Five for Silver: A John, the Lord Chamberlain Mystery (14 page)

Chapter Seventeen

“I’m off to visit Scipio, my bookseller. His shop’s just across the Augustaion,” Crinagoras told Thomas, as he led his newly hired bodyguard through the huge, bronze gate of the Great Palace and across the square beyond.

“What do you intend to buy?”

“I don’t purchase literary works, Thomas, I write them. Scipio handles the occasional copying job for me. He also sells my poems.”

“Does he? You mean to say you can make a living in this city by scribbling poems? What a strange place!”

“Yes, well, I have been known to turn my golden verse into silver now and again. Tell me, Thomas, what do you do for a living?”

Thomas slapped the hilt of the sword hanging from his belt. “My blade’s my livelihood.”

“You’ve killed many men?”

“Do I look like a butcher?”

Crinagoras scowled at his red-headed companion, uncertain whether he’d been given an answer or not. “So you have spent a lot of time employed as a bodyguard?”

“Not that much.”

“Well, where is it you’ve been when doing this work of yours?”

“Is your bookseller more than a day’s march from here? If not, you don’t have enough time to hear all the places I’ve traveled, so ask me instead where I haven’t been.”

“Anatolius said you were from Bretania. Have you returned to that gray and misty island recently?”

“No. That’s one of the few places I haven’t been. Another is Armenia.”

“You haven’t been back to your homeland, despite all these wanderings to and fro you mention? Why not?”

Thomas simply grunted.

They crossed the great square of the Augustaion. The gulls had most of its cobbles to themselves today. Across the way, a donkey cart stood in front of the Great Church. Two men came out, carrying a limp form between them. Another plague victim. The sight was so common, it had become almost homely, as one with grubby street vendors hawking their wares or malformed beggars with outstretched palms.

Crinagoras was disappointed. He had rather hoped he and his impressive bodyguard might run into one of his acquaintances. “It’s a fine adventure to sail the seas and travel in distant lands, I suppose.” He sighed. “Frankly, I prefer to explore my imagination. Sometimes I think it is vaster than the whole world. I might appear to be sitting in my room, day after day, but in reality, my friend, I am braving the unruly waves, visiting foreign shores, walking with mythological beings.”

Thomas observed that he had not met any of the latter, but quite understood the attractions of sea travel carried out under one’s own roof.

“You grasp it exactly, except the sea…ah, well…for some it signifies excitement or adventure. For me it held tragedy. I can never look upon its sparkling water without remembering my lost beloved. Poor Eudoxia. In the lonely silence of my room, I shed rivers of tears for her.”

“Men do not speak of such private matters,” growled Thomas.

“A pity, isn’t it? We don’t mind at all, nor think it unmanly, to bare our bodies to one another in the baths, but to bare our souls—”

Thomas cleared his throat loudly. “As to what I do for a living. As I mentioned, I live chiefly by my blade. You see, for years now I have sought the Holy Grail.”

“The Christian relic? But I don’t understand how you can make a living seeking something if you never actually find it.”

“You make a living seeking truth and beauty, do you not?”

Crinagoras smiled. This barbaric fellow was apparently not so dull-witted as he appeared. “Now that you mention it…”

“In my case,” Thomas continued, “I have not yet found what I seek. However, when an adventurer from Bretania, who’s been to the ends of the earth searching for the Holy Grail, arrives in a new town on his quest, word gets around quickly. And there’s always someone who has a job just waiting for a bold fellow like that.”

“I should think so! Do you know, a few months ago I misplaced my best ink pot. I spent days searching for it. I penned a most amusing poem about the experience. Humorous, yet poignant. Losing that ink pot reminded me of losing—”

“Here’s a better idea,” Thomas interrupted. “Why not write about my search for the Grail? The stories I could tell you would sound like invented and quite fantastic tales! I won’t charge you much for them. Buy me a few cups of wine, and that will suffice.”

