by Mary Reed
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 co
urt. 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.”
Chapter Thirteen
John, Anatolius, and Crinagoras stood at the foot of the tenement stairs and contemplated walking back through the inky puddles of the alleyway, now barely visible in the deepening twilight beyond the doorway.
“I shall have to at least wrest some verse from this miserable excursion,” muttered Crinagoras. “I’ll call it A Paludial Passage. What could be more emblematic of the common life than slogging through muck and mire and—”
“I’m glad someone has found some inspiration here,” Anatolius broke in. “John, you don’t believe Menander knows nothing at all about Glykos’ family, do you?”
“No. I would have expected him to have heard gossip or rumors if nothing else. It isn’t surprising Menander would be uncooperative. A man who has been expelled from court isn’t likely to have any great love of those who remain there, regardless of what he might say about Justinian to my face.”
Anatolius looked down and scowled. “I’m in agreement with Crinagoras. I hate thinking I’ve got my boots soaked for no good reason. Perhaps Menander should be reminded of the consequences of misleading you?”
“I don’t want to frighten him. There are plenty of others in his position and I wish to avoid spreading alarm about inquiries coming from men living in the palace.”
John turned toward the woman they had seen sitting on the stairs on their way up to Menander’s room and asked her where he could find the owner of the tenement.
The woman, who had been studiously ignoring the trio, looked away from contemplating the wall. “I hope there is nothing amiss, excellency?” Her tone was anxious. “I collect rents and keep watch and you can be sure I am ever alert. It’s not everyone who will trust a woman with matters of business, but the owner of this fine dwelling is one.”
The fading light fell against the wall beside her, illuminating a line of charcoal marks and smudges where a few had been rubbed away. The woman herself remained in shadow, a faceless figure with a rasping voice.
“Who is the owner?” John asked.
“The Church of the Mother of God,” was the surprising answer. “All the tenants here work for the church in one way or another. Their lodgings are so close to it they don’t mind paying a little extra for the privilege of not having far to walk.”
She tapped the line of charcoal marks on the wall. “As you see, I keep track of them most carefully. I hope nobody is spreading bad things about any of them, excellency. Most are poor, but all of them are honest.”
Anatolius complimented her upon the honesty of the tenants.
“The three of you are from court, aren’t you? I am very observant, sir,” she replied. “Menander isn’t in trouble, is he? If he were, I would never try to conceal him from you. My job is to watch and collect rents. I work for the church, which instructs us to obey the emperor in all matters.”
John did not observe that since they had just visited Menander, concealment would not have been possible. Instead, he asked the woman how long Menander had been a tenant.
“He’s been here for years, excellency. Never been any bother. I will say. Very quiet, he is, even when he’s imbibed too much. That’s all I know. As I said, my job is to collect rents and keep watch. Also to make certain nobody lets half a room out behind my back. Not that I don’t sympathize, for it’s difficult to scratch out a living and getting more so every day.”
She sighed. “But Menander…I cannot tell you much about Menander, I fear. A polite man, but not talkative. One who’s lived at court—rubbed elbows with the imperial couple—why would he spend time gossiping with ordinary folk like me?”
“Are there any others from court here?”
“There’s one other, excellency. Her name’s Alba. She is from a famly that was once wealthy but she talks to us all and is kinder and more considerate than most. She cleans the church and gives most of what she earns to charity.”
“Do Menander and Alba know each other?” John asked.
“I couldn’t say, excellency. I’ve never seen them together. Alba is one who works each day laboring at the church or Samsun’s hospice while Menander is in and out at strange times. I don’t know how he occupies himself. Whatever he does, he often needs an escort to carry him upstairs afterward.”
Alba occupied a small room on the top floor of the building, two floors above Menander. However, their informant advised them it was useless going back upstairs since Alba had been at the hospice all day.
As the trio stepped out into the gloomy alley and began to splash back to the street, the woman seated at the bottom of the stairs reached over and erased three marks on the wall.
Crinagoras looked back at her with evident curiosity. “The keeper of the gate,” he muttered. “Like Cerberus, or—”
A scream interrupted his inspirational thought. A black, howling shape raced past them up the alleyway, and slid around the corner at the far end like a chariot rounding the turn in the Hippodrome. A hissing, brown terror followed, feet working wildly against the slippery ooze, sending up a shower of black water and filth.
“Mithra take those cats!” shouted Anatolius, wiping his spattered garments with his hands.
“Demons!” screamed Crinagoras, his voice hitting a higher pitch than the felines had managed.
His cry was as nothing compared to the wail of horror he emitted as he lost his balance and sat down, hard, in the muck.
John helped him to his feet. To his surprise, the poet seemed to compose himself almost immediately. In fact, even as he slapped ineffectually at the mud on his clothes, he smiled.
“An epic’s come to me!” he blurted out. “Why, don’t you see? The door to the underworld’s in an alleyway in the Copper Market! Behind a church, no less! There’s
a moral there for all to learn! We see the keeper of the gate! We are attacked by demons! It will rival Homer! I am so sorry, Lord Chamberlain. I must return to my kalamos immediately before my muse deserts me. You will be able to proceed without me, won’t you?”
Chapter Fourteen
The cavernous ward in Samsun’s Hospice was chilly, the noisome air warmed by nothing but feverish bodies on close packed cots. Alba sat at the bedside of a shriveled creature whose sex could not be determined from a distance, alternately spooning nourishment between its withered lips and wiping the patient’s chin and cheeks with a cloth.
Alba’s back was to John. Her plain black linen tunic spread out on the straw around her stool, the long sleeves half covering her bone-white hands.
John waited for her to finish. He was in no hurry. He had set Anatolius the task of escorting Crinagoras home and of informing Cornelia that he would be late.
Alba spoke softly in the cultured tones of the court as she moved the spoon from bowl to mouth. That the utterly unresponsive person she addressed was capable of hearing had to be taken on faith.
The room echoed with a din of voices. Conversation mingled with the unintelligible sounds of suffering. John had learned to pick words out of the clamor at an imperial banquet or during races at the Hippodrome. He listened as Alba recounted the tale of a holy woman who had seen a glowing veil descend from a church ceiling. The veil swooped, circled, and then flew away like a white bird. The listener’s brimming eyes glistened.
After a long time, Alba rose and turned. She wore the veil which covered her head and shoulders fastened at the neck in the manner of a cenobite. Framed by black, her colorless face shone like the moon on the dark water of the sea.
“Lord Chamberlain,” she said. “Thank you for waiting. I know a place where we can talk.”
***
Alba lit a clay lamp and set it back down on the table beside an array of mortars and pestles, scales, and metallic instruments with uses John hesitated to guess. The flaring light revealed wooden shelves bowed under the weight of jars, jugs, and bottles filled with unguents and potions. Several crosses had been propped up on the shelves amid the medical supplies. There was no wall space for them.