Seven for a Secret (8 page)

Chapter Fifteen

“Visions?”

“Visions!” John confirmed, taking off his boots.

Cornelia combed her hair. She was gazing toward the diamond panes of the window, in which John could make out her faint reflection as well as his own. Whether she was looking at herself or him in the dark glass he could not say.

Her thin linen tunica left her arms bare. John could see the movement of their firm muscles. She was as lithe as he remembered on their first meeting over twenty years earlier. Now there were sparkles of gray in her hair.

“And do you have visions, John?”

“Nightmares sometimes.”

“I don’t wonder. You need a better bed. You’d sleep more soundly.”

John lay down on the cotton-filled mattress. The bed frame creaked under his weight. It was the same bed he had used since he moved into the house. He had never given it any thought before. Now that Cornelia had mentioned it, he could feel the lumpy cotton pressing uncomfortably against his bony frame.

He didn’t think his nightmares had anything to do with the bed.

“I wish you’d let go of this matter of the mosaic girl, John. From what you say, the poor dead woman must have been a common prostitute. It’s the sort of crime the City Prefect will solve, if it can be solved, and if it’s even considered worth pursuing. Life is cheap here. Look at the state of those boots! You’ve been venturing into places a Lord Chamberlain shouldn’t be going without a bodyguard.”

“Anatolius and Crinagoras accompanied me for part of the time,” John protested.

“Ha! It would’ve been you protecting them if it came to blade work.” Cornelia laid her ivory comb on the wooden chest below the window. “No matter how long I live in this city, I will never get used to it. So bright when seen from the sea, but full of darkness even at noon.”

“That’s true, and it’s something that I wish to address. Apart from this matter of the mosaic girl as you call it.”

“You know, when you were younger you wouldn’t be talking about girls, mosaic or otherwise, when we were alone in a room with a bed.”

John laughed. “Well, I may surprise you yet. But I am concerned for your safety, Cornelia. As you just pointed out, it isn’t wise to be walking the streets alone.”

“I’m only out during the day and I keep to well frequented places. I don’t wander down muddy alleyways. Or did you find some foul swamp to wade through?” She wrinkled her nose.

“I should have left my boots downstairs,” John admitted.

“Yes. Peter will be upset. But don’t worry about my safety. I’ve taken care of myself in Alexandria and—”

“Yes, but in all the other places you lived, you weren’t a member of the Lord Chamberlain’s household, as I have said before. Men in my position have enemies. Many enemies.”

Cornelia sat down on the bed beside him. John was aware of her perfume, faint as a memory of their days in Egypt, and the warmth where her hip touched his.

“I know you have enemies, John, but I find it hard to understand. It’s not as if you’re an ambitious man.”

John laughed. Odd as it sounded, she was right. “What further ambition could I possibly have?”

“You could crave still more power and more wealth. The empire isn’t enough for Justinian. He wants Italy back. He never has enough churches either. He keeps building more. Everyone has ambitions. And consider Anatolius. He aspires to write poetry for future generations.”

“That’s Crinagoras. Anatolius has turned his thoughts entirely toward the law.”

“You don’t believe that, do you? And consider Captain Felix. As high as his position is, wouldn’t he prefer to be leading an army on the battlefield?”

“Probably. When he joined the excubitors they were led by Justinian’s uncle Justin, a military man. Felix has always admired Justin. It’s true, though, my office came to me, rather than my seeking it out. However, whether I am ambitious or not, there are those who fear my power, or resent it, and have reason to do so.”

John patted the mattress beside him. “May I invite you to lie down?”

Cornelia settled into the curve of his arm. “No doubt,” he went on, “I am a threat to many at court. It’s no good looking at me like that. In serving the emperor I have harmed people, sometimes without realizing it. Others may believe I have deliberately harmed them, or might simply resent me for reasons known only to themselves. And any of these people might try to hurt me by hurting my family. Which is why you should have a guard when you go out. I will have to look into finding one.”

“But John, I was the one chiding you just now for going about unguarded. You see, we think alike. Who wants a guard underfoot all the time? As I was saying the other day, I’d like to see your private bath restored. Then I wouldn’t have to go out so often, would I?”

