Seven for a Secret (21 page)

“Consider the situation, Felix! We have the illegitimate son of an empress—a former actress—who should never have been permitted to marry Justinian in the first place. The city harbors a virtual army of malcontents—former high officials and courtiers who have lost their positions, senators who have had their lands confiscated. In many cases those who fell into disfavor were executed but the emperor is not in the habit of executing entire families. Those who remain behind, condemned to scratch out a living on the streets, are naturally bitter. It’s a golden opportunity for an ambitious man.”

“Then you’d better explain it to me.”

John was aware of an increase in the throbbing in his head. A wave of dizziness hit him. Two Felixes were standing by the window, tugging at a pair of beards.

John squeezed his eyes shut and when he opened them again only one Felix remained. “Rumors have killed more than one innocent man, as we both know. I am telling you to be extremely careful in what you say in public or indeed private,” he said. “I would not care to see a close friend condemned to death.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“Do you know how many girls are in my charge?” said the abbess. “And considering their earlier lives, how many do you suppose might have a tattoo of one sort or another?”

Anatolius had taken a boat across the Marmara only to run aground on the rock of the abbess.

The head of Theodora’s convent for reformed prostitutes rose ponderously from the cushioned chair behind her desk. She was dressed in shapeless black robes. The veil covering her head fastened beneath her chin, and revealed a weathered granite face.

“Now, sir, I have duties awaiting me,” she went on. “I serve one far more exalted than yourself, whatever your position at the palace.”

Although John had discovered the identity of the dead woman and was now directing his investigations toward the whereabouts of Theodora’s supposed son, Anatolius could not let go of the idea that the tattoo was somehow important. Agnes’ history was, after all, mostly gaps. It was entirely possible that a clue to her murder might be found in her past.

It seemed to Anatolius that he had visited every brothel in the vicinity of the Copper Market. He knew, however, that some had been shut down by Theodora, their residents sent to the convent.

What if the tattoo had not been a scarab overlain by an ankh? What if Agnes had reformed and sought to renounce her past by having a cross drawn over the pagan symbol? She might very well have spent time in Theodora’s convent. Someone there might know her.

It was worth the short journey to investigate. Or so he had thought until he came up against the abbess.

“This is a matter of considerable importance,” Anatolius persisted.

“What goes on in the sinful world outside is of no consequence inside these walls. It is my job to ensure that my girls do not concern themselves with such things. I cannot have them reminded of their former ways.”

Rising from cliffs overlooking the water, the convent had the appearance of a fortress protecting those within from all invaders, particularly those of the male gender who were not permitted to venture far into the building. Anatolius had penetrated no further than the administrative office, escorted there by an elderly gatekeeper.

He wondered about the abbess’ own background. Had she been in charge of a brothel or plied her trade in the alleys of the city? “Do you by any chance know Madam Isis,” he asked. “Or rather did you know her?”

“You’re referring to a brothel keeper?”

“Well, she’s well known in the city and I thought perhaps…”

The nostrils in the stony face flared. “You are acquainted with her, it would seem. I suggest you avail yourself of our visitors’ chapel on your way out, sir.”

The abbess summoned the gatekeeper and instructed him to show Anatolius to the chapel for a cleansing prayer and then escort him from the building.

Anatolius went out into the hall, feeling sheepish. He could hardly wrestle the abbess to the floor and make a run for the living quarters.

The gatekeeper could not provide any information either—or would not—as he led Anatolius down a side corridor and indicated the chapel door.

“I’ll wait for you here,” he wheezed, sitting on a bench under a window opposite the door.

Anatolius hesitated. Perhaps if he spent a little time in the chapel the abbess would be more inclined to cooperate with further inquiries?

It seemed unlikely, but it was worth consideration. Perhaps the elderly gatekeeper would go to sleep—or expire—allowing him to reenter the premises.

He entered a small domed room with a raised platform at one end. A cool sea breeze carried the cries of gulls through slitted windows. Looking up he saw that the dome was adorned by frescoes of two haloed women who might have been twins.

