Column 06/12/2023: Death of the Son, Episode Three: The Haunted Palace

Death of the Son, Episode Three: The Haunted Palace

[A continuation of my pulpish historical-fiction story on the deaths of Constantine's son Crispus and wife Fausta in AD 326. Part one may be found here, and part two here.]

"Theodotus."

In a heartbeat she had entered the room, her bare feet floating just above the marble floor. Moonlight surrounded her, but did not reflect off her or the jewels that covered her; it merely hung about her, illuminating and discoloring, turning rubies to sapphires and gold to silver. She was dressed as he had seen her statue in Antioch, in a long tunic with gems sewn in elaborate patterns down the front. Her hair, dark as the night air, was teased elaborately into rows of curls and bound just behind her head, exposing a long, slender neck wound about with gold chains, a neck too thin to hold up the ponderous diadem that bowed down the top of her head; but she stood erect and wore no veil. 

When he saw her, he made to get up from his bed, but his legs felt heavy, like lead; he managed to swing them to the floor, but there they sat, fixed in place, refusing to lift him. His arms too were like weights, pinned to the bed at his side. Another second more, and she had sat down beside him, with no weight, no presence, not even a whisper of breath; her face seen up close was hard and angular, with full lips and a long nose; her eyes, large and dark, looked intently into his.

"Theodotus." She said again.

"Yes, Empress."

"Theodotus. You must help me."

A wave of familiar emotions swept over him, sorrow, contempt, anger...for a second, his voice caught in his throat.

"I'm sorry. It is too late."

But her face only moved closer to his, and one of her hands, small but with long fingers, touched his arm; it was cold as ice. She was no longer dressed in her finery, but in the rags of the young woman in the arena; the wound he had made on her face, under her mouth, dripped blood. "No, Theodotus. Not for me. For my children. My children. My children. My children. My children. My..."

Her voice grew more shrill with each repetition, and the cold on his left arm grew more intense, spreading up his arm to his shoulder and across to his chest. He cried out; and in a second more, old instincts had taken over, and he had leapt up out of his bed, clutching at a non-existent spatha. 

For a moment, he merely stood there, panicked, in the dark, in utter terror. This was not his room; his sword was missing; his arm and side were cold; the floor cold under his feet; no sign of his cohort; totally alone; exposed to attack...

Then as he had done so many times, he forced his mind like liquid metal back into the mold he had made for it, cooled it, sharpened it, and wielded it like a weapon against his fears. He had no sword; he was a deacon of the Church of God, forbidden to possess or carry one. His cohort was absent; they had betrayed him, or he them. His arm and side were cold; there was a water jug on the floor, near his bed; he had upset it upon himself as he slept. This was not his room; he had no home, but where was he? The floor was cold because it was of ornate colored marbles; he was in the Imperial palace in Rome, sent by his bishop on an impossible mission, to uncover the murder of an Emperor's son.

But where was the Empress? 

"The Empress is dead." He said aloud, to himself, to the night air, to the world. Then he sat back down, and buried his head in his hands. 

Five minutes later, he was dressed in his simple black tunic, and had let himself out of his room into the unlit corridors. It is fortunate I awoke so early. He told himself, pushing irrelevant thoughts and emotions back into the locked chamber of his mind. If I had been less tired and thinking more clearly last night, I should have made plans to do so. He looked around him, trying to remember the route on which he had been led the night before, then nodded, and began walking more quickly. 

Last night I heard the story as it has been spread broad among the courtiers...

He, Apollon, and the fat priest had been huddled in Theodotus' room, sharing around water from the jug by his bed. The priest, who in Rome was known as Syrus (but that could not be his real name), had clutched his fat fingers together in alarm and rocked back and forth, almost weeping, as he explained. 

"It was terrible; it is simply terrible. God is wrathful; the Church of God is in grave danger. Blood guilt haunts us. It is all coming apart..."

But Theodotus, as he was long accustomed to do with the witnesses of the episcopal court, had calmed him with questions and assurances, and the strange little man had continued his story, in a high-pitched voice, still clutching his hands together as if seeking reassurance from himself. His story was frustratingly fragmented, but Theodotus was used to that too.