John smiled. “As it happens, I’ve traced the artisan responsible for the mosaics. Considering how lewd they are, they may require some modification in addition to repair.”

“I think not. They’re finely crafted and nothing is shown that would embarrass either of us. Peter could be instructed to avoid the room if it is offensive to him. I can clean it myself. And the hypocaust doesn’t function any more, except as a good place for rats to nest.”

“I will engage for someone to look at that also.” John brushed an errant gray hair away from Cornelia’s face. “Is there anything else you’d like?”

Chapter Sixteen

John wished to talk to Opilio, the sausage maker Alba had mentioned, but he decided to talk to Figulus first.

Although he had spoken with the mosaic maker about the repairs he desired, he had not made final arrangements and it seemed to John that investigations would be better served by giving Cornelia something pleasant to contemplate, rather than brooding on the possible dangers posed to him by looking into a murder. Then too, he supposed the refurbishment might serve as an apology to Cornelia for the obvious distress his investigations were causing her.

A servant asked John to wait in the doorway of the workshop. After a while Figulus’ wife appeared. John had not seen her during his initial visit. She was stout and her prematurely gray hair made her look too old to be carrying a red-faced whimpering infant under each arm. She was also exceedingly short, shorter than Figulus’ older boys, who were ostensibly poring over tesserae scattered across a work table but casting sidelong glances at the visitor.

John stated his business above the mewling of the squirming infants. The mosaic maker’s wife looked displeased. John couldn’t tell whether it was with him or the infants or both.

“I am afraid it is not possible to speak with Figulus right now,” the woman said. “He’s out on a job. Is it some…special…work you’re interested in?”

“Yes, I suppose you would call it that.”

The woman looked John up and down. Mostly up, given her stature. “I thought you might be one of…those customers.” She glanced over her shoulder and glared meaningfully at the boys, who complied with their mother’s unspoken order as slowly as they dared and slunk out of the workshop. “If you want to see some examples of the special work, it would be best to return during the evening, sir. We keep them locked up, because of the children.”

One of the infants swiped at John with a pudgy hand, fell far short, and reached out again. The other seemed more interested in trying to grab his mother’s hair.

“I’ve seen examples of the work,” John said. “In fact, they cover the walls of my bath. I’ve spoken to your husband about repairs. I merely need to make arrangements for it to be carried out.”

“I see…well…” Figulus’ wife slapped lightly at the fists of the reaching infant and then pushed the hands of the other away from her head. “You can find him right across the street from the law courts. He has an important commission there.”

***

“Yes, Lord Chamberlain, by the time I’ve finished this will be a lavatory fit for any magistrate or even the City Prefect himself.”

Figulus stepped down from the marble bench that ran the length of the long, narrow room. The openings in the bench had been covered with boards. Several workmen were busy in a far corner, making a blue sky, or perhaps a sea, out of tesserae. The smell of wet plaster almost masked the usual odors.

“I am to do the more detailed work,” Figulus explained. “The magistrate who hired me specified that in particular.”

“Will these pictures change their character with the light?” John asked.

“Oh, no. The magistrate simply wanted a more attractive place for lawyers to deliberate. You know how uninspiring these public lavatories can be.”

John did not mention he avoided such facilities whenever possible.

He saw that the work was half completed. The theme was classical. There was Hercules cleaning the stables. Next to him Sisyphus rolled his stone up the mountain.

The mosaics were an improvement on the graffiti scratched into the unfinished walls. No doubt many of the witticisms involved lawyers and magistrates or Theodora, or all three. Presumably the glass tesserae would be more difficult to deface.

“Most impressive,” John remarked politely.

Figulus beamed. “Thank you, excellency. I am hoping that citizens will feel an urgency as they pass by at the very thought of what awaits them in here.”

“Doubtless more than a few citizens on their way to the courts will feel the need to stop and admire your workmanship, Figulus. Now, I trust you will have time to for those repairs I asked about?”

“I can spare a few days and one or two workers right away and meantime I have some experienced men I can trust to carry on creating the clouds and mountains here.”

