He began by outlining his efforts to question people in the vicinity of the Church of the Holy Apostles.
The emperor appeared bored and tired. “From those cuts on your face, it looks as if some of the people you approached did not take kindly to your questions.”
“Indeed. It was nothing serious.” He didn’t dare say anything about the assault by the Blues. How could he explain the motivation behind it without putting himself under suspicion?
“That is all you have to report?”
Did Justinian know about the attack? Was he wondering if Felix would tell him about it? Felix studied the emotionless features-which many called the mask of a demon-but as usual they betrayed nothing.
“Caesar, may I ask why you have involved me in this matter? The urban watch know the city better than I do and they are accustomed to investigate crimes. I should be working with my excubitors to insure the palace is secure, in case your enemies mistake your mourning for a sign of weakness.”
“Do you suspect there are plots being hatched?”
Was that it? Did Justinian want to keep him away from the palace, away from his excubitors? Was he afraid their captain might have his eye on the throne?
“I know of no plots, but whenever the empire suffers a blow, there are those who seek to take advantage.”
“As by stealing one of the city’s most sacred relics? This is the very time we need the Virgin’s protection the most.”
“And naturally the theft upsets the populace.”
“There is that also.”
“If the theft was in aid of a plot all the more reason I need to be at my post.”
“All the more reason our protection must be found and returned, Captain.” The emperor’s tone was sharp, a sudden contrast to his previous lassitude.
Felix uneasily shifted his feet, resisting his habitual nervous tug at his beard.
As a Mithran he had never given much credence to the Christian god and his relics. It was wise to treat them with respect, of course, whether those of the Olympian gods, or local deities, or the handiwork of sorcerers, just in case. There were supernatural powers, both good and evil, abroad in the world.
Justinian was rifling through parchments and half unrolled scrolls on his desk. “Though the saints are everywhere at once, they still linger most strongly in the vicinity of their relics. I was reading a treatise only days ago, but I can’t seem to put my hand on it. It all has to do with lines of force. Since a saint’s relics were once a part of his person or in contact with him, there remains an attraction between saint and relic, the attraction that holds spirit and matter together in the earthly sphere. Ever since the shroud was taken I have felt an absence, as if an invisible cloak of protection has been lifted from the city. Basilius tells me the Church of the Holy Apostles feels empty to him now.”
“The reliquary in which the shroud rested was most certainly empty, Caesar. But if you will excuse me-I am an ignorant soldier. Why could not the shroud protect itself?”
“Ah, I see a military man may also be a philosopher. That is a good question, captain, and the answer is clear. We are being tested by God. Of course the shroud could have reduced the thieves to dust or brought lightning down on them. Even now the Lord could drop it right onto this desk. But that is not the way He works. It is up to us to please Him and not the other way around. Yes, it is even true the emperor must please God. To do that I must see the shroud returned and I am depending on you to assist in its recovery. Don’t disappoint me.”
***
Felix’s stomach churned as he left the Great Palace. He was suddenly aware of the innumerable crosses pointing to heaven from the rooftops, of the magnificent churches he passed on many streets. The mithraeum where Felix worshipped was hidden underground. Symbols of Mithra were nowhere to be seen in public nor, if one was wise, in private also. The Jesus that Christians talked about-that Anastasia and the emperor worshipped-was not Felix’s sort of man, not with all his prattle about love and peace. Yet somehow he and his followers had achieved what the sword had not, the subjugation of the Roman Empire.
And no doubt He wanted His mother’s shroud returned. What son wouldn’t?
Felix tugged at his beard in consternation. He had visited Justinian hoping to find the emperor was not really concerned about the matter of the relic and that Felix could let his investigation slide without angering him. Now he wasn’t only risking the wrath of the emperor but the emperor’s omnipotent god as well.
Chapter Twenty-five
As Felix walked into the Hippodrome he hoped this interview would be more successful than the last one.
He didn’t bother to see if anyone had taken down the hanged man. Surely the corpse would have been noticed and removed hours before. Instead he took a ramp behind the starting gates and descended into the maze of stables and storage rooms under the racetrack. The sound of his boots hitting the concrete echoed back into the corridor. He smelled horses, hay, and dust despite a strong draught blowing from the direction of the great arena.
He was almost certain Porphyrius was the man who had threatened him. The aging charioteer wanted the relic for one reason or another, so why not start with him?
Felix did not find him in the stables. Try the track, he was told. He returned the way he had come, hurting with every step as if he were filled with shards of broken glass.
The great charioteer was sitting in the stands overlooking the track, the sole spectator in an arena designed for tens of thousands. He was instructing a younger man driving a chariot, shouting a mixture of praise and lurid oaths.
As Felix clattered up the marble benches Porphyrius leapt to his feet and bellowed “You’ll never win a race like that. Stick as close to the inside of the track as you can instead of wandering all over it like a child in the market! It’s a sure way to end up crippled or worse!”
The young charioteer grinned, flourished his whip, and came racing by, leaving his teacher coughing, choking, and cursing in a cloud of dust.
Porphyrius had been a wonder in his day, admired and feted. Statues had been raised to him and he had made a fortune, wresting it from the sweat and fear of racing, somehow avoiding serious injury. Considering the number of years he had raced and given he had raced for both Blues and Greens at one time or another, it was a miracle he had survived not only racing but had also escaped a blade in the back from a supporter of one of the competing factions, intended to even the odds in the next contest.
“Ah, the captain of the excubitors,” Porphyrius remarked as Felix approached. “A little early for the racing, are you not?”
“It’s not racing I’m here for.” Felix sat down next to him. The sun had made the marble hot.
“So then…?”
Felix glanced at the man at his side. He was squat and powerfully built with a broad face and a laborer’s arms. Despite the gray in his hair, he looked like the sort of man you wanted on your side in a fight, the sort you didn’t want to oppose. And his booming voice was unmistakable. Felix was certain now that Porphyrius had been present on the spina the night before.
Felix looked back toward the center of the track. No sign of the hanging remained. Having confirmed to his satisfaction the identity of one of his assailants, Felix was unsure what to do next. “There was a man found hanging on the spina this morning,” he finally said.
Porphyrius looked away from Felix toward the far side of the track where his student’s chariot moved slowly, engaged in some exercise. “Is that so? The urban watch must have got out of bed earlier than usual this morning.” There was a sneer in his voice.
“A murder on the racetrack could hardly have escaped your attention.”
“I did hear some such tale when I arrived about an hour ago to put our latest recruit through his paces.”
“Is the dead man’s identity known?”