Crinagoras clucked with disapproval. “No, no. I fear you are not an authority on literature, Thomas. Whoever would want to read about a fellow from barbaric climes running about looking hither and yon for a musty old relic? As if we need any more relics in this city when it’s already full of them!”

He gestured at a shop doorway. “This is where today’s quest ends. We have reached Scipio’s emporium.”

Crinagoras and Thomas stepped from the street straight into what might have been the library of a wealthy household, except that few rich men owned the number of codexes and scrolls arrayed on shelves or laid out on tables, some opened as if the master had just been perusing them. Latin and Greek texts occupied opposite sides of the shop, whose painted walls depicted Romans from all walks of life in the common act of reading. Emperor Augustus and an anonymous young pupil of Socrates appeared to be held equally in thrall by the scrolls they perused.

Thomas chuckled and when Crinagoras glanced at him nodded at the wall painting beside the entrance. The scene depicted several octopii hovering over a burst crate of codexes, part of the cargo of a sunken ship.

Scipio’s emporium did not smell of ink and parchment, but rather of the huge bunches of freshly cut flowers filling a multitude of glass vases set on every side. Ink was, however, very much in evidence on the tunic of the proprietor, not to mention under his fingernails, and along the side of his nose. There were even traces not quite concealed by the cropped furze covering the short man’s scalp.

“Ah, Crinagoras, how nice…um…yes…why, it seems just yesterday you were here.” Scipio’s smile looked forced. “And who is your friend?”

“Thomas isn’t a friend, Scipio. I have hired myself a bodyguard!”

“Why, are you afraid someone’s reading your poetry?”

“What do you mean? Have you sold any of my work? Any more since yesterday, I mean?”

Scipio scratched nervously at his head. “Let me see, I don’t believe I have. Business isn’t what it used to be. Mind you, with the plague, people are buying a fair number of saints’ lives, and I’m doing a brisk trade with the Institutes. They always sell. Can’t copy them fast enough, and that’s the truth. But my customers just don’t seem to be in the mood for poetry. I’m having a hard time making ends meet.”

“That’s a very good reason to put more of my poems on display, don’t you think?”

“Of course, of course! Except, as I just explained, business is not going too well right now. Writing materials are expensive, and my copyists won’t work for nothing. However, I have had a wonderful idea. I’ve been keeping track of the doings of the holy fool. That’s something people are bound to be interested in reading about. I could tell you what I’ve learned and you could write it down. We could call it The Chronicle of the Fool, that has a learned air to it.”

Crinagoras sighed. “I might as well be young again and working away at my tutor’s lessons. Everyone has a copying assignment for me today. I’m sorry, Scipio, but you know I only write from the heart. I do have some very deep and sincere feelings about the plague.”

“You could fit those into such a chronicle easily, couldn’t you?”

“The fool’s an actor, a fraud. I write about real life, my friend. Real people. My subject is always truth, never lies or made-up stories.”

Crinagoras strolled around the emporium, his gaze flickering over the shelves. “Now, about those poems of mine. I’ll give you a share of my profits, Scipio. I see since yesterday you’ve sold all my collected epigrams. Why don’t you keep the proceeds from those for now and use them to pay your scriveners to produce a few more copies for sale? I always like to assist a friend if I can.”

“That’s very generous of you, Crinagoras. I’ll see what I can do.”

Thomas made a circuit of the shop and examined the wall paintings. He paused near the back of the room, plucked a codex out of a crate, and ran a finger over its ivory cover.

Scipio looked alarmed. “Be careful! That’s not supposed to be out here…it’s a very valuable item.” He took a step in Thomas’ direction, but Crinagoras was already looking over the burly Briton’s shoulder.

“What’s the title?” Crinagoras asked.

Thomas held the codex up so the poet could read it.

“‘A Bouquet of Crocuses.’ By Erinna of Rhodes.” How very remarkable. I thought only a few of her verses were known.” Crinagoras opened the codex. The ancient, stained parchment pages crinkled noisily as he thumbed through them. He stopped and began to open his mouth, as if to read aloud.

