Seven for a Secret (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

“Being thrown on the streets isn’t necessarily a death sentence,” Anatolius pointed out. “Agnes probably turned to prostitution. If so, we were correct about the meaning of that tattoo on her body.”

“I suspect Figulus would consider a woman’s employment by Madam Isis or one of her colleagues to be worse than a death sentence,” John replied.

He had arranged to meet with Anatolius at the Baths of Zeuxippos. They sat on curved benches beside the central fountain, under the gaze of the tight-lipped, bronze Demosthenes. The splash of falling water, amplified by the cavernous space, masked the echoing slap of sandals on tiles and the conversations of those passing by.

“I was careful not to make direct inquiries about the situation,” John continued. “So far as Michri and Figulus are concerned I wished to commission repairs. I don’t want word of these investigations reaching the wrong ears.”

“Particularly since we don’t know whose head sports the wrong ears. If nothing else, Cornelia will be pleased.”

“It will please me, too. I’d prefer Cornelia didn’t venture out alone.”

“I’m glad I don’t have a family to worry about,” Anatolius observed. “Besides, if I did I might not be able to trot around to half the brothels in the city on your behalf. Not that I’ve had any luck tracking down that tattoo yet. I can continue to look, but now that we know the model for your mosaic belonged to court, it might be easier to check in those circles.”

“Isis will keep an eye out for us too, now you’ve alerted her to the search.”

“John, I was wondering…about Zoe…do you intend to call her by her real name now that you know it?”

“The girl in my mosaic has always been Zoe to me.”

“I’ve often wondered how—”

“Anatolius! Lord Chamberlain! An attendant tells me you wanted to speak to me?” A short, muscular man approached. His black, cropped hair glistened wetly. His lumpy features might have belonged to a beggar, but not his green, pearl-embroidered robes.

Anatolius rose to greet his friend. “Francio! The Lord Chamberlain was asking about a courtier I had never met and I thought of you. After all, you know everyone at court, including those who have fallen from favor!”

Francio tapped the side of his nose, which had been horribly squashed in an accident—what sort varied with its owner’s mood and his listener’s credulity. “Let us keep that under the rose, Anatolius. But you flatter me even so. I don’t know about everyone. Only those of importance. I don’t have any gossip about the palace guards and servants and such, unless the servants are sleeping with someone important. Why, I could tell you…but perhaps I’d better not.”

John mentioned the departed tax collector.

“Glykos? I seem to recall some mention of the name. You say this fellow died about ten years ago? I was only a youngster at the time.”

“What about his family? I have reason to believe the mother and daughter remained in the city,” John said.

Francio shook his head. “It’s possible. Those who are banished from court might as well have sailed away across the seas.”

John knew that many who fell into disfavor fled for their own safety. The lucky ones—landed aristocratics who were allowed to retain any of their holdings—retired to what remained of their country estates, or to the estates of relatives. But most at the palace owed their wealth and privilege to their positions and any palace official, even one as powerful as the Lord Chamberlain, held office at the whim of the emperor. With a few words, Justinian could turn a rich man into a beggar. Even the sentatorial class was not immune to having all they possessed confiscated.

Francio had screwed his face up in thought. “I do see some former courtiers at the Bathos of Zeuxippos from time to time,” he said. “Anyone can get in for a copper coin or two. I suppose it’s a way for them to enjoy the sort of surroundings they left behind, as well as an opportunity to talk to old friends.”

“Or at least those who will still acknowledge acquaintanceship,” Anatolius put in.

“Perhaps one of these fallen courtiers would know something that would assist me?” John said.

“Indeed. And now that I think of it, I know exactly the man. His name’s Menander. He was a silentiary. He fell from favor a long time ago so he’s well connected to those who are no longer well connected. He knows everyone who used to be someone. What’s more Fortuna has favored you, because I saw him right here not an hour ago.”

“Where can we find him now?” John asked.

