Justinian’s gaze had moved back to the icon. “Her agony was unimaginable, Lord Chamberlain. I saw it all, shared it all. I never left her side. I fed her personally as long as she could take nourishment, helped her drink her medicine. Toward the end she took nothing but painkilling potions. By then they had lost their effect. It was torture, Lord Chamberlain.”
“It is true, excellency, you attended the empress constantly. Of all those I have spoken to in the course of my investigations, no one spent as much time with her as you.”
The expression Justinian turned on John was so utterly devoid of emotion as to appear, under the circumstances, totally inhuman. “Explain yourself, Lord Chamberlain.”
John raised the jar slightly. “Olives. This jar contained olives. Who would eat olives in the presence of the empress, who could not even eat the fruit she was sent? Surely you would never have done so.”
“One of the attendants,” Justinian replied.
“They would not bring a jar of olives into the sickroom. This jar is from the kitchens. I know you are familiar with the kitchens. I saw you there one night not long ago.”
Justinian said nothing.
“Do you require me to be more specific?” John asked, asking Mithra to protect him.
Justinian’s face remained a rigid mask. “I have asked too much of you, Lord Chamberlain. I will summon you later when you are less tired. You may go.”
John remained where he was. He needed to finish this, now. He could not wait any longer to find Cornelia, no matter how much he might anger the emperor.
And he was about to anger him.
“Excellency, you had the most and the easiest access to the empress,” he said. “You also had the strongest motive for hastening her death. The motive of mercy. You just pointed out she was being tortured. As I said, her death was neither an accidental overdose nor murder by the hand of an enemy.”
There came to him an image of the wall painting at Antonina’s house, the copy of the Ravenna mosaic, the empress holding the chalice.
“A cup of sorrow for one may be a cup of blessing for another,” he added.
Justinian’s eyes blazed as if they opened onto the pits of hell. “I should have your throat cut and your body entombed in this room. Explain yourself before I order it.”
“Gaius kept increasing the amount of the empress’ painkilling medicine,” John replied. “Toward the end it ceased to help. There was no escape from her torture. The more painkiller the empress was given the more her pain increased. How could that be? Because after it became apparent it was not possible to relieve her agony, you were no longer giving her the proper amount.”
Justinian remained silent.
“Instead you were pouring part of it into this jar, one you’d taken from the kitchens. Gaius had been exceedingly careful not to bring a fatal dose into the room. Nobody could possibly know that you were saving the painkiller. You wanted to make certain you accumulated enough to relieve the empress of her suffering.”
The emperor stared at him, his face unreadable as a blank sheet of parchment. Though the room was hot, John felt enveloped with cold. He shuddered.
Mithra, I am about to be condemned to death. Guard my family, he prayed.
The emperor’s voice issued in a faint draught from all but motionless lips. “A pretty explanation indeed, Lord Chamberlain. Now explain why I would order you to find a murderer if the murderer were myself?”
Why? To hide his actions? Had he wanted John to present him with a scapegoat? Or because he had been deranged and had not, until now or some time after the act, admitted to himself he had taken his wife’s life? Had he wanted John to convince him that someone else had murdered Theodora?
“I did not say you were a murderer, excellency.”
“Then…?” Justinian pressed.
“I believe you did not want to see the empress’ torture prolonged,” John said, wishing Theodora had shown such mercy herself to those she had sent to the underground dungeons.”It was an act of mercy.”
Justinian forced his lips into a mockery of a smile. “You have been a valuable servant to me, Lord Chamberlain, but tonight you have brought an end to your time here.”
Chapter Sixty-three
Hypatia sat with Peter-her husband Peter-all night. She had pulled a stool to the side of the bed and taken one of his still hands in her own. The physician told her Peter would not wake again when he went back to sleep, and Peter had fallen into a deep slumber before the clergyman who married them left.
Peter had mumbled the appropriate words. Had he truly known what was happening? At the same time he was taking his vows he seemed to think he was climbing the ladder to heaven.
He was half-sitting, propped up on the pillow. His hand was cool. She could hear him breathing faintly, with an occasional long pause between breaths. Hypatia waited every time, holding her own breath, until his breathing resumed.
She kept brushing his wispy hair back into place. His forehead felt as cool as his hand. In the soft glow from the sleeping city outside the open window he might have been any age.
What a strange marriage, ending before it began. Like a baby who died at birth, whose life consisted of a single cry and an inscription on a tombstone.
She had always felt a bond with Peter, as if they were family, without realizing it.
Was it foolish for her to marry an old man? She ran a finger over the back of his hand, feeling the fragile bones through the parchment skin. It was better they had married. The Lord Chamberlain should have married Cornelia long since. Did he suppose there would always be time?
The night passed. Outside the window dawn replaced the soft night glow of the city. Hypatia was gradually aware she could again discern Peter’s bedside table, the amulet she had given him, the lucky coin from Derbe, the pilgrim flask with the oil she had thought miraculous for a brief while. The cross on the wall came into sharper relief.
Her eyes burned and for an instant, as sunlight began to filter into the room, she was sure the increasing light formed a cross over the sleeping Peter. She blinked and it was gone.
No doubt it had been a transitory effect of sunlight and her own exhaustion.
Then the hand she held spasmed.
Suddenly it was clenched tightly around her hand, squeezing painfully.
Then the pressure released.
Peter opened his eyes and looked at her.
“Hypatia. I have just had the strangest dream.” His voice was strong. His eyes were clear.
How long Hypatia might have remained speechless she would not know because almost simultaneously with Peter’s awakening there came a pounding at the door. Up on the third floor the noise was barely discernible but it startled Hypatia like a thunderclap.
She rushed downstairs. She could hardly see for the tears of joy blinding her.
What wonderful news she would have for the Lord Chamberlain when she let him in. She had forgotten their argument.
Blinking back tears, stifling sobs, she fumbled with the bolt and finally threw the door open.
The caller was not the Lord Chamberlain.
***
It was later that morning before Hypatia learned what had happened to John.
He gave her a hurried summary of his meeting with Justinian as they stood in the atrium.
His first question upon entering the house had been about Peter.
“He’s sitting up and having something to eat, master. Complaining I undercooked the eggs.”
John had braced himself for bad news. “He sounds like his old self,” was all he could think to say.
“He’s entirely himself. He really has recovered. It’s a miracle. Isn’t it wonderful?” Hypatia smiled. “His god has decided to grant us some time together, or so Peter says. And how can I not believe him?”