Outside the cool air smelled of manure and straw. John could hear whickering from the horses stabled nearby. He went on into the gardens. An excubitor, on his rounds, nodded to him. A man who spoke in private with the emperor could go where he liked, unchallenged, at any time-and John’s unusually tall, lean figure was easily recognized by everyone.
He went along a mosaic pathway between shrubbery. He thought best while walking. The physical act seemed to propel him toward the solution to his problem.
Tonight he considered the murders he had been ordered to solve.
Who would have wanted the two imprisoned faction members dead? Someone who needed to insure that Justinian would not be able to placate the factions by making a display of pardoning them at the Hippodrome as he said he had planned to do.
Could that same person, or persons, have arranged for the Blue and the Green to survive their hangings, so that they could be killed afterwards, after the possibility of pardons had inflamed passions? Most of the city probably believed that the emperor had murdered the captives. They were more furious about that than they had been about the executions, which were, after all, commonplace.
Or was that too complicated?
The executioner Kosmas said the ropes had not been tampered with. Wasn’t it more likely that the botched executions were a chance occurrence, and that the murderer or murderers simply took advantage of the situation?
John emerged from the path into a clearing at the edge of one of the series of terraces which descended in steps toward the Marmara. He saw the lights of ships strewn like orange sparks across the black water.
Lost in his own thoughts, he hardly noted the scene. Who was the man who had arrived at the Church of Saint Laurentius to see the captives, bearing an imperial seal, he wondered.
Was it possible that Justinian himself wished to foment a crisis to enable him to crush opposition to his unpopular policies at a time of his own choosing rather than risk some unexpected attack in the future?
If so, what was John’s real role in investigating the matter?
He had risen to a lofty height but he was far more disposable than a high official-Narses, for example, who would be pleased to have him out of the way. He did not believe for an instant that the treasurer’s offer to assist him in his investigation was genuine. More likely he was hoping to find a way to implicate John in the trouble. He was best avoided.
A man shouted.
In the silent darkness of the gardens the sudden noise startled him.
More shouts followed.
John came out of his musings as if from a dream. He ran in the direction of the commotion, blade in hand.
A figure barreled around the edge of a mass of bushes and practically collided with him. An excubitor.
“What’s happening?” John demanded.
“A mad man’s loose on the grounds.”
As John sprinted around the bushes his foot caught on something. He sprawled forward. His knees hit paving stones. Looking down he saw he had tripped over a hand. The hand was attached to an arm which ended jaggedly below where the elbow should have been.
“I see you found the rest of him,” came a voice.
John climbed to his feet. The excubitor who had spoken leaned over and picked up the marble arm.
“Knocked the emperor’s left foot off too,” said the excubitor. “Fellow doesn’t like statuary, it seems. Been hacking away at statues all over the palace grounds. He’s bound to start after real people before long.”
John noted the group of guards gathered around a marble figure of Constantine which stood on a pedestal where two paths met.
“What does the culprit look like? Has anyone seen him?” John asked.
“A cook, out gathering herbs in the middle of the night-or so she claimed-said it was a monster, like a rampaging bear. I doubt that. Whatever she saw made her scream. That’s what alerted us.”
“I am sure you’ll apprehend the man soon enough. I won’t interfere with your work.”
John started to walk away and the excubitor shouted after him. “Excellency, do you think it’s wise to be here by yourself?”
John kept walking. When he judged he was shielded from sight by shrubbery he broke into a run.
His lungs burned with effort by the time he had reached the end of the walkway at the edge of grounds, in the shadow of the Hippodrome’s wall. He heard a dull clanking noise before he could see anything. Then he made out the bronze statue of Constantine he so often passed on his way home from meetings with the current emperor. When he saw the broad backed soldier swinging his sword at the bronze he thanked Mithra that no excubitors had arrived before him.
“Felix!”
His friend spun around.
“What are you doing, Felix?”
The big man stared at John without comprehension. Then he looked down at his sword. “John? What…?”
“Why are you out here attacking statues?”
“What? I’m doing what?”
“Do you have a particular grudge against Constantine, my friend?”
“I…I don’t understand.”
“You’re drunk.”
Felix blinked and ran a hand through his beard. “Yes. Very drunk. That’s all I remember. Drinking too much. Until you called my name…I…I….”
“You’re lucky I happened to go out for a walk tonight,” John said. He saw that Felix’s gaze was unfocussed. “As soon as I heard about a monster like a bear rampaging through the gardens, I guessed it might be you. Let’s get back to the house. Hurry up. Before the excubitors find you.”
“Excubitors? Looking for me?”
“You don’t remember what you have been up to?”
Felix shook his head. “I’m not even sure where I am.”
John’s mouth tightened. “Your good comrade Bacchus is going to get you into real trouble one of these days.”
Chapter Fourteen
January 13, 532
Late in the afternoon the twentieth chariot race began. Or was it the twenty-first? Or twenty-second? John had lost count. It wasn’t surprising. He hadn’t slept the previous night. Justinian, seated on the throne in the kathisma, looked bored. He fiddled with the purple embroidered hem of his light wool cloak. The imperial box was cold. Located at the highest level of the Hippodrome it was easy prey for the winds that swirled around the vast stadium.
The emperor would probably be happier in his private apartments, John thought, and not just because of the weather. No matter which teams won, these races were not going to end as the emperor had planned when he sent John to Saint Laurentius for the prisoners.
The sky was leaden, glowering as if in disapproval of the events unfolding below. The thousands occupying the tiers of wooden seats seemed in ill humor as well.
There was an ominous note in the factions’ chants of “Mercy for the hanged men!” that had accompanied the races already run, rolling out like thunder over the sound of chariot wheels and hooves beating a fierce tattoo on the track around the spina.
It was a sound that warned John, even exhausted as he was, that the usual rivalry of the factions was rapidly brewing into something worse.
John moved through the courtiers flanking the emperor to the back of the kathisma where Felix stood guard. “There’s more than a sprinkling of blue clothing in that mass of Greens opposite.”
Felix nodded. “I thought you’d notice that. It’s unnatural for the factions to mingle without blood being spilled. It can only mean trouble.” Except for the dark bags beneath his eyes, Felix showed no effects of his nocturnal campaign against Constantine. In fact, his expression suggested he might enjoy being called upon to act in his official capacity against a less than imperial rabble composed of flesh and blood rather than bronze and marble.
Cheers briefly submerged the continual rumble of demands as a chariot for the Greens careened around the turning posts in a shower of sand behind its four straining horses, remained upright by some miracle, and sped across the chalk finish line.