Five for Silver

by Mary Reed

  He held up a hand and began to tick off various possibilities on slender fingers. “A woman can’t be a witness, nor can anyone who has not reached puberty. Needless to say neither can anyone who is dumb, deaf, or insane, not to mention a person who has been deprived of the control of his property or who has been declared infamous and incapable of testifying. On the other hand, witnesses can be related, but a party under the testator’s control, a minor for example, is barred as a witness. So is the heir. Legatees and trust beneficiaries are not disqualified.”

  Ezra began to sing unintelligibly in a grating voice. Several birds perched unseen in the wilderness of the garden formed the chorus. John was reminded of Peter, who sang hymns just as tunelessly while he worked.

  He thanked Prudentius for his assistance and got up to leave.

  “If this murder is connected in some way to Nereus’ will as I suspect, then any of the witnesses might know something that the murderer would not wish revealed,” he told the lawyer. “That being the case, keep in mind that if a witness is in danger because of his connection to the will, the testator’s legal advisor might well not be safe either.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You say I’m possibly in danger just because I was kind enough to escort an old man around the city? That’s not fair! Not fair at all, is it, Anatolius?” Crinagoras’ soft mouth settled into a petulant moue as he looked away from John to his friend, seated beside him in the Lord Chamberlain’s study.

  Anatolius pretended to be looking at the scene outside.

  “And so now going in fear of my life is how my kindness is to be repaid!” Crinagoras concluded angrily.

  “If any of the witnesses are in danger, I’d suspect it would be because of some connection they had with Nereus or an interest they had in the will, which obviously does not apply in your case,” John pointed out wearily. “Nevertheless, exercising caution would be the best policy for now.”

  Crinagoras shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden seat set in front of the bucolic mosaic. “Lord Chamberlain, is there no cushion to be found anywhere in your house?”

  Thomas, leaning against the door-frame, laughed. “A hard seat’s exactly what you need right now, Crinagoras. Less chance of dozing off. Remember, a murderer might be seeking you.”

  Crinagoras shot an accusatory look at the red-haired Briton. “Why did you have to say that? I’ll have difficulty enough sleeping as it is.”

  Thomas grinned. “What you need is to hire a bodyguard. As it happens, I’m looking for work and I’m also very handy with the blade, as the Lord Chamberlain can confirm from our adventures together during my last visit to your city.”

  “It’s certainly a good offer,” Crinagoras mused, “but what kind of remuneration would you require? My poems and epitaphs are not selling very well right now. So many of my patrons are at their country estates.”

  Thomas tugged thoughtfully at his mustache. “Ah, but there may be someone out there who’d be happy to write your epitaph free of charge.”

  More than one person, John thought. “I realize you can’t afford to spend the entire morning answering questions, Crinagoras, so I will take as little of your time as possible. As I explained, there must be seven witnesses to an oral will. You and Gregory were two and there was also Nereus’ servant Cador. Did you recognize anyone else at Nereus’ bedside?”

  “Half the population of the city was present, Lord Chamberlain. A riot might have broken out at any time, there was such chaos.”

  “And who might all these people have been?” John asked patiently.

  “Servants. Slaves. Common laborers.” Crinagoras sniffed at the memory. “I recall a rustic fellow and a very strange person who insisted on dancing with a man in ecclesiastical garments.”

  Thomas didn’t quite stifle a laugh.

  John glared at him.

  “I’m sorry, John,” Thomas grinned, “but I had forgotten how entertaining Constantinople can be.”

  “You may not find it quite so entertaining after a few days' stepping over the dead,” Anatolius remarked. “How entertaining do you suppose Europa finds it?”

  “The riotous scene at Nereus’ bedside will not be re-enacted in this room.” John’s tone was sharp. “Now, Crinagoras, you say someone from the church was there?”

