Three for a Letter

by Mary Reed

  “Magick may be nothing but trickery but it has its fascinations to a scholar such as myself.”

  “Magickal tricks are simple once you understand how they work, sir. People are gullible. They’ll see what they want or expect to see. When the jeweler substitutes green glass for emeralds, people accept what appears to be genuine gems and never realize they’re completely worthless.”

  Suddenly, Zeno wondered uncomfortably if the elderly woman considered him gullible—a foolish old man looking for answers from a herd of goats.

  ***

  “Minthe made up this concoction for Anatolius.” Zeno waved the small clay pot enthusiastically rather too near to John’s nose. “I told her he suffered mightily from a malady brought on by proximity to certain plants. ‘Elderberries,’ she said. ‘They’re the best treatment for that particular misery.’ I’ll present it to him when he returns from the city.”

  John had met Zeno coming up the drive to the villa. The garden air was suffused with the faint smell of smoke, whether from the workshops or a lingering memory of the fatal fire it was impossible to say. The two men stood before the villa entrance while Zeno relayed, with some excitement, the goats’ reply to his inquiry. Although he listened politely enough, John was relieved when his host abruptly changed the subject to Anatolius’ affliction.

  “From the odd smell of that mixture, you’ll be fortunate to get Anatolius into the same room with it, let alone take it,” John observed, “but I wanted to ask you again about Castor. Are you absolutely certain there is nothing more you can tell me about him?”

  Zeno looked pained. “As I’ve already explained, John, I know nothing of the man’s personal life.”

  “Even though he’s been your neighbor for such a long time and visited you often?”

  “Yes. Castor is a very private man. As I’ve told you, he collects antiquities and books, he’s a scholar and a philosopher, a scientist—”

  “He has many and varied interests, I know, but I’m interested in finding out more about the man himself.”

  Now Zeno looked puzzled. “But surely, John, what we think about is who we are. In the workings of our bodies we are all the same. It is only in our thoughts and beliefs that we differ.”

  John sighed. “There’s some truth in that. But even Castor could not have sprung full grown from some desiccated scroll in his library.”

  “No, although it’s a most interesting idea. Now, if I may leave you for a while, I’m in need of some nourishment and a bit of rest. I’ve had a rather strenuous walk.”

  John did not accompany Zeno into the villa but instead walked around the gardens. He had spent the morning making futile inquiries about Castor. It seemed that the man spent his time communing with written words rather than with people.

  The Goths, not surprisingly, had barely glimpsed him in the short time they had been staying with Zeno. Castor had no neighbors other than Zeno. His estate was surrounded by fields, orchards, and vineyards. He employed the smallest of staffs, and all of his servants had apparently taken their orders directly from Briarus, who had been allowed to run the estate to even the smallest detail. They had had only the most minimal contact with their actual master. Setting a plate before him. Filling a goblet. Briarus had even decided the daily menu. Castor had more urgent concerns.

  Not that it would be unusual for a wealthy man to confine his social contacts mostly to those he might see at court, but Zeno insisted that although Castor might travel on business, he never set foot near the Great Palace. John had certainly never seen the man there. Castor appeared to be one of those who live by and for and through the written word, a kind of monk of the intellect.

  The image of a monk had not come to John out of the air but from the sight of Godomar, who was watching gardeners at work clearing out the flower bed surrounding one of Zeno’s ancient shrines.

  “Lord Chamberlain,” Godomar snapped in an outraged tone, “I really must protest. This structure is an abomination.”

  John mildly pointed out that since the estate belonged to Zeno, whatever was built on it was his alone to order.

  Godomar looked even more upset. “I do not explain myself well. Erecting an edifice to house an idol and surrounding it with beds of the poppies its pagan worshipers love is wicked enough. But what’s far worse is that I’ve found Bertrada inside this building more than once. I’m convinced that her interest is neither that of an antiquarian nor the student of ancient religions. This is a shrine to Hypnos, and…” He lowered his voice and leaned towards John “…the statue inside is…naked.”

  John suppressed a smile. “Well, after all, it is a pagan shrine, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, indeed!” Godomar nodded. “Now I have no objection to naked statues as such, even if they have wings on their shoulders such as grace the one in there. Its workmanship is certainly very excellent. But it is a male statue after all, and I fear that Bertrada’s interest in it is…well…”

  John sighed. Sensing that a discussion of naked pagan idols, with or without wings, would not prove useful he changed the subject and questioned Godomar about Castor.

  “All I can tell you about the man is that he has an interest in blasphemous and impure works,” was the curt reply.

  “You have seen his library, Godomar?”

