Terror of Constantinople

by Richard Blake

  ‘Let me assure you,’ I finished, ‘that the Permanent Legate was killed by a natural person. I don’t yet know why he did it. But I think I know how it was done and who did it. And I’ll further assure you that – unless I’m stopped by naked force – I’ll know within the next few days why it was done.’

  Theophanes looked again at Alypius. His face had taken on the stiff tension of a gambler at the races. Looking out of his depth, Martin sat very still.

  I turned to the boxes of confidential files piled up on the far side of the room from Maximin.

  ‘Martin went properly through these this morning,’ I said. ‘We’ve both since had another look. As Martin thought yesterday, the Permanent Legate’s papers have been carefully sorted. Many things are missing that we reasonably believe ought to be there. We are missing all correspondence for this year with the Dispensator in Rome. Also all correspondence whatever between you and His Late Excellency since his arrival in the city the year before last. We are certain of this last correspondence because the empty filing racks still carry the inked labels of description. This gives us further reason to believe that the sifting of papers was both hurried and unpremeditated. Given luck and boldness, murder is easy. It’s the attendant circumstances that are harder to control.’

  As I spoke, I could see that Theophanes was beginning to sweat under the paint. For the first time ever, I’d broken his composure.

  ‘What I have, though’ – I held up my hand for silence – ‘what I have is this.’

  I took a small sheet of papyrus from the file that Martin held open for me. The pattern of folds and weakening in one of the corners told that it had once been pinned to other sheets. Now, sliced in half down the middle, it had been reused on the back.

  ‘This is interesting for what it says on both sides,’ I announced to Theophanes. ‘The reverse of the sheet carries a list written, I think, by His Excellency himself. If so, he was dealing with some very large sums of money – far more than the Legation accounts indicate were at his disposal.

  ‘You will see references to my own banking house. I may visit Baruch in the next few days, but will not trouble him with this. He’s a banker and – until recently, at least – a Jew. I am convinced that even three days with Priscus under the Ministry would not reveal what services he provides his other customers. And such is as it ought to be.

  ‘The sheet was used originally, however, for the draft minutes of a meeting in Ephesus. You will see that this took place in April. I wonder why His Excellency might have made a spring visit to Ephesus? And who else might have attended?’

  I asked the question with a lightness that no other face in the room reflected. Theophanes was on his feet. He snatched furiously at the sheet as I stood over him with it. He looked at the list. He turned to Alypius. Eyes blazing, he launched into a flood of blame in their own bleak language.

  Alypius defended himself as best he could. But Theophanes was almost out of control with rage. He even forgot to keep his voice down and every so often his gaze wandered to the open door to the balcony. It was only with extreme effort that he pulled himself together and turned back to face me.

  He looked at the upper side of the sheet and I could see traces of anger on his face under the paint give way to relief.

  ‘But my dear Alaric,’ he said with a return to Greek, ‘you have only the right-hand side of the sheet. There are no names here. As for the date, this could be any April – the regnal year is missing.’

  He spoke now with forced lightness, but his hands shook as he dropped the sheet on to my desk.

  ‘Of course, you are right,’ I said, enjoying myself. ‘I really should have seen that for myself. As for what I can read of the minutes, they do seem to concern matters of doctrine that were quite within His Excellency’s competence. I cannot see why he had to travel to Ephesus to discuss whether the Lombard King might be won over to Orthodoxy. But what I can see of his probable comments is most uplifting. Perhaps the sheet is useless after all. Shall I throw it away?’

  ‘Do allow me to take that duty from you,’ said Theophanes with the glimmering return of his charm. ‘It would never do to disturb the serene tidiness of your office.’

  He took the sheet back and buried it in his robe. Then he sat down and, with still shaking hands, sipped at his kava juice. Martin gave me an even more scared and uncomprehending look.

  At that moment Maximin began to cry. I turned to Martin with a sigh. ‘Can you see if Gutrune is yet up to changing some shitty clothes?’

  But as Martin rose, so too did Theophanes.

  ‘In one of my numerous pasts,’ he said, ‘I was an acting nursemaid. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to bring comfort to your most beautiful son. If Martin would be so kind as to fetch fresh clothes and hot scented water for my hands ...’

  47

  Maximin again lay in his cot, happy in his fresh clothes. For all I knew, Theophanes hadn’t touched a baby in fifty years. But he hadn’t lost an ounce of a very considerable skill. He could have given lessons to Gutrune on how to clean shitty bottoms and then tie the clothes on.

  Martin and Alypius had danced attendance with bowls of water and lengths of fine cloth. Then Theophanes had spent an age praising the boy’s present and future qualities. He had evidently enjoyed himself with Maximin but it was also clear that he’d been eager for any excuse to change the subject. But if I was willing to let him recover his composure, there was much more ground to cover.

  ‘Now, Theophanes,’ I opened, ‘let us deal with this matter of an apparently insoluble murder. We have the Permanent Legate’s body in a locked room, with neither weapon nor murderer. I have no doubt you were highly pleased with yourself when you set it up. But I am not one of those two-legged sheep wandering about the streets of this city.