"When Crispus died, the Emperor...well, all went on as before. The same speeches, just...they removed his statues, of course, and we were forbidden to speak of him, like the pagan Emperors did. Hosius...well, you will meet him soon. Hosius was very upset; but other bishops here...he will tell you about that. We whispered about it, of course, behind closed doors. Chreon told me...anyway, that was the first month, perhaps more. Then the Empress came back; Helena that is, the Emperor's mother. She had been staying in the City, with the widows, praying. Fausta was here the entire time; she rarely saw Crispus, he was in Trier and she in the East, but she spent much time with him here. Always off by themselves, talking; or more than talking, some said. Not that I would believe it of either of them. A fine young man, and a good woman.

"The Emperor used to go quiet and watch them at the banquets sometimes. I worried about that; a good man, the Emperor, but not baptized. The passions of the flesh need the correction of the Spirit...well, when Crispus was sent away, all that stopped, of course. She was with the Emperor all the time, always hanging on his arm, laughing...a lovely woman, the Empress. Fausta, that is. But when the Empress arrived, she withdrew, as she always did. 

"The Emperor loves his mother, everyone knows it, and there is nothing shameful in that. According to nature. If only more men felt the same way. Paganism leads to unnatural cruelty, I can point to many examples. My own mother, of blessed memory, more honor from me than Juno...but then, only a few days after the Empress arrived, the Empress...it was in the morning, only a week ago now. I can still remember it well.

"We were all awoken, the slaves were screaming and crying, officials rushing here and there...the very opposite of Crispus. I heard the whole story later from Philippos; but really, most of us saw something. They found her body...well, how could it have been an accident? It's impossible. She was attended day and night by her own servants, good women, all Christians, I baptized two myself last winter; and she couldn't even have heated it by herself. 

"Heated what? Oh, the baths, of course. She was in the steam room, dead. Suffocated, some say; others scalded to death. So strange, so strange. Couldn't be an accident. Trying to have an abortion, Germinius says; not that I would believe such a thing of the Empress. Or suicide. But why? Such a lovely woman, such fine sons, a fine husband. And her servants, good Christian women; would they have helped? Certainly not. Baptized myself...know the laws of Christ.

"Murder then. But who would murder in such a way? Not an Emperor...Crispus I can understand. It is pagan, like Saturn, like all their gods; but it has been done before. But to kill a wife, the mother of three sons, in such a way...? It is not only against nature, but against reason. If the Emperor has done such a thing, then he is utterly mad. And no one has seen him. The speeches have stopped, ceremonies. Only a few priests and bishops...we are all in such trouble."

Syrus had looked up at him, fixing his eyes on Theodotus' with the same intent expression, half desperation, half hope, that so many victims in court had done: can you fix this? And Theodotus, as he had always done, had turned aside. Apollon had frankly wept during the whole speech; and not long after, both priests had left, and he had gone to bed. 

I will have to follow up on what he told me, speak to Hosius, the priests and bishops and even Imperial officials if I can; but it will be a long and trying process, sifting motives and fragments of gossip and detecting lies. And to do that well, what I need most of all is another story, from a different source altogether, to compare it with. And for that, I must speak to the only people who will be awake at this hour of the night.

He had reached a larger chamber, decorated with couches and tables, a guest dining room perhaps. As he drew near, the gentle murmur of voices sounded in his ears, and his eyes were gently scalded by the light of oil lamps. It was the slaves, of course; two of them, cleaning and speaking and laughing to each other in low voices. As he entered the room, they froze, briefly; but a second later, they had visibly relaxed, seeing his deacon's robes--and, more importantly, the threadbareness of his deacon's robes. The more ornate set that Apollon had provided for him, "for use at court," remained locked safely in his quarters. 

"Greetings, Despota." A pale slave with yellow hair and blue eyes had stepped forward, and Theodotus had to restrain a slight revulsion at the sight--it had been a long time since he had seen a German. But from his voice and mannerisms, the man was a Christian, and therefore, as the old man had said, a brother and a lamb. "What brings you out of bed at this watch of the night? Can we fetch anything for you?" He spoke Greek with the odd formality of those more used to Latin. 

Theodotus considered his options for a brief moment, then decided that the direct approach would be best. He replied in Latin: "I am looking for the servants of the Empress Fausta. I wish to speak with them." 

The German considered him silently for a moment; he did not seem surprised. Then another of the slaves, a more normal-looking Roman with dark hair and dark eyes, stepped to his side, a pagan by the disgust with which he eyed the crosses on Theodotus' tunic. "Trying to find a sin, are you, Father? Not the first of your kind to ask after them. They need none of your forgiveness, nor does the Emperor. He has done nothing but his right, as husband and father. And our kind are beneath sin, as everyone knows. Go back to bed, Father."