Scipio plucked the codex away. “One of my assistants must have left this here by mistake. It’s a special order. Fragments from an old scroll, which I was asked to bind into a codex, as you see.”

“I was certain almost all of Erinna’s poetry was lost to the ages, Scipio. Who could this gem possibly belong to? The emperor?”

“No. It belongs to a dealer in…such things. He brought it to me. The bits of the old scroll, that is.”

“How fascinating.” Crinagoras peered at his thumb. “Yet, I seem to have picked up some fresh ink from handling it…”

“Yes, well, being of great age some of the verses were exceedingly faint, you understand, so I was asked if I would highlight the writing a little here and there, to make it more legible. You cannot appreciate beauty if you cannot see it, can you?”

“A very poetic comment, Scipio,” Crinagoras observed with approval.

“You never know what’s going to happen next in this city,” Thomas grinned. “There’s no end to wonders here!”

“Quite so.” Crinagoras rubbed his smudged fingertips together. “Now what about my offer, Scipio?”

Scipio rubbed his scalp. It seemed less a nervous gesture than a sign of an incipient headache. “Parchment has gone up in price, you know,” he replied doubtfully.

“And why would that be, if people aren’t reading very much?”

“Perhaps it’s due to all those wills being made,” remarked Thomas.

“That may well be so,” replied Scipio. “How about this, Crinagoras? Jot some of your poetry down. Any old scrap of parchment will do. Then I’ll keep them on hand, and if anyone wants to purchase one it can be copied out nicely. I’ll be happy to keep a selection of your work on hand for my customers’ perusal. I’ll only charge you a nomisma.”

“What? You want a nomisma, even though you won’t have a proper copy on sale?”

“But you see, when anyone does ask for a copy I’ll split the profit with you.”

“I don’t know, Scipio. I’d have to think about it.”

Looking unhappy, Crinagoras walked from table to table, eyeing their offerings. He plucked a ragged piece of parchment from an enameled box full of similar sheets and scowled at the sign propped up nearby. “What does this mean, Scipio? Your sign says ‘Pre-inspired writing materials.’ What’s that?” He held the sheet up and squinted at it.

“Oh, it’s just something I offer at a reduced price. For poor poets. That’s to say poets with more inspiration than means.”

“I’ve heard poor poets tend to be poor poets,” put in Thomas.

Crinagoras suddenly reddened. “But…but…this was one of my epigrams! I can still see the words. You’ve scrubbed the parchment, Scipio! You’re selling my work as cheap writing material!”

“Pre-inspired parchment, my friend,” Scipio corrected him. “It helps to get the imagination going. The poet doesn’t have to supply the whole of the inspiration himself, because the parchment has already been imbued with previous genius. Think of it as a collaboration between you and some lesser writer, if you will.”

He snatched the scrap from Crinagoras’ trembling hand. “Besides, this particular parchment being in the box was a mistake,” he went on. “I shall have to rid myself of that bumbling assistant, I can see. This was never intended to be sold as writing material. It was…that is to say…I merely felt the verse was so strong, its emotions so overpowering, that, well, I thought it best to lighten the writing a little, to protect the reader’s sensibilities. Now, about that offer we were discussing…”

Crinagoras sniffed, then sneezed. He wiped his suddenly streaming eyes and sneezed again. “Yes, yes. I’ll bring you some poetry to keep on hand for copying, Scipio, but I’m only paying you half a nomisma. How much extra work can it be to keep a sheet or two of parchment sitting about on a shelf? Now I must leave. The scent of these flowers is overpowering. Where did you get the notion to fill the place with such heavily perfumed blooms? I much prefer the smell of ink and dust.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Yes, Lord Chamberlain, children can sometimes be troublesome.” Archdeacon Palamos looked sorrowful as, with a wave of a pudgy hand, he directed an urchin approaching with a jug of oil toward a flickering lamp suspended from an ornate silver stand.

“He’s one of our young orphans,” he went on with a fond smile. “Alas, there are so many in Constantinople these days that I fall into despair thinking of them being left all alone to fend for themselves.”

