by Mary Reed
Chapter Forty-Four
Agnes was never in a convent, Lord Chamberlain! She did not flee to my apartment from such a place! Nor was she a prostitute.” Petronia stood, arms folded, in front of the painted Greek temples on the curtain which divided her room.
She was dressed in a gaudy tunic and a mantle glittering with glass beads which would pass for precious gems when viewed by an audience. Her patrician features were hardened into a look of imperial scorn natural to whatever personage she was about to play.
John couldn’t help wondering whether it was more convenient for her to get into costume at home or whether she enjoyed the stares she must attract walking the streets in such forged finery.
“You lied to me to protect Troilus,” John said. “Are you now trying to protect Agnes?”
Petronia laughed, a little too dramatically. “Agnes is beyond protection now. I am very late for my performance. I really cannot linger.”
Anatolius sat in the chair resembling a throne and observed the actress with obvious admiration. “I hope you’ll have as large an audience as that holy melon juggler who’s performing practically at the door of this building,” he offered. “I wouldn’t have supposed this part of the city would be quite so…well…theatrical…”
Petronia’s eyes narrowed. “You mean Zachariah? He’s back here again?”
“That’s the man. John was telling me he passed him nearer to the palace not many days since. What was it Peter said, John? Something about the miracle of the melons?”
“There’s really no time to discuss street performers,” John replied.
“That’s what Zachariah is,” Petronia snapped, “a performer. He used to juggle with the troupe, when he wasn’t drunk. He much preferred drinking to working.”
“But the Lord Chamberlain’s servant insisted Zachariah had been born crippled,” Anatolius said.
Petronia laughed. “One morning Zachariah woke up on the street, too inebriated to move and babbling incoherently. Some passing pilgrims, likely newly arrived from a dusty little rural village, thought he was afflicted and tossed him several coins. Gold, mind you. They were probably inebriated as well. So Zachariah decided it was easier and more profitable to just sit and beg for coins rather than work.”
Anatolius smiled. “Until the accident with the melons caused him to forget his supposed paralysis in front of too many people who knew about his affliction?”
“That’s right. I understand he’s doing even better now, selling magickal melons that supposedly cure the sick.” She moved toward the door, but John stopped her.
“I thank you for clearing up the mystery of Zachariah but I am more interested in Agnes,” he declared. “You will be permitted to leave when you have answered certain questions. What do you know about the tattoo on Agnes’ wrist?”
“Agnes did not have one,” Petronia declared.
“You are lying. It is not advisable.”
“Why would I lie about anything so trivial?”
It was a good question, John thought. But was she so skilled an actress she could lie in such a convincing fashion that most would accept the lie as truth? “What of her history?”
“So far as I am aware she came here more or less directly after being thrown out by that bastard of a sausage maker. She continued to go back from time to time. Who knows why. She was never away long enough to work as a prostitute, be removed to Theodora’s little sanctuary, and then change her mind and leave. It’s ridiculous. Now, please, may I go?” She picked up a brightly painted diadem from a table littered with statuettes of deities.
John was reminded of the clutter in Menander’s room and Troilus’ shop. Had the statuettes come from one of them? It was hard to believe that Petronia knew as little about Menander as she had insisted previously. He was a patron of the theater after all, and actresses were notoriously friendly with such men. Also she knew Troilus well enough that he had spent hours pouring out his woes to her while Agnes was being murdered.
“Petronia, you told me that you only knew Menander by reputation, as a benefactor of the theater. This being so, you will not know that he was murdered recently.”
The actress stared at John. Her pale features remained calm but her grip tightened on the diadem. “Murdered?”
“Strangled, as was Agnes.”
“But for what reason?” Petronia asked in a faint voice.
“It is not known, but they were both well acquainted with Troilus, a name which I have heard often during my investigations.”
“I haven’t seen Troilus for days, not since he and Agnes argued here.”
“Tell me what you know about Menander,” John ordered. “It may help Troilus.”
“Yes. He might be in danger.” Petronia shook her head. Her laugh was tinged with bitterness. “I expect you think I’ve been protecting Troilus because of some fondness I feel toward him.” She glanced around as if to be certain that Anatolius was listening as well.
“How could you think that, gentlemen? It isn’t what you imagine.” She turned the diadem over and over in her hands. “What I feel for the young man is a motherly affection. Nothing more, or should I say nothing less? I looked after him, you see, for several years. Menander asked me to. He found me this fine place and decorated it lavishly, as you observe.”
“You were Menander’s mistress? Are you claiming Troilus is your son?” John asked.
“Certainly not! Neither! It’s true I am old enough to be Troilus’ mother, but no, I am not his mother. I’ve always thought Menander was Troilus’ father. He treated him like a son, but he told me never to reveal that there was any connection between himself and Troilus, aside from what everyone could see, which is to say their business dealings.”
She paused and frowned. “Many thought Menander was taking advantage of an inexperienced young man, selling him items from his collection for a better price than a shrewder merchant would’ve given. Some even supposed Troilus was one of Menander’s boys.”
