John accosted one of the retreating pilgrims. “What is the name of the man up there?”
“He is known as Joseph, master,” his informant answered without breaking stride, increasing his pace as he hurried away.
A few of those who had lingered were talking in undertones, casting furtive looks in John’s direction. It was as if they assumed he was there with some official and thus doubtless regrettable purpose in mind rather than just passing through on his way elsewhere.
Perhaps it was therefore not too surprising that the young man who had just removed a large empty basket from atop the pillar seemed to be in an extreme hurry to remove the heavy ladder he had just descended, which reached only as far as cast iron footholds embedded in the brickwork supporting Joseph’s perch. Acolytes would have to be nimble indeed to haul offerings up there, John thought as he stepped forward and offered assistance.
“May I ask you a few questions?” he asked after the ladder had been laid safely down on the trampled earth at the pillar’s base.
The acolyte glanced upwards before replying hesitantly in a low voice. “We are permitted to cooperate with worldly authorities.”
John asked how many served the man Joseph.
“Seven, master,” was the brief answer.
“You have not lost any of your number recently?”
“Lost? My brothers were all here earlier.” The acolyte was little more than a boy. Fresh nicks on his head showed he had recently shaved off all his hair but his chin was perfectly smooth, not yet in need of such ministrations.
“Do you know anything of an unfortunate man who burned to death not far from here?”
“What would I know about that?” The acolyte was puzzled rather than defensive.
“Have any of those who frequent this forum lately been absent?”
“I would not know, master. My eyes are turned ever toward heaven.” He picked up the empty basket. “I am sorry, but I must now go to market for we have not yet supped.”
John looked up at the stylite. “Perhaps he may have observed something unusual?”
The other shook his head. “Our most revered Joseph saw nothing, for it has pleased heaven to spare him the burden of having to look upon the sinfulness of this city or of the world. He is blind.”
After the boy departed John focused his attention to pilgrims and increasing numbers of passersby. After an hour of fruitless questioning, he decided wryly that no-one crossed the forum who was not blind or deaf and as near to dumb as fear of authority would allow them to be without inviting arrest. He realized that he would have to employ someone less obviously associated with officialdom than himself if he was to learn anything useful. One of Felix’s paid informers, perhaps? Yes, he would broach the matter with the excubitor captain immediately.
John turned his steps toward the palace. As he strode along, he became aware of a rising, sullen murmur. It might have been mistaken for storm-driven waves breaking against the sea walls but John recognized the sound immediately.
One glance as he reached the street corner confirmed his conclusion.
From his vantage point, he could see a torrent of humanity surging down the Mese, moving toward him in a flood wide enough to spill under the colonnades hemming the broad street. Hundreds of excited conversations punctuated with shouts and hoarse exhortations rose to affront the bright sky, mingling in an unintelligible roar growing ever louder.
A grocer who was swiftly closing up his shutters a few paces back from the corner called out to John.
“I wouldn’t go any further if I was you, sir. It’s those accursed Michaelites. You should get home as soon as you can.” He stooped to lock the shutters into iron rings set near ground level in the wall of his shop. “They’ll keep looters out, but as for the rest…” He made the sign of his faith and hurried inside, thudding the shop door shut. Bolts grated home.
John was fully aware of the dangers of allowing himself to be caught up in the treacherous currents of any mob. He quickly retreated back down the street and plunged into a narrow passageway. As he moved swiftly along parallel to the Mese, his progress was shadowed by the grumbling unrest of the crowd and the occasional bang of a window slamming shut or a mother’s call, summoning her child hastily indoors.
As a mercenary in Bretania he had often followed the course of an unseen stream through the thickets and brush of dense forest in the same manner, staying just within earshot of its rushing waters. In those days his objective had been to creep up stealthily on some streamside encampment. Today he wanted to reach the Chalke as soon as possible, and without hindrance.
The small forum into which he finally emerged was eerily deserted. Everything was closed and shuttered, as if it were the dead of night rather than a bright morning. The only sign of life was a skeletal mongrel dog nosing around unperturbed in a pile of offal in the gutter, a canine feast doubtless discarded by some nearby butcher.
Suddenly the muffled roar of the unseen mob swelled into an explosion of sound, as if a Hippodrome crowd were saluting some favorite charioteer of the Greens or Blues who had just emerged from its great bronze gates to parade around the huge arena.
John crossed the deserted space quickly as the roar subsided into silence, then rose again, hanging malignantly on the air. Clearly the mob was responding to someone addressing them.
Just as he plunged into a final dark passageway that debouched into the Mese, a group of grim-faced excubitors came racing down the narrow alley toward him, swords drawn. John recognized one of them, a dark, stocky fellow who regularly guarded the entrance to the excubitor barracks across from his house.
The excubitor stopped in his tracks, his face transformed by surprise, as his comrades in arms ran past John.
“Lord Chamberlain! What are you doing here?” He drew a quick breath. “I wouldn’t get any closer to that than you are now!” He pointed his sword back. “We’re off to help secure the Great Church, just in case somebody decides to burn it down again.” He turned to follow his companions but the touch of John’s hand on his shoulder detained him.
“What’s the situation on the Mese?”
“Well, Lord Chamberlain, a so-called ambassador from Michael managed to slip into the city undetected.”
“That would be easy enough for one man, but it sounds as if this ambassador has developed an extremely large following rather quickly.”
The excubitor shrugged. “Right now the mob will follow anyone claiming to speak for Michael. In fact, it’s escorted him right to the gates of the palace. He claims to have a message to deliver to Justinian.”
John commented that it was unfortunate that the emperor was not receiving anyone.
“His message wasn’t really intended for Justinian,” the other noted shrewdly. “The brazen little bastard is doubtless happy enough to be able to stand in front of the Chalke and read it to them that escorted him there.”
“What did he say?”
“I was at the edge of the crowd, so I didn’t catch all the details, but as near as I could tell he said that Michael had grown weary with waiting for Justinian’s answer regarding certain matters of what he called mutual interest.” The excubitor paused to look, frowning, past John. His companions had vanished.
“And what else?” John prompted. “I shall ensure that you do not suffer from being delayed by my questions.”
“Thank you, Lord Chamberlain. As I was saying, then, I was at some distance and the shouting got rather loud, as usually happens in these situations, so I may not have heard all the man’s words correctly. But if what he said is true, we are going to have a lot more than a relatively good-natured mob to cope with tomorrow. He proclaimed that if Michael’s demands were not met by tomorrow night, his god will set the waters of the Bosporos aflame. Impossible of course, but tell them that…” He gave a quick nod in the direction he’d come from. As if in response, the crowd roared again even louder than before.