  “Yes. In fact, I remember that he had something to do with the Church of the Holy Apostles. What a memory, eh, Anatolius? I learned that from the servant who showed Gregory and me out. She mentioned, for some unfathomable reason, that the preserved nose of some saint or other is on display there and said if she had to go through life wearing a nose like that, she’d as soon not be a saint.”

  He paused thoughtfully. “A comely young lady, and obviously quite taken with me. What do you suppose she meant by telling me she didn’t want to be a saint? Perhaps she was hinting…?”

  John ignored his ramblings. “And this person you describe as very strange?”

  “The fellow wore rags and had skin so leathery he looked as if he’d been left on the brazier too long.”

  Thomas observed it was a description that fitted many residents of the city.

  “But how many of them insist on dancing with a churchman while a man lies dying in the same room?” Crinagoras asked. “Not to mention knocking over the water clock. His rustic companion appeared to find that remarkably comical.”

  He wrinkled his small nose. “It made an awful mess, of course,” he went on. “I couldn’t help thinking how appropriate it was, in a terribly poetic way, since poor Nereus’ time was about to run out all at once, just like the water in the clock.”

  “Time was about to run out for Gregory too,” John reminded him.

  “Yes, unfortunately. We’d talked on the way to Nereus’ house,” Crinagoras recalled. “As a poet, I make a study of humors, of character, the ways in which men express themselves. Naturally, Gregory was impressed when he learned about my poetic skills, so I asked what he did for a living. Alas, the poor man had passed much of his life as a customs official.”

  Crinagoras sighed at Gregory’s misfortune. “He did however purchase a poem from me, composed on the spot. I borrowed a kalamos from one of Nereus’ servants to write it down. One never knows when the Muse will favor one. It was a wonderful piece about the tragic story of Leander and Hero.”

  That explained the dreadful poem he had found on Gregory’s desk at the customs house, John realized. Which in turn meant that the customs official must have returned there before he died. Did that shed new light on anything he had learnt?

  “I would still prefer to fight with a sword than a kalamos any day,” Thomas was saying.

  Anatolius continued to devote most of his attention to what was going on outside, as if he’d never seen passing excubitors or foraging seagulls before.

  Crinagoras squirmed on his chair and grimaced. His attention was caught by the mosaic. He reached out suddenly to run an exploratory finger over the image of the girl Zoe.

  At John’s sharp glance he drew his hand back as if the tesserae were red hot.

  “And finally about the oral will itself,” John asked. “Think carefully. What did Nereus say?”

  Everyone looked expectantly at the young poet.

  “I have no idea,” he confessed, red-faced. “With all the commotion, I could hardly hear a word.”

  Mithra! John thought. Was every avenue he found to be barred after he had taken only a few steps down it? “I see. Very well, Crinagoras, I won’t detain you any longer.”

  “Yes, I’m certain you have some verses to write,” Thomas put in, “but make sure you bar your doors and windows first.”

  Crinagoras struggled up from his chair. “How would you like some of my poetry?” he asked Thomas as he drew level with him. “The ladies all love to be wooed with a good romantic poem. I’ll trade my verses for your blade’s protection, what do you say, Thomas?”

  The burly knight exhibited a grasp of Greek ver
nacular John had not realized he possessed and then shrugged his shoulders.

  “For today, it’s a bargain,” Thomas concluded, following Crinagoras downstairs.

  John glanced at Anatolius’ doleful face and suggested a stroll around the garden.

  Soon they were pacing around the peaceful space. Heavy dew still spangled its bushes, shimmering on spiderwebs and dripping from leaves and branches.

  “So many shades of green, all different and yet all known by the same name,” Anatolius mused. “Perhaps I should write a verse or two about that…”

  John changed the subject. “You’ve been so quiet today I assume Senator Balbinus awoke with the sun this morning, despite his servants’ dire predictions to the contrary?”

  “Yes, Fortuna smiled upon him.” Anatolius looked glum. “Crinagoras and I visited his house on the way here. It is only a matter of time, however, since Lucretia could not leave his bedside, or so we were told.”