“Theodora’s the one with the chalice. Mary’s got the baby, see?” The speaker rose from scrubbing the flagstones. She was dressed in black clothing like the abbess but the pale oval face was decades younger.

“I thought none of you were allowed to talk to men?” Anatolius whispered, conscious of the gatekeeper sitting outside.

The penitent smiled. “Don’t worry about Simon, he’s half deaf. You’re from the palace, aren’t you?”

Anatolius admitted it was so.

“I knew it! I learned to tell what part of society men came from in my former employment!”

“According to the abbess, you should’ve forgotten all that,” Anatolius replied.

“I wish I could. I wish I’d never been hauled away from the city. If they aren’t preaching at us, they’re making us pray. I pray they’ll release me, but you might as well talk to the wall.” She went over to one of the narrow windows. “Some girls have thrown themselves into the sea from sheer boredom. The authorities keep that from public knowledge.”

“You’re not considering killing yourself?”

“No, not usually, but when I see one such as you, it reminds me of the real world. They named this place Repentance. What I repent is having to live here.” She leaned forward and light reflected off the waves below flickered across her face.

Anatolius tried to imagine the youthful features highlighted by cosmetics. Isis would doubtless consider her an ornament. “Don’t be foolish,” he said. “One day perhaps you will return to the world.”

The girl stepped back. “But when my broken body is embraced by rocks and waves, my immortal soul will soar up to heaven, or so I’m told. My name’s Agnella, by the way.”

“And mine’s Anatolius. Why such gloomy thoughts, Agnella? Didn’t you come here of your own accord? To be…um…reformed. It must be less of a hard life than working, better than a hand to mouth existence?”

“I’d rather live hand to mouth in the city, sir, sinful as that might sound. What is the point of locking yourself up? As long as you’re in your flesh you’re in the real world, no matter how many locked doors surround you.”

The girl gave a harsh laugh. “But how could I refuse Theodora’s imperial invitation to live here?” she went on. “One backed up by a company of excubitors, who pulled me right out of the arms of a rustic boy on his first visit to the capital. I hadn’t even showed him the glories of Constantinople. The empress sent enough armed men to put down a riot. When we all realized what was going to happen to us, they did have to put down a riot. The abbess had arranged for them to swoop down on us while we were, well, distracted, see? At her age she was ready to wear black. Miserable old crow. At least she got to enjoy her life.”

Anatolius asked how long Agnella had been pursuing her profession.

“Nearly three whole weeks, sir,” she replied.

“A few months longer and you might have been happier to retire here.”

Agnella pursed her unpainted but full lips into a pout. “I’m so bored I can’t bear it. Now if you’re bored too, sir, there’s a room where we store buckets and such. Perfectly private. The abbess would as soon pick up a snake as scrub a floor.”

“I must decline, Agnella,” Anatolius replied, not certain if she was jesting or not.

“But, sir, if we got caught, they’d throw me out of this wretched place.”

“And if we weren’t?”

“If I was to, er, well, be discovered as being with child, they’d banish me just the same.”

“No, I…I really can’t, Agnella…”

“You can’t?”

Anatolius shook his head. “No.”

“You don’t mean you’re one of them—”

“Yes. I’m a eunuch.”

He wasn’t sure why the excuse had suddenly popped into his head and he immediately regretted his words. They had the intended effect though. Perhaps even too strong an effect. He saw her jaw clench and her eyes narrow. He could almost sense her shrink away from him. Nothing pained him more than the disapproval of a pretty woman. He realized he didn’t much like being a eunuch.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, sir.” Agnella’s voice shook.

“Don’t worry, I won’t report you to the abbess, if that’s what you’re afraid of. We’re not all treacherous and deceitful beings, you know.”

“I was so hoping…”

“Never mind, doubtless another man will arrive to carry you off in good time.”

“Yes, a man to take me away from here, that’s what I’m praying for.”

Anatolius had a sudden thought. “Doesn’t anyone ever leave this place except in disgrace or out a window? I’ve been told about a woman who arrived here of her own accord and renounced her profession, but then left. Agnes was her name.”

