“You don’t give orders to the Lord Chamberlain,” protested Peter.
“I speak for Justinian, old fool.”
“Never mind, Peter,” John reassured his servant. “Bring my cloak.” He turned his attention to Hektor, who was posturing insolently at the foot of the stairs, hands on hips. The boy’s reddened lips shone in the flickering light from Peter’s lamp. “What does the emperor want in the middle of the night?”
“You’ll find out when we get there. Hurry up!”
John pulled on the cloak Peter offered. The old man scowled at Hektor.
To John, the boy’s rudeness meant nothing. It was the emperor who concerned him. Few in Constantinople were closer to Justinian than the Lord Chamberlain, but the emperor was no man’s confidant. He was a Janus. John had watched the emperor jest affably about favored charioteers with courtiers whose glib tongues and evasive eyes would be sitting at the bottom of a torturer’s bucket before the next sunrise.
Outside, the cobbles glistened in the light of the moon, a thin clipping from the edge of a silver coin. Hektor raced ahead. John followed.
As they neared the Octagon, John could see light in its windows. Lights always burned in the emperor’s residence. Justinian did not sleep like other men. Perhaps he didn’t sleep at all. Perhaps he wasn’t a man. It was whispered abroad that he wandered the hallways all night.
“Perhaps the imperial demon will have forgotten to put on his human face at this time of the night,” suggested Hektor. “They say he is as unnatural a man as you.”
John ignored the impertinent remark. He did not believe such superstitious tales. He understood that the emperor had an abnormal capacity for imperial business. Did part of Justinian’s success lie in the fact that his sleeplessness having given him more time to learn, he had already lived-and had time to master the lessons of-a natural life span? It was a trait John might have envied had he allowed himself such weakness.
Having passed numerous guarded doorways John was ushered-thankfully without Hektor-into a small, plain room. Here in the center of his private quarters Justinian had discarded his amethyst-studded collar and brocaded cloak and was dressed in a simple tunic and hose. He had, however, retained his imperial pearl-studded red boots.
“John,” he said, turning away from a desk piled with codices and scrolls. “How good of you to arrive so quickly.” He assumed the smile John had seen him give to allies and condemned men alike.
John inclined his head. “My good fortune, Caesar.” He doubted the emperor had any idea of the late hour. “I see you are busy.”
“A new theological treatise. At the Hippodrome celebrations-was it only a day or two ago? — it occurred to me how I might help reconcile some of these quarreling sects who are so troublesome. Have you given much thought to the nature of Christ? How is it possible to intertwine the divine with the human? A tangled knot indeed.”
“It is said Alexander took the expedient of cutting the Gordian knot.”
“Yes, a simple enough solution for a mere conqueror, but I am an emperor. I will order Anatolius to make a copy of my conclusions for you. I know you study such things.”
John bowed his thanks.
Physically Justinian would have been lost in the crush of the rabble which was never allowed to approach closely enough to see his face. He was of average height, his face pudgy and splotched red as if he drank to excess, although in fact he abstained from wine entirely. He was of such unprepossessing appearance that more than one ambitious man had forgotten that the life of every person in the empire hung on the fragile thread of Justinian’s whim.
“I am sorry about your friend Leukos,” Justinian continued. “Replacing him will be a vexing problem for me. He was a most trustworthy man. Meanwhile, I intend to give you free rein, John, to honor him to the height of your ability, which will be very high honor indeed. But first, there is the question of the manner of his death.”
“The prefect informs me that an investigation is under way,” John said softly.
“An official investigation, yes.”
“It would appear to be nothing more than a common street murder.”
Justinian smiled. “Do you believe that, John?”
“I do not yet have enough facts to form any belief, Caesar.”
“Then you shall proceed to find out the facts. I wish you to ascertain, in confidence, who was involved in this so-called street crime, and the real reason for it.”
John nodded. “I will report to you and no one-”
“I’m sure you need your rest now,” Justinian cut in.
Dismissed, John turned to leave, but arrested his step when the emperor added, “About that ill-concealed weapon beneath your cloak, John….”
The guards at the door raised their swords instantly. John’s heart seemed to stop. Half asleep, he had neglected to remove the dagger he had thrust into his belt back at the house. He forced his suddenly clumsy tongue to move. “Caesar, in my haste to see you, I must have forgotten….”
Justinian’s expression was as smoothly blank as the walls of the room. “If I did not know you so well….” He paused and his full lips tightened slightly, although his eyes betrayed no emotion. “But then, how well can one man know another?”
“I will be more careful.”
“We must all be careful, Lord Chamberlain. Especially an emperor.”
Chapter Seventeen
John’s heart was pounding as he strode hastily down the wide steps outside the Octagon. How could he have been so careless? The emperor could have had him executed on the spot. Then again, he reminded himself, the emperor could have him executed on the spot for no reason at all. The thought gave him little comfort.
Agitated as he was, he had walked halfway home before he realized he was being followed.
Yet another lapse.
At first it was merely the sensation of another presence intruding into his consciousness. Then, alerted, he began to distinguish quiet movements mirroring his own.
Ahead, the path lay dark and deserted. Although the palace grounds were heavily patrolled, he saw no guards, and only a fool would discount the possibility of some cutthroat having managed to slip into its maze of buildings, pathways, and gardens.
He forced himself to continue at an even pace. Listening hard, he thought he could discern only one set of steps behind him. Against one man he would have a chance. Once he had been a trained fighter. However, his follower might be a military man also, one much younger than he and with more recent training.
Why would anyone want to follow him from his meeting with the emperor?
Had Justinian decided to have him killed after all, but on the grounds instead of in his private quarters? John doubted that he would leave such a task to a single guard. The emperor was nothing if not cautious.
He considered his options. If he cried out for help guards would appear almost immediately. They were never far away on the palace grounds. On the other hand, John’s pursuer was nearer to him than any guard. Would the man flee when John called for help or try to carry out his mission before help arrived?
If his mission was in fact to kill John.
A low archway punctuated the stucco wall John’s path paralleled. He ducked through it into a garden. He considered lying in wait to one side of the archway, but decided any trained man would be alert to such an obvious ploy. He heard the gurgling splash of a fountain. Faint moonlight, falling toward the rooftops of the tenements visible beyond the wall encircling the palace grounds silvered dwellings, water, and the fountain alike. Beyond the garden he had entered, he could distinguish a line of trees, a black mass of branches.
He moved toward them. The footsteps turned after him into the garden as he had expected. The trees appeared to be figs. John waited until he had almost reached them, then broke into a run. He stopped suddenly, turning back toward his pursuer. He could now see a bulky outline, moving forward rapidly. John took a step to the right, then, pretending to be confused, to his left.