  “No, but I’ve had the misfortune of discovering many of its volumes around Zeno’s villa. Some of them were in the possession of my charges. I would prefer not to describe what Bertrada was reading—and she’s still only a child.”

  “Is Bertrada acquainted with Castor? Has she perhaps visited his library?”

  Godomar frowned. “You insult my vigilance, Lord Chamberlain. Do you think I would ever allow such a friendship? Fortunately we’re only visitors and the sooner we are gone the better. The Lord willing, we’ll survive to leave.”

  “It seems Castor’s volumes are everywhere yet the man himself is nowhere to be found,” John mused.

  “The only time I’ve seen him was at the banquet, Lord Chamberlain.” Godomar turned abruptly and walked toward the villa without a word of farewell.

  John lingered for a while, watching the gardeners at work. A breeze picked its way through the shrubbery lining the path, rustling parchment-dry leaves. Perhaps, he thought tiredly, Castor really was just away on business after all.

  John sighed again. His thoughts turned to Hypnos, who personified sleep—and whose twin brother was Thanatos, or death.

  He could only hope that Anatolius’ investigations were proceeding more fruitfully than his own.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The red-faced shoemaker blustered on while Anatolius patiently made notes on a wax tablet.

  “Castor is one of my finest customers, barring the emperor. Half the patricians in the empire wear my boots, you know. Quality recognizes quality, that’s what I always say. However, Castor has not come by recently. Yet how can I be surprised? My boots will outlast the Hippodrome. Yes,” Kalus lamented, “I am putting myself out of business with the quality of my wares.”

  Anatolius scratched through the name Kalus in the list on his tablet. Speaking of boots, he thought sourly, even though he had nearly worn out his own spending the entire day tramping around Constantinople visiting the merchants listed in Castor’s account books, all he had ascertained was that the missing man had not recently conducted business with any of them.

  Kalus led his visitor out of his office and back along the hallway to his wares. From unseen workshops behind them came the muted sounds of hammering. The heavy smell of leather, mingled with the acrid odor of the urine in which it was tanned, enveloped the establishment.

  “He’s very particular about what he orders, is Castor,” Kalus went on importantly. “His sandal thongs must be the correct length and always dyed black. There again, he is a man of discerning taste. Like all of my customers.” He glanced down at Anatolius’ footwear and frowned. Although he said nothing, it was obvious he did not find it
admirable.

  The lowering sun spilled its deep red light into the shop and across its display of elegant boots and sandals. Kalus rearranged several pairs to show them to better advantage.

  Anatolius politely thanked the boot-maker for sparing time to talk to him.

  “Aren’t you Senator Aurelius’ son?” the other asked. “A fine man, if I may say so. It was my father who set my feet on the road to success. He was the wisest man I ever knew, sir. An army marches on its feet, that’s what he told me when I was a young man. The wisest words ever spoken, don’t you think? Armies will always need their feet well shod and I am proud to say that Justinian has placed his army’s feet in my hands. Imagine that, in my hands, yet at the same time those very feet are in Italy! The streets of Ravenna will be happier under sturdy military footwear than beneath the crude sandals of barbarians, I’m certain. I ask you, where would Belisarius be without my boots?”

  Anatolius indicated agreement with every word spoken by Kalus and managed finally to escape.

  He strolled down the street, emerging into the Forum Bovis. As he crossed the open space’s busy expanse he recalled that he had shared a cup of wine with more than one young lady while sitting near the great bronze head of a bull at its center. While a cup of wine would be very pleasant right now, there was one more call to make on John’s behalf and he must not linger.

  The last business belonged, so its plaque declared, to the scribe Scipio, whose emporium was discovered after traversing a narrow street that was not exactly a dim, dangerous alleyway but neither was it a broad, colonnaded avenue. The familiar odor of ink and parchment that met Anatolius as he stepped inside its shady interior felt welcoming after the long, hot day.

  Scipio was a small man with a shaved head. His white tunic was a palimpsest of ancient and more recent ink splatters. As the scribe rose from his desk to greet his visitor, Anatolius noticed the right side of his nose was as black as a Nubian’s. Disregarding the fact that a scribe always kept his hands clean, the thought came to him that the man must be left-handed, habitually rubbing his nose with his free hand while he copied. He wondered if his flash of insight was anything like those that John experienced while he was unraveling some knotty puzzle or other.

  “Can I help you, sir? Is there a particular work you’re looking for or have you something you wish to be copied?” Scipio’s gaze moved toward the tablet Anatolius carried.

  Anatolius replied that he wished to ask a few questions if Scipio would be kind enough to answer them.

