She was still musing about what strategies she might employ to convince Felix to change his beliefs when she entered the square of the Augustaion. She looked toward the Great Church, seeking inspiration, but the sun reflected off the dome was so blinding that she had to avert her gaze. The after-image lingered in her vision. Waves of heat rose from the square, distorting figures hurrying across it. The whole city seemed to be melting in the bright light.
Even the cross lying against her breast felt hot to her fingertips now. She prayed that Felix had encountered no difficulties.
What protection could he expect from his illusory Mithra?
Chapter Seven
Felix sat on a bench under the peristyle of his house, idly fingering the cross pendant Anastasia had given him and staring at the statue of Aphrodite set in a bed of rosebushes.
The last owner must have had strange humors or else been a philosopher. Love surrounded by thorns! What a sight for a military man to see every day. He should have the goddess replaced by a statue of Mars.
He squinted into the bright sky. Military man? What sort of military man was he, stationed at the palace? A servile bodyguard of perfumed courtiers. If only he were able to join the glorious fighting in Italy. But how could he? He had to obtain an appointment. It was the only way.
Germanus was the key. As soon as Justinian recovered from his grief he’d replace that fool Belisarius, and Germanus was a man who remembered who’d aided him when he was out of favor.
He turned at the sound of soft footsteps. His nascent smile of welcome died as he recognized his servant Nikomachos. He stuffed the cross back under his clothes. His shaggy beard concealed even the gold chain around his neck.
“At what hour do you wish the evening meal?” Nikomachos’ tone was, as usual, peevish, if not quite to the degree of justifying a reprimand.
“The time of my guest’s arrival being uncertain, lay out a few dishes that can be eaten cold. And wine. Not the everyday wine. Something fit for a banquet.”
Felix remembered John and his disgusting Egyptian wine. Now Felix had inherited a large store of the stuff. Perhaps he would donate it to a church, if they would take it. That would make Anastasia happy.
How far had John traveled on his way to Greece by now? Would they meet again or not?
“Cheeses? Fruit?” Nikomachos was asking.
Felix nodded absentmindedly. His servant bowed, almost imperceptibly, and went indoors.
Would Nikomachos have been surprised if he knew how his master envied him? He had lost an arm on a battlefield near Rome. Felix would gladly give an arm, or his life, to go into battle again. He had employed Nikomachos chiefly because of the man’s service to the empire. He often regretted it, being reminded every day by the sight of him of his own soft and unseemly post.
Felix got up with a grunt. He felt stiff and fat and lethargic, prematurely old. He walked slowly around the sunlit space. Flowers and bushes lay utterly still under a heavy blanket of heat. The only movement was when a bee lit on or took flight from a blossom. A gentle hum filled the hot air. The fragrance of roses overpowered other floral smells.
Anastasia liked having fresh flowers in the house. He picked a rose, which dug a thorn into his thumb. With a curse he tossed it into a bush and sucked the bleeding thumb.
Was it an omen?
How much longer would Anastasia be?
Staring in the direction of Aphrodite he found himself comparing the marble goddess to Anastasia. His lover was more mature, her figure more voluptuous. The sculptor had not had very good taste in women. A smile puckered Felix’s lips. Anastasia was a lively partner, well skilled in the ways of Aphrodite. If only she would stop trying to persuade him to convert to Christianity! He was a besotted fool to have revealed his faith, but in bed after passion such confidences were exchanged and he felt unable to refuse her questions. At least he had not revealed too much about Mithraism. He was careful to wear the little cross she had given him whenever she visited. Women liked that sort of thing.
Yet he was leaning toward converting. Only ostensibly, he told himself. It made sense. It was a Christian court and if to appear to be Christian meant a better chance of advancement, would it not be wise to at least pretend to follow their gentle god? Certainly a soldierly god like Mithra understood the necessity of suiting one’s tactics to the situation.
But he couldn’t ponder that right now. The stolen relic presented an urgent problem. Had he been unwise in arranging for the onward passage of packages without inquiring about their contents? He had given the matter some thought after visiting the church and the uncooperative Jingler and decided his best move would be to hand the next package-the one he assumed would contain the stolen relic-over to the authorities. The action would surely bring a large reward of some kind.
He could even make up some story about having tracked down the relic. He’d deceived the smugglers into delivering it to him. Anastasia would be able to think up a convincing tale.
In any event it was better to run the risk of retaliation from the smugglers-whoever they were-than the anger of Justinian, whose spies were everywhere.
He paused in his perambulations.
Was it possible there was a spy in his household?
Felix knew nothing about the religious beliefs of his servants but they were almost certainly Christians. He kept nothing of Mithra in his house. However, he did not always check his tongue in private, so they might well know he was a pagan. If the servants guessed he was profiting from the illegal sale of objects they venerated, and especially such an important object as the Virgin’s shroud, they might well decide to cause him trouble-extorting money to remain silent, for example.
Or betraying him to the authorities.
He scratched his sweaty neck nervously. He muttered a curse. What was the matter with him? He was starting to think like the Jingler.
Nevertheless, might a Christian baptism serve as a charm against exposure? The Lord was supposed to protect even the lowliest of His followers, although Felix had never seen evidence of it.
The baptism would need to be performed privately.
But he was a soldier of Mithra, like John and other friends. How could he abandon his faith? Abandon both his god and his friends?
He could imagine John’s stinging rebuke. The Lord Chamberlain-the former Lord Chamberlain-was a man he greatly admired for his stoic acceptance of the terrible fate he had met at the hands of Persians. Surgery that had made him a eunuch.
Even as the excubitor captain continued pacing impatiently around his garden, his thoughts turned from an angry John to a friend in danger sailing further away from Constantinople at every passing hour. Going into exile and yet, in Felix’s opinion, no safer than he had been when living on the palace grounds for years.
Justinian had a long memory. Imperial assassins, like imperial spies, were well-paid and numerous.
Imperial assassins had a way of catching the disfavored unawares.
The thought brought Felix back to his own dilemma.
He wished Anastasia would arrive.
Chapter Eight
Felix went inside and paced from room to room. He eyed the wine jug sitting on the table beside the bed. No. It would be better to do something constructive than start drinking. He and Anastasia had been doing a lot of drinking. He must keep a clear head.
Instead, he could have a word with General Germanus. It wouldn’t hurt to remind Germanus of his loyalty. If there was going to be trouble, Germanus might be his strongest ally.