Anatolius let his head drop back against the marble rim of the font, his gaze directed up into the glowing dome filled with stars and angels. “Tell the churchmen to leave, John. There’s no reason they should die to protect a pagan like myself.”
“They aren’t here to protect you, Anatolius. They are protecting their holy space.”
Anatolius said nothing and did not move his gaze away from the dome.
When John returned to Narses unaccompanied, the treasurer merely smiled. “You did not convince him, then? I did not expect that you would.”
As he spoke there was a commotion and raised voices outside. Narses turned toward the sounds. “Ah, my men have arrived.”
Felix cursed.
There was no need to explain. If Narses could not depend on the excubitors there were other forces he could call upon-silentiaries, the scholarae, the City Prefect’s urban watch. No matter how defiant Felix might be, it was inconceivable he would order his excubitors to battle other imperial guards.
Unless he were in fact intent on deposing the emperor they all served.
A few of the new arrivals began to filter through the excubitors, moving in Narses’ direction. Armed men scowled apprehensively at the weaponless men surrounding the font.
Before Narses had a chance to issue orders, Patriarch Menas entered the chamber. His narrow face, accentuated by the long beard, looked more drawn than ever. He moved as slowly as if his clerical robes were woven of pure gold, rather than decorated with gold thread. He walked past John, Narses, and Felix without a word and interposed himself between the priests and those from the palace.
“I have just spoken with the emperor,” he announced. In response to a withering look flung at him by Narses, he added, “You have been overruled, Narses. I order you, in the emperor’s name, to refrain from exercising your military skills here for the time being.”
“I knew Justinian would never allow his church to be violated,” Felix muttered.
Menas looked around and then continued. “The emperor is hoping that the miscreant will recognize his duty toward the Lord and submit himself to justice.”
John thought it was unlikely Anatolius would oblige. “What if Anatolius refuses to give himself up?” he asked. “I have reason to believe he is innocent, yet he has already been judged guilty. How long will he survive if he leaves the church?”
“Justinian did not offer me any guarantees on that point,” Menas replied. “I intend to pray with this unfortunate man. Perhaps he will recognize his duty.”
“And if he continues to claim sanctuary?” Felix interrupted.
The patriarch’s face, gaunt as it was, displayed a remarkable lack of emotion under the circumstances. It might have been a saint’s face painted on a piece of wood. “The emperor has prayed for guidance. The murderer must surrender himself. That is the Lord’s will, and the Lord’s will shall be done by sunrise. By whatever means is necessary.”
Chapter Sixty
In the middle of the night the Augustaion was a desolate plain receding into darkness beyond the pool of light spilling from the Great Church. The statue of Justinian on his steed, indistinct against a gray sky, hovered on its column like some watchful mythical creature on guard above the roofs and colonnades surrounding the square.
John looked up at the statue as he wondered what to do next. At sunrise Anatolius would be dragged from the church. Whether to the dungeons or to immediate execution, only the omnipresent and omnipotent emperor could say. And Kuria, Theodora’s lady-in-waiting, who might be able to convince Justinian of Anatolius’ innocence, could be anywhere in the city.
If she was still in the city.
Given enough time he would have questioned people at the palace, sought out ladies-in-waiting other than Vesta who might have known something useful. He would have enlisted the aid of Pulcheria to spread the word among people on the street to watch for the girl. He would have begun to visit likely tenements, seeking her.
But there was no time.
He was crossing the square as he pondered. Where would Kuria have gone? Where could she go? The only life she knew was that of a prostitute and then, very briefly, a penitent at Isis’ refuge. Normally John would have expected her to return to the home she had known before Theodora had plucked her from the refuge and transported her to the palace.
But Kuria had slashed a rival, Isis had told him. She would not have such a girl back. So she had said.
Did Kuria believe that?
Would Isis really turn a former employee away?
John’s only hope was the answer to both questions was no. It was not a good wager, but it appeared to be the only wager available.
He entered the darkness at the edge of the square, passed through the archway beyond, and set off along the Mese.
Isis greeted him, her face puffy with sleep. She wore a plain linen robe. An enormous silver cross dangled from a necklace and bounced comfortably against her ample bosom.
“I told you I would not take a girl like Kuria back,” Isis pointed out after John questioned her.
“I remember what you told me, Isis. Is she here?”
Isis’ shriveled rosebud of a mouth quirked into a smile. “Ah, you know me too well, old friend.”
“Yes,” John agreed, humoring her. “Even as a young woman in Egypt, you always had a heart much too kind for your line of work.”
“A kind heart may be lacking in most madams but it never hindered me,” Isis replied.
“I guessed Kuria would come here, Isis. She knew you couldn’t turn her away.”
“Ah, but she didn’t seek me out of her own accord. Your informant, Pulcheria, brought her.”
John expressed surprise.
“Pulcheria said you had asked her and her friends on the street to keep an eye on a beggar who attacked Hypatia. You suspected he might be more than a beggar. No doubt you will hear from her soon.”
“What did she tell you?”
“He’s a familiar menace in the area. He camps out near the Hippodrome because he used to be a charioteer, until he fell out of his chariot during a race. He either banged his head on the track or a horse stepped on it. At any rate, it knocked all the sense out of his skull. He’s assaulted more than one woman. Always women wearing green, probably because he raced for the Blue faction.”
“Why hasn’t he been brought in front of a magistrate?”
“He has. Time after time. They all know him from his racing days. He won them a lot of wagers back then, so they always let him off.” Isis clucked disapprovingly. “There’s nobody less qualified than a magistrate to administer justice. Any bricklayer would be fairer. I’m thankful I don’t have to bribe magistrates any longer, now I’ve changed the nature of my establishment.”
Isis paused. “I fear Kuria was hurt, John. Badly beaten. She was lying unconscious all day before word got back to Pulcheria the former charioteer was acting as if he had been up to no good again, that someone had been told by someone else that something or other had been glimpsed by a passer-by. Knowing the rogue’s methods, Pulcheria found the girl in a burnt-out shop near his begging spot. Kuria will survive. She’s tough. The beggar was reportedly seen bleeding profusely from wounds in his face.”
“I’m glad there’s someone I can rely on,” John said, “even if it is a street woman with a three-legged cat.”
“Pulcheria confided to me Kuria was not happy to see her. She kept shrieking that Pulcheria was a demon, no doubt because of her scarred face. Pulcheria told her she wasn’t a demon, but her guardian angel. But you said you wanted to see her.”
Isis led John through narrow hallways lined with doors to cramped rooms which functioned as simply and well for penitents as they had for her girls when they practiced their former profession.
Kuria lay curled up on a wide shelf that served as a built-in bed on the back wall of her tiny cubicle. The thin mat serving as a mattress must have been a penance for someone used to sleeping on a palace bed. An earthenware plate holding a half-eaten scrap of bread and several olive pits sat on the floor.