Mary Reed: Four for a Boy

Justin staggered forward a step before steadying himself. Felix felt the man’s weight on his shoulder, the ponderous, unexpected weight of the battlefield dead. Then the quaestor Proclus, accompanying Justin as usual, swiftly took charge.

“Caesar, this should have been swept clean before your walk. Someone is certainly going to pay for that slippery spot.” His voice was calm and firm.

Felix glanced down at the strip of purple carpeting pointing an imperial finger along the bridge.

Snow had drifted in between the marble pillars supporting the roof and melted in the warmth radiated by lamps set in niches along the chest-high wall. To think that such a commonplace occurrence might have caused the emperor, a man with absolute power over all his subjects, to fall like a common drunkard swaying out of an inn!

Proclus glared at the attendants stationed on either side of Justin. They were big muscular fellows, costumed like courtiers. Their embroidered robes brushed the emperor’s heavy cloak. From a distance they appeared to be leaning toward Justin, engaged in some privileged conversation. In the confusion of rich fabrics it was not immediately evident that they were firmly gripping the old man’s arms. Or rather were gripping them again, thanks to Proclus’ silent reprimand. Even so, they continued to look down over the low wall toward the commotion that had distracted them.

“What is it?” asked Justin. “What’s going on? You’re blocking my view.” His voice was querulous.

“Three Blues just ran out of the Great Church,” replied Proclus. “Up to no good as usual, I suspect.” Justin’s advisor had the look of a patrician. The broad, pale brow revealed by his receding hairline appeared waiting for a laurel wreath. Felix would have mistaken him for the emperor, had he not known better.

Justin, by contrast, appeared in old age the peasant he had been. Once a large and impressive man, he was now merely big, stooped and thick necked. His prominent nose had flattened and spread across his red, chafed face. “Why aren’t all these troublemakers under control, Proclus? Isn’t the Gourd doing his job?”

“Yes, he is. Some of his men are already in pursuit,” Proclus offered after a swift glance. The emperor scowled. “It’s only Blues? Nothing worse?”

“Simply a bit of unrest in the street,” Proclus reassured him. “But perhaps it might be wiser to visit the church another time? May I suggest we go to our meeting with Justinian instead?”

“My nephew is not so unwell this morning?”

“So I am informed.”

Justin laughed. “Even so, doubtless Theodora will be speaking for him as usual.”

The attendant next to Felix glanced over at him, raised his eyebrows, and grimaced. Felix ignored him. He had only recently been appointed to the imperial bodyguard, a position of great honor and responsibility. It was not for him to sit in judgment of an emperor, especially one who had risen from the ranks of the military.

“But it is only those troublesome young men, you say? Nothing more?” Justin fretted.

“Nothing more, Caesar.” Proclus turned to go back the way they had come.

“Very well. I’m afraid that Euphemia will be sorely disappointed. I promised I would describe this remarkable figure of Christ to her in the most minute detail since she is not well enough to see it herself right now.”

Proclus gave no order, but the entourage of guards and attendants turned so that Felix found himself looking at Justin’s bent back. He could still feel the weight of the emperor’s hand on his shoulder. No, it was not for him to judge his ruler.

Yet he could not help wondering about Justin’s words. Empress Euphemia had been dead for months.

The imperial crown sitting on John’s pallet was beautifully constructed, the product of painstaking labor.That was John’s immediate reaction as he entered the dormitory of the slaves’ quarters in the Great Palace.

His second was blinding anger. On examination, the parchment circlet and its pendulia turned out not to be a model to be delivered to a jeweler for fashioning in gold as he had first supposed. Rather it had been constructed from the missing list of the palace’s silver plate John had been searching for only the day before.

All thought of a quiet hour or two following his unexpectedly harrowing excursion to the Great Church vanished. He snatched up the fragile creation and stormed out along the corridor to the dining room where his fellow slaves had already gathered to eat.

The thick gruel of wheat meal, poured out to congeal over a large board set in the center of the table and garnished with meats boiled in inexpensive wine, had already largely been consumed. Several of the eunuchs suppressed sniggers as John strode into the room, the crown in his clenched fist.

Andrew, a large, round-faced man, leaned across the table, trespassing on his neighbor’s culinary territory in order to grab a sausage. “John! What’s that you’ve got there? A little gift for Lady Anna perhaps? Oh, but she’ll be very cross with you. You’ve squeezed it too hard and ruined it!”

His fellow conspirator, distinguished by his glossy black hair and pock-marked skin, nudged him in the ribs. “It’s tragic,” he grinned. “How can a slave compete with that handsome Trenico? Everyone knows he’s got designs on Anna. Not for her physical charms, of course…”

“Oh, absolutely not, Sisinnius,” Andrew agreed, “but certainly her fortune is very charming, isn’t it?”

“While poor John here can offer neither companionship nor wealth.”

Andrew shook his head in mock sympathy. “So sad, really, isn’t it? You’d think he’d know by now that love is not for him!” He waggled the little sausage he held in his pudgy hand before popping it into his mouth.

John took a pace or two further into the room. His lips were drawn into a taut line of anger.

“But now we get to the truth of the matter,” Andrew continued. “It’s obvious our John has been spending far too much time daydreaming. No wonder he couldn’t find that list he lost. He didn’t realize it had turned into an imperial crown. It was all done by magick, you know!”

Laughter crept around the table as John’s cheekbones reddened.

“And see,” Sisinnius replied in a casual but too loud tone, “there’s the proof of it. The man blushes!”

“As well he should,” Andrew said. “You’d think he’d have long since given up lusting after women. Even one as plain as-”

John’s fist tightened, crushing the crown into a shapeless mass. He was across the room before Andrew had finished his sentence. John grabbed his neck, yanked him up from the bench and begun to stuff the crumpled parchment into his mouth.

His tormentor’s face turned scarlet.

Several slaves leapt up and ran out into the corridor, shouting hysterically. In his rage, John saw nothing except the man flopping fishlike around in his grasp as the creature’s hot spittle dribbled on his knuckles.

The physical contact was repellent and he loosened his grip. Andrew jerked away. He spit out the soggy wad of parchment and shrieked, “You miserable Greek bastard!”

Then he sank his teeth into John’s wrist.

“That’s right,” shouted Sisinnius gleefully, “give him what he deserves!”

The words had hardly left his mouth before John had slapped one hand onto the table, sending the remains of the meal flying, and vaulted over it, kicking Sisinnius off the bench. Before the man could gather his scrambled wits, John had knelt on him. He banged Sisinnius’ head on the floor and screamed lurid curses, mostly concerning the other’s ancestry and tastes in intimate companionship. A red stain began to creep across the tiles.