Thirteenth Night

by Alan Gordon

“Did he know about you?”

  “I don’t think so. I was too lowly a creature for his concern. He suspected Viola, certainly. He discovered one of our agents, who was the captain of the vessel she arrived on, and had him locked up on some pretext. He was clever, but so full of himself that he was fairly easy to gull.”

  “Did you consider the threat to be serious?”

  “Certainly. After what we had put him through, I thought him capable of any rash act. But he simply packed his bags and rode out of town, to the south as I recall. I would have followed, but my performance was required for the nuptial festivities, so I had our captain make certain that he left for good.”

  “And then?”

  “Standard procedure. With Pantolino, who was traveling the troubadour route at that time, I composed a rhymed account of what happened that minimized my own part in it. And he took with him a description of Malvolio to circulate among the Guild in case he turned up anywhere. That was the last I heard of him. A year later, I left.”

  The old priest removed a single page and handed it to me. “This came a year after I received your report.”

  The letter was in Greek. It still bore the splatters of ink from someone writing in haste.

  “Dear Uncle,” I read. “Spotted someone who looks like this Malvolio fellow you wrote me about. I’ve been keeping an eye on the Tigris, which pulled into harbor three days ago. The ship’s Genoese, but trades openly with the Ayyubids and is generally suspected to spy for Saladin. Malvolio has arranged passage to Beirut. Think I’ll do the same. The crew could use a little entertainment. I’ll get in touch with our man there once I arrive. Must dash, yours in Christ, Sean.”

  I looked up. “So he was working for Saladin.”

  “We received this from Damascus four months later,” he said, handing me another report.

  I write to tell you a curious set of circumstances, and how I responded to them. I hope I did well. They occurred rapidly, and only now do I begin to wonder at them.

  You know by now of Saladin’s victories at the Horns of Hattin and Jerusalem. The troops exhausted, he decided not to lay siege to Tyre and has returned to Damascus, where I had been forced to remain for the pendency of the campaign. I have again waited upon him, enlivening his days while gleaning what I can of his plans. He looks weary, and it is whispered about the town that he is not long for this world. It is unfortunate—he was provoked to this last war by wrongful actions of the so-called Christian Reginald of Karak, and many lives have been lost as a result.

  On the fourteenth of March, if my calendar still be accurate after so long a time in Islamic lands, a Christian prisoner was brought before him, shackled, dressed in sailor’s garb. Black-bearded and dark-visaged, he seemed almost a madman, his eyes casting about in every direction. To my surprise, Saladin began railing at him in Arabic, and the fellow replied fluently in the same tongue. He was being dressed down for failing in some mission—the details were not discussed. Mostly, he was begging the King for mercy and another chance to serve him. I was ready to dismiss him as no more than a common spy when I spotted a Guild ring among the many that bejeweled his hands. It was of iron, with a single small blue stone set in an ass’s mouth. I conjectured that the fellow was one of us, and sought an opportunity to speak with him.

  This was easier said than done. Saladin had him imprisoned in a dungeon in an area I am normally not privy to, but I wheedled and joked with the guard until I was able to gain access to the fellow’s cell. I whispered the password, “Stultorum numerus…,” but he failed to reply. He came to the front of the bars and stared at me for a long time. “You’re a fool!” he said in astonishment. “Stultorum numerus…,” I whispered again. “… infinitus est!” he replied, and clasped my hand.

  “I didn’t know there were any fools here,” he said. “Praised be Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  “Praised be,” I replied. “Few in the Guild know of my mission. Good for you that I was here, and that I spotted the Guild ring.”

  “The Guild, yes. Of course.” He paced about the cell, running his hands though his hair. “Forgive me, I am much distracted. I did not stand up to torture as well as I had hoped.”

  “Poor fellow. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  He seized the bars and hissed, “Can you get me out of here?”

  I was somewhat taken aback. Normally, our training is to resign ourselves to whatever end Fate brings us when a mission fails. Freeing him meant jeopardizing myself and my mission. I explained this to the fellow. “After all, the Guild comes first. I am sorry.”