“It’s not one I’ve heard,” the girl replied. “If she was here, she managed to get away. Who was she?”

“She was the daughter of a tax collector. Her father ran afoul of the emperor. He lost his head and the family was thrown into the street, which was where Agnes found work. She had herself tattooed with a pagan symbol. When she decided to change her ways she declared her intent by having a cross overlaid upon it. She must have been bored here also, to wish to leave such sanctuary.” This history was mostly conjecture and invention, but Anatolius did not reveal that.

Agnella knelt down again and made a few desultory swipes at the stones, as if deciding to resume her cleaning. “I’ve never heard tell of a woman like that. It must be even harder to come here once you’ve lived at the palace. There was a girl who arrived a while ago fleeing someone from the palace. Imagine that! I don’t know what her name was. I heard about it, never talked to her myself.”

“What was said about this woman?”

“The story I heard was while she was working, a regular customer of hers—a high official—took more than the usual sort of liking to her. He insisted he wanted to marry her. Some day, not right away, and yet talk that any girl would hope to hear, I should think.”

“High officials are not usually free to marry prostitutes, whatever they might say.”

Agnella’s expression was one of disapproval. “That’s what she thought. I say you take your chance. What better opportunity are the likes of us going to get? But she fled here, hoping to be forgotten. She didn’t like it any better than I do. Finally she left.”

“She was allowed to leave?”

“Only because this official wouldn’t let her alone. He kept appearing here and pressing the abbess to release her. I suppose the abbess was tired of being annoyed.”

“Or she feared the palace might get involved. ”

“The abbess isn’t likely to give any of us girls any reasons. All I know is she let her leave.”

“When was this?”

“Oh. I have no idea. It was just a rumor. Recently, I believe.”

“I don’t suppose you have any inkling of where she intended to go?”

“Why yes, sir, I do. It caused much tongue wagging. She knew an actress in the city and was going to stay with her. And the abbess let her go, despite all the talk about our souls.”

Agnella directed a mournful stare at Anatolius. “Such a pity when I am so terribly bored and you have such a nice face. But then, I suppose, in your condition, you are never bored in that way.”

Chapter Forty

The boy had fled into the Copper Market and vanished into thin air.

It was as if he was a demon, according to the guards who had pursued him. Or so said Theodoulos, who had not himself witnessed the pursuit or disappearance.

John had not been able to locate and question the guards concerned. Perhaps they had been executed, just as the dwarf had said. John did not trust Theodoulos.

The Copper Market was not an enormous quarter, but its streets and alleyways seemed without end. John had lost track of how many thoroughfares he had hiked up and down, wide streets and narrow, straight and twisted, a few boasting colonnades, most without.

He had spoken to shopkeepers, servants on their way to market, beggars, laborers going to and from their jobs, and prostitutes, not to mention several members of the Blue faction swaggering around in search of a reason to start a fight.

No one recalled seeing a boy pursued through the streets by guards from the palace. Was it surprising? It had been at least ten years ago. In that time riots, fires, and the recent plague would have buried such a trivial incident deep beneath more dramatic and horrific memories.

Still, it was not every day a boy vanished into thin air.

“What did you say? Palace guards?” The wizened man in the candle shop turned his head toward John, as if straining to hear the question. “Yes, I remember that, sir. I looked out and saw soldiers. There was a big man with a beard. Someone was lying in the street. Couldn’t make him out too well. He wore dark robes. He was probably some dandy from the court who came looking for trouble and got more than he bargained for.”

John thanked the shopkeeper and returned to the street. What the man had recalled was the aftermath of the attack on John.

Somewhere in the labyrinth of shops, tenements, and foundries there was someone who would have reason to recall a minor event from years ago. Perhaps the boy had knocked over a servant on his way home from the market and scattered a perfectly good basketful of vegetables onto the street and the guards chasing the lad had trampled most of them before he could retrieve them from the cobbles.

Unless the servant could somehow replace the goods, he would remember such an incident.

Especially if he was employed at the palace, where discipline could be harsh.

