Seven for a Secret (23 page)

Chapter Forty-Three

The establishment belonging to Madam Isis, with its lavish wall hangings, bright frescoes, and lewd statuary, might have occupied a different world than Alba’s austere quarters. Yet, after Anatolius’ servant delivered the message, it took John no longer to walk from his house to Isis’ than it would have taken him to walk to Alba’s room.

Anatolius greeted him at the door of a room strewn with cushions and dominated by a large figure of Bacchus. “John, I’m sorry to ask you to meet me here, but I returned home very late last night. I wanted to ask Isis some questions without delay. Besides which, I didn’t think a written communication was wise, although I’m afraid I’ve learnt little.”

John wondered too if his friend didn’t care to face Cornelia’s wrath if she found him at the door, apparently intent on dragging John out on more investigations.

They crossed the room to talk to Isis, who was watching the diminutive self-styled magician, Dedi. The rosy-cheeked, plump madam, dressed in multi-hued silks, hardly seemed the same sort of creature as the pale, black-garbed, pious woman John had spoken to the day before.

But even among birds there were crows and there were peacocks, John reminded himself.

Isis clasped her pudgy, beringed fingers over John’s hand. “I was beginning to think I’d never see you again, John. I was afraid you’d joined our friend Captain Felix in spurning my house.”

“I suspect Felix has been as busy as I have of late, Isis. I’ll visit so we can talk when I’ve straightened out…the situation.”

Isis waved her hand and laughed. “Oh, Anatolius has told me all about it. You don’t have to worry, you know nothing that goes on in my house is spoken of outside it. If it did, I’d soon be out of business.”

She gave Dedi a pointed look. He was setting the contents of a leather bag out on a table. He grinned, exposing wildly crooked teeth. “You may rely on my discretion, Lord Chamberlain. Demons could not pry anything from my lips.”

“I wish I could be of more help,” Isis continued. “Alas, no one I know claims knowledge of a prostitute with a tattoo such as described. But then I don’t reveal much about my girls to my competitors, so I can’t expect them to tell me about theirs, can I? However, I’m not surprised it was an Egyptian design. Tattoos are more popular with the girls there. Didn’t you find it to be so when you lived in Alexandria?”

“I was a young man then,” John replied. “I hardly remember what it was like being myself, let alone what tattoos the girls wore.”

Isis clucked her disapproval. “If they had been my employees, you would remember them! But I was young then too, and just a working girl myself. I’m just as happy we didn’t meet in the course of business. If we had, our reminiscences would be far different.”

“Indeed.” John did not add that he had no memory of them meeting in Alexandria, as Isis always maintained they had, her accounts embroidered with colorful details. It was said that the past became clearer when one grew old. Perhaps someday he would remember and realize she had been right all along.

“Won’t you stay for Dedi’s next performance?”

John expressed his regret he could not do so.

“That’s a pity, John,” Anatolius said. “I know you’ve seen his work before, but he has unveiled some new magick. What I witnessed was quite remarkable. There’s an urn which supplies either wine or water or a mixture of both, not to mention a talking skull that vanishes! Tricks, of course, but how they’re done eludes me.”

Dedi removed a skull from his leather bag. “I do not mind revealing a few of my secrets, sirs. In fact, it is prudent to do so in case someone seeks to persecute me as a demon, which has occurred on more than one occasion. The urn, for example, employs a cunning arrangement of tubes and vents, based upon writings by Hero, another Alexandrian. Apparently that city was and remains a popular place to live! As for the skull, it can be made to vanish only because it isn’t a skull.”

The magician handed the object to John. It might have been made out of parchment, it was so light.

“Be careful,” Dedi told him. “It’s nothing more than the molded caul of an ox, wax, and gum, all of which burn much more readily than bone. The better to vanish when surrounded by coals and enveloped in thick incense smoke!”

“But how do you make the thing talk?” Anatolius asked.

Dedi looked serious. “Ah, I admit I have tricks. I did not say I have no knowledge beyond mere trickery. How the skull speaks must remain a mystery.”

“Nonsense,” put in Isis. “It is a question of speaking without moving the lips! But of course that information will never leave this house!”