But the German had put his hand on the Roman's arm. "Despota, I'm sorry. After the Blessed Fausta's death, her servants were all scattered. Some have been sent from the court. But if your Master is concerned for their souls' safety, a priest visited them the day after, and gave them his blessing before they were dispersed." 

Theodotus considered his options for a moment. "I will relay that information to my Master. What priest visited them?"

The German shrugged. "I do not know him; he is not one of those that trouble themselves with us." He hesitated. "From the East; a Greek or a Syrian. One can tell from the accent. Though you have none, Master." He cocked an eyebrow at Theodotus.

He did not react. "However, if you could tell me where I could speak to one of them..." Theodotus paused. "There are other sins to be considered." 

The Roman sneered, but the German nodded, his eyes grave. "Yes," he said. He too paused for a moment. "There are many sins in this palace. Not just sins of slaves. Sometimes I think the priests here forget that."

Theodotus relaxed. So I have found an ally...in a German slave. He silently blessed the old man.

"I am Theodotus, a deacon of Antioch, serving my Lord Bishop Eustathius. He has tasked me with uncovering these sins."

The German bowed low, with the stiff formality he had seen in others of his race. "I am called Flavius. My name in my own tongue has not been spoken since I was boy." He motioned to his Roman companion. "This is Callistus." 

Theodotus bowed to the Roman slave, whose sneer turned to surprise at this unaccustomed honor. "Can you take me to one of the Empresses' slaves?" Flavius nodded, and after a second turned and led Theodotus out of the room and into the labyrinth of the Palace, with Callistus trailing uncertainly behind.

For Theodotus, who had never before been in such a building, his trip through the Palace was like a dream--one haunted with reminisces of the spectral woman, in a patch of moonlight, a pale wall, jeweled fabric draped across a chair, and here and there the looming figure of a statue of a woman. Long dark corridors, honeycombs of bedrooms, rooms for soldiers, for guards, for courtiers, sitting rooms, bedrooms, kitchens with their fires burning through the night, storerooms packed with wine and oil and grain, and everywhere crowds of slaves moving soundlessly to and fro, grinding grain, baking bread, cleaning geese and ducks, cutting and broiling the flesh of pigs and cows, cleaning images and walls and floors and couches, talking and laughing one to another in lowered voices. An entire Palace, an entire Church in itself, that would vanish almost without a trace as soon as dawn came. 

As they walked, Theodotus took the opportunity to speak to his new companion, to learn the story as it was seen from this side of the Palace. 

"Fausta did not speak to slaves other than to her own servants; but they loved her greatly. Crispus we do not know at all, except from afar. The Emperor is a good man, a good master, but he puts his trust in his own officials, and in the Lord Bishops, and not in us. 

"The night before, she left her chambers, as you did, about this hour. She was very pale. Some said there were tears on her cheeks, though I did not see them. She was very loud, and calling for a bath in a loud voice. This was unusual, though the bath was not. The Empress bathes late at night from time to time, perhaps once in two months; they say she has difficulty sleeping, and finds that bathing soothes her. Sometimes she will even go to sleep in the bath. There is no danger: her servants watch over her faithfully, and each one would give her life for her. The bath-slaves used to grumble at this, but one of them, Rufus, is very old, and sleeps very little. They wake him, and he always receives a golden solidus for his troubles; and he is very happy to oblige. He would have bought his freedom already, but for dislike of his daughter's husband in the City. Perhaps he will do so now. 

"That night, though, the Empress was very loud, and more troubled than usual. I feared she would wake the whole Palace. And...she was accompanied, not merely by her servants and Rufus, but by an unfamiliar slave. A tall man, with dark skin, grey hair, beardless, with one eye. You understand, many of those in the Palace have their own slaves, who do not mix with us; but I do not know to whom he belonged. Some say he is a slave of the Emperor from the East; some that they have seen him serving the Persian Ambassador; others that he belongs to one or another of the bishops; and some swear that he was not a slave at all, but merely dressed as one that night, and that they have seen him banqueting at the Emperor's table." He shrugged. "For my part, I have never seen him before, and I do not believe that any of us has." 