“He told me he was going to attend a poetry reading. He expected there would be plenty of wine, and his hearing isn’t that good anyway. You know the poet, I believe. Crinagoras.”

John suppressed a grimace. “Yes, he’s a friend of Anatolius. Every time he visits my house the walls ring for days afterward.”

Francio chuckled. “He does enjoy hearing his own verse. When I saw him this morning he was declaiming samples, to entice passersby to commission a work or two. His performances are always comical, even if it’s not his aim. Last time he surpassed himself, because he recited at the very foot of Demosthenes there and mumbled even more than usual.”

Anatolius remarked it was not surprising the orator’s bronze brows were furrowed and his lips tight. “I suppose we’d better go and seek whatever lecture hall Crinagoras is using,” he went on. “He’s bound to chide me for abandoning my muse for the law.”

“Crinagoras is going to entertain at my next banquet,” Francio said. “I hope his presence won’t stop you from attending. I’ll be serving Arcadian dishes. Just simple country fare. Very unusual for my gatherings. John, you’ll particularly enjoy the smoked cheese.”

“Is the cheese by any chance produced on one of those farms your family owns?”

Francio frowned. “It could be, I suppose. I deal with city merchants. I don’t know who supplies them.”

“Francio is not a man of business,” put in Anatolius.

“Certainly not,” Francio agreed. “Particularly when the business would keep me out in the hills someplace. Why would I abandon the court to live amongst sheep and geese? Besides, the family is keen on horses. I remember when I was a child…well…” His voice trailed off as his hand moved for an instant to the side of his crushed nose.

“Is this man Menander from a landed family?” John asked.

“Not that I know of. He is, or was, a self-made man, which is to say a man made by the emperor. At some time he was of some value to Justinian. Only he and the emperor can say why. So he was granted a postion, income, a luxurious residence. Then he ceased to be of value and it was all taken away.”

As he talked, Francio led John and Anatolius along a corridor where busts of emperors and philosophers on pedestals almost outnumbered the patrons. Doorways opened onto meeting rooms, libraries, and exercise areas. The only sign of the facilities themselves was a breath of humid air from an intersecting hallway leading further into the complex.

They found Crinagoras in a semicircular lecture area with a raised platform facing several benches. The benches were empty except for a long haired boy nibbling at a small wedge of cheese.

“Your audience is late in arriving?” Francio remarked.

“Oh, no,” came the reply. “Indeed, there was an excellent turn out. My reading’s finished. I’ve been writing shorter poems, to match my humble subject matter. No epics for onions!”

The poet was dressed in the voluminous old fashioned toga he always wore for his performances. John thought he looked pudgier than when he had last seen him. The ruddy features, framed by sandy curls, looked even softer and more child-like than John recalled, as if the man were aging backward.

Crinagoras gestured toward a table covered with empty earthenware dishes and jugs. “It all went exceedingly, wonderfully well, Anatolius. I provided just precisely the right amount of bucolic refreshment. Yes! The wine and cheese lasted exactly as long as the audience did.”

“Was Menander here?” Francio asked. “We’re looking for him.”

“Menander?”

“A big old fellow. White hair. Gaunt. Stooped. Looks like the Olympian Zeus after a year in the emperor’s dungeons.”

Crinagoras frowned, setting his double chins in motion. “Well, let’s see…I can’t remember. I become caught up in the verse. I find myself transported into realms of imagination far removed from our tawdry, everyday surroundings. The audience might as well not be there.”

“Menander was here,” the boy on the bench piped up. He looked thirteen or fourteen. “I can tell you where he lives, if it’s worth something to you.”

Francio scowled at the youth. “And how would you know Menander?”

The boy shoved the remains of the cheese into his mouth before speaking around the bulge in his cheek. “I’ve had to help him home when he’s drunk often enough.”

Chapter Twelve

Home, to Menander, was a tenement behind the Church of the Mother of God. Francio remembered some urgent business and took his leave of John and Anatolius as soon as it became apparent that Crinagoras insisted on accompanying them.

