Eight for Eternity (11 page)

John stepped aside to avoid being knocked over. He glanced down the crowded, chaotic street in front of them again. “I’d prefer not to fight my way along the Mese,” he said. “I know a better way.”

He broke into a run, leading Felix to what was little more than a crevice between the walls of the Praetorium and a neighboring church. He squeezed through the gap. He might have entered an inferno. The heat was unbearable. He touched the rough bricks and yanked his hand away as if from a glowing brazier.

“Careful,” he yelled to Felix. “There’s fire behind the wall.”

Felix cursed. “Are you trying to cook us?”

John squirmed forward as fast as possible. The burning building might collapse completely at any moment. Sweat poured down his face, blurred his vision. The heat radiating from the wall felt intense enough to blister his skin.

The crevasse between the buildings narrowed further. John forced his way sideways and stuck.

No, it was only his cloak caught on a nail.

He yanked the fabric loose, kept moving.

Then he was in an alleyway that ran behind the Mese. There was nothing here but the backs of buildings. No inviting targets for arson or looting.

Felix emerged, grunting and cursing.

The two men ran.

Here and there the alley turned to accommodate a larger building. Mostly they passed behind shops. More than a few were ablaze. Although the shops presented marble facades to the Mese, by imperial decree, the structures themselves were wood.

In one place the exotic scents of a perfumer’s mingled with the smell of burning. In another, they skirted rivulets of wax from a candle shop. A fine rain of ash continually fell from the sky, greying John’s dark, cropped hair and his short blue cloak and Felix’s beard.

Suddenly fire blocked their way. Flames leapt into the alley as if from the open door of a furnace. The air was alive with a deep, almost palpable rumble. The thick clouds of smoke accompanying the flames made it impossible to judge the extent of the inferno.

Without pausing, John flung himself into the flames.

Almost instantly he found himself in a semi-circular plaza where the Mese’s roofed colonnade curved inward. Felix was beside him, brushing sparks from his beard. John slapped out a glowing patch on his sleeve.

An obelisk, the height of two men, bore carving identifying the place as a sculptor’s workshop. Emperors and gods and goddesses, surrounded them—the artist’s wares, mostly copies of classical works.

On any normal day wealthy patrons would be strolling around, making their selections. Today a man had been hung up by his foot from the raised arm of a bronze Julius Caesar. The man had been set alight, a still living torch. He screamed as a several ruffians prodded him with lances. Concentrated on their amusement, the victim’s tormentors did not notice the two new arrivals.

John raised his own short spear.

Felix put his hand on John’s shoulder. “No,” he said in a whisper. “It’s impossible. There are only two of us. The poor man is beyond saving anyway. If those thugs spot us we won’t be able to save ourselves. I have an idea.”

They were standing next to a marble depiction of a stern, bearded old man on a throne, a much reduced copy of the mighty Olympian Zeus.

Felix stepped up on Zeus’ foot, pulled himself into the pagan god’s lap, then onto his shoulder. From there he was able to climb to the back of the throne, grab the edge of the colonnade’s tiled roof, and haul himself up.

John followed. He could see they had nearly reached the Chalke. The roof on which they stood led straight toward it, an elevated walkway. They soon would be back inside the palace walls.

Evening had fallen. The lurid glows of raging fires could be seen in all directions. Their yellowish red glare twinkled through the darkness of a city where decent people cowered behind locked doors and shuttered windows. Underneath the frantic screams of the burning man, John could hear a low, rhythmic roar like the beating of waves. The crackling of countless fires, perhaps, mixed with the shouted rage of thousands of rioters.

Movement caught his eye. Was the huge cross on the nearby roof toppling over?

No. There was a hunched figure perched on an arm of the cross, gesturing wildly, a silhouette against distant fires, ragged and demoniac.

“A fire fit to warm the demon emperor’s haunches!” cried the figure. Then it dropped and scuttled away.

The two men watched the strange creature vanish into the night. Then Felix started along the colonnade roof in the direction of the palace. John went after him.

Now he could pick words out from the roar of the city. The same words repeated again and again.

“Nika! Nika! Victory! Victory!”

