Seven for a Secret

by Mary Reed

  “Did she have other friends, Petronia? I’m not here to cause anyone trouble. I’m trying to find out who murdered her.”

  “You really are from the palace, aren’t you? Who do you think killed her? Who’s usually responsible when an…an…actress is murdered?”

  “I realize it is a dangerous profession. I have reason to think this might not be related to her work. Did she ever mention a man named Menander?”

  “Didn’t have to. We all know about Menander. He’s one of our most generous benefactors.”

  “Could there have been a closer relationship between her and Menander?”

  A sound between a laugh and a sob escaped Petronia’s lips. “What would Agnes see in an old man like Menander? What would Menander do with an actress? But I understand what you mean. I might as well tell you. I don’t want you to think I’m holding anything back. Talk to Troilus.”

  She got to her feet, supporting herself with a hand on the pudgy thigh of the gilded Cupid. “Yes, Troilus might know more than I do. He’s a handsome young man. Youth seeks out youth, doesn’t it? His shop is just in the back there. He sells all manner of curiosities.”

  She pointed toward a doorway on the end of the exedra, then, seemingly overcome by emotion, swayed, and fainted.

  Chapter Eighteen

  John caught Petronia as she collapsed and lowered her to the ground. Several of her fellow actors rushed over and before long had her head propped up, pressing her discarded phallus into service as a pillow. Petronia made unintelligible moaning sounds and her eyelids twitched without opening.

  “I brought her some very bad news,” John told a dwarf who glared at him. The dwarf held three wooden balls of the sort used by jugglers, and looked ready to hurl them in outrage. “A friend of hers, a girl named Agnes, was found murdered.”

  The statement sent the troupe into uproar.

  John decided it would be futile to seek further information from them, and went to the door Petronia had pointed out.

  Troilus, the young shopkeeper who knew Agnes, had not bothered to erect a sign advertising his business.

  Inside the building, doors appeared at intervals along a short hallway scarcely illuminated by light entering from the entrance. Beneath the dust coating the plaster walls John could distinguish faded paintings depicting the delights once for sale on the premises.

  The artist had possessed more imagination than skill.

  John pushed open one of the doors and glanced in. The bare, cobwebbed cell was filled almost entirely by a bench large enough to hold a mattress. Were the cells in Theodora’s foundation for former prostitutes much different?

  The hallway ended at another corridor running across it at right angles. At the juncture, part of the wall had been knocked out and a crude plank frame inserted in the exposed brickwork.

  John peered through the opening, recalling the flight of steps that had led him down to the cistern where he had discovered Agnes’ corpse. There were four steps here, formed by worn blocks that might well have once served as bases for statues. By the flickering light of some torch beyond his range of vision, John saw the area at the bottom of the makeshift flight of steps was dry.

  The subterranean room was little more than a dim empty space from which shadowy archways led into darker spaces. No doubt this was the basement of the building abutting the structure of which the exedra formed a part, or else had belonged to a building that no longer existed.

  Underneath the streets of Constantinople lay a bewildering geography of basements, vaults, sub-basements, cisterns, and ruined foundations, buried and forgotten as new structures succeeded the old, a continual rebuilding necessitated by the forces of fire, earthquake, riots, imperial power, and commerce.

  John did not have to puzzle over which direction to take. On a crate in front of him lay a stained and cracked marble arm. It might have broken off of a statue of a Greek philosopher. The forefinger was raised, but now, instead of emphasizing some profound truth, it pointed toward one of the archways.

  To John’s disappointment, the wide corridor beyond slanted down to a closed iron grating set in the wall. He bent over and tested the chain attached to the grating. It was locked to a bolt in the concrete floor.

  He put his face near to the bars. A dark abyss on the other side of the grating swallowed up the weak light from the corridor. He could make out nothing. A chill draught touched his face bringing with it the smell of dampness and mold.

  He gave the bars of the grating a tug. They didn’t even rattle.