That was grasping at phantoms, John realized. The chances of him finding such a witness were almost non existent.

He had come to the entrance to the courtyard where the theatrical troupe was located. He had already passed the spot once. Troilus was too young to have maintained his establishment at the time of the chase. What was now used as a theater would have been a brothel. Should he interview the dye maker Jabesh? Perhaps not. Those John was seeking in the crowded, cramped city—plotters against the emperor and Agnes’ murderer, or murderers, one and the same or not—could not be far away.

Unless they had fled Constantinople.

Word might have already reached them, since he had spent all morning and half the afternoon trudging around the area repeating the same questions. By tomorrow morning rumors would begin to spread and people would be convinced a boy had been seen fleeing soldiers from the palace. So and so had heard it from a most reliable source.

The tale of the fleeing boy might well replace the inevitable gossip about a tall stranger who had been seen again and again in the Copper Market.

John walked on until he found himself at the square where he had met Agnes, the center of the entire affair.

Rising up over the rooftops at one end of the square was the granite column of the stylite.

Who had lived up there for how long? The stylite would have been able to see not only the square, but the surrounding streets and alleys as well.

He had this same thought days ago. Then he had wanted to question the holy man—Lazarus, his acolyte had called him—to establish whether he had noticed anything on the morning Agnes had been killed.

The acolyte had said Lazarus would not speak of worldly things and at the time John had not considered it worthwhile to press the matter.

Now he would not be deterred.

Let Lazarus speak for himself—or not.

John craned his neck to look upward.

He could make out the stylite’s motionless, bowed head through the window of his ramshackle shelter. How did he pass the time? Did he meditate on the evils of the world? Pray silently?

A life so constrained, such rigid self control, was not unknown. John had seen a stylite glistening in the morning sun on a bitter day, the man’s emaciated body covered with a sheen of ice from the driving rain of the previous night.

A lifetime of bodily suffering was a transitory inconvenience compared to the eternal glory such men anticipated.

The door in the back of the column swung open when John pushed. Lazarus and his acolyte put more faith in their god than in locks. He ducked under the low lintel and started up a stairway resembling a stone ladder. Light filtered in from above. There were two landings, both almost blocked by wicker baskets. John did not pause to examine their contents. When he reached the second landing he could see the open trapdoor leading out to the platform atop the column.

Cautiously, he poked his head into the open air and looked around.

There was something wrong.

What?

John sniffed.

That was it.

There was no smell.

He had been on top of the stylite column more than once in the past. He knew that to glorify their god such solitaries dwelt for years amidst the decaying refuse from their scant meals, dead vermin, and their own filth. When the breezes were in a particular direction, standing downwind from such a pillar was enough to take away the appetite.

Yet here there was no odor at all. The air smelled fresher than it did in the square below.

John pulled himself up onto the platform. It was wider than most. There was room for a man to lie down, but not much more.

Constantinople stretched out around him. He could see the dome of the Great Church, the Hippodrome, and the palace grounds. Sunlight struck sparks off the water on three sides.

A man perched up here would have been able to see a great deal.

On the other hand, the acolyte had insisted Lazarus would never talk about what went on below him.

John turned carefully to face the shelter. It was hardly more than a few weathered planks. The door which made up the front was shut.

“Lazarus,” John called out. “I am sorry to intrude on you. The matter is urgent.”

He was not surprised that there was no reply.

“I am seeking to bring a murderer to justice,” John went on. “I am hoping you will be able to help me.”

John grasped the edge of the ill-fitting door and gave it a tug.

It opened a crack and he peered into the enclosed space.

Lazarus lay rigidly, at an awkward angle, head against the back wall and feet against the door.

John opened the door wider.

The holy man slid out onto the platform feet first.

His head hit the platform with a clank and came off.

His arms remained bent at the elbows, fingertips pressed together just under his chin in an attitude of prayer. His face, sitting beside his shoulder, appeared frozen in an expression of eternal beatitude.

Sunlight glinted off the smooth, bronze features.

Lazarus the stylite was an automaton.