Dedi moved his lips into a grotesque pout of displeasure.

“But there is some information which must leave this house,” Anatolius said. “And I need to convey it to John rather hastily.”

John followed Anatolius out into the hallway. Anatolius repeated he had not established any facts, but went on to explain what he had learnt during his visit to the Repentance convent. “I tried to speak to the abbess again, but she refused to see me. No doubt you could have convinced her.”

“I’ve never tried to question an abbess.” John recalled his glimpse of the tattoo. Agnes had reached up to push her veil aside, bringing her momentarily bared wrist in front of his face. When she had voiced the name “Zoe” and offered confirmation by revealing the strangely familiar features, other thoughts had been driven from his mind.

It was true John had examined the tattoo more closely after finding the body in the cistern. By then it had been largely obscured with red dye although not completely obliterated as the murderer must have hoped.

“Yes,” John continued, agreeing with Anatolius’ conjecture, “that might have well been a cross drawn over the scarab. And if this woman you speak of intended to seek shelter with an actress she knew, the circumstances would fit Agnes’ life, with what we know of it. Petronia told me Agnes lived with her. She said nothing about Agnes having fled Theodora’s convent. I shall talk to Petronia again.”

Chapter Forty-Four

Agnes was never in a convent, Lord Chamberlain! She did not flee to my apartment from such a place! Nor was she a prostitute.” Petronia stood, arms folded, in front of the painted Greek temples on the curtain which divided her room.

She was dressed in a gaudy tunic and a mantle glittering with glass beads which would pass for precious gems when viewed by an audience. Her patrician features were hardened into a look of imperial scorn natural to whatever personage she was about to play.

John couldn’t help wondering whether it was more convenient for her to get into costume at home or whether she enjoyed the stares she must attract walking the streets in such forged finery.

“You lied to me to protect Troilus,” John said. “Are you now trying to protect Agnes?”

Petronia laughed, a little too dramatically. “Agnes is beyond protection now. I am very late for my performance. I really cannot linger.”

Anatolius sat in the chair resembling a throne and observed the actress with obvious admiration. “I hope you’ll have as large an audience as that holy melon juggler who’s performing practically at the door of this building,” he offered. “I wouldn’t have supposed this part of the city would be quite so…well…theatrical…”

Petronia’s eyes narrowed. “You mean Zachariah? He’s back here again?”

“That’s the man. John was telling me he passed him nearer to the palace not many days since. What was it Peter said, John? Something about the miracle of the melons?”

“There’s really no time to discuss street performers,” John replied.

“That’s what Zachariah is,” Petronia snapped, “a performer. He used to juggle with the troupe, when he wasn’t drunk. He much preferred drinking to working.”

“But the Lord Chamberlain’s servant insisted Zachariah had been born crippled,” Anatolius said.

Petronia laughed. “One morning Zachariah woke up on the street, too inebriated to move and babbling incoherently. Some passing pilgrims, likely newly arrived from a dusty little rural village, thought he was afflicted and tossed him several coins. Gold, mind you. They were probably inebriated as well. So Zachariah decided it was easier and more profitable to just sit and beg for coins rather than work.”

Anatolius smiled. “Until the accident with the melons caused him to forget his supposed paralysis in front of too many people who knew about his affliction?”

“That’s right. I understand he’s doing even better now, selling magickal melons that supposedly cure the sick.” She moved toward the door, but John stopped her.

“I thank you for clearing up the mystery of Zachariah but I am more interested in Agnes,” he declared. “You will be permitted to leave when you have answered certain questions. What do you know about the tattoo on Agnes’ wrist?”

“Agnes did not have one,” Petronia declared.

“You are lying. It is not advisable.”

“Why would I lie about anything so trivial?”

It was a good question, John thought. But was she so skilled an actress she could lie in such a convincing fashion that most would accept the lie as truth? “What of her history?”

“So far as I am aware she came here more or less directly after being thrown out by that bastard of a sausage maker. She continued to go back from time to time. Who knows why. She was never away long enough to work as a prostitute, be removed to Theodora’s little sanctuary, and then change her mind and leave. It’s ridiculous. Now, please, may I go?” She picked up a brightly painted diadem from a table littered with statuettes of deities.