“Your business appears to be thriving.”

“The Lord has been generous to me,” the mosaic maker said with a smile.

“Your wife seemed to think I was a customer of another sort.”

Figulus stopped smiling. “What do you mean?”

“She thought I had come to look at some special work of yours. I suspect the sort akin to that on my walls. Do you have much call for that sort of work?”

“Only as is necessary, Lord Chamberlain. It pays well and I have expenses. My understanding was that you were not interested in work of that nature?”

“I am not. Simply curious.”

Figulus’ smile returned, but it did not appear very convincing. “Very well then. When would you like me to start on your bath?”

***

Opilio’s shop was not far from the courts. John bent his head to avoid the sign that graphically declared the wares for sale within. Cut into the shape of a giant sausage, it jutted far out into the colonnade, almost certainly in contravention of the ordinances. It looked as if the sign maker had repainted something intended for a brothel. Or perhaps it merely appeared that way to John thanks to a sleepless night. He could not shrug off such nights as easily as when he was younger.

At least he had managed to convince Cornelia that his morning’s destination, on a broad, busy thoroughfare just west of the Augustaion, posed minimal danger to unguarded Lord Chamberlains.

Not that it was far from where he had been the day before. He could see the timbered roof of the Church of the Mother of God, rising over the surrounding buildings, a few streets, and innumerable dank alleys, away.

The interior of the shop smelled of savory and cumin. A stout old man, bent and balding, with massive forearms, put down his funnel and gave a twist to the casing he’d been stuffing.

“You’re the man from the palace,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you! I’m surprised you’re alone.” He dropped his half completed sausage into the pile of empty intestines heaped on the counter, some dangling onto the floor.

“You say you were expecting me?”

“Don’t worry. The sausages are ready. Do you intend to carry them back by yourself?”

“You seem to have mistaken me for someone else. Are you Opilio, the owner of this shop?”

“That’s me. And you work for the emperor, don’t you?”

“True enough.”

Opilio came out from behind the counter, brushing his hands on his greasy tunic. He was short, his lack of height entirely due to bowed legs which appeared to be half the length one might have expected judging by his torso. “The sausages are in my storeroom. I shall get them right away. They are of finest Lucanian variety, the sort they make in southern Italy. The same kind Augustus enjoyed. Yes, I hear Justinian’s entertaining a Persian high-up and wants to remind the foreigner of Rome’s great traditions.”

He chuckled. “It’ll remind him how Justinian’s taking back Italy from the barbarians too. Once he’s done with Italy, he’ll get after Persia. I hope I live to see it. Nothing says Glory of Rome like a succulent Lucanian sausage.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t come for sausages, Opilio. While it is true I work for the emperor, I’m not a servant.”

The other gaped at John and then asked him what in fact he did.

“I am Justinian’s Lord Chamberlain.”

Opilio guffawed. “And I’m the famous eunuch general Narses! I like a fellow who has a sense of humor. Would you lift your boot?” He bent over in awkward fashion. “You’re standing on a casing.”

The sausage maker must have noticed the fine workmanship of John’s boots or possibly the subtle gold thread worked along the hem of John’s cloak, because when he straightened up, one end of the errant intestine in hand, his formerly ruddy face had turned as white as if someone had cut his throat and hung him up to drain his blood.

“I apologize, excellency. An honest mistake. I would never wish to insult our great emperor. I am the staunchest of supporters.”

“No matter, Opilio. I can see the humor in being mistaken for a servant when I venture into the streets.”

The color began to return to Opilio’s face. “Well, then, how can I assist? I have it! You are here to purchase sausages for yourself. Why, the empress herself praised my wares! Or so I hear. I have not spoken to her personally, although perhaps it is an everyday occurrence for you, excellency? Perhaps that is where you heard of me?”

John smiled. Anatolius had once got into trouble for including both the empress and sausages in the same verse. That information he kept to himself. “I am often summoned to her presence, Opilio, but not daily. She has not mentioned your sausages to me.”

Opilio looked disappointed.

“I wish to talk to you about a young woman named Agnes,” John continued.