Chapter Sixteen

From a distance the four figures gathered in the latticed pavilion in the middle of the dark palace gardens suggested conspirators meeting to plot harm to the empire. On the contrary, the meeting had been arranged by Justinian in a location where the discussion could not be overheard except by the chubby, gilded Eros perched on the edge of the pavilion roof.

Felix considered it an unnecessary precaution. Weren’t the private meeting rooms and reception areas deep within the Daphne Palace secure enough? Justinian had been unnerved by the growing anarchy outside the palace walls. He was starting to sense enemies lurking around every corner and he was a man given to whims.

This particular whim was chilling Felix to the bone. He stood in the arched doorway to the summer retreat and shivered. Captain Gallio had spotted him as soon as he and John had reached the safety of the Chalke after their flight from the burning Praetorium.

“You’ve been out in the streets,” Gallio said. “Good. The emperor wants a report on conditions.”

Felix wondered why Gallio hadn’t sent patrols out. Perhaps the patrols had been sent but had not returned.

He was still sweating as he described the chaos to the emperor. He supposed he smelled of smoke but by now there was no place in the city that didn’t smell of it. Justinian made no comment. Nor did he order Felix to return to his post at John’s house. So Felix waited. The sweat had long since dried. Now he was cold and uncomfortably aware of the Eros squatting just above his head and glittering in the torchlight.

Justinian paced back and forth across the circular space, staring at the pavilion’s tessellated flooring, while Narses and Belisarius looked on. The three men made an odd picture, the common-looking man who was nevertheless emperor, the handsome Belisarius, the dwarfish Narses.

Felix switched his gaze back and forth between the emperor and the general. Of the two he was more interested in Belisarius. How young he was for a general! Despite his youth he seemed unperturbed by the crisis. His sharp, patrician features betrayed no anxiety. Felix wondered if he should trim his own unruly beard. The closely clipped black beard Belisarius wore gave him a more disciplined look. More suited to a military man. The great general had offered a curt nod in his direction after Felix concluded reporting. Felix took the gesture as a compliment but pleasure died when he saw the dark expression that briefly flowered on Narses’ face.

Had he said something he should not? The thought was cut short when Justinian turned on his heel and addressed Belisarius. “What do you know about the situation in the city?”

“The city is passing beyond mere restlessness. It is much as the excubitor said. The Blues and Greens have been torching buildings together.”

“Anger may cause disputants to move in the same direction when they are in a mob,” Justinian remarked.

“Very true, Caesar. Yet early this morning, before the races, a more telling incident occurred. A Green tried to rob a senator in front of the Church of the Holy Apostles. Four men passing by—laborers for the most part—set about the Green. He would have been beaten to death had not four Blues suddenly appeared and rescued him. They also stabbed the senator, but he will live.”

Justinian’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. “Blues coming to the aid of the Greens. Shall we now see fiery stars falling through the air and hear of unnatural births? How do you interpret these strange events?”

“Considering the chants in the Hippodrome it appears that the factions have truly joined together.”

“And not with any good intentions,” the emperor muttered.

Narses coughed in a meaningful fashion and Justinian glanced at him.

The treasurer took it as permission to speak. “If that is the case and the hordes cooperated in storming the palace, Hypatius or Pompeius might find themselves wearing the purple. They are after all the nephews of Emperor Anastasius. I am told there are those who still whisper in dark corners of their desire to place one or the other on the throne. There is always ingratitude.”

Justinian smiled ruefully. “Whoever is not in power always has supporters who consider him a better wager. The weak and traitorous can be easily persuaded they have the right to rule. I would not be surprised if the brothers worked to that end.”

“And perhaps, being in an excellent position to do so, they are engaged in spying as well?” Narses suggested.

“He’s right,” Belisarius put in. “As long as they remain within the palace as your guests they are better able to see what unfolds. Even though you have wisely put the pair under guard, we all know that servants, and even guards and courtiers, hear more than they should, and most have loose tongues.”

“And it is not unlikely they have contacts within the palace,” added Narses. “People who are working for them. Reporting to them.”