She gave a sad smile. “I could tell that was not the case. Oh, I often wanted to explain. Because it not only made Menander look grasping but also made Troilus appear to be a fool.”
“You say you were not Menander’s mistress. Why did he entrust the boy to you?”
“Perhaps he considered me more responsible than most. He could see that I avoided troublemakers.”
“He could see, because they were the people with whom Menander chose to associate.”
Petronia’s wan smile indicated her agreement. “That, and the fact that I am from the palace myself. Do not question me further on the matter. I refuse to discuss it.”
John felt he should have guessed her background from her manner of speaking and the way she carried herself. He had put it down to artfulness.
“When did Menander bring Troilus to you?” he asked.
“It would have been around ten years ago. Troilus was about fourteen then. I don’t know where he lives now. He doesn’t come to see me very often. In fact, the morning Agnes was murdered was the longest time I’ve spoken to him in years.”
“Are you certain he remained here for hours?”
Petronia confirmed it was the case. “He and Agnes were inseparable. They met while he was still living with me. She was living with the sausage maker.”
“You told me Agnes spent time with those who once lived at the palace. She enjoyed play acting, pretending she was still part of the imperial court.”
“A young woman’s fancy. They all enjoyed play acting, imagining they were still respected members of the court. Poor Agnes was only a child when her father was executed. She was never to live the life of a fine lady, even for a little while.”
Petronia looked down at the diadem she held. It must have reminded her that she was dressed like an empress herself. “We help them relive what their lives were once like,” she continued. “That’s why they love the theater.”
“What do you know about Troilus’ ba
ckground?”
“Nothing at all. He could have been a fish seller’s son for all I know. He had to pretend to be well born for business reasons. People who have been at court are more comfortable dealing with those who share their attitudes.”
“Did those attitudes include a dislike for the emperor?”
“I would prefer not to say anything about that. You are, after all, Justinian’s servant.”
“I am well aware Justinian is not universally loved. I have also been given to understand that the various alleged plots hatched in the Copper Market amount to little more than scurrilous mimes.”
“Then you know all there is to know about Troilus’ attitudes,” Petronia replied.
Chapter Forty-Five
John and Anatolius left Petronia and turned their steps to the thoroughfare that led toward the Augustaion and the Great Palace. John walked a few paces ahead. He was turning matters over and the harder he thought, the faster he walked.
“Troilus is Theodora’s son,” John muttered.
Anatolius managed to catch up to John. “What did you say? Troilus is Theodora’s son?”
“Yes. Or at least he holds himself out as her son, when it suits him. I’ve finally managed to piece most of the mosaic together. I’ve been listening to people for days. Their stories are all interesting enough by themselves. Like the tesserae I saw in Michri’s shop. Colorful in isolation, but the picture they form when assembled correctly is much more fascinating. Listen to my argument and see if you can rebut it. It will be good legal practice.”
“I will if I can keep up with your stride,” Anatolius complained.
John did not diminish his pace. “I’ve recounted all the facts to you more than once, my friend. Now, consider that according to the empress’ servant Theodoulos, the soldiers who pursued the boy reported he vanished as if into thin air in the Copper Market. Alba told me she’d watched a boy chased by men in military garb hide inside Lazarus’ pillar. Afterward she considered what she saw to be a miracle because the boy was never seen or heard of again. In fact, she told Menander about it while trying to convince him to change his ways.”
“That might have piqued Menander’s curiosity about the pillar.”
“I believe it did. About the same time the stylite’s acolyte discovered Lazarus had disappeared from the top of his column and been replaced by an automaton. Menander had at least two automatons, Alba told me. One she remembered must have been the Sergius I saw in Troilus’ shop. The automaton on the pillar was also a soldier, the other half of the pair of military saints. Everyone knew Menander had sold much of his collection to Troilus over the years, but it appears their connection was closer than that.”
Anatolius agreed it was likely, given the information just provided by Petronia.
“I am taking a leap into darkness,” John admitted, “but I believe Menander was intrigued by Alba’s story. Alba said there were guards posted in the square for several days, but Troilus was up on the pillar with the body of Lazarus for longer than that. After the guards had gone, Menander must have climbed up into the column during the night, if only to be in a position to contradict Alba the next time she mentioned it to him. He must have been surprised to find Troilus. He sent the boy to live with Petronia, as she just told us. He wouldn’t have wanted him staying in the same building as Alba because she might have recognized him.”
Anatolius grinned. “I have it! Just as the acolyte guessed, someone left an automaton behind so no one would notice the stylite’s absence for some time! And who do we know who had not one but two of those useful artifacts?”
“Indeed. Menander didn’t want attention drawn to the pillar, in case anyone from the palace was still looking for the boy.”
Anatolius frowned and asked John about the whereabouts of the missing stylite.