  “But don’t you understand? The Guild itself is threatened.”

  “Explain.”

  He paced back and forth. “I was taken when a fellow fool, one who purported to be of the Guild, gained my trust and then betrayed me. I discovered too late that he was a Saracen spy, sent to infiltrate the Guild and learn its secrets.”

  “Impossible,” I said. “It takes years of training to become a fool.”

  “He had it,” insisted the prisoner. “He could sing, play instruments, rhyme ex tempore in several languages, juggle, tumble, dance, and recite. He took me in completely, and after I was imprisoned on the ship that took me here he came and boasted of his plan. He’s an assassin, I tell you, and the whole Guild is at risk. And only I know what he looks like.”

  Needless to say, I was horrified by his report. I agreed to help him escape. By constant observation, I discovered which slave brought the dungeon guards their meals. I slipped a slow-acting sleep potion into their dinner, then crept down late at night and freed our comrade. I took him from the city through one of the water tunnels, and provided him with enough food for three days’ journey. It was all I could do.

  The uproar over his escape has died down, and fortunately suspicion was never directed towards me. Upon reflection, I wonder at the man and his story. He did not, despite the ring and the password, strike me one of our brethren, though I well know the diversity found within our membership. Perhaps his ordeal as a captive soured his personality.

  I send this warning to you in the event that he fails to return to the Guildhall. There is a traitor amongst you, Father. Take heed. Al-Mutabbi.

  I handed the report back to the old priest, who was gazing sadly at the fireplace. “Sean was never heard from again,” he said softly. “Al-Mutabbi was denounced as a spy by an anonymous letter to Saladin and beheaded. They say he was laughing when the axe came down.”

  “Sean was your nephew? I never knew that.”

  “I put that ring on his finger myself when we initiated him into the Guild. A boisterous, impetuous boy. He looked like my brother at that age.” He sat in silence as the flames flared suddenly. “We’ll send someone to Orsino,” he said finally.

  “We’ll send me,” I said.

  He shook his head. “He’ll be expecting you. It’s too dangerous.”

  “It will be dangerous for any fool who goes rushing in. At least I know the territory and the players.”

  “Knew them, Theophilos. That was fifteen years ago. Everyone’s gotten older, including you.”

  I didn’t like it. “You don’t trust me.”

  He wouldn’t look at me. “As you said, I have spies in the tavern. And they report to me that you have been doing prodigious feats of imbibing, such as would dwarf the legends of Heracles.”

  “That’s here. That’s between assignments. I have too much time on my hands. Why haven’t you sent me out?”

  “They also say that when you aren’t drinking, you’re brooding, which then leads you straightaway to drinking again. I conclude from all of this that you haven’t recovered from your last mission.”

  “My failure, you mean.”

  He shook his head. “Theo, my lad, you have to accept the fact that our role will always be one of subtle influence, and when the target is an old man who had the misfortune to turn dotard before giving away his power, then it’s not your fault that it turned out badly.”

  “I
should have stayed.”

  “It would have made no difference. And until you realize that and regain some semblance of your old self, I’m going to keep you here. You are still one of my best men, which is precisely why I am not sending you into a new situation while you’re mooning over the last one. I’m sending someone else.”

  I stood up. “In that case, Father, I regret to say that I am resigning from the Guild.”

  He looked up at me in surprise. “I won’t permit that.”

  “It doesn’t matter. If you won’t send me on behalf of the Guild, I’ll go on my own. These are people that I care about, and if it is Malvolio, then I am responsible for what is happening to them. I’m going.”

  He turned back to the fireplace and thought. I didn’t interrupt him. “Did any of them ever see you without your makeup?” he asked abruptly.

  “No, Father. I was scrupulous about that.”

  “Then I propose the following. You go, but not as Feste. Not even as a fool.”