There was a long pause. "None of us thought very much of this, you understand, that night. In the morning..." His face grew grave. "It was Martinus who found her. One of the bishops had requested a bath, and he went to prepare it. There was no one outside; not even her own servants. She was lying there, naked, but not in the bath, by the wall, the benches, as if she had fallen off. Very pale, he said, and already stiff with death. He was terrified; he thought they would blame him, and he cried aloud until others came, slaves who had been cleaning, including Flavius. There was no one else at all in that part of the palace; only more and more slaves gathering and gathering, screaming and screaming, until finally some of the soldiers came, with an official in purple, and a bearded bishop, and covered the body and carried it away. 

"Of course, we were all frightened. Slaves' testimony is not accepted without torture; and they would have tortured us all, and killed us if one of us was blamed. Many of us did not eat for days; though I did. I have feared worse things in my time." He smiled wryly to himself, and moved his head as though to shake off a fly.

"But there was no such thing. They did not even us ask us any questions. We were returned to our work, except that now the Emperor eats in private, and the Empress his mother eats in private, and the two do not speak to each other." His strange, pale face was open and sorrowful like a child's. "It is a very grave sin. We are here."

It was one of the bakeries, at the outskirts of the Palace, away from the main building. Slave and deacon pushed their way in through the milling bakers, Theodotus sweating heavily under his black robe, to find a female slave in one corner, a small, thin woman with dark curling hair kneading dough in silence.

"Marina," Flavius said, touching her gently on one shoulder. "This is Theodotus. He is a deacon of the Church. He wishes to speak with you."

The woman looked up in confusion. Her eyes were dark, and somewhat wild, and would not meet his. "Despota...I have no bread for you. It is still early. Go to the storeroom."

"He is not here for bread. He has been commanded by his bishop. He wishes to ask about the Blessed Empress."

Here her eyes became unmistakeably wild, and she stood up abruptly, dropping a ball of dough onto the floor. "Flavius! Will you leave me no peace? I have told you I will tell nothing; it is none of your concern. And now you bring a deacon! God knows my conscience. He has forgiven my sins. A deacon is nothing to me. Leave, Despota."

Flavius shook his head. "This is not my doing, Marina. His bishop commanded him. His bishop. Is it not a sending by God? I understand you will not speak to me, to a slave, to the rest of us...but he has been sent by God. I will withdraw. You can speak to him alone. But there are sins here, you know there are sins. Not yours, perhaps. I do not accuse you; the priest has heard your confession. But there are sins. Does God not uncover sins? Does he not task bishops with..." His voice was shrill, his Latin falling to pieces with the urgency of his speech, as if words long-stored-up were spilling out of him. Theodotus put his hand on his shoulder, and he fell silent. 

"Go, my friend," he said, and the German bowed his head and withdrew. 

Marina's eyes were still wild, and she was still glaring hard at Flavius' retreating back, but she had not left, and Theodotus could see rage battling with respect in her eyes. He sat down on an upturned barrel across from her, and after a moment she sat also. 

He drew a long breath and tried to modulate his voice into the soothing tones he always employed with witnesses. "Flavius did not send me. I sent him; and Eustathius, bishop of Great Antioch, sent me. Please, if you can tell me anything about Fausta, about Crispus..." Yet he found, to his surprise, a far greater depth of emotion in his voice than he had thought possible. The thin face of the Empress in his dream hovered before his eyes...

The slave-woman did not meet his eyes. "I am sorry, Despota. I can tell you nothing; nothing that you have not already heard."

"But why? You accompanied her to the baths; you were not there in the morning when they found her. You must have seen..."

The woman sighed, and seemed to collapse in on herself; the fire and anger left her eyes, and they seemed cold and empty. 

"What I have seen no one will ever know. Not because of the threats the soldiers made...I am a Christian. My uncle was a martyr. Not out of fear, but in honor of God. Because I have sworn."

Theodotus froze. This was the very last thing he had expected. Someone has been here before me; someone who understands how much slaves see. And someone who does not merely wish to escape prosecution...a slaves' testimony would not threaten. Someone who wished no one to even know. 

He leaned forward, unconsciously grasping the slave-woman's arm as Fausta had grasped his. "Who told you to swear?"

"He did, when he came to me; to swear by Christ and the Martyrs. The priest who forgave my sins..."

So I have an enemy; not a pagan or an Emperor, even if the Emperor has killed his son; but a Christian and a cleric. And this enemy is wiser than I.

And at that he grew suddenly weary, so weary that it seemed a burden merely to think; and he got up, and thanked the woman and Flavius, and returned to his bed, sleeping fitfully, with Fausta's moonlit face in his eyes and the cries of the woman in the arena in his ears, until the morning.