Justinian and everyone involved had inferred from her possession of the poem-then he could not have convinced her to poison Theodora to further his ambitions. Ambitions that had also merely been inferred from his involvement with the Cappadocian, and through him, Germanus.

The entire complicated edifice of his friend’s guilt collapsed.

“When did you last see Kuria?”

“I don’t remember, exactly. It was a long time ago.”

“Not within the past few weeks?”

“Not for years. I never had reason to venture into Theodora’s part of the palace. I didn’t even know Kuria was living there.”

“Are you being truthful with me this time?”

“You know I’m always…yes. Yes. This time I am telling you the truth. Ask Kuria.”

“I wish I could. She’s been banished from the palace. Justinian has ordered her found.” John got to his feet. “I’ll escort you to him. We’ll explain the situation.”

“Why would he believe what I say if he’s convinced I conspired to murder his wife? I think not, John. I’d rather stay here.”

“You’ll only be safe here until Justinian loses patience.”

“That’s probably longer than I would have if I were in his clutches.”

“You’re probably right. I’ll try to find Kuria. Justinian might take her word if he comes to his senses sufficiently to remember how much Theodora trusted the girl.”

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