John concealed his surprise. It seemed hardly credible that Porphyrius hadn’t learned that a man who had so recently visited him was one of the two who had escaped execution. But what did he have to gain by such a transparent lie? Perhaps he really hadn’t heard. How well known had Hippolytus been among the charioteers? Prefect Eudaemon was not likely to have been spreading around details of the execution. On the other hand, it might be that Porphyrius was depending on the audacity of his lie to make it more believable.
Porphyrius did not appear perturbed. “You are wondering what Haik might have been up to aren’t you?” he continued. “You want to compare our stories.”
Perhaps the charioteer feared that Haik knew, or had found out, who Hippolytus was and had already told John. It might be better, John decided, not to challenge Porphyrius on the matter yet. Let him think John was missing that piece of information. “Why would a Green be visiting the head of the Blue team?” John asked instead.
“The Greens think they can coax me to return to them. There’s another statue in the works, I’m told. Or was it Glabrio who was here when your friend came by? Another young man, Glabrio. Extremely tiresome but his father is a generous patron. No, I’m sure it was Hippolytus. I don’t expect I’ll be seeing either of them until this trouble dies down.”
John noticed they were standing in front of one of the monuments erected to honor the man with whom he spoke. The bronze figure astride the decorative plinth depicted a classically handsome youth, a paragon of Greek beauty. Nothing like the pugnacious, middle-aged man beside him. Perhaps the idealized statue was how the masses actually saw their hero, particularly those who never glimpsed him up close but only from the stands, if at all. Perhaps the statue was, literally, all they ever saw of him. Why strain to see the tiny figure in the chariot when an enormous gleaming image towered above the swirling dust of the track?
Was it Porphyrius who was rallying the factions against Justinian?
John’s gaze fell on the epigram inscribed on the base of the monument. “…Selene loved Endymion and now Victory loves with Porphyrius….”
Victory. Nika. The word the rioters chanted.
John thanked Porphyrius and took his leave. He did not believe in messages from gods, ancient or Christian, let alone from an anonymous poet.
***
“Haik!” John pounded on the door to his friend’s room.
As he walked back from his interview with Porphyrius he had become increasingly annoyed. Not only the charioteer, but Haik also, had seemed reluctant to speak about their meeting. John got the impression that both had tried to see how little they could get away with saying, offering just enough to allay his suspicion. Revealing only what they felt was necessary to avoid being caught out in a lie.
John pounded harder. Was Haik there? According to the servants he’d been in his room most of the day.
He gave the door a shove and it moved, then stopped, as if impeded. He gave the door another push.
It opened further, enough for him to see what was in the way. A body lying on the floor.
“Haik! What happened?” John managed to squeeze into the room and knelt beside the supine form. Haik was still alive, but his face was a ghastly red mask. His pupils were hugely dilated. He looked as if he’d been all but scared to death. He stared wordlessly at John. His bloodless lips trembled but no sound emerged.
John glanced down over the rumpled garments. No blood that he could see. A convulsion ran through Haik’s body.
“Were you attacked? Did you fall ill?” John raised his friend’s head. It didn’t seem to help his shallow breathing.
Haik managed a strangled wheeze. “The document…Chosroes…missing…ask Hypatius….”
The final word trailed away in a fading hiss of breath.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Poisoned!” Rusticus gave a grunt of pain as he straightened up slowly from the bed to which Haik had been moved. The elderly physician’s tunic bore the marks of a day’s calls on patients. He pushed a spray of white hair away from his watery eyes and turned to face John.
“Are you certain?” John demanded.
Felix, stationed in the doorway, shook his head vehemently. “Impossible. No one’s been in the house who doesn’t belong here.”
“There’s no doubt about it,” Rusticus insisted in grave tones. “Considering the convulsions you described and the dilated eyes, it was belladonna. Ladies of the court use it to make their eyes look larger. Some call it Atropos’ plant. Enough taken and she cuts the thread of a man’s life. Not that it matters what it was at this point. If only I’d arrived earlier.”
“You might have saved him?”
“I can’t see how. But I would have been able to identify the poison more positively. As it is I have to go on what you tell me. I should have liked to be sure. Poisonings are most interesting. Tending to the court as I do, I could tell you about more than one poisoning. Oh, yes. Not as many as you’d think. Especially lately. Back in Emperor Zeno’s day things were handled more subtly. Now it’s just a knife in the back. And often enough, not in the back. All brute force and no guile.”
Felix gave an audible grunt. “Easier to guard against.”
John was almost relieved to hear that Haik could not have been saved. Although he had acted quickly it felt like a long time before the physician arrived. As soon as John shouted for a servant the whole household came on the run, along with Felix and a couple of his excubitors.
It was Hypatius who suggested sending for Rusticus. The physician had long treated the family. Once Haik was placed on the bed John ordered everyone but Felix out of the room.
He knelt by the bed speaking to Haik, listening to his breathing become shallower. The man did speak again before giving a few stentorian gasps and lapsing into utter stillness.
John looked down at Haik. The man’s great beak of a nose jutted up like a small peak from the dead face. He bent over and pulled the sheet over the corpse. “You can treat a knife wound more easily than a poisoning?”
“That depends on the kind of poison and which rib you put the knife between and at what angle. Now if-”
“Who would use belladonna?”
“An aristocrat, I’d say. It’s a very refined poison. Or else a gutter bred scoundrel who wanted to make it look like an aristocrat’s work. On the other hand, it’s easily derived from nightshade, so it might be used by someone from the countryside, or by a city dweller who purchased it at a shop, or from-”
“I see. Just about anyone might have decided to use belladonna.”
“Anyone who wanted to kill someone.” Rusticus wiped at his watering eyes. “These days I’m seeing more of the dead than the living. If it’s not the result of beatings and stab wounds from the riots, it’s certifying condemned men are definitely dead after their executions. Some of the deaths I’ve seen, no one would want to see. Oh, I could tell you things you wouldn’t want to hear.”
“I’m glad you can restrain yourself.”
Rusticus shuffled over to the room’s table, picked up the jug there, saw it was empty. He made a noise of disgust. “If the wine was poisoned there’s none left to tell the tale. Was there any food left lying about?”
“No. Not even an empty plate,” said Felix. “John and I searched the room while we waited for you.”
“That’s too bad. Years ago a senator was found dead in his garden. There was half a sausage left on a plate on the bench beside his body. I mixed it with chicken liver and fed it to a cat. When the beast promptly died we knew there was no doubt that the senator had been poisoned.”
“Did that enable you to identify the poison?” John wondered.
“Hardly, but the beast’s reaction was fascinating. One would never guess that muscles could spasm to that extent. By the time I see poisoning victims, they’re usually dead or nearly so.”