“That’s part of the mosaic I haven’t yet filled in,” John admitted. “The square isn’t much traveled at night, particularly after the shops are closed, not to mention the local populace can’t be relied on to be forthcoming when questioned, as we’ve discovered ourselves. It wouldn’t have been difficult to take an automaton to the column or to smuggle a boy or a body away after the guards were no longer stationed in the square. In the meantime the boy could have eaten the stylite’s food.”
“But what could Menander want with this boy?”
“Menander had grievances against the imperial couple. No doubt he thought that a son of Theodora—even if one only purported to be such—would be useful to him one day.”
Anatolius stepped around a dog eating offal. “And Agnes involved herself with actors and disgruntled former courtiers and officials and the like, the same circles in which Menander and Troilus moved. But what conclusions do you draw from this? Is a plot really being fomented or is it just more play acting?”
John and Anatolius passed basket-laden shoppers, begrimed laborers carrying the tools of their trade, and twittering clerks. If any of them heard Anatolius utter the word “plot” they pretended to be deaf. It was not the sort of information you admitted to knowing if you valued your life.
“If Troilus is Theodora’s supposed son then he must be one of the plotters, since they cannot proceed without him,” John replied.
“He doesn’t appear to be the one who murdered Agnes, since she was alive when the sundial maker Helias spied Troilus dragging a sack about in the middle of the night, given she was arguing with Troilus in Petronia’s room the next morning,” Anatolius said. “And indeed why would Troilus murder Agnes? Petronia said they were inseparable.”
“Think of Dedi’s vanishing skull act, Anatolius. It appears to be magick only because a skull would not burn the way it does. Once you realize that what you thought was a skull isn’t one, but rather a thin, flammable counterfeit, then it does not appear so remarkable. Fostering a false assumption or two and some skilled misdirection can make perfectly unremarkable events appear quite sinister. Or, for that matter, make sinister events appear unremarkable.”
“What do you mean, John? What misdirection? And where are we going in such a hurry?”
They had crossed the Augustaion, and were walking toward the Chalke. Gulls flapped out of their way, protesting as they were forced to abandon the city’s discarded debris on which they’d been dining.
John glanced at his companion. “Do you remember you mentioned you saw Felix entering a tavern not far from the cistern where I found the girl’s body and on the very same morning? A coincidence, it would seem. But how was it he happened to be on hand to rescue me when I was attacked in the street, not to mention being at the right place at the right time to prevent Theodoulos from throwing himself into the sea?”
“But surely…I can’t believe Felix…”
“People often see what they wish to see, not what is actually there.”
“But if Felix is involved,” Anatolius protested, “who sent that message about two conspirators meeting at the Milion…well, if you are right you did meet a conspirator there…but you aren’t a conspirator!”
“No. And I know I’m not, and so do you. But consider again Dedi’s act.”
They passed through the magnificent Chalke gate, entered the palace grounds, and made their way to its far less imposing maze of administrative buildings.
Felix was not present in his office, although a mismatched assortment of rugged excubitors and callow clerks milled in the antechamber.
John stopped a thin man who visibly trembled at the touch of the Lord Chamberlain’s glare. “Where is the captain?”
“I…I…don’t know…uh…excellency. He’s gone off with a contingent of excubitors. Trouble of some sort…a riot…”
“Mithra! It’s started! I have to warn Cornelia!”
Chapter Forty-Six
“The Lord Chamberlain is not available,” Cornelia told the stranger at the door.
“We know that. I’ve come here to speak to you.”
The caller was a man of
average appearance, aside from his immaculate dress and perfectly trimmed hair and his exceedingly dark and chilling eyes.
“He refused to give his name, mistress,” said Peter, who had answered the insistent knock.
“I hope you are not offended,” the stranger said to Cornelia. “It is not possible for me to give you my name. It would not be safe for either of us.”
“Give your blade to Peter, and come into the office,” Cornelia replied.
The room beyond the foot of the stairs, furnished with cushioned chairs and a desk of inlaid wood, opened on to the garden. John rarely used it. He preferred to meet visitors in his stark upstairs study.
Cornelia posted Peter beside the door. The visitor refused the proffered seat so she remained standing.
“What did you mean when you said that you knew the Lord Chamberlain is not here?”
“Only that we have been watching him.”
Cornelia forced herself to breath slowly. She could not stop her heart racing. John was in grave danger. She was certain of it. The mild-voiced stranger chilled her in a way that finding Menander’s body in the bath had not. The dead man’s identity had been known. Whatever peril his death represented to the household could therefore ultimately be traced.
Confronted with this unknown caller she could not tell from which direction danger might come.
“Who has been watching?”
The stranger offered a faint smile. At least Cornelia interpreted the expression as a smile. “My apologies, but I simply cannot say.”
Where was John now? He had been gone all day again. Was he safe? Was he…? She pushed the thought away.
“Say whatever it is you’ve come to say.” Somehow she kept her voice steady.
“Please believe me, we have your best interests at heart. The Lord Chamberlain—your husband—has spent a great deal of time lately in the company of people with whom he would not seem to have any legitimate business.”