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  “No, Caesar,” came the murmured reply.

  “Proclus is the type of man you need to put your faith in, nephew. Even if I was indeed dead and rotting, my quaestor here would have me hauled around the palace until I was a mere pile of bones, if such had been my orders.”

  The emperor reached out and clamped a big, veined hand on Justinian’s forearm. “Does that feel like the hand of a phantom? That actress of yours put this ludicrous idea into your head, didn’t she? Perhaps it is the actress who is poisoning you. Have you thought of that? According to Euphemia…”

  “We have already discussed Euphemia’s opinions.” Justinian pulled his arm away from the older man’s surprisingly strong grip.

  “My dear Euphemia’s fond of you, Justinian. She just doesn’t consider the actress a proper match.”

  “But what about this dream? I’m rather surprised you dismiss it so lightly, uncle. Remember thirty or so years ago when you were fighting the Isaurians and got thrown in prison by your commander—”

  “Yes, John the Hunchback. I forget now what his reason was supposed to be.”

  “Whatever the reason, you were to be executed, but then the Hunchback dreamed three nights running of an angel that ordered your release. When he spared your life because of those dreams, did you then dismiss them as nonsense?”

  “They weren’t dreams, you fool! An angel appeared to the Hunchback in his sleep. Do you think angels just stroll up and knock on your door in broad daylight? How could the Gourd be poisoning you, anyway? Do you have him working in the kitchen boiling your eggs? Euphemia says—”

  “Caesar,” Proclus put in abruptly, “if I may offer an opinion, the Gourd has been doing a remarkable job in rectifying a situation that has gone unattended far too long. His pretense of being a magician is shrewd. Since no one can be everywhere at once, observing every street and alleyway, the next best thing is to appear to be doing just that. Now potential criminals imagine that they are being scrutinized by magickal means, so they watch themselves.”

  Apparently Proclus made a subtle gesture or uttered a prearranged word, for the emperor and his attendants prepared to leave. Observed from a distance, Justin might have appeared to merely stand, so unobtrusively did his assistants grasp his arms and lift him.

  “I agree it is time to go, excellency. Justinian must get his rest,” Proclus said tactfully before turning his attention to Justinian. “Might I suggest that this dream will not seem so portentous when your illness has run its course? No one opposes the Prefect’s methods except those who would prefer to live in terror while the Blues run wild. I can assure you no man of good will has anything to fear.”

  ***

  The emperor and his small entourage had hardly left the room before Theodora returned. “Has the old fool been slandering me again?”

  “It isn’t Justin who slanders you, but his dead wife. He constantly talks about her. I noticed he sometimes called her Lupicina. I really don’t think he realized he had.”

  “I wonder if he used her slave name in private? Perhaps even in bed…”

  “Ignore any mention of Euphemia, Theodora. She can’t oppose you any longer now she’s dead.”

  “To everyone but the emperor.” Justinian let his head fall back and stared into the smoky haze obscuring the gilded ceiling. “Don’t be so certain that Justin believes everything he says. Assumed weakness can serve as a weapon to those who know how to wield it. On the other hand, if he’s really losing his wits, his actions will become totally unpredictable. Those around him must tread all the more warily. Including us. Especially us.”

  A servant again drifted out of the dimness to wipe Justinian’s forehead and then was gone as quickly as a dream.

  Theodora leaned over Justinian. “So you suppose Justin might be exaggerating his frailty? He did come to visit you today, after all.”

  “Yes, and it was an unannounced visit at that. I suspect it was really to see if I’d been exaggerating my own illness.”

  “I know you aren’t, but he would hardly take my word for it.” Theodora placed her scarlet lips briefly against Justinian’s forehead. “Soon you will be well, my love, and then I will take you often to that place where things are not so complicated.”

  Justinian smiled weakly. “If the empire was wrenched from my grasp, I would still have what I treasure most.”

