Mary Reed: Four for a Boy

But the obstinate creature inside him, the thing that so feared death, refused, greedy for the last few heartbeats of life.

At the top of the stairs, their lantern bearer pulled a narrow door open to admit a blinding flood of light. John blinked as he crossed the threshold into a corridor whose wall depicted the progress of a tiger hunt.

There was no time for comprehension. He was dragged around a corner, another door opened, and he was shoved forward to fall onto a thick rug. Incredulous, he saw the big excubitor immediately prostrate himself beside him. The other three men had disappeared. Turning his head forward, John found himself staring at a pair of dainty, amethyst-encrusted shoes.

“Get up!”

The voice was a woman’s. The tone of the command was a man’s.

John stood, half expecting the bite of a blade in his back or the hideous embrace of a garrote.

He faced a woman who would have been mistaken for nothing more than a pretty girl except for the fortune in silk robes and jewels which covered her short frame and the gem-studded crown she wore, a real crown, not a parchment imitation.

“It is a sad thing indeed when Justinian is forced to deal with such sorry specimens as you two,” said the woman.

John realized that as impossible as it seemed he must indeed have been summoned to meet with Justinian. The woman could only be the powerful man’s notorious concubine, the former actress Theodora.

John was engulfed in Theodora’s musky scent. It held a suggestion of a spice-seller’s shop and a spring meadow as well. Nothing, not the perfume, the incense smoldering in gold pots, not even the oily smoke curling from glass lamps set atop silver tripods, could quite mask the foetor of disease.

“Justinian is very ill,” Theodora continued. “It is no secret. He has obviously been poisoned by some stealthy enemy. Yet deception must be met by deception. Those who would fight like slaves, slipping potions into the master’s food, must be opposed by slaves.”

“Yes, highness,” the excubitor beside John muttered, unable to stop himself from replying to her tirade.

Theodora glared venomously at him, her eyes as fathomless as polished jet. “You need not speak. Emulate the silence of your friend here. He understands his place.” She glanced at John as her lips formed a red sickle of a smile.

“Justinian has the interest of all citizens at heart,” she went on, “and naturally the citizens are outraged by the murder of Hypatius, a pious and generous man. A murder in broad daylight in the Great Church itself! And what’s more, Hypatius was one of those who contributed toward the Christ figure!”

She paused, as if to give John and Felix time to grasp what she was saying. “Ironic, isn’t it? A man enters a holy place to view the beautiful work of art he has arranged to have placed there and he is rewarded in such an unthinkable fashion. More than ironic, I would say. This was a murder designed to catch the citizens’ attention. Justinian naturally shares the public outrage. Yet it has already been whispered abroad that certain of the Blues were responsible and worse yet, that Justinian, well known as one of their supporters, condones their act. Those who spread this filthy rumor would not dare to do so were their future emperor not confined to his bed.”

Theodora’s embroidered robes rustled as she turned away. For the first time, released from the rabbit snare of her gaze and voice, John became aware of the wide bed set in an alcove framed by draperies. Mary Reed amp; Eric Mayer

“Justinian wishes to address you,” Theodora said. “Step forward.”

The men did as she ordered.

The unprepossessing figure propped up in bed, a purple coverlet pulled up to his neck, did not resemble the usual notion of a future emperor. His face was bland and round with a strong familial resemblance to Justin’s, especially the small eyes. Justinian smiled weakly.

“Felix. It’s Felix, isn’t it? One of my uncle Justin’s favorite bodyguards. ‘Reminds me of myself in my excubitor days,’ he told me. In fact, he insisted on volunteering your services when he heard I planned to have the matter of Hypatius’ murder investigated.”

Felix opened his mouth to reply, but shut it without saying anything. He looked shocked.

“And you are John,” Justinian went on. “A highly intelligent man, or so I am reliably informed. The palace is a small place. Those with quick wits are soon noticed and rewarded. Are you surprised I should call upon a slave? I was not born to the palace and neither was our emperor. Both of us might have been farmers. I would as soon be served by those of similar humble origins. Adversity is a better teacher than luxury.”

John glanced at Felix. The excubitor’s expression remained one of stunned amazement.

“Now as to why you’re both here,” Justinian continued. “I’m enlisting you in the defense of the empire. You will report to Theodotus, the City Prefect, and assist him for the time being. He’ll have orders for you. When he has none, you will continue with your usual duties. The fact that you are working for him can hardly be kept secret, but you will say nothing about this meeting and who assigned you to the Prefect’s office. I do not have to tell you the consequences of disobedience.” Justinian’s voice faded abruptly and his head fell back against his pillow.

Just that quickly, their audience was ended.

“You have tired him out,” snapped Theodora. “Leave.”

The men began to back toward the door.

Fortuna had arranged for something momentous to take place soon, John thought. She must have, for he and the excubitor Felix had just been addressed by the man who would almost certainly be the next emperor. Indeed, many said he had been the de facto ruler for years.

Where was the drama, he wondered. Where the magnificence? The sickly and unimpressive man lying in bed had sounded like a petty bureaucrat instructing his clerks to undertake some minor task or other.

John suddenly felt dizzy. Was it caused by the room’s smoke or its cloying heat? Or was it relief?

He had expected to be dead and his feet set firmly on the seven-runged ladder to Mithra by now.

“Careful where you’re treading with those filthy boots!”

John glanced down at the puddle of icy water forming on the kitchen floor. When he looked up, the servant who’d scolded him gaped in alarm and hurried off.

The cold blast of air that had swirled in through the servants’ entrance of Senator Opimius’ house clung to the folds of John’s cloak. A pair of cook’s assistants, laboring over a long table standing under the kitchen’s steam-fogged window, peeked around at him, exchanged excited whispers, and then went back to expertly jointing a pile of freshly plucked chicken carcasses.

John noticed their surreptitious stares as he made his way to the kitchen brazier. No one offered a greeting. He found himself shivering. The heat rising from the glowing charcoal seemed to hold no warmth.

A pair of girls strolled into the room, carrying baskets filled with olives and cheese. They giggled as they chatted.

“So I went and got myself a love charm. Cost me a lot, too. But has it worked? Ha!” one complained.

“I keep telling you it’s all nonsense!” her companion replied. “The only people who get any satisfaction out of them are the ones making a fortune selling the wretched things!”

“I have an idea,” offered the other, evidently inspired by the activity going on at the table. “We could sell some of the master’s spare chickens to folk needing them for magick rites and make our own fortunes!”

Then they belatedly spotted John, set their baskets down quickly and fled.