The church and tenement were not far from the workshops of the artisans John had visited that morning. The rain had stopped and the lowering sun turned puddles and wet roofs red.

As the trio made their way through the russet light, the poet declaimed at Homeric length. “I need to stride the streets and fill my lungs with the same air as the simple folk.”

He gesticulated so wildly his toga flapped and billowed like a sail. “Yes, those of us who make our living by our wits have yet much to learn from those humble souls who have nothing more than their stained and work-worn hands between themselves and an empty stomach.”

He skirted the filthy, bare feet of a man sitting in a doorway, ignoring an outstretched, skeletal hand.

“Uncharitable bastards!” The croaking cry of the beggar followed them down the street. “May you rot!”

John swiveled on his boot heel and glared back. One look at the Lord Chamberlain’s expression and the beggar found an urgent reason to leap up and scuttle away.

Anatolius gave John an inquiring glance.

“Perhaps I’m not in a charitable mood,” John told him. “Besides, you’re always telling me I shouldn’t be filling every palm I see on the street.”

Crinagoras looked pained. “I’m not so sure that I can find inspiration in a beggar. Certainly not from such a foul and insulting beggar. A ragged child, perhaps. For even the homeliest subject can become poetic in the hands of a master. Consider if you will Virgil’s encomium to his salad. I intend to recite it at Francio’s banquet since plain fare is the menu.”

He paused and picked his way around dung lying in their path. “I have improved Virgil’s work just a little,” he went on, “in order that his archaic verse may fall more sweetly on today’s ears. After that I shall recite one or two of my latest creations about life in the city, as it was before the plague arrived. These are darker times.”

“And this is the dark alley down which we go, according to the boy at the reading.” Anatolius plunged between two buildings leaning confidentially toward each other.

Crinagoras stopped and moaned. “Oh, but really, Anatolius, it will ruin my poor boots!”

The morning’s rains had turned the passage into a swamp. Straw and half-decayed vegetable leaves littered the black surface of water broken by scattered islands of even less appealing ordure.

“Never mind your boots,” Anatolius told him. “You can write a verse or two acclaiming their heroism.”

“What an excellent idea! My friend, though entombed in the cold sepulcher of the law, your poetic soul still blazes like an eternal flame.”

Crinagoras hitched up his long toga and tiptoed forward. He uttered a faint squeal as the water rose to his ankles. He took another cautious step and then flailed one hand at a swarm of huge green flies that had suddenly decided his face was more appetizing than an unidentifiable lump next to a wall.

The hem of the toga flopped into the mire. He grabbed at it. Slipped. Started to fall forward.

John’s hand shot out, grasped Crinagoras’ arm, and pulled him upright.

The grim smile he gave the poet was more appalling than the glare he’d directed at the beggar. “If I’m distracted any further by your eloquence, Crinagoras, I might not be able to catch you next time.”

***

The wood-framed tenement where Menander lived sagged toward the stolid brick back of the Church of the Mother of God as if in search of support. The entrance hall beyond the open doorway was unlit and its close air smelled of boiled onions.

In the dimness, the trio passed a woman seated at the bottom of the steep stairs. As they stepped around her, she raised her hand as if to beg, but instead drew a line on the plaster wall with a stub of charcoal.

The boy who claimed to have helped Menander home had given precise and accurate directions. At John’s insistent knock, Menander threw open the splintered door of his third floor room.

He was, as Francio had described, an impressive figure, a stern looking man, broad shouldered, with bristling brows and white clouds of hair gathered around a craggy face. Though he was gaunt and bent, his flinty eyes were still level with John’s.

Menander filled the narrow doorway. “If you are here about the money, you will have to come back next week. I am in the process of selling a few costly items and will pay you then.” He spoke in carefully modulated tones.

“We’re not here on such business,” John replied. “I wish to ask you a few questions. I am—”

“Now I recognize you. John, the emperor’s Lord Chamberlain, isn’t it? My apologies. I was not expecting to see someone of your station in such a place.” Menander stepped aside to allow his callers to enter.