  Theodora dropped to her knees, bringing her face level with her consort’s. With her eyes blazing, her lips slightly parted, and shadows stroking the smooth concavities of her cheeks, she briefly took on the aspect of some pagan love goddess. Then her eyes narrowed and her features turned harder, almost masculine. “But we will not let anyone wrench the empire away from us, will we?”

  “No, of course not! We’ve both worked too hard to allow that.”

  “This plot you fear, Justinian. Are you certain it hasn’t been spawned by your fever rather than Justin? The man’s a peasant. Subtle intrigue isn’t his way.”

  Justinian let out a ragged breath. “Everyone says Justin’s a peasant. Why is that, when they can see with their own eyes he’s an emperor? And a ruthless one, peasant or not. Don’t you recall Amantius, the chamberlain who plotted to put his own man on the throne when Anastasius died? He gave money to Justin to buy support for his candidate. Justin used it for his own ambitious ends and within two weeks of taking the throne he had had Amantius executed.”

  “You own many eminent peoples’…admiration,” Theodora pointed out.

  “Like land holdings, people do not necessarily remain owned by the same person.”

  “But to accuse you, emperor in all but name, of having a hand in murder! Surely that is impossible? After all, emperors may kill. They cannot commit murder.”

  “I am not yet emperor and my name is linked to the Blues, some of whom are accused of the murder of Hypatius. More such links will be forged soon. You’ll see.”

  “Justin is a doddering old man. Such a plot is beyond him.”

  “It is not beyond Proclus. Or many others.” Theodora traced Justinian’s lips with her fingertip. “What about that slave you rescued from the dungeon? Has he discovered anything useful?”

  “Not yet.”

  Theodora gave a throaty chuckle. “Amantius. Wasn’t he a eunuch like this slave of yours? Would it not be a delightful irony after Justin, having bested a eunuch for the throne, hatched a plot against you that was foiled by another of those creatures? However, you say this slave is not proving to be useful?”

  “I said he has discovered nothing yet. He is intelligent and a fighter and I am certain will prove useful even if he never learns a single thing of value to us concerning the current matter. For example, already certain people realize I have my eye on them through him. In fact, I may well have other delicate missions for such a man.”

  Theodora smiled. “And a slave is expendable!” She brought her face closer to Justinian’s. “Do you think Justin actually sees Euphemia?”

  Justinian registered surprise at the question.

  “Might it not be that two people become so close they cannot be parted, even by death?”

  “That’s something you’d have to ask a philosopher. Or perhaps the Patriarch.”

  Theodora stood abruptly. The movement sent her perfume swirling around Justinian. “I will not let anyone steal our empire from us! Soon you will assume your rightful place.”

  “But first I must recover my strength.”

  “Are you really so unwell, my love?” Theodora leaned across the bed and pulled one of Justinian’s hands up to her breast. “Perhaps you are not quite as ill as you think?”

  With the easy grace of the mime she had once been, she was suddenly straddling him. The servant who had advanced to wipe Justinian’s forehead yet again could not suppress a gasp. She began to retreat.

  Theodora stopped her with a glare.

  “Continue to wipe his brow, and mine also, until I tell you to stop.”

 
***

  “What’s my nephew up to, that’s what I want to know.” Justin had returned to his private quarters and was now reclining on a stained and threadbare couch. The rest of the furnishings, their wood smooth with wear rather than polishing, Justin’s own furniture obtained early in his career, matched the well-worn couch. They formed a strange contrast to the heavy purple and gold wall hangings Euphemia had commissioned.

  “You have employed others to answer that, Caesar,” Proclus replied. “For example, that excubitor whose services you pressed upon the City Prefect. Personally, I do not believe your nephew is even able to walk unaided at present. You may need to choose a new successor before long.”

  “I wager if I dropped dead right now, he’d be out of that soft bed before my bowels had let go,”

  “Why do you question your own judgment of the man? You brought him to Constantinople, educated him and made him your heir, after all. It can’t be because of Theodora, surely? Men must satisfy their urges according to their particular desires.”

