“By imperial order and in the name of the emperor, we are here to arrest you,” the man holding the tunic declared. Despite his firm tone and hard look, there was a hint of uncertainty on his face. Perhaps he was not yet accustomed to arresting members of the court. “You are under suspicion of murdering a certain man by the name of Philo,” he added, completing the formalities.
“Philo?” Anatolius was incredulous. “But surely he’s at the Lord Chamberlain’s house?”
It was obviously a ghastly misunderstanding, he thought. With all the disorder in the city someone along the chain of command had received garbled instructions. But his father would soon set things right. No, he corrected himself quickly with a deep pang of pain, his father was no longer able to aid him. But there again John would be able to straighten matters out just as swiftly.
“I suggest that you consult the Lord Chamberlain on this matter,” Anatolius said, “for it is quite evident that a mistake has been made.”
“Our orders are to arrest you. They are our only orders,” the excubitor replied, resting a hand suggestively upon the hilt of his sword.
Anatolius demanded to know who had made the accusation.
The excubitor did not reply but looked pointedly down at the reddened tunic hanging over his arm.
Anatolius was marched smartly away through the dark and unhealthy network of narrow lanes pressing closely around the wall encircling the Great Palace. Even as he was escorted to a row of cells beneath the ruins of a small temple left picturesquely intact in a less frequented part of the palace grounds, he remained convinced that his detention was an error. Mistaken identity, perhaps, or some other simply explained misunder- standing. Had Felix been in charge of the excubitor detachment sent to arrest him, it would all have been cleared up in the wink of an eye.
Now, hours later, leaning against the rough wall of his cell, he wondered if he would be released soon or if he would be forced to make his bed that night upon the cold floor. No sound came from the corridor. He might as well have been already buried and forgotten.
Thinking of burials gave birth to unfortunate recollections of certain rumors and gossip. One day a courtier was received with smiling favor, the next he found himself ordered confined to his home until he died or hastened his own death. Had imperial policy changed, become yet stricter? Were such unfortunates locked away from the world now, left to starve to death with none knowing where they were hidden away?
Anatolius knew as little of the law as he cared to-which was almost nothing. As he recalled, Romans were seldom sentenced to imprisonment but rather to fines, forfeitures or death. The thought did not cheer him.
He rubbed his gritty eyelids. Why should the emperor, whom he saw nearly every day, whose words he worked diligently to embellish, treat his trusted secretary in such a barbaric manner?
He reminded himself at present it was Theodora who was in charge although the orders issued bore Justinian’s name. He recalled Theodora’s exotic scent, her warm breath on his face. Had she perhaps detected some forbidden interest in her in his demeanor?
Of course, he’d also copied out Michael’s letter for John. Could Theodora have learned of that? Did it explain her sudden animus? She would need little excuse or reason, in fact none at all, to strike out at a close friend of her enemy the Lord Chamberlain, especially when that friend’s execution would result in his newly acquired estate reverting to the coffers of the empire.
Yet he would not hold an estate were it not for the death of his father. The thought brought another of those sudden floods of shocked recollection to cut through the foggy miasma that seemed to be afflicting his reasoning. The pain of his loss, realized anew, was as sharp as it had been when he first saw his father lying dead.
“Oh, father,” he whispered to the empty air, “if only you were here to help me now.”
But there again, Justinian could not remain in seclusion for much longer and the absence of a man of Anatolius’ stature would soon be noticed at court, unless everyone assumed he had abandoned his city house and fled to the safety of the country.
Ah, but then what of the household slaves? Well, the gossips would say, they would naturally have been left in Constantinople to guard the house. Or possibly the more charitable of his acquaintances would declare that in their opinion he was mourning in seclusion, refusing to receive visitors. And his slaves would not dare say anything. After all, once it was established their master had disappeared, they would be suspected of doing away with him under cover of the general disorder.
He rested his head on his drawn-up knees, clasping his arms around his legs. At least his cell was dry. He wondered what its original purpose had been. Perhaps it had once been occupied by a temple servant. He resolved when he was released he would sacrifice to whichever deity his temporary quarters honored as well as to Lord Mithra. Indeed, the underground room in which he was sitting reminded him of the mithraeum.
“Courage, Anatolius,” he told himself loudly. “You have achieved the rank of Soldier of Mithra. Do not disgrace yourself and your companions at arms.”
But even as he spoke, there came to his mind an image of the bear Theodora kept caged. Would he and the bear ever be free again?
The dark image was banished by a thud at the door. He leapt up, startled, heart racing. If only he had a blade! Was this where his life would end? But it would be sold dearly, he promised himself, moving swiftly to the corner that would be concealed by the door, now opening to admit the flickering light of a lamp. The cell’s rough wall was reassuringly solid against his back. If he could grab that lamp and throw the burning oil into his visitor’s face, it might offer an opportunity to flee down the corridor. He leaned forward, coiled ready to leap as the door swung fully back and a tall man stepped into the small room.
It was John.
Anatolius felt nauseated with the rush of relief.
The excubitor who had unlocked the cell looked in briefly before shutting the heavy door. He remained outside.
“I’ll tell you what’s happening as quickly as I can, Anatolius,” John said, setting the lamp on the floor. “No doubt word’s already on its way to Theodora that I’m here-and I would hate to find myself taking up residence in the next cell!” A quick smile curved his thin lips.
“But how did you know I’d been arrested? Did one of my servants rush to tell you?”
“A summons to Theodora,” John said shortly. “brought by Hektor, who is less skilful at concealing his delight at your downfall than the empress. I must admit I did catch a glimpse of glee in those cold eyes of hers.”
Anatolius shuddered. He did not tell John that the last time he had seen those eyes had been from a much closer viewpoint than John had enjoyed at his recent interview with the empress. “But why did she wish to inform you personally?”
“What can say? But it gave me an opportunity to petition that you be released into house arrest, either at your home or mine. She refused, naturally. Here you were and here you would stay, she said, and it made no difference if there was rape and riot in the streets, holy fire or bloodshed, while she was ordering imperial affairs, justice would continue to be served and the guilty punished.”
Anatolius, feeling hysteria overwhelming him, gave a husky giggle.
“Calm, Anatolius, you must stay calm!” John said sharply. “Lose your head now and you’ll lose it in truth!”
Stifling the giggle that now threatened to change into a sob, the other nodded.
“I visited the Prefect before I came here,” John continued rapidly. “I didn’t learn much. Your accuser remains anonymous, and now the Prefect’s busy gathering evidence against you. He’s already interviewed some who claim they saw you this morning close to where Philo was discovered. And then there’s this matter of your tunic. I’m hoping to discover something to tip the scales in your favor.”