Yet even so, what surprise the common folks appear to feel that wrath is descending upon them all, from innocent babes to the most respectable elders such as ourselves, because of the evil rotting at the heart of the empire. But they, by which I mean Justinian and Theodora, would take great delight in personally cutting out your tongue and ordering you starved until you ate your words, or rather the organ that declaims them, did you but dare to whisper concerning their guilt in bringing death and disaster upon this city. I do not say this from mere anger but as a reasoned observation, while pleading again, old friend, that as a former Academician you help me find some way to escape this sinister city.
The secrets of what lies beyond the grave will soon enough be revealed to me, but I am too old to make the long journey home to die in Greece, and although John has been kind, in fact more than generous, I feel I cannot avail myself of his hospitality forever. Perhaps you could inquire among landowners with estates near yours and thereby find some suitable post for an educated person such as myself? Between Michaelites and the demons in human form who rule the empire, Constantinople is a city under a murderous siege and you are fortunate indeed to have a bucolic sanctuary in which to take refuge. I regret I find there is little call for a tutor of my brilliance despite many inquiries, and I despair of ever finding such a place.
Indeed, where should prudent men such as us place our loyalties at this time? Certainly not supporting Michael and his rabble, who themselves are an affront to any reasonable mind and conscience, you may well reply. Yet from what I have seen and heard here, it seems more than likely that soon he will be in power and when that terrible day dawns, pagans such as you and I will be in the gravest of dangers.
Now, you may suspect that I have lost my senses, but I assure you that not only is this not so but that I have much of great interest to reveal. This Michael is but one subject upon which I would like to converse with you, but I prefer not to commit more than that to writing for reasons that will surely be evident to us both as men of the world. Senator, we must beware always of those imperial spies who…
John laid down the letter thoughtfully. For a self-described man of the world, Philo had certainly written much more than was wise. Obviously he had hoped to obtain another interview with the senator by intriguing him with vaguely worded hints about matters of great import. After all, Theodora’s character, and for that matter her affairs, were common knowledge in Constantinople, even if Justinian remained-or pretended to remain-blissfully ignorant about them.
An unwelcome thought struck John. Had Philo stumbled upon more information and concealed it from him? Information so dangerous to possess that a man could be murdered to keep it secret? It would certainly be in keeping with the philosopher’s secretive nature, and yet…
Peter interrupted his chain of thought.
“Lord Chamberlain,” he said, peering around the door with a disapproving expression, “a summons has arrived from our most gracious empress.”
The servant’s demeanor and formal method of address alerted John that the message-bearer was within earshot. He nodded silent thanks and emerged into the hall to see Hektor, resplendent in yellow tunic and emerald hose, lounging a few paces away near the top of the stairs, turning one foot this way and that as he admired his exquisite yellow boots. He looked up with a gleeful grin as John appeared.
John said nothing. He had a strong suspicion that the lad had not arrived to bring good tidings. He was not mistaken.
“Well, my dear Lord Chamberlain,” the boy began with a sneer, “you will have to explain yourself to the empress. I for one will be very interested to see what possible explanation you can make up to save yourself this time.”
“Indeed?” John replied, ignoring the boy’s studied insolence. Fortunately Peter had shuffled off to the kitchen and was not present to be outraged at the manner in which his master was being addressed by this perfumed creature.
“Indeed, indeed,” Hektor echoed mockingly. “You are to go immediately to the empress. And just in case you were thinking of suddenly taking a trip to the country, there’s a detachment of excubitors here to ensure that you make all possible haste to obey her summons.”
A loud pounding at the front door reinforced his statement.
“Then I shall go immediately,” John replied, refusing to give Hektor the satisfaction of inquiring as to Theodora’s reasons for requiring his presence. “It is not often that the empress sends a mere page to announce such a summons, although I seem to recall that it has been known to happen on odd occasions in matters of extremely minor import. And your detachment of excubitors seems to have lagged behind somewhat. You must have stepped out smartly to have arrived here before they did.”
Hektor bridled. “I did not say that I was actually with them.” Raised voices echoed up from the entrance hall as he continued. “I arrived ahead of them in a sort of unofficial manner, because,” an unpleasant smile spread over his small face as a heavily armed excubitor loomed at the top of the stairs, “I thought it kinder to inform you quietly that your dear friend Anatolius has just been arrested for the murder of your other dear friend, the philosopher Philo. My most sincere commiseration upon this tragic event, dear Lord Chamberlain.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Anatolius was not squeamish about sleeping in strange beds. He had spent the night in many- and not alone-perhaps in more than he would have felt comfortable admitting even to John. But until now he had never had to contemplate sleeping on what his poetic imagination had once dubbed the altar to Hypnos, slumber’s personification, in such depressing circumstances and surroundings. Not even Ovid, he thought, would have been able to find any hint of romance in the emperor’s dungeons.
It did not seem so long ago that he had been sitting in John’s warm kitchen rather than on a cold stone floor. When John went in search of the missing Philo, Anatolius had insisted he accompany him. But John would not hear of it. Anatolius was to rest, he had said, and although he and the others certainly wanted to know the story behind Anatolius’ sorry, blood-spattered condition, it could wait until Philo was back and they were all safe under one roof.
Would it have made any difference, Anatolius wondered, if had he remained there rather than departing on John’s heels? He had had no desire to relate the less than heroic events that had culminated in his being carted to safety over Darius’ shoulder, as if he were a sack of grain. Besides, he had to be certain his home had not suffered the same fate as Isis’ establishment.
When he reached his house he discovered it had remained untouched. Moreover, on the way there he ascertained that the disturbances had been quelled, at least along the Mese and in the immediate vicinity of the palace. So, discarding his ruined tunic he hastily donned fresh clothing and set off for the baths, determined to enjoy that luxury while it was still available. He suspected the unorchestrated riots that had swept the city were but petty upheavals compared to the organized chaos that was surely being planned. And who could say if the new day might not bring further miracles of destruction?
Returning home again refreshed in body and spirit, he had almost reached his front door when it swung open and an excubitor stepped outside. Simon followed. His cringing bearing conveyed his abject fear before he even spotted Anatolius.
“Master,” he cried, distressed, “we could not refuse them entry!”
The excubitor’s appraising stare at the approaching Anatolius took on a harder edge. The man was holding the bloodied tunic Anatolius had lately discarded.
“Why are you here?” Anatolius demanded hotly as more armed men emerged from his house.