  “Whores are to be used, not married. By your remarks, do I take it that you’ve transferred allegiance to him?”

  “No, Caesar. None of us has.”

  “No? Do you think I don’t keep track of his visitors? The list goes from Aurelius to Zeno. Justinian’s shared in my wealth and used it to buy the whole Senate and half the aristocracy.”

  “They support Justinian because you do, Caesar.”

  The emperor glanced peevishly at his two attendants, now stationed beside the couch. “Look at me, being carted around like an infant. You would think my nephew would have the grace to wait until the Lord calls me instead of plotting to hasten me on my journey.”

  “It is the fate of all to die one day, leaving others to carry on. No one can be faulted for outliving the dead. We are all guilty of it.”

  “Do you think I’m angry at Justinian because he’s younger than I am?”

  “It’s easy to arrange matters for our heirs when we’re young enough that such planning is likely unnecessary. But when we grow older, when we realize our plans will eventually be carried out, often we may wish to rethink them.”

  “You are advising me to choose someone else as my successor, are you not, Proclus?”

  “I was merely commenting in general terms, Caesar. I apologize most humbly if I offended you.”

  “You’re sorry? I doubt it! You remind me of someone. No, something. Remember that crate-load of busts that arrived from Rome? King Theodoric’s gift? All those old marble heads, with chipped noses and blind stares. Senators from the time of the Republic or bakers with money to burn, like as not. My workmen used them to fill in the hole when they removed that broken fountain in Euphemia’s garden. You remind me of those very busts. Just stone, not flesh and blood. You’ve turned against me too. I can see it in those polished eyes.” The emperor’s voice had risen to a querulous whine.

  “Caesar—”

  Justin winced and grabbed at his injured leg. “Where’s that numbing ointment the Gourd makes for me? No. Wait, I don’t want you getting it. Summon a servant.”

  Grimacing, Justin twisted around on the couch, to look for his attendants. His moist lower lip began to tremble.

  “Wait! I see it all now. That’s how it will be, isn’t it? How much has he paid you? How much?” he demanded of the two men.

  They looked down at the flaccid ruin of the man whom they served. Their faces registered surprise, then confusion, and then, as Justin continued to rant, panic.

  “Of course it’s you two. It’s so clear! Who else is so close to me all the time? Always at my elbows or my back. I see it all now, from eggs to apples. Was it your plan, Proclus, or my nephew’s? That one day, rather than helping hands, there’d be the blade? Guards! Guards!”

  Before Proclus could respond the excubitors stationed outside the door were at the emperor’s side.

  “Let this serve as a lesson, my loyal quaestor.” Justin turned to the excubitors. “Take these two attendants outside for a little stroll around the garden. Then execute them both.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A sea breeze ruffled Tryphon’s white hair as he received John and Felix at the far end of his garden, set high above the mouth of the Golden Horn. He was an elegant, slim man. The white hair perfectly complimented his lean, patrician face.

  Despite constant exposure to raking winds bringing the tang of salt, Tryphon’s garden was almost unnaturally lush and green, the result of an artificially created abundance of water.

  Here, within sight and sound of its sister sea, sweet water flowed wherever the visitor looked. A dazzling white marble fountain, appropriately topped by a statue of several Nereids riding seahorses, splashed and gurgled at the end of a wide, meticulously raked gravel walk. Narrow pools whose wind-rippled slate gray surfaces were partially clothed in the flat pads of water lilies marked the perimeter of the flowerless garden. Neatly trimmed hedges of cypress formed wind breaks around claw-footed benches or served as a dark background for statues of great men or gods of such weathered antiquity as to be nearly indistinguishable from the mossy boulders that rose from pebbled beds set around willow trees.

  The Spartan design of the garden allowed no dainty blossoms that in summer would provide havens for bees. It seemed to John to be the retreat of a man not given to accumulation of the world’s luxuries, despite the well appointed rooms they had glimpsed while being ushered through the villa.