John offered a compliment on the ecclesiastical care given freely to the sick and helpless. “I shall endeavor not to detain you too long from your good works. Speaking of which, I hope this will be of some assistance.” He proffered a suitable amount.

“Most kind, Lord Chamberlain.” The man’s bow was impeded by his ample stomach, noticeable despite his voluminous robe.

There was an unnatural pallor to Palamos’ face. He looked perfectly at home among the bones and scraps of desiccated cloth and flesh that had at one time or another been mistaken for part of a departed holy man. As he’d approached John, moving through isolated pools of lamplight, he’d resembled a phantom.

“You were inquiring about Nereus’ will. It’s so sad that such a good friend has departed and died, worse than that, vexed to his soul by that troublesome son of his. Even so, he still remembered the unfortunate with his generous gift to the church.”

John had recognized Palamos. He had met him briefly years before, but the recollection was not mutual. Much had changed since then and the lighting in the crypt of the church was extremely poor. “Nereus left a legacy to the church?”

“He did.” Palamos peered first into a large box filled with irregular bundles tied with cords and then examined several dusty baskets whose contents John could not make out. Crates lined the walls, vying for space with more baskets and bundles. The air was thick with a sharp incense composed of dust and mold.

“And the son?”

“The legacy to the church reduced the estate to a small plot of poor land to the west of the city, holding the ruins of the house where Nereus was born. He stated he was leaving it to Triton because that was all he himself had inherited, so that his son could have the benefit of making a fortune by his own labors. Just between us, Lord Chamberlain, I believe the young man was fortunate to get even that.”

“I understand Triton had been involved with an unsuitable woman?”

“Unsuitable is hardly a strong enough word. An actress, a friend of bear trainers! We all know the way such women earn a few nomismata extra, don’t we? Every night I pray my dear parentless boys will escape the fleshly fish hooks dangled by such low women. They drag such innocents down, straight into the clutches of the demons of lust, and then it is eternal agony and for what, I ask you, for what?”

“Could you describe who was there when Nereus made his will?”

“Nereus was frantic, poor man. There was a great deal of confusion and difficulty finding the required number of witnesses.” Palamos gazed up at the shadowy ceiling, recalling recent events. “I had gone to offer him spiritual comfort, having heard he had been taken ill. He asked me to assemble witnesses. I discovered his house steward, whom he had specifically requested, was himself too sick to attend. However, his assistant, Cador, a man from Bretania and well trusted by his master, was able to take his place.”

Palamos knitted his brows and glanced up again as if invoking heavenly aid for his memory.

“It was dreadful, Lord Chamberlain, seeing my dear friend sinking so fast.” A vague smile flickered across his face. “Dear me, that could almost be the sort of jest a callous person would make, given Nereus’ shipping interests. To return to your question. Also present were a couple of men I did not know, these being a cart driver and that obscene simpleton who has been running about the city lately holding himself out as being a holy fool. Can you imagine the dreadful anguish of being on your deathbed with a pair like that standing next to it?”

An outraged tone crept into Palamos’ voice. “Do you know, this so-called holy fool started telling what he considered humorous anecdotes, despite my pleas to respect the situation. Why, the more I protested, the more lewd they became!”

He paused and looked around the gloomy surroundings. “I should not be saying this within the hearing of young ears. Children will creep down here to play, no matter how often I warn them not to do so. The other day I caught two of them testing the sanctity of Flavian against that of Gorgonius, or so they claimed. To me it looked more like a sword fight. Well, as much as you could recreate one when your weapons are a bit of thigh bone and a mummified forearm.”

John remarked that the incident sounded even more blasphemous than joking lewdly beside a deathbed.

“I would certainly agree, except the relics kept down here are those whose authenticity has been doubted even though their donors were perfectly sincere in their belief they were indeed what they purported to be.”

John asked him why such dubious items remained in the church.

