“Consider this,” John countered. “Justinian learned that Opimius had dismissed me before I told him.”
“Is that surprising? But what are you saying? You think Justinian wants to do away with you because you’re of no real use anymore? Or perhaps because Opimius suspects you were a spy?”
“Was I a spy?”
Felix laughed bitterly. “Who can say for certain? We’re actors in someone else’s play. We’re reading our lines, but we haven’t yet seen the last page. Let’s hope it isn’t a tragedy.”
Gaius interrupted. “There he is.”
The doorkeeper they sought was spooning porridge into the toothless mouth of another patient, a being so ancient and withered it appeared as sexless as an infant.
“Demetrios is leaving this afternoon.” Gaius gestured for the doorkeeper to join them in the corridor. “He’s as tough as an old leather boot. He wanted to help out for a while before he left.”
“And happy to do so,” Demetrios said. “My own small contribution to the hospice. I wish I could do more.”
“So do I,” muttered Gaius, who hurried away, as overworked as ever. At least on this day, John noticed, he looked steady on his feet.
“Perhaps you can assist us also.” Felix looked sternly at Demetrios.
“I’ll try, sir, but I don’t think I have anything more to tell you even though I’ve thought about it a fair bit since we spoke.”
“If you could describe once more exactly what happened before Hypatius’ murder?”
The man obliged, relating again the scene he had witnessed in the Great Church, the screaming and confusion, how the Blues had rushed out, wounding him on their way. In the end, he added nothing useful to what he had said during their previous conversation.
They were turning to leave when Demetrios laid a skeletal hand on John’s arm.
“Sir, I have offered prayers that those murderers are brought to justice, but I begin to wonder if they will ever pay for their crime. After my stay here, ashamed as I am to admit it, I have begun to question whether there is justice in this life at all.”
John observed that while the thought might be shocking it was perfectly understandable. “Yet isn’t the justice we all seek more likely to be found in the next life rather than this one?”
“Spoken like a good Christian, sir. No, it isn’t for us to question the ways of the Lord and yet…Did the physician mention that poor cart driver? Isaakios? He helped to rescue a couple of courtiers, so it’s said. What men from the palace were doing out on the streets at dawn…something unmentionable I suppose. He was stabbed for his pains, so he was, and died only this morning.”
“I am sorry to hear that.” John glanced at Felix, who muttered something under his breath.
“And,” continued Demetrios, “I must tell you that the man’s last words were for his family. He was afraid his cart would not be given to them and they would starve in the streets. If you could-”
“I will ask Gaius to make certain that it is sent to them immediately, if it has not already gone,” John promised. It struck him that when the Lord was not quick enough to grant the wishes of His followers they were quick to turn their eyes to anyone from the palace. “You seem to have spent a lot of time talking to people during your stay here, Demetrios.”
“Not talking. Listening. It is a skill I have learned in my regular work. A doorkeeper’s job is not boring at all if he learns to listen well.”
The man stopped abruptly, then blurted out, “There’s evil abroad in this city. Pure evil. This Isaakios was a regular worshipper at the Great Church. A humble cart driver, but generous in his way. When Hypatius presented the church with his gift, it was Isaakios who hauled it from the sculptor’s studio to the church free of charge. As a charitable gesture, you understand, even though he was one who could ill afford to give his labor for nothing, what with a large family to support. The family he has left behind. You will see about his cart?”
John reassured Demetrios that he would do so, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
“Thank you, sirs. I was hoping that you would help. Those from the palace wield much more power than the common person. They say that even the slaves there eat from gold plates.”
John thanked the old man absently.
On the way out of the hospice he remained silent. At Felix’s suggestion they stopped at the first tavern they saw. When the two had settled themselves at a table set against the back wall, the owner ladled wine into their cups from one of the open vats set in the counter.
“What is it, John?” Felix asked. “What are you thinking?”
John’s gaze was directed toward the mosaic on the wall, a succession of triumphant gladiators and charioteers. His thoughts were elsewhere. “We have approached this investigation the wrong way.”
“What? You mean tramping all over the city interviewing beggars too frightened of us to talk? You don’t think that’s a useful approach? Or do you mean our appearing in the doorways of aristocrats too contemptuous of us to cooperate?”
John ignored the excubitor’s sarcasm. “The doorkeeper said that the cart driver who died had delivered that statue to the church. Doesn’t it seem strange to you?”
“He was a carter, John. That was his living. What’s strange about it?”
“I mean this. Hypatius commissioned the sculpture, Viator imported the marble to be used. Now we learn that the cart driver delivered the finished work to the church. All three are dead.”
“The driver was fatally injured in a street brawl, we saw that ourselves. Viator was likely robbed. Hypatius, it is true, was murdered for a reason we have not yet been able to discover.”
“Certainly it would appear they all died for different reasons, but perhaps the fact that they are all dead is more important than the apparent causes.”
“Why would anyone commit murder over a work of art anyway? As for myself, I prefer looking at some of those detailed Aphrodites one runs across in the palace gardens, but to kill someone over a chunk of stone, however it’s been shaped, it just doesn’t seem likely.”
“At times we see the connections before we can discern the meaning.”
“Or you do.” Felix rubbed at his stubbled jaw. “You overlook the obvious, John. I’ve been thinking this over myself. Remember that Viator and Hypatius were friends who had fallen out over financial matters. How do you know Viator’s son was not responsible for Hypatius’ death? Mark you, not necessarily with Viator’s knowledge. Or if it comes to it, what if Viator was responsible? You mistook father for son, even if briefly, remember?”
“True,” John admitted. “But then how to explain Viator’s death? Hypatius had no sons to avenge him, at least not so far as we know. No, I am convinced we have been going about this the wrong way. I’m not even sure exactly how I know.”
“We’ve just been wasting our time?”
“Not necessarily. We may know more than we think. We just haven’t realized the significance of what we’ve learned. Because we haven’t been looking at the matter from the proper perspective.”
Felix’s stool creaked as he shifted uncomfortably. “If the emperor suspected one of his bodyguards was taking suggestions from a slave.…I don’t find this new theory very convincing. But I’m tired enough barking down blind alleys and at the gates of mansions to try something different. For a day. I’m not going to explain to Justin that we abandoned a reasonable investigation because you had a vague feeling we were on the wrong track. But what next? We don’t have a list of people connected to this sculpture.”
“We know of at least one other person close to the work. The man who chiseled it. And remember, Theodora mentioned that Hypatius was only one of a number of patrons who paid for it. That didn’t seem to have any bearing on the murder before. No doubt Archdeacon Palamos would know the names of the others.”
***
Palamos was still at his temporary post in the Great Church. A boy, indistinguishable from the child they had watched lighting lamps during their previous visit with the archdeacon, ran to fetch the man.