John had completed the walk Agnes had failed to finish. He had learned little, observed nothing.
He looked up at the looming pillar. Might the stylite have seen something useful from his high perch?
From that height the holy man would be able to look down the street which John had just traversed, perhaps even into the courtyard where the theater was located.
A movement caught John’s eye, and he whirled around. He expected to see the feral dog had returned. Instead a figure coalesced from the darkness.
It was the acolyte he had glimpsed in the square during previous visits or perhaps another like him.
“Do you seek Lazarus?” the man asked. The deep, raspy voice identified the figure as a man. His face was hidden in the shadow of a hood. “I have taken in the offering baskets, but I will gladly accept whatever you care to give to the glory of our Lord.”
“I haven’t come here for that purpose,” John replied. “I do however wish to speak with this Lazarus.”
“That will not be possible. Lazarus has dedicated his tongue to glorifying the Lord. He does not engage in worldly discussions and speaks not of earthly things. All of his words are of Heaven. Pilgrims from far and wide make their way to this city to hear Lazarus describe the beauty and joys to be found in the Kingdom of God.”
“He will speak to me. I am a servant of Justinian, and the emperor is God’s representative on earth, is he not?”
“The emperor is nothing to Lazarus, less than the scrawny mongrel that lifts its leg against the pillar. Lazarus is above them both,” was the reply. “He prays to the Lord and the Lord protects him.”
The acolyte made the sign of his religion before proceeding. “It may be that the emperor would threaten Lazarus with torture. That is his way. Yet do you suppose there is any torment worse than those Lazarus imposes on himself? His own awareness of sin sears his soul more painfully than a thousand red hot pincers. If you return in the morning you may listen to his message, but Lazarus talks with no one except the Lord.”
John craned his neck to observe the top of the pillar. The stylite would have retired to his tiny shelter by this hour. Every manner of religious zealot flocked to the Christian empire’s capital. There was no reason to disbelieve the acolyte’s description of the holy man’s attitude to worldly authorities. John had encountered far more eccentric holy men.
He considered whether a coin or two might help his cause but decided it would not. In his experience the poorer the Christian the less susceptible to bribery-a trait a Mithran like John could respect.
He therefore asked the acolyte the same questions he had put to the beggar, and was not surprised to find that the former could shed no light on matters.
John had to admit to himself that he was tired. He could approach the stylite at some later time, if it still seemed worthwhile. He started back the way he had come. Night settled into the narrow passage between the buildings like a black fog. He lengthened his stride.
Soon he saw ahead the pallid light of the intersecting thoroughfare.
Again the image of the dead women returned. Agnes. An actress he had never known. A woman of poor repute. Or was she Zoe, the girl on his wall, his confidant and silent member of his household? He could not separate the two, but neither could he force them to merge and take on a single identity.
They were different shadows cast by the same person.
There was a scuffling sound behind him.
His heart jumped. He hardly had time to chastise himself for not being on guard against attack as he should have been when all thoughts ceased.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
John knew he was dreaming, even though he had never before dreamt of Zoe.
“That is because I was never dead before,” she told him in an annoyed tone.
They were walking along a path in the grounds of Plato’s Academy.
John had not returned to the Academy since his youthful studies there. It looked much as he remembered, except that now ancient stone grave markers jutted up between the olive trees shading their way.
“I have heard that the dead return in dreams,” John replied, “but I never believed it.”
Zoe wore the same solemn expression she exhibited in the wall mosaic. “Look,” she pointed, “There is Justinian’s tomb.”
It struck John as remarkable the emperor would have chosen to be buried so far from the capital and on the grounds of the pagan school he had ordered closed. “Is that what you came back to tell me, Zoe?”
“Why would I want to grow up to be an actress?” she asked, ignoring his question. “I still live in our house, don’t I? I should not want to be a woman like her.”
“We cannot always choose who we grow up to be,” John said. He found himself looking at the girl more closely. She smiled at him. “You are not Zoe!”
“Of course I am.” As the girl spoke he saw that she was, indeed, composed of nothing but glass tesserae. “I will give you proof.”
She lifted a hand to her face and plucked out a glossy eye.
“No!” John tried to cry out but an impossible weight bore down on his chest, preventing him from forcing out the slightest sound. He reached toward the delicate hand which held out the shining fragment.
He saw who she was now.
Cornelia.
“No!”
His voice was suddenly shockingly loud as if he had burst up from deep water into light and air.
He gripped a hand.
Cornelia’s, holding a damp piece of cloth.
Sunlight forced him to briefly close his eyes. When he opened them again he saw he was in his bedroom, lying on the bed.
He remembered he had been sunk in thought while walking down a dark street.
Cornelia squeezed his hand. “Thanks to the Goddess,” she said. There were dark circles around her eyes. “You’ve been unconscious since last night.”
John realized his head throbbed with pain.
“Felix and several of his excubitors brought you home after dark, long after I expected you back. I feared the worst.”
“Felix?”
“Didn’t you hear me, John?” Relief sharpened Cornelia’s voice. “When Felix arrived-”
“I’m sorry. I wanted to finish…what I was doing.”
Cornelia wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. “Never mind. He said it was just a bump.” She dabbed the damp cloth at a spot behind his ear, causing pain to lance through his head.
“What happened? Why did Felix bring me back? How did he know where I was?”
“Someone told him there was a dead courtier in the street. He wasn’t very clear about it. I think he must have been rousted out of a tavern. He reeked of wine. He said when he got to you the City Prefect’s men were already there.”
“I wasn’t far from the Prefect’s offices in the law courts, the last I remember.”
“As soon as he saw it was you, Felix took charge. He said you were fortunate some passerby spotted you or else you might have lain there all night.”
Yet John had been assured that the area was not well traveled at night. He asked Cornelia who had made the report to the Prefect.
“No one seems to know and I didn’t think to ask Felix under the circumstances. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
John pushed himself into a sitting position. The movement made his head feel as if it would burst. His vision blurred.
“Did anyone see who attacked me?”
Cornelia shook her head. “Felix said it was a simple robbery. Your money was gone. But I think someone doesn’t want you looking into that woman’s death.”
“Felix is right. It had to be robbery. If someone didn’t want me investigating that murder they would have killed me.”
“Perhaps it was meant as a warning. Isn’t it just as I said? You can’t go about unguarded-”