  He stopped at one of Hypatia’s herb beds and drew in a deep breath. “A pleasant fragrance, is it not? Especially after the streets. Father was never one who cared much for flowers and such, so my garden is rather plain. Perhaps I can borrow Hypatia some time to rectify the situation?”

  “Can you be trusted with her?” John asked with a smile.

  “I admit to the occasional infatuation, but you needn’t worry, they are all behind me. There is only Lucretia. There’s never been anyone else, not really, and there is always hope…Haven’t you always longed to be reunited with Cornelia?”

  John plucked a leaf from a bushy herb. It felt slightly furry. He crushed it and brought his fingers to his face. The odor was familiar. Was the herb something Peter used when cooking?

  “There are certain subjects it is best not to discuss, even between close friends,” he said quietly.

  Anatolius was silent for a time. “Thomas and Europa seem very fond of each other,” he finally ventured.

  “I had noticed.”

  Anatolius glanced upwards abruptly. John saw what had caught his friend’s attention. A tiny, brown bird had dropped out of the sky to perch on a limb of the olive tree beside the fountain. It sat for an instant, then fluttered away and up under the peristyle surrounding the garden.

  “There’s more than one nest there,” John explained. “My house is like an avian inn these days.”

  “It will be more home-like when Cornelia arrives.”

  John shot him a warning glance.

  “Er…speaking of lovers, try not to mention the subject to Crinagoras.”

  John observed it was not one of his usual topics of conversation and in any event it would certainly not be something he ever expected to discuss with Crinagoras.

  “Just as well. His dear Eudoxia wasn’t more than fifteen or sixteen, you know.” Anatolius stared toward the pillar behind which the bird had disappeared. A faint chirping could be heard.

  “Crinagoras and I grew up together,” he went on, “and it gets tiresome to constantly hear about this great love of his. He has himself half-convinced she threw herself into the sea in despair because they were forced to part. Yet as far as I know, all she did was step onto the ship taking her family to Egypt. Her father had been appointed to some high administrative position there. Crinagoras rushed to tell me as soon as he heard she had gone.”

  Anatolius struck a dramatic pose. “How could Eudoxia leave me? No, no, never could she leave me willingly. She must have thrown herself over the rail and into the winey waves. That was his reasoning.” He paused. A cloud passed over his face. “If I really believed she’d killed herself I couldn’t tolerate Crinagoras’ company for an hour longer. She’s probably married with five children by now. I asked him once why he didn’t go to Egypt and find out exactly what happened to her. He said even looking at the sea made him nauseous. Do you know, I’ve never been to Crinagoras’ house. We arrange to meet here or there, just like Peter and Gregory did. It’s because Crinagoras still lives with his family. There’s not much money in poetry and epitaphs. It’s just as well Crinagoras’ father deals in sewers and such rather than verse.”

  He paused for an instant. “And what he said when Crinagoras announced his ambition was to become a court poet rather than dabble in drains, well…”

  ***

  When Anatolius departed, John secured the house door and visited Peter’s storeroom to replenish the kitchen wine jug, deriving some amusement from the realization he was performing tasks for both his servants. Then he sat in the garden for a while, mulling over his next course of action.

  Europa appeared. She perched at the side of the pool, dangling a hand into the water. Her tunic sleeve was pulled up to her elbow, revealing a slim, muscular arm.

  “It’s cool here, isn’t it? I suppose it will be another hot day.” She turned her face toward him and smiled.

  His breath caught in John’s throat. Europa looked like her mother.

  “Cool water feels wonderful, especially after all those dusty roads we traveled and the public squares we performed in with the sun blazing down on us all day long.”

  “How is your mother?”

  Europa looked down at the water, rippling with her hand. “As always. In Egypt she still insisted on dancing on the bull from time to time.”

  “And otherwise?”

  “She never married.”

  Was his interest in that direction so transparent, he wondered. “And you haven’t either, it seems.”