“An arm or a thigh bone once belonged to some poor soul even if he wasn’t a saint or a martyr, Lord Chamberlain, and therefore should rest on sacred ground. Then too, we may at times be mistaken. For example, the Patriarch recently ruled our finger of St. Luke is authentic after all and ordered it put on display because of Luke’s connection with the healing arts. Heaven only knows where we stored it, though.” He poked forlornly at another bundle.

“About this holy fool…?”

“If you must insist on hearing the sordid details, Lord Chamberlain, after that the disgusting fellow began to sing a filthy song about the empress and a number of ecclesiastical dignitaries! I will say he seemed to have a fair grasp of the church hierarchy. Then, and I shudder to relate this, he actually seized my elbows and pulled me around Nereus’ room in a horrible sort of dance until I managed to shake him off. Dreadful, just dreadful. I practically fainted between dizziness and the sheer horror of his blasphemous behavior.”

John expressed sympathy.

Palamos shook his head. “And then this unspeakable fool finished his performance by leaping up on Nereus’ bed and bouncing up and down! I thought we were in the presence of Satan himself. Yet what can you expect when time is of the essence and you are forced to drag rascals in off the street?”

“Certainly you could anticipate they would not be models of courtiers’ behavior,” John observed. “Are you certain the man you mention is the one claiming to be a holy fool?”

“Definitely, Lord Chamberlain. He invaded this very church not long ago and tried to make off with our fragment of the Column of Flagellation.”

John mentioned he had seen several boys and two men pursuing the would-be thief. “They did not catch him?”

“No. However, I’m glad to say we haven’t seen him since.”

“What about the cart driver?”

“I regret I cannot tell you who he is. Light!”

John heard running footsteps and another urchin emerged from the shadowy stairway to hand a clay lamp to Palamos.

“Have you seen the finger of St. Luke?” Palamos asked the boy.

The boy reddened. “Oh no, sir. I haven’t touched it and neither has anyone else.” He nervously licked his lips. “What good would an old dried-up finger be in a fight anyway? It would probably break soon as you poked anyone with it. If anyone did, I mean. But nobody broke it because we didn’t have it, you see.”

“Yes, I think I do see.” Palamos shooed the boy away and led John to a table standing in a corner. In the lamplight, beneath thick cobwebs, glinted what might have been the eyes of malignant spiders. Drawing closer John saw several jeweled reliquaries.

“They hold several pieces of the leg bone of John the Baptist,” Palamos explained. “From their size and number it would seem he was twice the height of an ordinary person. Very convenient for river baptisms, wouldn’t you say? I’m certain he would forgive me for saying that.” He gently brushed cobwebs from the reliquaries.

John described the witnesses he had already identified: Crinagoras, Gregory, and Cador. “With yourself and the holy fool and a cart driver that makes six. Do you know who the seventh was?”

“Aristotle of Athens,” Palamos replied immediately. “He tried to pawn off some questionable relics on me whenever I happened to meet him at Nereus’ house. He presents himself as a dealer in antiquities and oracles.”

Palamos coughed. Was he choking on the cobwebs he’d stirred up or the thought of the dealer of antiquities?

“Did Nereus transact very much business with this Aristotle?”

Palamos nodded. “I regret to say it of a good friend who is now gone, but Nereus exhibited a certain gullibility at times.”

“Where is Aristotle’s establishment?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I never ventured there myself. His regular discovery of ancient oracles struck me as highly suspicious. In fact, on one occasion I questioned him most closely about it. And do you know what he said, Lord Chamberlain? He claimed he was born on the fifth day of the fifth month and as Virgil observed, when gamblers wager, Fortuna favors uneven numbers! Thus, he said, he trusted to Fortuna that the antiquities and oracles he bought and sold were as represented and since he has not been prosecuted so far, obviously that proved his wares were genuine.”

“It’s extraordinary how many are placing their trust in Fortuna these days. Her name seems to be on everyone’s lips.”

“True enough. We should rather be praying to the Lord, but there are those, I am sorry to say, who are reluctant to trust one whom they believe responsible for the pestilence. In fact, many say we have brought the plague on ourselves.”

