Mary Reed - Four for a Boy

They emerged into growing daylight.

And were confronted by two men with drawn swords.

Their clothing and hairstyles proclaimed their affiliation with the Blues. But why, John wondered, would Blues choose to attack men carrying weapons in a street filled with shopkeepers wielding brooms? He glanced at Felix and the excubitor gave a slight nod. Both men leapt forward and sideways.

The tallest of their assailants pivoted on his heel as he brought his weapon up sharply, slicing through John’s cloak and drawing blood. A splotch of red blossomed on John’s tunic. He stepped inside the other man’s reach, stabbing straight forward.

The tall Blue was taken by surprise. He must have expected his victim to draw back. A man who isn’t used to fighting will always recoil at the first appearance of blood.

John’s blade sank into flesh. The man shrieked.

Several beggars crowded in a nearby doorway shouted gleeful encouragement. This was entertainment superior to any ordinary street-players’ antics.

John heard one of the beggars shout, “My boots on the Blue!”

Drawing on a well of black rage, John stabbed again. This time he was careless. This time his opponent recognized he was up against a fighter and counter-attacked. Fire blazed across John’s chest once more. Now he could feel blood running down over his stomach in hot rivulets. He welcomed the pain, as he welcomed the fight. This was something with which he could come to grips.

His opponent stepped backward to gain more room to maneuver. The move brought him too close to the beggars. One of the ragged wagerers reached out a skinny arm and gave the Blue a shove in the back. Caught off guard, the man stumbled forward. John kicked his feet out from beneath him.

John’s attacker fell face down and there he died.

The beggar who had just lost his boots grumbled obscenely at Fortuna to the raucous laughter of his fellow wagerers.

John looked around, seeking Felix. The excubitor was gazing down at the body of his own opponent. His glum expression was not that of a man who has just saved his own life.

“That was a mistake, John,” he said. “We should have kept one alive. I’d like to know whose men these are and whose orders they were trying to carry out. They weren’t street thugs. They fought like military men, or trained assassins. So why were they dressed like Blues?” He raised his gaze from the body to give John an appraising look. “My guess is they planned to dispatch you quickly and then team up to kill me. I would’ve done the same. I caught just a glimpse. You stab straight ahead. The proper technique-”

“Mithra!” John’s sudden exclamation cut him short.

Two more Blues had appeared, seemingly from nowhere.

John whirled away from the blow directed at him by one of the onrushing figures. The blade missed, but the attacker’s shoulder slammed into him and John toppled onto his back into a half frozen, muddy puddle. His head hit the ground.

Through a hazy mist, he saw a grinning figure approaching, sword raised. He told himself to move, but his body might have been made of stone.

Dimly he became aware of a sound. A cart, grinding to a halt. The wheel stopped less than an arm’s breadth from his head.

As the sword descended John finally forced himself to roll sideways under the cart. The blade smacked harmlessly against a wooden wheel.

As John’s head cleared he saw that the cart driver had leapt down from his seat and was thrusting a long-handled pitchfork at John’s attacker.

The driver’s act of goodwill would certainly have been suicidal were it not that several shopkeepers, perhaps remembering the Christian story of the Good Samaritan, had joined in the fray. They were better armed than the driver, for there wasn’t a merchant in the city who didn’t keep a weapon close to hand. It was obvious that they relished the opportunity to strike back. Even the cautious shop assistant they had recently interviewed abandoned his duties in the grocer’s emporium across the Mese to join in, vigorously wielding a large club.

Unfortunately the battle originally begun against the newly arrived Blues was now degenerating into a senseless melee as several beggars took their opportunity to pilfer items from the deserted shops. When challenged, they fought back. A few wielded strange weapons, marble limbs snatched from the heap in the alley, so that here one swung a length of arm, and there another used a large foot and ankle as a club.

John looked around for the second pair of Blues, but did not see them. He forced his way though the growing mob to Felix.

“The bastards got away!” Felix shouted. He glared around, taking in the strangely armed beggars. “Well, I’ve heard of hand to hand combat before, but never seen it quite so literally.”

“Sirs! Sirs! Please! Over here!”

It took John an instant to locate the source of the cries. A gray-headed man knelt beside the bleeding cart driver.

“He’s badly wounded!” The man was so distressed he was in tears.

One glance and John could see the driver was doomed by a stomach wound too deep for any hope of survival.

Felix bent down to the cart driver. “You helped save us,” he told him. “Now you’re off to the hospice. They’ll take care of you.”

The carter’s hands groped toward his horrific injury. John blocked them gently. The man’s eyes were bright with fear. He must have sensed he would not be driving home again.

A couple of men lifted him onto his cart and another jumped up onto its seat. As he was driven away the carter shook his fist feebly and began to shriek at the sky.

“What reward is this for a Christian act?” he cried in a fading voice, going on to ask why He paid no attention to His loyal servants. For that matter, what about his family, why must they too suffer because he had tried to act as a decent Christian should?

The man who had been attempting to aid the carter shook his head sadly without a word. The grocer’s assistant, heeding the call of commerce and apparently reluctant to lose a customer, took the man’s arm and escorted him back to the shop as the crowd dispersed and drifted away.

“It’s true enough from that carter’s point of view,” Felix muttered. He dolefully examined his knuckles, which were bleeding profusely. “Let’s hope our earthly ruler is a bit more attentive to the welfare of us loyal servants.”

“I hear that Senator Opimius has relieved you of your duties, John.” Justinian was sitting up in his bed. Theodora perched on its edge.

The stuffy sick room was so hot a sheen of sweat had formed on the backs of John’s hands as soon as he entered.

“That is so, Excellency,” John replied.

“You weren’t neglecting your duties on my account?”

“I was accused of placing Lady Anna in danger, something I would never do.”

“Who leveled this charge?”

“It was a misunderstanding.”

Theodora pushed a strand of hair away from Justinian’s forehead. The man so often spoken of as the future emperor looked as if his future might be too short to include an ascent to the throne. There was no animation in his puffy face and his hands lay motionless on the sheet, suggesting they were too heavy to lift. “Do you believe this was the real reason you were asked to leave the household?”

“I was given no other reason.”

“I see. You noticed nothing unusual at the senator’s house these last few days?”

John shook his head.

“What visitors did Opimius have?” Theodora put in.

“I happened to see Trenico and Senator Aurelius. I only spent a few hours there each day. I didn’t see everyone who visited.”

“And what of Hypatius’ murder?” asked Justinian. “That is why I summoned you here. Is there any progress to report?”