  Europa’s hand churned deeper, raising a series of waves. “Not yet, father.”

  John drew a slow breath. He felt overheated. He would have found it easier to attend a midnight audience with Theodora than to try to talk to his own daughter. “And Thomas?”

  “He has been nothing but helpful to mother and me. He’s different from when we met him years ago, when we were here the first time.”

  John uneasily noted the secret smile that passed over her lips. “He may not be a man you want to think about too seriously, Europa.”

  “Perhaps. But don’t be deceived by his barbarous looks. He is not as unsophisticated as he appears.”

  The waves she was making lapped over the pool’s edge. She pulled her hand from the water and wiped it dry on her tunic.

  “Please don’t worry about me, father. I am not certain what we will do after mother arrives. Considering the life I have led, what can I know about being the daughter of the Lord Chamberlain? Would I have to sit in the garden and sew dainty things all day or compose pretty verses like that fellow you were questioning just now? No, I’m happy as it is. Thomas says he’ll find a suitable bull to replace the one the troupe lost and then we can start traveling again.”

  “If that is what you want, Europa, I can obtain an animal as fine as any in the empire before the sun sets.”

  “Thank you, but I would rather Thomas and I found one for ourselves.”

  John went indoors, leaving Europa sitting by the pool. Thomas again! What had Thomas been doing since they had last met? He had not exactly been forthcoming when questioned about it.

  If Peter had been dead, John’s knock would have roused him.

  Though he had nothing to say beyond asking that water be left at his door, Peter’s voice sounded weaker.

  John debated ordering him to open the door. Then he could consult Gaius on suitable treatment.

  But what if Peter died anyway? In that case, he would die without his dignity.

  With a sigh John turned away. He couldn’t allow that, any more than he could permit him to die without knowing justice had been done for his friend.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I’m off to visit Scipio, my bookseller. His shop’s just across the Augustaion,” Crinagoras told Thomas, as he led his newly hired bodyguard through the huge, bronze gate of the Great Palace and across the square beyond.

  “What do you intend to buy?”

  “I don’t purchase literary works, Thomas, I write them. Scipio
handles the occasional copying job for me. He also sells my poems.”

  “Does he? You mean to say you can make a living in this city by scribbling poems? What a strange place!”

  “Yes, well, I have been known to turn my golden verse into silver now and again. Tell me, Thomas, what do you do for a living?”

  Thomas slapped the hilt of the sword hanging from his belt. “My blade’s my livelihood.”

  “You’ve killed many men?”

  “Do I look like a butcher?”

  Crinagoras scowled at his red-headed companion, uncertain whether he’d been given an answer or not. “So you have spent a lot of time employed as a bodyguard?”

  “Not that much.”

  “Well, where is it you’ve been when doing this work of yours?”

  “Is your bookseller more than a day’s march from here? If not, you don’t have enough time to hear all the places I’ve traveled, so ask me instead where I haven’t been.”

  “Anatolius said you were from Bretania. Have you returned to that gray and misty island recently?”

  “No. That’s one of the few places I haven’t been. Another is Armenia.”

  “You haven’t been back to your homeland, despite all these wanderings to and fro you mention? Why not?”

  Thomas simply grunted.

  They crossed the great square of the Augustaion. The gulls had most of its cobbles to themselves today. Across the way, a donkey cart stood in front of the Great Church. Two men came out, carrying a limp form between them. Another plague victim. The sight was so common, it had become almost homely, as one with grubby street vendors hawking their wares or malformed beggars with outstretched palms.

  Crinagoras was disappointed. He had rather hoped he and his impressive bodyguard might run into one of his acquaintances. “It’s a fine adventure to sail the seas and travel in distant lands, I suppose.” He sighed. “Frankly, I prefer to explore my imagination. Sometimes I think it is vaster than the whole world. I might appear to be sitting in my room, day after day, but in reality, my friend, I am braving the unruly waves, visiting foreign shores, walking with mythological beings.”