  “But…”

  “Don’t interrupt, lad. I’m trying to save your life. You go as a merchant. Invent some plausible story that will take you there and keep you for a while. I’ll have someone else arrive a few days later as a fool. That way, we’ll have two men on the scene, and Malvolio will concentrate his efforts on him.”

  It was a good plan, though it irked me that I would be working outside of my profession, as a common spy rather than a fool. I could have just as well become an actor if that was all I amounted to. “Whom will you send?”

  “I’m not sure, yet. I’m expecting someone in from Toledo who might be good for the job. You don’t know him. Whoever it is, he will be wearing this ring.” He held up an intricate silver filigree shaped in the head of an ass. “When you see him, use the password.”

  “Fine. Um, if I’m to play the merchant, I’ll need money. More than usual.”

  He reached into his desk and pulled out a small purse. “This will get you as far as Venice. Brother Timothy will give you a letter of credit on our account there.”

  “I’m going to Venice? That’s a little out of the way.”

  “Not necessarily. Even this late in the year you can probably find a boat to take you across. It’s safer than by land. Word has reached us that the Serbs and the Croats are at it again.”

  “What’s the Guild position on them?”

  “Ah, I wish one of them would do the other in so we could stop worrying about it,” he grumbled. “No, I never said that. The Guild takes no position. We’re trying to get them to come to terms. In the meantime, that road is risky, so go to Venice. Check in with Domino while you’re there. He’ll have the gossip on Orsino if there is any.”

  “All right, Father.” I turned to leave, then turned back somewhat guiltily. “I’m afraid I’ll have to miss the Feast.”

  He nodded sadly. “I heard you were going to portray me,” he said. “I was looking forward to that. But there may be nothing to miss.”

  That was disturbing. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  He stared at the fire again, absentmindedly massaging his brows. “Nominally, Rome thinks that it controls the Guild, and we prefer to let it think so. But there’s been an unusual amount of backlash against the Feast, more than just that idiot bishop in Paris. Our Pope Innocent is turning out to be anything but. The Church is under attack because people are finally wondering why they have so little while the wardens of Christ have so much, and His Holiness is becoming very sensitive about ridicule. And that includes the Feast of Fools.”

  “But that’s ludicrous. It’s a harmless ritual.”

  “Not a bit of it, Theo. It’s subversive. It undermines the foundations of the edifice even while they pile more gold leaf on the dome. Which is precisely why the Guild developed the Feast. Rome doesn’t know that, but it knows it doesn’t like it. We’re using what influence we can to keep it from issuing an absolute ban. If it merely expresses disapproval, we’ll be all right, but it could get very dicey for us. That’s another reason I wanted to keep you around here. However, I think I can spare you for a little while. When you see Domino, fill him in so he can use his influence in Venice on our behalf.”

  “Yes, Father.” I turned to go.

  “Theo. There is one more thing.”

  I turned back again. He came around the desk to take my hand between his.

  “I would like you to come to confession before you go,” he said.

  My heart sank. “I can’t, Father. I have yet to absolve myself. How can I go to you?”

  “It’s not just your life that I worry about, my boy. I have to worry about your immortal soul. And I do care about what happens to you.”

  “I’m not ready yet, Father. Maybe when I return.”

  He patted my hand and released it. “Then make sure you do return, Theo.”

  “And you make sure you’re still alive when I get back.”

  He laughed for the first time. “Go on, lad. It’s a pact.” I turned once more. “Theo,” he called as I left the room.

  “Yes, Father?” I replied, leaning into the doorway.

  “Find Malvolio. Find out what he knows of the Guild, and who he’s working for. Then give him a good Christian burial.”

  “Yes, Father.” I walked down the hall.

  “Theo!” he called.

  “Yes, Father?”

  “It doesn’t particularly matter to me whether he’s alive or dead when you bury him.”

  “Yes, Father.” And I walked towards the tunnel as his door slammed shut behind me.

  TWO

  Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves;

  so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.

