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How had she survived service at court with such a poisonous tongue?

She made him furious and all the more because he was afraid she might not cool down by bedtime.

By the time his own fury had begun to subside, Felix realized he was halfway to the Church of the Holy Apostles. It occurred to him he should ask around in the vicinity of the church, in case anyone had noticed anything the night of the robbery.

How exactly should he go about it?

He couldn’t very well ask did you happen to see two demons the other night? Or an ape? Perhaps a large number of frogs?

Obviously he would need to be circumspect.

He marched along the crowded colonnade without pause, past shops full of lamps, olive oil, fabrics. Puddles lingered in the street. A fierce afternoon sun turned the humid air into a noxious soup smelling of the dung of cart animals, exotic spices and fragrances, overripe fruit, and the sour reek of sweating humanity.

The long walk and heat had made him thirsty. He found himself in front of a tavern. Perhaps a drink before he got started?

Chapter Twenty

Felix sat in the corner of a reeking tavern somewhere near the Aqueduct of Valens as best he could recall. Or had that been the last place he’d been in, or the one before? He watched patrons staggering and reeling past his table, up and down the stairs to the lavatory. He lifted his wine cup. Hesitated, stricken with guilt.

Before he met Anastasia he had been drinking too much. Half the imperial court knew about it. Half the court always knew everyone’s personal business. He had promised her he would give up Bacchus for her, as she put it. He was uncomfortably aware he had broken the promise.

“Well,” he muttered, “you deserve it. You drove me to it.” He took a long gulp of wine, punishing her for being unreasonable. It was her fault.

Besides, taverns were the only places where he might find witnesses willing to talk. Or so he had surmised after futilely questioning close-mouthed shopkeepers and wary beggars. Late-drinking tavern patrons would also have been the most likely to witness suspicious happenings in the night.

He emptied his cup and wiped his beard. “There. Are you happy now? See what you’ve done to me!”

An old man at a nearby table was eying him curiously. Felix took it as an invitation. He got up, his sword clanking against the side of the table, and clumped over to where the man was seated.

“Imperial business,” Felix said. “There have been reports of strange happenings. Demons and apes.” He went on to elaborate, having long since abandoned his efforts to remain circumspect.

The fellow had studied the bottom of his empty cup and after Felix paid to have it refilled he sipped reflectively and noisily. “Apes and demons you say? Now that you mention it I did see a pair of demons meeting that description the other night, being chased by an ape. Unless it was a hairy demon with a tail.”

Felix eyed the man hopefully.

“Yes,” he continued, “I remember it now. Seeing Theodora’s shade flapping round and round the dome of the Great Church afterward put them demons and apes right out of my head.”

***

“Should have grilled the old devil like Saint Lawrence,” Felix muttered as he reeled away from the tavern, recalling what palace wits liked to say about a courtier, another Lawrence, notorious for his taciturnity. Then again in Constantinople it was wise to cultivate not only silence but also selective blindness, especially when a man from the palace came calling, asking awkward questions.

It was as well he was the questioner and not the questioned. He wasn’t certain how he might stand up to interrogation by certain persons employed by Justinian to obtain answers with the aid of extremely unpleasant instruments. Well, at present he could barely stand up, torturers or not, he admitted to himself as he veered into a pillar of the colonnade. Still, he truly hoped he never made the acquaintance of those inquisitive men.

He had sent plenty of malefactors to be introduced to them. How could he have avoided it? That’s the way things were done.

He navigated a courtyard and passed through an archway into a street. A sign on the archway identified the establishment he had just visited as the Inn of the Centaurs, not merely a tavern. Had he come in this way?

In the back of his mind he understood it was unwise to be drinking, given his uneasiness and sense of approaching disaster. When he drank he was carried aloft on the wings of the grape, as John’s friend Anatolius had written in one of his execrable poems. Once up there Felix’s problems always looked tiny and insignificant. Unfortunately the grape inevitably let go and he plummeted into the stygian pit of infinite despair.

Another snippet from one of Anatolius’ poems?

Felix guessed he was about ready for the fall. Why else would he be worrying about the imperial torturers?

Anastasia would torture him if he returned in this state. Would she still be at his house? Did he dare return? Shadows were beginning to creep in from the west as night drew on.

Somehow or other he had made his way to the Hippodrome.

He ducked into one of the alcoves decorating the wall of the race course and relieved himself noisily behind an obscure philosopher.

Unfortunately the act reminded him of the body he had left behind another statue. Surely he couldn’t be connected with it? But how long until he was able to be absolutely certain? Would he ever be assured he was safe?

He emerged, rearranging his garment. The nearby dome of the Great Church glowed in gathering darkness. Theodora’s shade flying around indeed!

He realized he had stepped out into the midst of a group of young men, immediately identifiable by their partly shaved heads, braids of long hair worn in the Hunnish style, and rich, if barbaric, billowing garments with close-fitting sleeves.

Followers of the Blue chariot racing team.

“Why, it’s Captain Felix.” Their leader, a tall man with a scarred face, smiled in jovial fashion. He was standing much too close to Felix, blocking his path.

“Stand aside! I’m engaged in important imperial work!” Felix could hear his words were slurred.

“By the smell, you’ve been assigned to test the purity of wine,” chimed in another of the group.

Felix pivoted, unsteady on his feet, to address the new speaker and before he could bark out a word, his arms were pinioned from behind, a hand clamped over his mouth, and he was dragged toward an archway leading into the Hippodrome.

There were a few people in the street who could not have helped seeing what was happening. They hurried on, faces averted. A knot of beggars settling down for the night inside the Hippodrome entranceway shouted encouragement to the Blues as they dragged Felix past.

Felix had no hope of escape. After all the wine he’d consumed he was barely able to stay on his feet, let alone put up a fight. The young men carted him as helpless as a baby through dark, deserted corridors.

What did they want?

Was it robbery? Then why address him by name?

Chilling gusts of fear began to clear wine mists from his head.

He bit the fingers covering his mouth. The hand jerked away reflexively but before Felix could yell for help one of his captors delivered a blow to the back of his skull.

A torch seemed to explode into sparks behind his eyes

The next thing he knew he was on his back staring up into the night. Above him, silhouetted against a dome of sky faintly illuminated by the city’s innumerable lamps and torches, loomed a gigantic serpent, reared up as if to strike.

He cried out and tried to roll over and unsuccessfully push himself to his feet.

Coarse sand stuck to his palms.

Strong hands yanked him upright. A bolt of pain shot through his shoulder. His head throbbed and an ocean-like roar filled his ears. He blinked, bewildered. Row after row of seats glimmered in the gray light.