“Do you know the lawyer Prudentius?”

Palamos had picked up a small, exceedingly ugly reliquary which resembled, no doubt quite by accident, a jeweled toad. He looked up from it in surprise. “I do know Prudentius. Very well, in fact. Another pious man full of charity. He was another orphan like the boy you just saw and again like him brought up in the church. Now he not only donates regularly to our charities, he also takes outcasts and dear children into his own home. As you see, Prudentius’ kindly nature and actions prove that charity begets charity. If you’re thinking about the will, though, Nereus formed his own opinions about that.”

John asked what he meant.

“Recently Nereus mentioned to me he’d consulted the law on the matter. I think he meant he had been leafing through that set of the Institutes he obtained a while ago. He consulted them as often as he did those oracles in his garden. Well, as far as the latter goes, superstition isn’t a sin, but what sense he could have made of something as confusing as the Institutes, I can’t say. One needs suitable training to disentangle the entrails of the law.”

He tugged at the tiny door of the reliquary. “You haven’t told me why all this interests you, Lord Chamberlain, not that I have any right to ask. It isn’t about his generous gift to us, is it?”

John assured him that no one was thinking about confiscating the church’s legacy and then briefly explained Gregory’s fate.

Palamos looked distressed. “Gregory was another of our benefactors. And he’s been murdered, you say? I didn’t know him too well, although I’ve occasionally seen him here. He’d come in now and then and just stand silently for a time, contemplating our relics of John Chrysostom. I did not think it unusual to see him at Nereus’ house. People who worship at the same church tend to get to know one another, conduct business together, and so forth. Have you spoken to his widow?”

“There was no one at his house when I called.”

“I believe her sister lives nearby. She may be staying with her.”

Palamos finally managed to pry open the reliquary and extracted from it a finger with a cracked and blackened nail. As he held it up, it appeared to be pointing at John.

Palamos smiled. “The finger of St. Luke!”

***

Angelina, Gregory’s widow, was spinning wool in a sunny room at the back of her sister’s house, a short walk from her own home. A small, plump woman perched on a stool, she reminded John of a dove. A dove whose feathers were, however, a blue and dark as the waters of the Sea of Marmara under the glare of the midday sun. In one hand she held a clump of wool. A weighted spindle dangled from the other.

She greeted John with a timid smile, indicated he should take a seat, and continued working. “My sister’s husband has been taking care of such matters that need to be taken care of, I am thankful to say. The news was a terrible shock. A man from the palace administrative offices came to tell me. It all seems a terrible dream.”

John offered condolences.

“Thank you. As you see, I am keeping myself busy. Not crying in lamentation or any such extravagance. A nasty pagan practice, excellency. They might well tear their hair at the mouth of Hades, but why should we when our loved ones are standing at the gate of heaven?”

The widow’s cheeks were rosy without the aid of makeup, her skin unlined, her hair, pulled away from her face, dark brown. It struck John that Gregory must have taken a much younger bride, until he noticed the joints of the hands that tugged at the wool and twirled the spindle were swollen and knobby with age.

“Not that the journey there is easy unless one is a saint,” Angelina continued. “My poor husband must be braving the toll-houses at this very instant, arguing over his baggage with demon tariff collectors.” A brief smile illuminated her face. “He always said he’d be well prepared to deal with them, having been a customs official himself.”

John remarked that such a position would certainly be of great assistance in the circumstances.

“He was a good man, excellency. A good husband. I never wanted for anything. If he is facing some satanic judge right now, he surely has a score of angels defending him.”

Not to mention angelic messengers seeking justice on his behalf, John thought. “I would say Gregory is not carrying the sort of baggage that would interest demons.”

Did a wistful look cross the round face before him? “None of us are without sin, I fear,” Angelina said.

The room had whitewashed walls lined with chests and baskets of wool. A shaft of light from the open window fell across the dark floor tiles, touching the stool where Gregory’s widow worked. John told her, without elaboration, he was investigating her husband’s death.