The sea, vast and mindless, was not amenable to reason nor could it be vanquished by steel.
The deck shook as a wall of water smashed into the hull.
John knew he should return to Cornelia below, protected from the sea only by fragile timbers.
He hesitated to take his hand off the rail. He had been squeezing it so tightly his fingers were white, except where they were stained with red. He was bleeding freely from the splinter in his palm.
He paused, allowing a gust to die before releasing his grip.
Then he was hurtling forward, smashing into the back of the cabin. There was a shrieking, grinding noise and the ringing snap of splintering wood, a sound he had heard long ago when his company had battered down the gates of a besieged town.
He tried to brace himself against the cabin as the Leviathan began to swing around abruptly, as if trying to shake off the crew. Shouts and curses rang out over the groaning of the hull.
John had to reach Cornelia.
Another jarring crash vibrated through the ship and he found himself on his hands and knees, crawling up a tilting deck. Up and up the deck rose, a wooden cliff rearing itself in front of him.
Disoriented, he glanced around. He appeared to be suspended over the black water.
A wave hit him like a giant’s hand and he felt himself sliding down the impossibly tilted deck.
***
Cornelia woke from a nightmare.
No, not a nightmare. The jolt and the deafening crack of breaking wood had been real. Passengers shouted and screamed.
She turned toward John as the ship rolled.
She felt his absence before she saw he was gone.
There was another crash and the ship rolled again and settled back down with a concussion so jarring Cornelia was surprised the hull didn’t disintegrate immediately. It was in the process of doing so, to judge by the tortured grating and creaking filling the dark cavern below deck.
John must have gone up on deck while she slept.
She scrambled from the compartment and climbed out into the gray rain that rattled onto the deck with a noise resembling thousands of games of knucklebones.
The captain was bawling orders to the crew.
Cornelia scanned the deck in a panic.
Only strange faces, not the face she sought.
“John!”
There was no answer.
Chapter Eighteen
In the morning as Felix rode to the Church of the Holy Apostles, the naked corpse he had hidden behind the statue of Aphrodite kept threatening to leap into his path. He couldn’t put the dead man’s specter out of his mind. The pallid revenant kept flickering into view, only to turn into a foraging cat or a slinking dog.
Anastasia, Felix’s personal Aphrodite, had found his solution amusing. Or at any rate she had laughed hysterically when he related his misfortunes with the cart and the eventual disposal of their unwanted visitor. A release of tension or a manifestation of horror. She had been drinking by the time he’d arrived home. He couldn’t blame her. He was shaking himself and not merely with the cold and wet.
Well, that was over now, he told himself.
Had the body been discovered yet?
Probably not. The streets were still nearly empty. The storm had passed but the morning remained dark. Ragged black clouds torn to shreds against the rooftops raced away across a slate-colored sky. Mist rose from puddles. From everywhere came the sounds of water, gurgling in gutters, dripping from colonnades.
The sound of something that should have been dead shuffling noisily through the standing water at the mouth of an alley.
No, Felix reminded himself. The victim-the intruder in his courtyard-had been perfectly and completely dead.
Inside the church it was as bright as a sunny midday. Felix blinked. Reliquaries glittered in the illumination of countless lamps, their gold decorations glowing. Felix’s vague speculations on why the Virgin’s relic had been taken and by whom, meant to banish thoughts of the dead man, were interrupted by rapid footsteps ticking across the marble floor.
“Captain!” Basilius appeared at his elbow. The priest looked ill, pale with red-rimmed eyes. “Have you brought good news?”
Felix shook his head. “I’ve only just begun my investigation.”
The priest gave a long sigh of despair. “By this time the thieves will have escaped far away. Already this morning I’ve been visited by the head of the urban watch and he thinks the same.”
“Justinian is extremely anxious that the shroud be recovered, wherever it is.”
“He would be, yes. The relic protects the city. Its theft is not only blasphemous, but involves a military matter, the defense of Constantinople.”
Felix nodded politely. The Virgin’s shroud might repel an enemy-as many believed-so long as it was accompanied by a thousand soldiers armed with steel. But then, he was a Mithran. Christians obviously felt differently. The emperor himself was anxious to have the shroud returned and he was a practical man notwithstanding his theological ruminations. If Justinian considered the relic a useless piece of cloth he wouldn’t have ordered Felix to investigate.
“I see you agree with me, captain.” Basilius gestured toward an emerald-studded reliquary. “We have many treasures, rich enough to tempt men to imperil their immortal souls. They would sell jewels wrenched from such beautiful works fashioned by the faithful, melt down the gold they are made from. Jewels can be replaced, but the holy shroud cannot. To think of it in evil hands!” Tears glistened on his cheeks.
It made Felix uncomfortable to see the man weeping like a woman who finds one of her best robes ruined by careless servants. “Would anyone buy such a famous relic?” He snapped. “Would it have any value? Who could want it?”
Basilius wiped his tears. “How would I know? I have nothing to do with affairs of the empire. Enemies of Constantinople might want to take it away.”
“You really believe it protects the city as people say?”
Basilius looked at Felix uncomprehendingly. “It is the shroud of the Virgin. How could it not protect us?”
“What evidence is there for it? Do you suppose we would be knee-deep in Goths or Persians if the shroud hadn’t been here all these years?”
“It is said that Emperor Anastasius carried it with him into victorious battle against the heretical rebels, many years ago.”
“I wasn’t aware Anastasius was a fighter.”
“With the protection of the Virgin it was not necessary.”
What did the priest mean? That one could fight the enemy from the comfort of one’s bedroom by simply holding onto a bit of cloth? There was no point pursuing the matter. If enough people thought an object was valuable, it was. “Does someone think he has a claim to the relic?”
“How could anyone? The church here has been in undisputed possession for almost a century. A pilgrim brought it back from the Holy Land.”
Stole it more likely, Felix thought.
“Could it really have been demons that took it? You heard what Mada and Peteiros said.”
“Have they remembered anything more? Do they still insist they saw these things out of a nightmare?”
“You sound skeptical? You don’t suspect them? They’ve always been faithful servants. Good Christians, both.”
“Gold answers prayers the gods ignore.”
Basilius looked shocked.
“As to these supernatural robbers they talked about,” Felix continued, “it strikes me as too much of a marvel to be true. Then there’s the matter of the frogs and the scarab. Is the mausoleum doorkeeper here?”
“Timothy? Yes. He hasn’t gone off duty yet.”
Felix was surprised to find the ancient down on his knees, washing the mausoleum floor.
“Don’t want any trace of them dirty frogs remaining, sir.” Timothy began to struggle to his feet, bracing himself against the sarcophagus.
Felix gave him a hand. “You remember me? The captain of the excubitors?”