He had heard legends. The world was full of magical potions and charms possessing powers far beyond those of physicians. The Christians claimed their god could not only heal people but bring them back from the dead. Unfortunately, the potions and charms and miracle workers everyone believed in were never to be found.
What if the Grail were really what Thomas claimed, as unlikely as that might be? And what if it actually were to be found in Constantinople?
Could such a wonder exist? At times it had seemed to John that his splendid civilization was but a toy boat floating precariously on a bottomless sea of mystery. And did he take the tales of his own Lord Mithra at face value? If a fig tree had truly fed and clothed Mithra, might this holy relic have power to heal even wounds such as he had suffered?
He had reached the top of the steep incline leading up from the docks. He paused. Looking back he could see across the open market square of the Strategion and over the seawall to the ships resembling toys lining the docks and scattered across the northern harbor. From this distance he could not identify the Anubis.
Had Thomas arrived on one of those ships? Was he really what he claimed to be? He said he had spoken to Leukos, but Leukos’ head clerk Xiphias denied having seen such a visitor.
John continued on to the circular Forum Constantine with its two-tiered colonnade and turned down the Mese. As he approached the lofty wall of the Hippodrome he recalled seeing Thomas speaking to the charioteer Gregorius outside the Inn of the Centaurs. Thomas had explained that he had been chiding the man over his behavior at the inn. It hadn’t looked that way to John.
Perhaps he should speak to the charioteer. He took the street which ran alongside the Hippodrome, descending toward the sea and the southern harbors. He had crossed the narrow peninsula on which the capital was built.
At the sea end of the Hippodrome where the land fell away, a series of huge archways gave access to the substructure beneath the race track. John went through one of the archways, moving from brassy sunlight into the cool dimness of a curved corridor.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the change. The smells of stables and sweating humanity accompanied him as he strode past a series of rooms whose open doors revealed men working on chariots, grooming horses, or clustered at games of knucklebones. Charioteers were an elite fraternity and he did not need to question very many of those he encountered before he ran his quarry to ground. Gregorius was sitting on an upturned bucket and in conversation with another charioteer wearing the colors of the Blue faction.
Gregorius looked around and leapt to his feet as John entered the small room, evidently a storage space where horse feed was kept. “Lord Chamberlain!”
His companion hastily excused himself and hurried away.
“I’m surprised you know me, Gregorius.”
“Oh, well….you were at the inn.”
“We weren’t properly introduced. If I recall, you had your head in the fountain.”
Gregorius managed a sickly smile. “Everyone knows the emperor’s Lord Chamberlain.”
“Your friend Thomas didn’t tell you who I was?”
“I wouldn’t call him a friend. He’s staying at the same place I am. We’ve talked about the races.”
“Do you race for the Blue team? I noticed the man you were speaking to just now was a Blue.”
“As a matter of fact, I do. But we charioteers tend to get along, whether we’re Blues or Greens. We’re all in the same profession. It’s the partisan factions who fight.”
“Is Thomas a supporter of the Blues?”
“I couldn’t say. I’ve only known him a few days. I came from Antioch last week for the races and he arrived around the same time.”
John noted that Gregorius’ voice had wavered, a sign of nervousness. “I’m surprised you could talk about racing without discovering where his allegiance lies. Do they race in Bretania?”
“We spoke of other things too, I can’t recall exactly what. A few cups of wine, and-”
“What is his business here?”
“Why would he tell me? I barely know the man.”
“It would be best for you to tell me the truth.” John’s tone was soft but unmistakably firm.
“Do you mean his search for that relic? I’m not convinced such a thing exists. However, I understand there are many wonders in this city.”
“Do you travel widely, following the races?”
“Yes. After I’m finished here I’m off to Thessalonika.” Gregorius shifted his feet and glanced at the doorway, as if looking to escape.
Before he had a chance to make an excuse to leave John continued his questioning. “What do you know of the soothsayer staying at the inn?”
“As little as possible, Lord Chamberlain. He’s a clever rogue, taking advantage of ignorant people who believe men can foretell the future. I’ve avoided him.”
“It’s been my experience charioteers are superstitious. Racing is dangerous. Don’t you own a protective charm or two?”
Gregorius stiffened. “I trust in my skills. And, no, if you were wondering, I would have no interest in this relic Thomas is seeking.”
“Now that you mention it, a charioteer might have some use for a heal-all,” John observed.
Gregorius’ jaw tightened.
John sensed the charioteer wasn’t going to say more. If he pressed him further he might very well leave the city immediately, taking with him whatever information he might be holding back.
John left the room. Instead of retracing his steps he wandered through the stables and work spaces beneath the track, thinking, trying to see connections between Leukos’ death, Thomas, the charioteer, the soothsayer.
Charioteers traveled widely. They would be in a good position to secretly obtain relics and transport them on their journeys across the empire.
Perhaps Gregorius had not been telling the truth about his lack of interest in the relic Thomas sought.
A snort interrupted his thoughts. He had chanced on the stable being used by Cornelia’s troupe.
None of them was around but John spent a long time leaning on the rail, admiring the three magnificent bulls, sacred animal of his god Mithra, and the animal that had carried Cornelia into his life.
Was there a connection between those things?
Chapter Sixteen
John awakened to darkness and the sound of raised voices.
He had been dreaming. Not of Cornelia, strangely, nor of his daughter, but of his childhood. He had been running across a summer field. Not pursued and with no destination. Simply running, skimming over the top of the wiry grass. The stones and tussocks, the sun-hardened depressions where cattle hooves had sunk into mud, none of these tripped him. He glided over all of them. Although he was running and not flying, he felt at the crest of every hill that he might take to the sky and soar. He was tireless. His legs did not weaken. His breath did not grow labored. He could run, effortlessly, forever.
Now he was awake, his heart leaping, his breath catching in his throat. The careers of palace officials ended as often with unexpected midnight visits as with presentations of commemorative diptychs before the assembled senate.
John rolled off his bed, hastily donned clothes, and grasped the dagger he kept close to hand. Without lighting a lamp, he moved toward the door of his bedroom.
Voices echoed from the atrium downstairs.
As he trod quietly down the wooden stairs, John saw Peter holding a lamp and looking perturbed. He was blocking the way of a slight figure fantastically dressed in beaded tights and colorful plumes.
It was Hektor, a court page and one of Justinian’s decorative boys. John thrust his dagger back into his belt.
Hektor caught sight of John. He feinted to his right, and then darted around Peter’s left. The old servant’s slow swipe at the agile boy found only the bobbing end of a feather.
“You, John,” shrilled Hektor. “Your master wants you!”