  “Not the first philosopher to point to a dead end,” John muttered to himself.

  Then again, the marble arm might have belonged to an orator or an emperor. It was impossible to be certain with nothing more than an arm to go by.

  “If you’re looking for Troilus, he’s out.”

  The voice had the pitch of a rusty hinge. The pallid face from whose thin, colorless lips the words issued poked out from a dark gap in the wall on one side of the grating.

  “To whom am I speaking?” John asked.

  “My name is Helias, sir, and I am a maker of sundials.”

  The speaker was nearly as short as the thespian dwarves John had left tending Petronia. “I can tell you are a man whose business requires punctuality,” Helias continued. “A man without an hour to spare. This is why you are vexed at Troilus being unavailable. You would find one of my portable sundials invaluable.”

  “A portable sundial?”

  Helias’ small head, barely reaching John’s chin, bobbed up and down. “A most excellent device. Please, allow me to demonstrate.”

  John followed the little man into his shop. He had long since learned that the surest way to secure information from a merchant was to show an interest in his wares.

  Two clay lamps on a work table provided Helias’ workshop with light. After two paces the masonry floor gave way to dirt. The sound of dripping water filled the air, not a result of moisture running down damp walls, John realized, but from assorted water clocks strewn everywhere.

  “Some of my time keepers are in need of repair or adjustment,” Helias said. “The bowls are all sound. My water clocks are guaranteed to make no more noise than sunlight sliding across a smooth marble dial. I do not want my customers to count the hours they are kept awake by their clocks, although they would be able to do so most accurately, sir.” Helias gave a creaking laugh.

  John stepped over a shallow bowl whose interior featured a mosaic of the night sky, avoiding a copper clock decorated with an etched Poseidon emerging from the descending water to indicate the passage of time.

  When he reached the work table Helias held up a silver sunburst, by appearances an ornamental medallion of the sort used to fasten a cloak at the shoulder.

  “You see, sir, it opens like a jewel box,” Helias demonstrated. “But inside, rather than jewels, you have the time.” With his thumb he pushed up the hinged gnomon in the center of the miniature dial. “Each sundial has an inscription, chosen by the client. This one was commissioned by a silversmith, and will be inscribed ‘All my silver will not purchase an extra hour.’ A thought we might all ponder. Yes, indeed we may.”

  John remarked that it was certainly a clever device. “But why do you choose to work down here in the gloom, Helias?”

  The sundial maker heaved a sigh. “Many of my clients have asked that question, sir. They think it most peculiar a purveyor of artifacts which require light to function should keep his establishment in a place where sunshine can never venture. The fact is, I dislike strong sunlight and avoid it as much as possible. Is that so odd? Do you suppose the tanner cares to spend his time wading through urine simply because he needs to use it on his hides? When I am out in the sunlight I cannot stop calculating the hour by the position of my shadow.”

  John observed he could appreciate Helias’ difficulty. “I calculate time in a similar manner, by observing the position of the sun over the rooftops, which is why I
do not need one of your sundials. I shall, however, mention them at court.” He noted that Helias’ shoulders slumped.

  “That would be most kind, sir. I hope you do not think I am enamored of wealth. We must all find a way to live. Sometimes I wish I had found another way, that I had never heard of sundials, so that I could enjoy the glorious sun the Lord has given us, like any other man. I would be much happier if I could stop the sun, like Joshua, for then there would be but the one fixed hour. That would mean I would be unable to continue with my work since there would be no purchasers of sundials. As it is, I spend most of my time down here or in church.”

  “But you also make water clocks.”

  “Water doesn’t follow one around like the sun, sir. But as it happens, I am also working on a portable water clock to be carried during the night or on cloudy days. It might appeal also to others who would prefer to keep the sun out of their affairs. And now, how may I help you?”

  “I was told your neighbor, Troilus, sells curiosities. Does he sell these portable clocks of yours?”