  ‘The main enemy of truth is not ignorance. If perceived, that can be the beginning of wisdom. The real enemy is false assumptions.’

  I leaned forward and dropped my voice lower still. I now spoke in Latin.

  ‘What reason,’ I asked Martin, ‘have we to believe that the Permanent Legate’s room was bolted on the inside?’

  ‘I watched three powerful Northerners smashing the door in,’ he answered in a whisper. ‘That surely tells us something about the room’s security.’

  ‘It tells you that the room was secured,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t tell you that the door was secured from the inside. We both saw Demetrius fussing with his keys. Can you remember how many times he pushed them in and out of the lock? I think it was twice. Before that, Legation slaves had been trying to get in. Once would have unlocked a door unbarred on the inside. Twice would have locked it again for us to have a go.

  ‘And when we did break in, did you bother to check which way the bolt was drawn? I know I should have. But I didn’t. By the time I realised what must have happened, the Black Agents had done their work, and it was too late to tell.

  ‘Let us assume, though, that the door wasn’t bolted when we broke it down – that it was only locked – and that part of the mystery is solved. Demetrius drugged the doorkeepers. He let Agathius in. Perhaps they killed the Permanent Legate together. Agathius then came looking for me.

  ‘The Permanent Legate’s body lay undisturbed until Demetrius went back into the room and made a commotion just before we returned from dumping the now unfortunate Agathius, and then came out and locked the door. Everyone accepted that the murder had taken place later than it did. That would explain why the body was already stiff when Martin and I moved it. It would also explain why it was removed after it was known that I’d called for a medical examination.

  ‘Do you not think, my most Magnificent Theophanes, this provides a natural explanation of your alleged miracle? You will pardon me if all this escaped my notice yesterday. As you can imagine, I was somewhat overcome by the pressure of events – and by the drugs you had Alypius slip me in the Circus.’

  Theophanes reached up and dabbed gently at his face. He looked
down at a shaking and now white finger tip.

  ‘Was it out of some regard for my safety’, I asked ironically, ‘that you tried to ensure I’d not fall asleep that night? Or was it because you’d set Agathius up? You had him kill the Permanent Legate. Then he was supposed to come round and finish me off. You made very sure I’d be in bed, by twice getting me away from Priscus. But you also made reasonably sure that it was Agathius whose corpse lay on my bedroom floor.

  ‘And bearing in mind the contents of the letter you gave him to plant by me, you knew there’d be no fuss about a body. That would have left you with a dead Silas and a mystery that no one could have unravelled. Isn’t that how it happened, Theophanes?’

  I leaned back again in my chair and twisted slightly to deal with the itching of my sore back.

  ‘Would you think it a breach of our friendship,’ I asked, with a wiggle of my index finger, ‘if I were to ask you what the fuck is going on?’

  Theophanes swallowed and looked at Alypius. If Martin could have squeezed himself through a gap in the floorboards, I’m sure he’d have stirred from his utter immobility.

  ‘Aelric,’ he said, moving out of Latin, ‘do you recall how dexterously I juggled those heads in the tent of the Great One? That could stand as a metaphor for how well I had arranged matters in the city. But any juggler will tell you how, on account of some overlooked defect in his objects, he will need to step sideways to avoid dropping something. He must then step back to catch those things that remain in their appointed course. Before long, his performance will have been destabilised. His efforts must now be turned to a less elegant set of improvisations as he endeavours to regain his original equilibrium.’

  ‘If I can decode your utterance, Theophanes,’ I said with a bleak smile, ‘you’ve lost control of your plot, and you’re now having to make things up as you go along. Any chance you might care to explain yourself in plain Greek?’

  Visibly recovering, Theophanes was for the moment inspecting his face in a little bronze mirror and touching up the paint.

  ‘It was not my choice’, he began, ‘to put you in charge of the investigation. I had been expecting Priscus to handle that. He could safely have been left to rack his way through the Legation staff while everyone else agreed on some demonic intervention. And yes – it was at least partly from the great love I bear you that I made sure the odds would be moved in your favour. Luck may be a philosophical absurdity. But you are possessed of it well enough to use whatever improved odds are given you.

  ‘This being said, I am not at liberty to tell you more than you have uncovered for yourself. There are matters that cannot be revealed to you without the gravest possible consequences, as I have already explained. Let me assure you, however, that I had no part in the murder of your freedman. I am sensible to my own debt to him, and I truly deplore his murder. Beyond guessing that it was Demetrius who served the poison, I cannot say more. And do not ask what has become of the body.’

  He ignored my reply and continued: ‘I must warn you that if you have any regard for any person in this room, you will say nothing more of your most interesting theory. You have been appointed to investigate the murder of His Excellency the Permanent Legate. This does not mean you are required to solve the case before Heraclius arrives in the city.

  ‘Please rely on Priscus for as much help as he offers you. Do not continue with your own speculations. They will serve no useful purpose.’

  I looked over at Maximin, who was now sleeping peacefully, then turned back to Theophanes.

  ‘What chance’, I asked, ‘of another murder attempt the moment I set foot outside the Legation?’