  MATTHEW 10.16

  When I returned to the Guildhall I found Brother Timothy by himself juggling six clubs while the novitiates were off to their evening meal. He varied the pattern with every cycle, the clubs following routes that seemed chaotic but were mathematically precise. He nodded at me as I approached, and three of the clubs detached themselves from his ambit and hurtled in my direction. I was ready for him this time, and sober as well, so I caught them easily and set them aloft again over my head.

  “I’ll go easy on you,” promised Timothy. “Now, breathe. And…” We threw from our right hands and circled an imaginary point between us as the clubs passed one another over it.

  “Time was when you could keep eight in the air by yourself,” commented Timothy.

  “Time was,” I agreed. “Time was when I could run for leagues without stopping. Time was when I could drink any man under the table. Not anymore.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be going out,” he said bluntly. I didn’t ask him how he knew. He had a knack for knowing things before they came about.

  “How bad is he?” I asked, indicating the passageway to Father Gerald’s cell.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, altering the pattern to distract me.

  “His eyes,” I said. “When did they start to go?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Can’t find Orsino on the map. Wants me to rehash my report verbally when he has it right in front of him. Delegates the drafting of the letter of credit to you. He never used to do any of this. He’s going blind, isn’t he?”

  “Blind or not, he’s as sharp as ever. If you’re so concerned, stay here and help me watch over him.”

  “Can’t do that. I’m off to Orsino.”

  “Leaving the Guild for a personal matter in a time of crisis. You’re acting like a schoolboy, Theo, when we could really use you here right now. We may have to relocate on short notice.”

  “As bad as all that?”

  “Rome being Rome, yes. As bad as all that.”

  I was stunned. I had no idea things had gotten to that point. “You’d think they’d know better. Makes you want to leave the Church and join the Waldenses.”

  “Ah, the Waldenses,” mused Timothy fondly. “Lovely little group. Rome could
learn much from them if it were willing. Makes me proud when I think how we caused all that.”

  “We did? I never knew that.”

  “It’s a pretty story. Peter Waldes heard a troubadour singing the ‘Lay of Saint Alexis’ one day in Lyons, and before you know it he’s sold his goods and preaching poverty. The troubadour was one of ours, of course.”

  I laughed. “You mean we’re taking credit for a coincidence?”

  “It’s hard to tell the rocky ground from the good soil nowadays,” he replied solemnly. “So we sow our seed everywhere and hope for the best. I tell you what, if you run away to the Waldenses, I might go with you. Only if Rome is worried about us, God knows what they’ll do to a competing sect, especially one that preaches ecclesiastical poverty. Speaking of which, I suppose you’ll be needing money for this adventure of yours.”

  “Yes. And a horse.”

  “An ass is good enough for a fool, fool.”

  “But I am going as a merchant. A horse, decent clothing, and enough money to travel in style. So decrees the good father.”

  He scowled. He kept an iron grip on the Guild’s purse strings, and this was clearly an extravagance. But I was still feeling insulted by being forced to abandon my motley for the journey, so I would be damned if I wasn’t going to make them pay for that.

  “All right, Theo,” he conceded. “Are you going through Venice?” I nodded. “Come with me and I’ll give a letter of credit. Are you sure you can handle this job?”

  His eyes widened as my dagger split the air a hand’s breadth from his ear and embedded itself in a post behind him. The clubs maintained their pattern on both ends.

  “I haven’t completely lost my skills,” I drawled, and then I dropped my hands, stepped back, and let the clubs clatter to the floor around me. He slammed down his remaining club, pulled the dagger out, and whipped it back. It passed by my ear by a finger’s width. I bowed to the master and retrieved it from the opposite wall.

  * * *

  Niccolò intercepted me as I walked to the stables, my newly filled purse jingling happily at my waist.

  “Your mysterious messenger has a very good horse,” he reported. “Much better than any of ours. He went in the direction he said he would at an unreasonably fast pace. I could track him, if you like, but I doubt that I could catch him with any of the swaybacked nags we have here.”