John’s first thought was that he had stepped back into one of the storage areas in which he had spent the days when he worked for the Keeper of the Plate. Menander’s room, however, although it contained gold and silver, boasted a wider variety of precious objects. Glassware, furniture, statuary, wall hangings, and silks were piled in disarray. The congested space was bisected, floor to ceiling, by a loosely packed wall of treasures that sparkled and glinted like the iconostasis of a large church. John realized his filth-encrusted boots were defiling an expensive floor covering but Menander did not appear to notice.

“Please make yourselves comfortable,” Menander said. “If you don’t mind, we shall remain in my atrium.” He glanced toward an irregular gap in the glittering wall. “My office, in the back there, is rather cluttered.”

As far as John could tell, the nearest couch sat atop two others. The trio remained standing. Anatolius appeared bemused by the scene while Crinagoras gaped like a child.

Menander coughed. “As you see, I am blessed with many of the world’s goods. Yet, for all that, I live simply.”

John introduced his companions.

“Crinagoras I know,” said Menander. “I found your poetry reading today most satisfying, young man. Your words will stay with me for some while. They provided food for thought.”

Not to mention food for the stomach, John thought, noting a large wedge of cheese sitting on a silver plate.

“I’m certain Crinagoras is pleased you took something away from his reading,” John said. “Do I understand correctly that you were, some years ago, removed from the emperor’s court?”

Menander looked surprised at the sudden change in topic. “That is so, Lord Chamberlain. There is no point in hiding the reason why a former silentiary occupies such cramped quarters.”

Anatolius murmured polite regrets.

“It is all too common, young man,” Menander replied. “I was fortunate to escape with my head and this meager portion of my possessions. Not that I had more than a few cart-loads left, by the time I’d paid out enough bribes to get my treasures out of the palace. There was no truth in the charges. I do not blame our esteemed emperor, Lord Chamberlain. I am convinced Theodora’s vile hand was in it.” He smiled sadly. “I was very close to Emperor Justin. You’ll recall that he opposed Theodora’s marriage to Justinian for some time. After all, she was a former actress and hardly fit to wed his nephew, the future emperor. Theodora unfortunately has a long memory. Many of us who expressed admiration for Justin found ourselves exiled from the palace. Is there any foulness, any evil or crime in which she is not involved?”

Menander was a brave man to say this, or else intoxicated, John thought. Not to mention fortunate. Justinian was utterly unpredictable in his treatment of enemies. One might be summarily executed, the next merely stripped of titles and privilege and often welcomed back into the emperor’s good graces within the year. Those with lives spared by the emperor’s whims, along with families whose property had been confiscated either as punishment for misdeeds or for reasons known only to the imperial couple, comprised a shadowy, dissaffected army.

“How exquisite,” exclaimed Crinagoras, plucking a small item from the marble curls of an ancient Greek bust. He held up a red, pressed glass icon, displaying the face of Christ no larger than a man’s thumb.

Menander snatched the icon away. “Be careful! That’s an hour of my life you held there! Perhaps two short hours of winter daylight, if I can get the right price.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?” Crinagoras blurted out.

Menander pursed his lips in annoyance. “During my years at the palace I collected many things, some for their beauty, others because they fascinated me. Now I live by selling my treasures off to a dealer in such goods. I measure the time I have left by what remains to be sold.”

“A melancholy calculation,” observed John. He didn’t add that by his reckoning the artifacts within sight would finance a large number of lifetimes, let alone the remaining years of a man Menander’s age. Though, to be fair, there was no telling what sort of costly vices a former member of the court might have acquired.

“What is most melancholy,” Menander said, “is considering which shall be the last cherished item sold.”

Crinagoras beamed with excitement. “I’ll find a few choice verses in your situation, Menander. It must be like living inside a water clock that’s slowly emptying!”

“Isn’t there a profession you could pursue?” Anatolius put in.

Menander’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Work? At my age? Besides, I have a profession. I am a silentiary. Unfortunately for me, there is no call for my services at present.”