  The green marble shelter to which they had been led was latticed on four sides, its fifth open to the view. The only furniture was a pair of softly upholstered couches.

  Tryphon had been reading a scroll when John and Felix arrived.

  “Felicitations.” He laid his scroll aside, invited them to be seated and inquired as to the reason for their visit.

  Felix performed the ritual to which he and John had become accustomed, handing Tryphon their letter of introduction. The excubitor looked uncomfortable, his heavy bulk sunk too far into the pillows.

  “You’re fortunate to find me here,” Tryphon remarked genially after he had perused the letter. “Many of my fellow citizens have already left for their country estates. I intend to follow soon. Between Justinian’s illness, the uncertainty that such illness brings, and the violence in the streets, Constantinople is not a safe place. Your master, the Prefect, is to be commended on his efforts, but these Blues are as numerous and hard to trap as rats in a granary.” He returned the now crumpled and smudged letter, handling it carefully with the tips of his fingers.

  “Then Fortuna smiled by bringing us here before you departed,” Felix replied. “As the pagans would say,” he added quickly.

  “Indeed.” Tryphon gave him a keen look, hooded gray eyes sharp despite the years they had witnessed.

  “Speaking of country estates,” Felix continued, “it is our understanding that certain landowners are beginning to express fears, in private at least, that Justinian may decide to confiscate properties under color of law. More exactly, through incorrectly executed wills.”

  Tryphon’s heavy eyelids veiled his thoughts as he examined the black and white pebbled floor of his retreat with apparent interest before answering. “It is a bold man indeed who would express such fears in public. In private, wine loosens the tongue and leads to regrettable comments.”

  “Do you fear such confiscations?”

  Tryphon shook his head. “No, and I have a large number of holdings and so much to lose. More perhaps than most of the tongue-waggers you mention. Though even mine pale compared to those that belonged to Hypatius. As many will tell you, he was rapidly accumulating properties at the time of his death. I imagine you already knew that?”

  Felix ignored the baited question and threw out one of his own. “Are many estates changing hands of late?”

  “Yes. And I anticipate that Hypatius’ properties will be next. It was rather a pity, really, that he was not allowed time to enjoy them. The last three h
e purchased were particularly desirable. Had I heard a day or two earlier that Trenico had them on the auction block, I would have put in a bid myself. However, since Hypatius had already purchased considerable property from him, I suppose we cannot be surprised Trenico would give him the first opportunity to buy more.”

  Felix, with a swift glance at John, asked why Trenico was disposing of so much land.

  “Surely you’ve heard that his finances are not at all sound at the moment? He’s now said to be contemplating selling a certain vineyard. If so, I shall be making a bid on it. It produces excellent wines, if the ones I have sampled at his dinner parties are any example.”

  “His rumored financial circumstances suggest this would be an excellent time to make a reasonable offer.” John’s tone was dry.

  “An even better one to make a modest bid. I cannot be the only one who intends to wait another season before declaring interest. By then his circumstances will make him happy to accept an even lower price than he would right now.”

  “Your comments suggest you and Trenico are not on the best of terms.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. We are men of business. You might say that we are like two friends who bet against each other at the races. However well I may best Trenico now and then, I still do not see him falling into destitution.”

  “It’s also possible that his finances will have improved by next year. There are rumors of him making a good marriage.”

  Tryphon laughed. “That’s the nature of the Great Palace! Full of whisperers in dark corners and plotting in the bushes. I’ve heard the same. I don’t believe a word of it! Mind you, there are apparently any number of courtiers betting against the success of his suit for the hand of a certain senator’s daughter.”

  “May I ask about Hypatius?” John put in, struggling to keep his voice level. The very thought of Trenico attempting to solve his financial problems by a union with Lady Anna angered him. To a greater extent, he realized, than was reasonable. “Do you have any thoughts on who might have wished Hypatius dead? Someone with whom he had had business dealings, perhaps?”