  Helias snapped the miniature sundial shut. “I should think not! I would not permit it! You should be thankful that grating is decently lowered and locked, sir. Most of the wares that young man sells were better destroyed than displayed for all to see. Lewd pagan statues, sir, obscene lamps shaped like, well, let me just say they wouldn’t be out of place in houses godly men never visit. You can deduce the sort of clients he encourages to call on him. It’s reflecting poorly upon my own business, being next to his dreadful shop. And that’s not the worst of it, sir! Why, the other evening he insulted me in a gross fashion!”

  John held up his hand, stemming the flow of words. “I am sorry to hear it, Helias. I fear that time is urging me to make haste. You understand, I’m sure. Do you know when Troilus will return?”

  “It’s difficult to say. He runs his business in a very irregular fashion. He often vanishes for a few days. Gone to purchase stock, or so he claims.” Helias narrowed his eyes and his mouth tightened. “Are you seeking to make a purchase? Not everything he sells is blasphemous or obscene. Perhaps you are seeking a religious relic? For display at some church? In that case, I would be willing to convey a message to him when he reappears.”

  “It isn’t merchandise I seek, but a young woman.”

  Helias’ scowled. “I don’t see many young women here, sir. Very careless about time, they are.”

  “This woman is an actress. She’s with the troupe that has its theater up above. You’ve probably seen her now and then.”

  “I try to keep my eyes averted from the unholy things that go on at that theater of theirs, sir. But what does she look like? Painted like the whore of Babylon, no doubt! How would I pick her out from all the rest?”

  John hesitated. What in fact had Agnes looked like? Her corpse, with its battered face, told him nothing. He had glimpsed her living face for an instant when she approached him in the square and lifted her veil. What had he seen? That she was Zoe, just as she had told him. Nothing more.

  How had he known she was Zoe?

  “Her eyes are striking, exceptionally large and dark. And she has a tattoo on her wrist,” John said.

  “I don’t look at women’s wrists, sir, and I imagine more than one actress has tattoos.”

  “She was a friend of Troilus.”

  Helias frowned. “I have seen a young woman in his company. An actress. Whether her eyes were dark, I can’t say. She visits him regularly. As a faithful church man, sir, I have spoken to Troilus more than once about consorting with such low women, but all I receive in return is abuse. Yet I say it again, I would rather cross the Mese than have to pass close by this actress friend of his, and here I am, trying to earn an honest living right next door. I am not certain what he is to her, but you can rest assured it isn’t what even the most charitable of us might think.”

  “She will not be visiting again, Helias, for I fear she was murdered. It happened exactly a week ago.”

  Helias stared in amazement. “A week ago, you say?”

  “Yes. Why? Did you see her that day?”

  “Not exactly, sir, but as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, I can tell you who killed her. It was Troilus.”

  For a moment John was speechless. In the silence he was aware of the clocks’ relentless dripping. He had spent days following a trail that led from one person to the next, with no end in sight. Had he reached his goal with such shocking abruptness?

  “That is a grave charge, Helias. Are you sure it isn’t just your disdain for the man speaking? What proof do you have?”

  Helias’ piercing voice rose to an even higher note. “I saw him drag the body in, sir. Of course, I didn’t know it at the time. But what else could it have been?”

  John ordered him to explain.

  “A week ago I was working here late at night when I heard a scraping noise outside. Naturally, I peeked out. One needs to keep an eye on what is going on, especially after dark.”

  He paused. “There was Troilus, dragging a big sack, sir! It was just after midnight. I know because I was inspecting some of the water clocks and they all showed the same hour. It wasn’t so odd that he would be bringing stock in at such a time, because, as I told you, he keeps a peculiar schedule. But I did wonder why he had not enlisted some assistance. Whatever was in the sack must have been more than he could lift comfortably by himself. I didn’t think any more about it, sir, until you mentioned the murder. The sack was exactly the right size for a body.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Anatolius wiped away tears with the sleeve of his tunic, blinked, and squinted around Francio’s steamy kitchen. Almost immediately the garlic-saturated air started his eyes watering again.