Opilio frowned. “Agnes?”

“I understand she was your brother’s daughter?”

Opilio slapped the length of intestine he was holding down on the counter. “It’s true, Lord Chamberlain, but I haven’t seen her for a long time. She was always an ungrateful child. She refused to help with my work. Wouldn’t deign to do even the simplest of the jobs. Clean the entrails? Oh no, far too nasty. She was used to a life of wealth and privilege. Girls like her don’t dirty their fingers on the nasty insides of pigs, although they’re happy enough to have those insides on their dinner plates. Agnes was always willful, but she grew worse after her mother died.”

“Comita is dead?”

“Yes. She went to the Lord almost three years ago.”

The sorrow in his tone was unmistakable. “I can tell you were fond of her,” John observed. “My condolences.”

The sausage maker looked away. “I don’t want you to think I am concealing anything from you, excellency. We were to be married. She used to say the family of a sausage maker would never starve. But she left me for my brother. He was a clerk at the palace at the time. Ruthless, greedy, and underhanded. It was obvious he would do well for himself and so he did. And after all, living on the palace grounds is not the same as occupying a few rooms near the Copper Market with the smell of smoke and worse always in the air. As she said, making sausages is such a low occupation.”

From the way Opilio said the final words it was apparent that they were as fresh in his memory as if they had been spoken an hour before, even if he had repeated them in his thoughts ten thousand times.

“Yet you took mother and child in, so I am told.”

Opilio shrugged. “They were my brother’s family. And to be fair, Glykos had sent much custom my way. We used to joke that those at the palace felt safe eating my sausages since the tax collector’s brother wouldn’t be inclined to poison them. Particularly since their demise would have resulted in a decrease in tax revenues. As it turned out, I now own a perfectly respectable home, although hardly a mansion. I might have had a mansion too, if my brother hadn’t fallen out of favor. I was about to be given a contract to provision the army. Yes, Lord Chamberlain, there can be gold in entrails, if a man is not too dainty to seek it.”

John observed that the loss of the contract must have been distressing.

“What is a mansion worth? What was my brother’s house worth to him in the end? I’d prefer to live with pigs and eat from their trough in a world where Comita still lived.” Opilio dabbed at a watery eye. Then his lips tightened. “It’s as well she died. She never had to see what Agnes became. An actress, which is to say a whore. I did my best, but when her mother died, I couldn’t control her. Who was I but the poor, rejected, younger brother of her father?”

He sighed. “Why should she heed my advice or respect my commands? Before long she was going about in the lowest places with the lowest personages. She was seen at theaters—or what she called theaters—and in the company of so called actors and actresses. Then she suddenly seemed to have money. I confronted her. She denied earning it in the common way, but had no other explanation. A man in trade must be careful of his reputation, excellency. Wagging tongues have ruined many a business. Seeing she could support herself, by whatever vile artifice, I turned her out.”

John said he understood. “And you have not seen her for some time?”

“No, excellency. It’s been months now. Nor do I ever care to see her again. She has my brother’s blood in her.”

What would Opilio think if John told her his errant niece was dead? Would he be pleased? More likely he would immediately regret all he had just said. John decided not to tell him yet. The fewer who knew Agnes had been murdered the fewer would be alerted to his investigation.

He questioned Opilio further but the sausage maker had nothing of consequence to add. He said that Agnes had rarely mentioned the names of her disreputable acquaintances.

“Did she mention a man named Menander? I am told he was a patron of the theaters.”

Opilio shook his head. “I’ve already told you, excellency, she said little to me about her acquaintances. I made it plain to her I did not want to know. As for the theaters where she claimed to perform, they were usually nothing more than some public or private area taken over temporarily, as far as I could gather. You will understand I had no desire to seek them out.”

“I may return in a few days,” John said. “Meantime, try to think if there’s anything else you can tell me. Before I go, there’s one more thing.”

“But I’ve told you everything. My old head is as empty as these poor casings awaiting my funnel.”

“I don’t want to question you further, Opilio. I’ve decided I’d like to purchase some sausages after all.”