The prefect turned even redder. “Are you questioning my integrity?”
“I’m only trying to make sense of things. From what I’ve been told, a stranger bearing an imperial seal was allowed past the guards. However, the guards had already failed in their duty. The prisoners were already gone. As it happens they had been murdered. Whether they were killed in the church and dragged off to the cistern, or taken outside and killed near the church, isn’t clear. Nor is it clear who killed them. It was military men, apparently, who disposed of them. But it was a blind man who told me that. Were your guards responsible? Can you account for them all?”
“No. Several have gone missing. You see, I am being honest. But then again, I’ve lost a large portion of my force in the past few days. Not that my men are cowards, but they don’t necessarily want their families in the city if it goes up in flames. And others, I regret to say, are probably wearing the colors of the factions right now. As for the men sent to Saint Laurentius…if a few have vanished, can you blame them? If you were given the task of guarding prisoners in whom the emperor took a special interest and failed in your duties, you might decide to look for other work far from the capital. A reasonable man might conclude that before long an imperial official would be asking questions and looking for someone’s head.”
He gave John a pointed look.
“I’m not looking for anyone’s head,” John said. “Just for information. Those guards might have left Constantinople with hefty bribes. What can you tell me about Sebastian? He struck me as old and incapable for such an important command.”
“That depends on what capabilities might be required. It did occur to me that in this case we had more to fear from treachery than from direct, physical force. I assigned Sebastian the task precisely because he has served so long and with absolute, unquestioned loyalty.” Eudaemon’s gaze flickered in the direction of the bust of Justinian. “And see where his loyalty has got him.”
The prefect appeared genuinely distressed at the thought of his elderly commander imprisoned in the imperial dungeons. “I will put a word in for him,” John said.
“May I ask why you so interested in these two ruffians?” Eudaemon asked. “They should’ve been executed straight away. What difference does it make if their deaths were delayed by a few hours? Why should anyone care who was responsible? Justice is done.”
John’s reply was interrupted by a clerk who burst into the office, gasping for breath as if he’d sprinted down the corridor. John could tell he was a clerk because he still held his reed pen, although the agitated man didn’t seem to realize it. He waved his hands frantically, sending droplets of ink flying. “Prefect! Come quickly! There’s trouble at the prison. The mob is demanding the prisoners be released.”
“Is that so? If that’s what they want, that’s what they’ll get. We’ll hang every one of the prisoners from the portico in the front of the Praetorium. That will end the demands!” Eudaemon turned to John. “Excuse me, excellency. I will return as soon as I’ve given the orders.” Now Eudaemon did move fast, striding out of the office and following the clerk down the corridor.
John glanced around. The abruptness of Eudaemon’s departure had taken him by surprise. He walked over to the desk and studied the codices scattered across its marble top. City regulations and imperial proclamations. An account book lay against a partially opened scroll displaying what appeared to be classical poetry.
Eudaemon did not return.
John had intended to ask the prefect for an escort back to the palace. He waited for what felt like a long time, then decided further waiting was not a good idea. He stepped into the corridor. As soon as he did he could hear raised voices and smell smoke.
He started toward the vestibule.
A figure leapt from a doorway and slammed John into the wall. He had an impression of a blue cloak, an unnaturally high forehead where the hair had been shaved away in front, yellow teeth in a snarling mouth. Then something smashed into his side. He fell sideways and slid down the wall.
Another Blue, holding a splintered length of wood, loomed over him. Others emerged from the room opposite. Clouds of smoke followed. One of the men held a torch.
John tried to blink back the dark fog swirling at the edges of his vision.
“Who’s that?” asked the man with the torch.
“He came out of the prefect’s office,” someone answered.
The Blue standing over John raised his irregular club. “It’s time you’re introduced to justice.”
Before John could react, the club dropped from the assailant’s hands and clattered onto the floor. A gurgling shriek came out of the Blue’s mouth, followed by a gush of scarlet.
The man’s companions turned and fled.
Felix pulled his sword out of the man’s back. It took several hard tugs, while the Blue convulsed like a speared fish and blood bubbled from between his lips. The burly excubitor kicked the body away and leaned over to help John to his feet. “I appreciated your saving me from my own folly in the gardens last night. I didn’t expect to repay the favor so soon.”
John stood up. Aside from a pain in his shoulder where he’d hit the wall, he seemed to be uninjured. “I thought you intended to go straight from the kathisma back to my house?”
“I did. But I thought I’d scout out the situation in the streets first. I didn’t like what I saw. People were pouring straight out of the Hippodrome and down the Mese. The factions weren’t fighting each other, either. They were setting fire to shops. I knew you were coming here to talk to the prefect.”
“I’m glad you came after me, my friend.” Belatedly John pulled from his robes the short blade he always kept concealed there.
Felix looked at the weapon dubiously. “Now we have to get back to the palace,” he said. “We’d better get moving. As soon as the rioters realize the prefect’s men are all battling at the prison this part of the building will be swarming.”
“Unless it burns down first,” John remarked as they ran into a roiling mist. He pushed part of his cloak over his mouth. The acrid fog burned his throat.
A confusion of shadows surged through the haze in the vestibule. No one challenged John and Felix. In the chaos they appeared to be just two more rioters.
They emerged onto the portico and stopped abruptly. The view of the Mese was partly obscured by a macabre curtain, a line of hanged men dangling from the front of the portico. Some inventive person had managed to loop ropes over the ornamental work and decorative statuary above.
John pushed one of the dead men aside to reach the steps leading to the street. The boot that swung round and nudged him in the back as he ducked past was military footwear. The guards had ended up being hung, not the prisoners.
He scanned the row of dead-eyed men. He did not see Eudaemon’s bovine form.
Felix bent over a body crumpled on the steps. He straightened up and held out a short spear. “John, take this. I don’t see any swords. At least it’s a better weapon than that little onion chopper of yours.”
John grasped the spear. He hoped it would serve him better than it had served its previous owner. He faced the street.
The palace wasn’t far away, not much more than the length of the Hippodrome, less than a single circuit of the racetrack. But a clamorous multitude blocked the way, clogging the thoroughfare and the colonnaded walkways on either side. Smoke poured out from beneath the colonnades.
He and Felix went down the stairs. An unarmed man in a cuirass stood at the bottom, gazing around vacantly. Half his face was blackened. John couldn’t tell whether it was soot or if the flesh had been burned off.
“You’re one of the urban watch, aren’t you?” Felix barked. “What’s going on?”
“We were sent on patrol.” The man rasped. “When I got back…the prisoners were gone…and….” He looked toward the line of hanged men and looked away.