  “Mithra!” he muttered.

  Francio was nowhere to be seen. A small army of servants rushed about carrying bowls and brandishing knives, somehow avoiding fatal collisions. The clank of pots violently stirred or pushed around the long brazier running along one side of the room reverberated from the sooty walls and low ceiling.

  He would have left immediately, except that he had come here on serious business.

  To investigate a murder.

  Since parting with John outside Menander’s tenement, Anatolius had not been able to put the murder out of his thoughts.

  This morning he had arrived at the steps of the law library with the gulls but couldn’t concentrate on research. Instead he kept wondering how a common prostitute could have known the name by which John addressed the mosaic girl on the wall of his private study.

  Francio might be of assistance. He was familiar with every rumor, true or false, at the palace. He would know who, if anyone, might be aware of John’s solitary conversations.

  He had shoved the Digest and its dusty old jurists aside and left for Francio’s house. However, the nearer he got, the more wary he became of revealing too much to his gregarious friend. Curiosity had carried him from the atrium to the back of the house and into the kitchen.

  As he tried to decide whether to leave, a basket was suddenly thrust under his nose. It was filled with what looked like wilted weeds.

  “Here’s them herbs you wanted, sir.” The basket holder’s garments were too ragged for a servant. “I even located some of that rue, and nasty stuff it is.”

  If there was any odor of herbs, Anatolius couldn’t distinguish it beneath the reek of garlic. “You’re probably looking for the master of the house,” he said, just as the man they both sought strode out of the chaos toward them.

  Francio’s elaborate clothing looked out of place in a kitchen, even if it was thematically appropriate. Rondels embroidered with parsnips, lettuce, and radishes sprouted from his earthy brown dalmatic. He exchanged a few words with his herb supplier, shooed the man off toward the far end of the room, and turned his attention to Anatolius.

  “Merchants have been in and out all day. They’re wonderfully obliging. As well they should be. There’s not
a better customer in the city, except perhaps the imperial couple. Justinian and Theodora’s banquets rival mine in size if not imagination. But why have you dared to venture onto my culinary battlefield, my friend?”

  “Battlefield? I’d have described it as a riot. I’m surprised your place isn’t burnt to the ground every time you decide to entertain.”

  Francio laughed. “It looks like a riot because you are not schooled in the strategy of the kitchen. This is merely a skirmish in a carefully planned campaign. My soldiers need the experience. When the day arrives for that rustic banquet I mentioned, they will not cower in the face of a cheese and garlic paste.”

  Anatolius remarked he was surprised to find Francio in the kitchen.

  “A leader rides out at the head of his army surely?”

  “Justinian doesn’t!”

  “He must stay here to lead on the theological front,” Francio chuckled. He made his way through the hubbub and bent over a bubbling copper pot until his flattened nose came perilously close to the turbulent liquid within. When he straightened up, his lumpy face was bright red from the heat of rising steam.

  “Excellent!” he remarked. “Just the right amount of coriander. Another hard fought victory is at hand!”

  “Your cooks have boiled, grilled, or roasted every creature that lives. I’d have thought it would be easy for them to prepare a simple peasant dish.”

  “They aren’t used to simple dishes. And when there are so few ingredients, mistakes cannot be disguised, not even with a sauce.”

  “You’ve enough garlic in here to disguise a shipload of spoiled fish.” Anatolius ran a hand over his eyes but the stinging miasma seemed to have settled onto his fingers. His eyes burned still more fiercely.

  “I apologize for your distress, but all this is not the finished art. No one enjoys the smoke from the glassmaker’s furnace or the sweat from the poet’s brow, do they? Do lovers of verse stroll into your study unannounced and complain about your efforts? I’m certain you haven’t barged in on me without good reason. There must be some urgent business?”