“But if they were not inside the palace they might be inciting the malcontents,” Justinian said. “Besides, we cannot risk an accident to Anastasius’ relatives. That is why they and the girl have been invited to live on the grounds for the present.”

“I should think an accident would not be the worst event that could befall the empire,” Narses told him.

Felix heard Justinian’s voice grow uncharacteristically sharp. “Do you then believe it would be wisest to execute Hypatius and Pompeius immediately, thus ensuring neither of them will wear the purple? I will not hear of such a thing. I have promised them my protection.”

“I only meant that if the Lord saw fit to intervene in his own mysterious fashion, we could not complain,” Narses said quickly, his reedy voice rising a pitch.

“Caesar, if I may…?” Belisarius interrupted.

“Speak.”

“From a soldier’s point of view and as a matter of strategy the pair mentioned may well prove useful at some point. If the factions unite to attempt to put one or the other on the throne, given they are already in your power, showing mercy toward them may curb the mob’s temper.”

“Excellent advice,” Justinian replied after a lengthy pause.

“We all agree, then,” Narses said. “But if I might sound a note of caution…I am uneasy about their reluctant host.” He glanced at Felix as if to make certain he was listening.

“Do you not trust my chamberlain John?”

“Are you sure you can count on the loyalty of the Greek eunuch? While I do not endorse the calumny that paints all such as treacherous creatures, for I have served faithfully and—”

Justinian raised his hand, ordering Narses to be silent. “You are telling me that while I can trust the eunuch I know, the eunuch I don’t know is a different matter? However, I believe I know John well enough to trust him.”

Felix noted that Belisarius could not suppress the flicker of a smile. Nor could he miss the look of fury directed by Narses at the young general.

A flutter of purple glimpsed through the lattice work caught his attention a heartbeat before the three other men turned their heads.

“You are dismissed,” Justinian said as Theodora appeared.

The empress addressed Belisarius. “A word with you.”

Felix and Narses bowed and retreated. Narses pushed past Felix and headed off into the gardens at a rapid pace. Felix took a last glimpse back in the direction of Belisarius. When he heard what Theodora was saying he suddenly forgot he was cold. His face flushed.

“General, I have arranged a private supper in my apartments this evening. Do not fail to present yourself. Our friend Antonina wishes to meet you.”

Chapter Seventeen

John wiped flecks of ash from the short, wide leaf-shaped blade that was always at his side.

“You need to get yourself a better defensive weapon,” said Felix. “That’s nothing more than a cheese chopper.”

“I thought you called it an onion chopper. I got used to it—or rather one just like it—years ago.”

“Yes. It looks like an antique. Seeing it reminds me that Narses is still sharpening his blade on your spine. And his blade is deadlier than that turnip sticker.” He helped himself to more wine. “I expect he’ll blame you if anything happens to your house guests and he’s had Justinian’s ear longer than you have. My advice is avoid the worst shadows, know who cooked your swordfish, and—”

“—get a better weapon.” John had listened in silence, his wine cup untouched, as Felix recounted the conversation in the pavilion.

The two men were sitting in the private chapel of John’s house, safely away from the ears and ministrations of the servants.

Felix took another gulp of wine and coughed. “This is foul. Have the imperial cellars run out of a drink a man can offer friends without apologizing?”

“You won’t get an apology from me. That’s Egyptian. I ordered it specially. It reminds me of happier times. Like my blade.” He turned the dagger over in his hand, inspecting it, then slipped it back into the sheath concealed inside his tunic. “Besides, it’s an acquired taste so Pompeius has left it alone. Not that he hasn’t found sufficient drink that’s more to his liking.”

“He does seem to enjoy the grape.” Felix gazed dolefully into his cup. “So do I…usually. Perhaps you could direct me to the stores Pompeius is drinking.”

John looked at him thoughtfully. “It isn’t just my wine that’s making you morose, is it?”

Felix’s jaw clenched and his cheeks reddened. He told John what he had overheard Theodora saying.

“You sound jealous,” John said. “Why should you be concerned if Theodora has arranged for Antonina to meet Belisarius? You’ve only met Antonina once and after last night I would have thought you’d be happy to never set eyes on her again.”

