It was obvious.
Provided one believed Kuria.
Provided the emperor would pay attention to her. John pictured the pathetic girl on her hard bed in the refuge’s narrow cell, her meager half-finished meal on the earthenware plate. Why would the emperor pay attention to her?
Because she had been a protegée of Theodora. A favorite. Surely he would pay attention, or at least delay any action against Anatolius until he heard the girl’s story. He would feel he owed as much to his late wife.
Isis was right now helping her get clean and chastely outfitted, readying the wretched girl for the imperial audience John hoped to arrange.
But if Justinian believed Kuria and allowed Anatolius to go free, where would the emperor turn his ire next?
Many in the city held a grudge against Theodora. More than half the court might imagine advancement for themselves in her absence. Everyone John spoke with pointed him toward one of their enemies, as if their word would be sufficient to dispose of them.
Kuria had been more cunning than the aristocrats, for only she had supported her self-serving accusation through physical evidence: herbs which could not lie about their purpose.
Objects were more trustworthy than people. They did not seek to mislead, but neither did they readily offer up what they knew.
If dawn was breaking it was still concealed beyond the black bulk of the palace as John arrived back. The reception hall where he had met Justinian was vacant except for smoky phantoms created by smoldering lamps.
“He did not ask for guards to be summoned to accompany him yet he’s walking on the grounds, Lord Chamberlain,” said the silentiary on duty. “It makes it very difficult to ensure his protection.”
Yes, John thought, it would also be difficult not to be able to sleep at your post for fear the emperor might suddenly appear and catch you at it.
Where would Justinian be?
There was nowhere in the palace the emperor’s nocturnal journeys did not take him. On the night John had gone to the mithraeum he had encountered Justinian in the kitchens. Surely, however, one place he would never miss visiting was the room where Theodora had died.
The room was empty.
John stepped inside. So deep was it in the interior of the palace, Justinian had not bothered to keep a guard on the door. Compared to the riches all around there was hardly anything of value here. The dismantled bed sat in the corner, as he had last seen it, beside the marble-topped table and wooden chest. The only light was from a wall lamp several paces down the corridor.
He turned slowly to survey the room.
With a start he noticed two men staring at him with shining eyes.
No, it was only the icon depicting the healing saints.
The air smelled sweet, as if someone had been burning incense.
He completed his survey. As before, the room did not lie to him, but neither did it tell him anything.
Theodora had not left its confines for weeks. She could only have been killed by one who had entered here, as John had, but unlike this night, the room had been closely guarded and few had gained admittance.
John had hoped to explain to Justinian that Vesta, who had served Theodora, had not, as the emperor had apparently convinced himself, murdered her at the behest of Anatolius, on behalf of Germanus and the Cappadocian. And, John reminded himself, Felix, for hadn’t he been visiting Germanus too? Nor had the murderer been the lady-in-waiting Kuria, whose word-if Justinian accepted it-would exonerate Vesta and Anatolius.
Very well. Who had entry to this small room? The two ladies-in-waiting had spent a great deal of time with Theodora. Gaius visited often, but now he was dead he could not satisfy Justinian’s wrath even if John were inclined to blacken his friend’s memory.
He looked at the grim-faced holy men depicted in the gilded icon. They had seen the murderer.
Christians believed that saints interceded in earthly affairs, and that their power was more concentrated in the vicinity of holy icons, relics, and the like.
But Cosmas and Damian did not seem inclined to aid a Mithran Lord Chamberlain.
John turned his gaze elsewhere.
Spartan as the room was compared to most of the palace, it was luxurious compared to the cell in which he had interviewed Kuria. Theodora’s deathbed had been soft.
There came to John’s mind an image of the plate in Kuria’s cell. The half-eaten bread, the olive pits.
He opened the inlaid wooden chest, crouched down, and pushed aside bottles and pots until he came to the carefully wrapped bundle he sought. Cushioned inside the fabric was the lidded ceramic jar from the imperial kitchens he had seen when he first examined the contents of the chest at the beginning of his investigations. An image of an olive tree was embossed in the clay.
There was a footstep behind him.
“Have you stooped to robbing the dead, Lord Chamberlain?”
John turned.
In the half light, the emperor’s scarlet boots looked the color of blood.
Chapter Sixty-two
“You may stand, Lord Chamberlain,” said the emperor. “We are all equal in the presence of death.”
John got to his feet.
Justinian gave a sardonic smile. His gaze fell to the jar in John’s hands. “You would make a poor thief. The shelves of the kitchens are lined with such jars. Once their contents are gone, they are worthless clay. Like our own flesh.”
Though the words were spoken lightly, John detected a tightening around the emperor’s eyes.
“Excellency, I wish to speak about Anatolius.”
Justinian gave no indication he had heard. He looked around the room. “The plasterers will arrive soon,” he said quietly. “This is the last opportunity I or anyone else will have to see this accursed place before it is sealed off forever. The dust of years will fall silently where my dear wife suffered and died, covering everything with a soft mantle of memory. A strange thing to contemplate, is it not?”
A strange time to engage in poetical ruminations was John’s opinion. “I must respectfully request Narses be instructed to allow Anatolius to leave the Great Church in safety. I have evidence Anatolius was not involved in the empress’ death.”
Justinian leveled an expressionless gaze on John. “Proceed.”
John recounted Kuria’s confession.
Justinian paced as he listened. Then he closed his eyes briefly. “Kuria. Yes. My dear Theodora’s favorite lady-in-waiting, one she trusted. She raised her up from a terrible life.”
“The empress could not have misjudged the girl’s character,” John suggested.
The emperor patted the frame of the bed. “I agree. But who then? Who was the culprit?” He paused. “That murderous drunkard Gaius. Of course! He killed himself, a sure admission of guilt. Perhaps he realized your long friendship would not protect him?”
“It is my belief his death was a mistake while he was intoxicated,” John replied.
“It was made plain to Gaius that retaining his head depended upon his remaining in a fit state to treat my wife.” Justinian glanced in the direction of the icon of the healing saints. “When he was elsewhere it was doubtless a different matter. On reflection, it seems obvious he made the last batch of Theodora’s painkilling medicine far too strong, fatally strong. Therefore I have decided her death was due to an overdose, brought about by the physician’s carelessness. Unfortunately the culprit is beyond justice.”
John shifted the jar he held from one hand to another. “Her death was then an accident, not murder?”
Justinian sighed and nodded. “It seems so, Lord Chamberlain.”
“Excellency,” said John, praying to Mithra his tongue would not tangle the words he had to say. “If I may give my opinion, I believe it was not an accidental overdose. Nor was it murder by an enemy’s hand.”