As John neared the palace he saw a sullen crowd gathered at the end of the Mese in front of the ruins of the Chalke gate. He stopped and surveyed the remaining length of the street. It was difficult to determine if the bodies slumped here and there in ruined porticoes were rioters who had quarrelled, intoxicated looters, or merchants killed defending their wares. Wisps of smoke rose from the shells of destroyed shops, swirling around a group of men breaking open amphorae of wine beside a blazing pile of broken furniture. Several women danced around the fire, yelling obscene songs and offering their services without cost to passersby. A small church that had escaped the general conflagration was now burning briskly, its door missing.
It would be better for him to take to the alleyways to reach the unobtrusive door by which he had left the palace.
Scattered shouts caught his attention. And another sound. Rising and falling in a measured cadence. Chanting.
A procession of priests entered the Mese from the direction of the Augustaion. They wore rich vestments and carried painted icons. Some of the flat, wooden panels had been attached to long poles, others were simply held, by one or two priests, depending on the size. The haloed, gaunt holy men in the icons stared out at the sinful world through enormous, dark eyes like those of the starving children only too common in the streets.
The procession moved slowly, picking its way around the debris strewn along the thoroughfare. As the priests shook the poles or thrust the panels at the people in the street the golden details in the icons flashed.
Evidently the priests hoped the display would bring calm to the streets. A foolhardy gesture, John thought, but a brave one.
The procession reached the burning church and mounted the few steps to its narrow portico. Tongues of flame ran along the building’s roofline.
One of the priests brandished his icon above his head and began to admonish the throng in booming tones. “Brothers and sisters! Go home and repent your sins!”
John recognized the short, stout figure silhouetted in front of the red glow emanating from the doorway as Leonardis, the man he had spoken to at the Church of Saint Laurentius, who had appeared so fascinated by the fiery torment of his church’s martyr.
Many of the crowd, their attention drawn to the spectacle of the icons, moved toward the church.
“Return to your homes!” Leonardis thundered. “I command you, in the name of our Lord!” He moved the icon from side to side. The stern gaze of the Christian saint swept over the entire assembly. “Pray for the emperor’s mercy and justice!”
“What justice is there on earth, much less heaven?” A man who looked like a beggar pushed his way to the front of the rabble. He emphasized his words with flourishes of a splintered piece of wood stained in sinister fashion. “What justice was there for the Blues and Greens?”
A full throated roar of approval drowned the priest’s attempt at a reply. A dark object came flying out of the crowd. Leonardis raised his icon like a shield. The clot of dung splattered across the holy image.
The priest’s outraged words were drowned out by a roar of laughter.
The ragged man who had addressed Leonardis lurched forward with shocking suddenness, knocked the soiled icon from his hands, and spat on it. “Saints! Relics! Prayers! Do they fill our bellies or keep us warm?”
“No!” came the crowd’s response.
The man’s laugh sounded more like the wild cry of a gull than any sound formed in a human throat. “They’d keep us warm if we burnt them!” He grabbed the icon and tossed it through the open doorway. Flames spurted out.
John tried to move closer to the church but his way was blocked by the packed bodies. The priests on the portico huddled closer together, muttering terrified prayers as children began to throw stones and broken bricks at them. A filthy-faced girl dressed in an obviously stolen, lavishly embroidered tunic too large for her, approached the holy men and lifted up her garment to expose her dirty nakedness. “I’ll keep the lot of you warm!” she shouted. “Who’s going to be first?”
More laughter echoed across the broken buildings as the priests shrank back, their prayers growing louder. The girl grabbed the arm of one priest and willing helpers dragged him forward and threw him to the ground.
“Don’t be shy, dearie,” the girl said, “we’re all friends here.”
A woman suggested since her victim was insulting the girl by not showing interest, someone should make certain he would never insult a woman again. “And I’ve got a nice sharp knife!” She stepped forward to bend over the priest.
The man on the ground gave a shrill scream and fell silent.
It all happened quickly, before John could fight his way forward, before Leonardis could react. The stout priest was shaking. “What have you done? Are you animals? You will burn! Sinners! Murderers! You will writhe in eternal torment!”
The ragged man sprang at Leonardis, grabbed him by his vestments, and shook him. “You! I know you! You Judas! Betrayer! Your threats are worth as much as your lying promises of salvation! Oh yes, my friends are dead but I, I have conquered death! Now let’s see you do the same!”
With that he picked Leonardis up and flung him into the blazing church.
Then he swung around, let out a piercing howl of laughter and scuttled off the portico. A path opened in the now terrified crowd and almost instantly he was gone.
The way he moved sparked John’s memory.
Was it the madman he and Felix had seen perched on the rooftop cross on their way back from the Praetorium?
He had vanished now.
An angry knot of rioters pressed in toward the remaining priests. Some of the priests were on their knees, praying and crying. A couple of braver souls jabbed out with the poles bearing their icons. The hard reality of the painted panels did not deter the attackers any more than their symbolic power had.
There was nothing John could do. The crush was too thick. He was jostled, practically lifted off his feet. An inadvertent elbow jabbed him in the ribs. He was shoved from behind. It was all he could do to remain standing. Anyone who fell would be trampled to death.
Usually, in the streets, he could command respect with a glance, but not now. These were no longer human beings but rather a single, monstrous beast intent on mayhem.
“To the Augustaion,” someone cried. “Nika! Nika!” Other voices echoed the words and then John was borne along with the surging mob, as helpless as if he had fallen into the dark currents of the Bosporos.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Your chamberlain friend hasn’t passed this way, Felix. Not while I’ve been on guard.” The excubitor, Bato, leaned back against an irregular chunk of masonry which had once been part of an interior wall or the ceiling of the palace entrance, to judge from the bright mosaic patterns. He was one of several men stationed amidst the ruins of the Chalke. The rest remained inside a nearby barracks, close at hand in case of trouble, but under their captain Gallio’s orders not to venture outside the palace. “What are you doing out here anyway? Weren’t you assigned to look after the chamberlain’s guests?”
“I’ve been taking a walk. I needed to get some air.”
The cold had cleared Felix’s head. Julianna had eluded him. He had circled the imperial residence for a while, in case she emerged, but he had not seen her again.
“Maybe you’d like to take my place out here?” Bato said. “I wish you’d chosen me to assist with that relaxing job you’ve been handed.”
“You know Gallio refused to make you available. Perhaps he thought we knew each other too well. Bad for discipline. Anyway, I prefer fighting.”
“Out of sorts, are you? A bit too much wine last night I’d say.”
Felix looked along the Mese. Smoke and heaped rubble obscured the people gathered there. A continuous murmur of voices drifted toward the ruined Chalke. Flames flared through the drifting haze. “I hope John isn’t out in that,” he finally said. He hoped Julianna wasn’t out in it either. At least John could take care of himself.