Felix set his cup down. “My friend, it is as if I have been enchanted. I wish I knew what sort of wine we drank together last night.” He stared up in the direction of the cross on the ceiling. Since Felix was a fellow Mithran, John doubted he was appealing to the Christian god for guidance.

“You don’t want anything to do with any friend of Theodora’s.” John spoke sharply. “Antonina is every bit as dangerous as Narses. You said he was sharpening his blade on my spine. Well, you can be sure Antonina is sharpening her blade as well, although not perhaps on your spine.”

John looked around suddenly, stood up, and pulled open the door. Pompeius stood in the corridor. Corpulent, rumpled, and surprised.

“I…I…was just about to knock….”

“You were taking your time about it. You’ve been there for quite a while, breathing rather more heavily than most. Loud enough to be heard.”

“It’s all that exercise Pompeius gets lifting heavy jugs of good wine,” Felix put in.

“Sit down,” John ordered his visitor, and almost immediately regretted it. Although there was a stool available, the tiny chapel was barely large enough to contain two men let alone a third who was practically a crowd all by himself. John sighed as the legs of the seat creaked and threatened to give way under Pompeius’ weight. “Why did you wish to see me?”

“To…to…ask if….you know when my brother and I will be permitted to return home.”

“Immediately. I will have my servants escort you to the gates.”

Pompeius’ eyes opened wide within their nests of folded flesh. He drew in a wheezing, whistling breath. “Oh? Do you think that’s wise? I mean—”

John smiled thinly. “That’s not what you wanted to ask me, is it? Don’t worry. I won’t throw you out on the street. Now why were you lurking outside the door?”

The fat man squirmed on the inadequate stool. He seemed to be exuding a vinous miasma from his pores. The cramped space was filled with the smell of wine and sweat.

“Ah. Well….” Pompeius paused. “I happened to be going by and I couldn’t help overhearing…um…the conversation about Antonina…”

“You have very acute hearing, Pompeius.”

“Yes. Thank you, excellency. I…uh…I thought it prudent to hear what was being said. I agree with your advice. It is widely known that Antonina dabbles in magick and I would not be surprised if she were merely trying out a new potion on your excubitor friend. They say magicians will sometimes poison a cat, as a test…and…well…”

Felix looked murderous but remained silent.

John glared at Pompeius. “And you were about to knock on the door and impart this information to us?”

Pompeius waggled his multiple chins in a nod. “If that woman has decided on Belisarius he does not have much chance of escape. Besides her ability to gain assistance by means of strange potions and such, he is young and naive.”

“He may be young but he is a great general!” Felix declared. “I am sure he can beat back the wiles of a woman.” He frowned suddenly. “If he wants to, that is.”

“You call him a great general,” Pompeius said, “but he was nothing but a common commander making forays into Persarmenia five years ago. And not for military purposes either. No, your general was there to capture slaves for the empire.”

John’s expression darkened. “Is that so?”

“Anyway, bored courtiers make up all sorts of nonsense,” Felix said. “A lady of the court wouldn’t be practicing magick.”

Pompeius waved a chubby finger and shook his head. “I would not be so certain, young man. I happen to know Antonina once wanted to assist a certain charioteer to win his race, not to mention her favors. After all, to the winner goes the spoils, do they not? And so to ensure he triumphed she boiled up several gulls and a couple of crows and gave the resulting gruel to his horses after they exercised in that field near the lighthouse.”

Felix glared. “Do you think I’m a fool?”

Pompeius ignored the interruption. “Now, I know a crow from a crowbar and I’d have wagered the only possible result was the horses would be sickened and useless, but the horses immediately tried to fly off the sea wall!”

“It does not sound likely to me,” Felix replied. “But supposing it is true—”

“Oh, there’s no doubt about it. I heard it from a most reliable person, who had the story from a man whose brother cleans out the stables at the palace, who saw it happen with his own eyes! His own eyes, mind you! But that’s not the most interesting story about Antonina and her magick. No. There was the time when—”

John stood abruptly, squeezed past Pompeius, and looked down the corridor toward the semi-darkness of the atrium where a lone wall torch flickered.