  ‘None,’ he assured me. ‘With both Agathius and Dioscorides out of the way, Heraclius has lost his only men of any ability in the City. In your new eminence, you are above any law that bars the carrying of arms in the street. I have no doubt you can handle any casual attempt that may be made against you.

  ‘Stay inside the Legation as much as you can,’ he said with quiet emphasis. ‘Wait for the moment when the blockade has been lifted and you – and yours – can make your escape.’

  As Theophanes made his excuses for getting away, I poured out the remnants of the pot. Since no one else wanted any, I took the lot for myself and crunched on pulverised berries.

  ‘My dearest friend Theophanes,’ I said as Martin helped fasten his cloak, ‘I have business myself at the Ministry later today. Depending on how long Priscus or his secretary have need of me, might I have the pleasure of a visit to your office?’

  48

  ‘How could you do that to the old eunuch? Don’t you realise what he could do to us?’

  I stopped and turned to Martin. He was still pale and shaking. A passer-by, finding himself between us, stood smartly back and bowed his apology to me before continuing his journey.

  At first, those tailors had disappointed me. ‘No new clerical robes possible before the middle of next month,’ they’d insisted. This was a shame, as the robe cut up by that demented cleric Dioscorides wasn’t safe to wear – the slave had died, just as Theophanes said he would. But they had managed to fit me into some plain senatorial robes they had picked up at an auction of confiscated goods.

  I was wearing one now in the street, and looked pretty lush in the white silk with a purple border when I stopped to admire myself in a shop window.

  From the wording of the Imperial Warrant, the grant of senatorial status was independent of my position as Acting Permanent Legate. If I ever got out of the city alive, I’d have more to take back to Gretel than an adopted foundling.

  ‘Martin,’ I replied in the Celtic of his question, ‘I had to interrogate Theophanes in the best approximation we’d get to privacy. Short of putting him on the rack, there was nothing I wasn’t willing to try to get far less information than he eventually gave us. Now, do stand out of the way. There’s a munitions cart coming that looks set on splashing mud all over you.’

  At first, I’d felt cautious about taking to the streets after Theophanes’ words of warning, but the Greek Patriarch was failing and the churches were laying on special services. As I’d had something to do with his stroke, I was wondering if I might collect any of the blame.

  I needn’t have worried. That witticism of Priscus about how I’d never got to the ‘I am nothing’ of the reading from St Paul had been circulated round the city. I wasn’t just a favourite of Saint Victorinus; everyone was now saying I had God Almighty Himself on my side.

  I can’t say how many benedictions I’d had asked of me once out of the Legation. But I can say that I wasn’t once stopped at any of the barricades going up at street corners and made to show identification. Whether in Green livery or Blue, the pickets just stood smartly back and let us both through. This meant that, while it was on the far side of the city, getting to the Monastery of St John Chrysostom took only half the time Martin had set aside.

  A grey building, abutting directly on to the Golden Horn, the monastery stood in one of the outlying commercial districts. In one of those slow, semi-tidal movements that carry business around a great city like Constantinople, the smarter establishments had long since moved towards the Bosphorus side. What remained were mostly the second-hand markets. Crowded with Jews and unwashed paupers, the streets might have been in another city. But, as you ought now to realise, Constantinople is a world in itself – a city of many cities.

  ‘Your Excellency will surely not object to the removal of his sword within this House of God,’ the clerk said, rising from his bow as I stepped through the opened gate.

  ‘Of course not,’ I replied, reaching for the buckle. ‘I’d have been surprised had you asked anything else.’

  I passed my sword to a monk who’d been washing the floor. He put his mop down and bowed silently before hanging it on a peg for outer clothes.

  As we passed down a shabby corridor that stank of boiled cabbage, I wondered how many monks there could be in this Order. The monastery must have been bigger than the
Legation, but was absolutely silent.

  Unless their foundations exist to bother God in earnest, abbots in the West tend towards the jolly. Think of my dear Benedict here in Jarrow. The Abbot of this monastery sat slumped at his desk, glowering in the Greek fashion into his huge, scruffy beard.

  ‘Reverend Father,’ I opened in my most courtly manner, ‘I represent His Holiness the Patriarch of Rome, and come with the full authority of His Most Sacred Imperial Majesty—’

  I got no further. The Abbot continued looking down at his desk, breathing hard. Instead, the clerk who’d brought me in struck up:

  ‘Your Excellency must be aware that the monks of this Order are under a vow of perpetual silence. The Reverend Father cannot possibly respond to anything you say.’

  ‘What?’ I asked, astonished.

  The clerk took up an oratorical pose and continued: ‘Our Patron Saint said everything that needed to be said. He said it as well as could be said. It would be a disservice to Him if the monks devoted to His Most Glorious and Eloquent Memory were to try speaking for themselves. They may use their organs of speech to give quiet thanks to the Heavenly Father. But there can be no profane use.’

  This was a novel excuse for not trying to speak proper Greek. It was a bit of a conversation stopper, though.

  I smiled and tried again:

  ‘I would ask the Reverend Father to consider that, in the fullest possible sense, I represent the successor of Saint Peter Himself. Our Lord and Saviour said to him: “And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.”