It was true, John realized. There was only one emperor in the city employing men who could cut an impressive figure while standing beside a palace doorway.

“Don’t you worry someone will steal these beautiful things?” Anatolius asked. “Treasures like these would normally be kept closely guarded. This building is hardly secure.”

“There you are mistaken, young man. I chose this abode carefully. You must have noticed it abuts the church. Practically every tenant works for it, so I am surrounded by lectors and sub-deacons, by those who fill the church lamps, dust the icons, and polish the reliquaries. Weak though my physical fortifications may appear, my riches are protected by a mighty fortress of devout and honest Christians.”

“Indeed,” said John. “But those who are employed by the church do not share your palace background. Do you keep in touch with former friends? With others who have been banished? I’ve been told that you are well known among those who have lost their places at court.”

Menander stiffened. “I have no complaint against Justinian whatsoever. If you are fishing for rumors and sordid gossip—”

“That’s not my purpose. What makes you think so?”

The old silentiary stared at the red glass icon in his hand, set it on the plate next to the cheese, and sighed. “I am sorry, Lord Chamberlain. I spoke hastily, I admit. The last time someone began making inquiries about my acquaintances it soon became apparent he was far too interested in hearing scandalous tales about Theodora and grievances against the emperor. I’m not naive. I understand the ways of the court. When I realized what he was after and tried to put him off, he was not very civil.”

John asked the name of the inquirer.

“He called himself Procopius. He accosted me at the Baths of Zeuxippos. He claimed to be writing a history and said he was employed by the general Belisarius.”

“I believe Belisarius is currently in the city. He was recalled under a cloud.”

“Let’s hope he remains in disfavor then. No doubt the emperor can’t wait to start some new, ruinously expensive military venture now that the plague is over. Perhaps we were luckier being ruled by the plague. At any rate, this Procopius was an unctuous and unpleasant little man.”

Crinagoras sniffed. “I’ve heard of Procopius. I understood he was planning to pen some turgid prose about Justinian’s architectural projects. The subject is as inspired as the typical legal document.”

“I am not interested in rumors,” John said. “I can hear as many as I wish at court. But I do seek information about a man named Glykos. What do you know about him?”

“Glykos? He was a tax collector, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. He owned a house on the palace grounds, opposite the excubitor barracks, not far from—”

“I’m familiar with the house, Lord Chamberlain. By sight, that is. Glykos himself, however…”

“It’s his wife and child in which I’m interested,” John replied. “Glykos was one of those men the emperor had executed following the riots. His wife and daughter were spared, but thrown onto the street. The girl was named Agnes.”

Menander shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’ve never encountered anyone related to Glykos. The mother and daughter most probably turned to begging or prostitution. They could well be dead by now what with the rioting then and the plague just past. Or they might have departed from the city. If so, they could be anywhere.”

“Is it possible they assumed another name?”

Menander’s eyes narrowed and he pulled himself up straighter. For an instant John glimpsed the formidable demeanor that must have served the old silentiary well in the days when he presided over the great bronze doors leading into Justinian’s reception hall.

“I assure you, I have never heard a word about the unfortunate mother and daughter, whatever name they might have chosen to go under, even if they are still alive.”

Crinagoras gasped.

Glancing around, John saw the poet hastily put down a small, rectangular mosaic, an icon depicting a golden cross.

“What’s the matter?” Anatolius asked.

Crinagoras eyed the icon warily. “It’s been taken over by a demon,” he stammered. “I…I…turned it toward the light and it changed from a cross to a…to…well…”

Menander laughed. “It serves you right, young man. Didn’t I tell you not to disturb my belongings? May you have nightmares!”

“I have seen mosaics like that,” John said. “Where did you obtain this one?”

“I don’t remember, Lord Chamberlain. I’ve had it for years.” He gestured around the treasure-packed room. “It’s hard enough for me to keep track of the value of all this, let alone recall where every item came from.”