Yes, he had heard footsteps. A man trotted through the shadows, his face bone white with fear.

It was Pompeius’ brother, Hypatius.

“The rabble are attacking the palace,” he shouted in panic. “The barracks are on fire and the senate house. We have to get out before the blaze reaches us!”

Pompeius wobbled to his feet and banged into the table.

John strode to Hypatius’ side. He could see the man was trembling. The square jaw worked, as if he were trying to speak and couldn’t.

“I went for some air,” he finally managed to blurt. “At first I thought the glow was merely part of the city burning. Just some more of those wretched wooden tenements. Then I realized it was closer. I could see the flames and sparks in the sky.”

“Does Julianna know?” John asked.

“Julianna? Oh, yes, yes. Julianna. Of course! Someone save my daughter!”

Felix and Pompeius joined them. Felix cursed softly. Pompeius carried the cup of wine John had left unfinished.

There was a hiss and a pop. A bright speck arced briefly through the dimness.

“We’re on fire already!” Hypatius cried.

“It’s just a torch,” John said. “I’ll see what’s happening.”

There was no need. Before he could move the house door flew open, revealing Haik. “The Chalke’s on fire,” he reported.

“Where’s Julianna?” John demanded of the two brothers. Pompeius gaped at him and Hypatius began to stammer something.

“I’ll find her,” Felix said. “I’ll send some of my men to help with the blaze.” He pivoted and went pounding along the corridor toward the back of the house.

John glared at his aristocratic guests with ill-concealed contempt. “We’d better get out in case the place catches fire.” Neither Hypatius nor Pompeius protested.

Haik gave John a grim smile.

Several servants had appeared in the atrium, looking apprehensive. John ordered them to find their colleagues and leave the house, then he left himself.

As soon as he was outside he could see flames leaping skyward above the roof tops. He made his way through the knots of people who had emerged from nearby residences to stare toward the approaching conflagration. Once he passed the stables he felt heat beating against his face.

He saw immediately that the Chalke was lost.

Men carrying buckets and ladders raced out of the massive, blocky structure in which the bronze gate was set, pursued by roiling clouds of smoke. Anyone caught inside would be dead.

A man perched atop a ladder just outside the gateway hacked at a burning roof spar that threatened to fall across the entrance, apparently oblivious to the fact that his dangerous task was now pointless.

The roof of the barracks next to the Chalke was already ablaze, sending cascades of sparks into the air.

Grooms were leading horses from the stables.

John wiped his smarting, watering eyes. He instructed his servants to help dowse the fires springing up all over the open courtyard, thanks to the steady rain of sparks and burning debris borne by a gusty, scorching breeze. His nose and throat burned painfully.

Then he grabbed a shovel and joined those engaged in filling leather buckets with earth, which others carted off to smother the flames that ran along the dried grass in front of the stables in scarlet and gold lines.

It wasn’t work a chamberlain to the emperor should be doing, and a single pair of hands could make little real difference but it wasn’t in his nature to simply stand by and give orders.

John saw that Haik shared his feelings. His old military colleague had joined a chain of water carriers running back and forth between the palace gate and a watering trough.

It was not unlike being on a battlefield again with the clamor, the confusion, the crush of men working frantically, half hidden in smoke and darkness, shouting, cursing. Horses whickered and snorted, terrified by the fire and noise.

John’s shovel might have been a sword. He wielded it until his muscles were on fire and his breath came in searing gasps.

At last, despite all efforts, the roof of the Chalke caved in, sending a fountain of embers swirling upwards.

As a pillar of smoke rose into the sky, John could hear the roar of mob outside, exulting in the destruction. Above the shouts of the fire fighters and the crackling and popping of flames he could make out words.

“Nika! Burn them all! Heaven’s will shall be done!”

He shivered. The moment his shovel was still he was cold. Sweat poured down his sides. He realized the wind had shifted. Now it carried the chill from the sea rather than the heat from the burning city.

The multitude continued to chant but the rising wind blew their anger back at them and blew the fire away from the palace.

John leaned, exhausted, on his shovel. “Thank Mithra,” he muttered to himself.