John was reminded of the clutter in Menander’s room and Troilus’ shop. Had the statuettes come from one of them? It was hard to believe that Petronia knew as little about Menander as she had insisted previously. He was a patron of the theater after all, and actresses were notoriously friendly with such men. Also she knew Troilus well enough that he had spent hours pouring out his woes to her while Agnes was being murdered.

“Petronia, you told me that you only knew Menander by reputation, as a benefactor of the theater. This being so, you will not know that he was murdered recently.”

The actress stared at John. Her pale features remained calm but her grip tightened on the diadem. “Murdered?”

“Strangled, as was Agnes.”

“But for what reason?” Petronia asked in a faint voice.

“It is not known, but they were both well acquainted with Troilus, a name which I have heard often during my investigations.”

“I haven’t seen Troilus for days, not since he and Agnes argued here.”

“Tell me what you know about Menander,” John ordered. “It may help Troilus.”

“Yes. He might be in danger.” Petronia shook her head. Her laugh was tinged with bitterness. “I expect you think I’ve been protecting Troilus because of some fondness I feel toward him.” She glanced around as if to be certain that Anatolius was listening as well.

“How could you think that, gentlemen? It isn’t what you imagine.” She turned the diadem over and over in her hands. “What I feel for the young man is a motherly affection. Nothing more, or should I say nothing less? I looked after him, you see, for several years. Menander asked me to. He found me this fine place and decorated it lavishly, as you observe.”

“You were Menander’s mistress? Are you claiming Troilus is your son?” John asked.

“Certainly not! Neither! It’s true I am old enough to be Troilus’ mother, but no, I am not his mother. I’ve always thought Menander was Troilus’ father. He treated him like a son, but he told me never to reveal that there was any connection between himself and Troilus, aside from what everyone could see, which is to say their business dealings.”

She paused and frowned. “Many thought Menander was taking advantage of an inexperienced young man, selling him items from his collection for a better price than a shrewder merchant would’ve given. Some even supposed Troilus was one of Menander’s boys.”

She gave a sad smile. “I could tell that was not the case. Oh, I often wanted to explain. Because it not only made Menander look grasping but also made Troilus appear to be a fool.”

“You say you were not Menander’s mistress. Why did he entrust the boy to you?”

“Perhaps he considered me more responsible than most. He could see that I avoided troublemakers.”

“He could see, because they were the people with whom Menander chose to associate.”

Petronia’s wan smile indicated her agreement. “That, and the fact that I am from the palace myself. Do not question me further on the matter. I refuse to discuss it.”

John felt he should have guessed her background from her manner of speaking and the way she carried herself. He had put it down to artfulness.

“When did Menander bring Troilus to you?” he asked.

“It would have been around ten years ago. Troilus was about fourteen then. I don’t know where he lives now. He doesn’t come to see me very often. In fact, the morning Agnes was murdered was the longest time I’ve spoken to him in years.”

“Are you certain he remained here for hours?”

Petronia confirmed it was the case. “He and Agnes were inseparable. They met while he was still living with me. She was living with the sausage maker.”

“You told me Agnes spent time with those who once lived at the palace. She enjoyed play acting, pretending she was still part of the imperial court.”

“A young woman’s fancy. They all enjoyed play acting, imagining they were still respected members of the court. Poor Agnes was only a child when her father was executed. She was never to live the life of a fine lady, even for a little while.”

Petronia looked down at the diadem she held. It must have reminded her that she was dressed like an empress herself. “We help them relive what their lives were once like,” she continued. “That’s why they love the theater.”

“What do you know about Troilus’ background?”

“Nothing at all. He could have been a fish seller’s son for all I know. He had to pretend to be well born for business reasons. People who have been at court are more comfortable dealing with those who share their attitudes.”

“Did those attitudes include a dislike for the emperor?”

“I would prefer not to say anything about that. You are, after all, Justinian’s servant.”

“I am well aware Justinian is not universally loved. I have also been given to understand that the various alleged plots hatched in the Copper Market amount to little more than scurrilous mimes.”

“Then you know all there is to know about Troilus’ attitudes,” Petronia replied.