  “We are able to copy out ten pages for a semissis,” the scribe answered quickly, anticipating the question usually put by his visitors. “A third of that is just for the parchment. Alas, the price for it just keeps increasing. Eventually it will ruin me, sir.”

  Anatolius made the same inquiry as he’d been fruitlessly making all day. The answer he received was little different from all the rest.

  “Though I expect we’ll hear from him shortly,” the scribe added, “since we’ve almost finished the copy of the Enneads that he commissioned.”

  Anatolius looked around. The shop’s few shelves held no more than seven or eight codices along with a few scrolls. He was inspired to ask another question. “Did Castor usually commission works or did he generally purchase items from your stock?”

  “Both. In addition, he often calls upon us to produce copies of his own works.”

  Anatolius asked about the nature of these works.

  “Philosophy, science, religion. Every imaginable subject. Castor is man of great erudition.”

  “Do you have any of these works on hand?”

  “Not at present. However, I suspect he will be bringing more work soon since it has been some weeks since I last saw him.”

  “He is a very good customer, it seems.”

  “If only all my clients were like Castor! You’d be amazed at the number of students we chase away, not to mention common men of law and the like. They handle my excellent wares with no intent to buy. Nor even the means to buy them, if they were honest, not even if they had a whole year’s salary concealed about their pitiful persons. They could scarcely afford the parchment we write on, let alone the writing itself. However, I see you know something of our profession and I suspect you’re equally economical with your parchment.”

  Following Scipio’s gaze, Anatolius realized there was a trace of ink on his forefinger, a remnant of recent labors. “You’re very observant, Scipio,” he said with a smile. “However, my master doesn’t find it necessary to scrimp on the purchase of parchment.”

  Understanding dawned on Scipio’s lined face. “Or to cut back on building churches and forums or conquering foreign lands?”

  “Quite so.” Any of the countless administrative clerks serving at the palace probably would have impressed Scipio by the fact they labored there but Anatolius did not inform the man how closely he worked with the emperor. Instead, he gave him the same instructions he had given the other merchants he had visited, which was to send an immediate message to the captain of excubitors at the palace should they receive any communication from Castor.

  He had turned away to step out into the shadows lengthening along the street when inspiration struck him. “How long would it take you to copy out some poetry for me? I’d also like decorative borders with a motif suggesting the past glories of Italy, and leather covers.”

  “Ah, sir, I could see immediately that you are a man of refined taste,” Scipio beamed. “But I’m afraid that it might be a little while as we’re still overwhelmed with business generated by the emperor’s codification of the laws. Every provincial town seems to think it ought to have a copy even though half of them don’t even have a man of law who can read Latin. It’s my opinion that they just sit whoever is hearing petitions on a bench in front of those volumes to lend some credence to his rulings. Not, however, that we’re complaining about the amount of work.”

  Anatolius thanked Scipio, saying he would visit again to consult him about the copying and then slowly made his way through the deepening twilight back toward the Mese.

  Around him men laughed and jostled, grimy workers returning home from their long labors in the sun, important persons conversing with their companions as they strode through the bustle, ignoring the beggars that sat at every corner and haunted every colonnade. The street sounds beat around his head, a ceaseless babble of noise that was beginning to give him a headache.

  His thoughts turned toward his uncle’s estate where it would be quiet and cool and there would be good food and wine as the night crept in over the sea to lay its kindly fingers across the garden. Yes, it would be wonderful to stroll there with Calyce. She would certainly enjoy his poems, he thought as he walked quickly along. Of course, it was true that he could copy them out himself, but he hardly had the time right now.

  He realized his journey would cause him to pass not far from the house where Balbinus and Lucretia lived. Yes, he chided himself, he’d been foolish to imagine some ember might smolder beneath the ashes of time. His acknowledgement of the truth was bitter-sweet, but then again perhaps it hadn’t really been an ember glowing in the darkness of memory waiting to be fanned into a blaze, but rather just a warm thought like a ray of sunlight, insubstantial and impossible to capture—or recapture. Strange were the whims of Fortuna, he mused, as he turned a corner and began to move briskly down a street leading directly into the Mese. If his affair with Lucretia had not been so ill-fated, he, not Balbinus, might well have married her and then he would never have found his true love, Calyce.

  All the same, it would certainly be most helpful to John’s investigation to visit the senator’s house again and inquire of Balbinus if he had now heard anything from his missing nephew.

  Indeed, he told himself, it was increasingly obvious that Castor was not just away on business but was missing. Just like Barnabas.

  He turned to retrace his steps and saw a familiar figure moving quickly along on the opposite
side of the street. The sight brought a sinking feeling to his stomach.

  It was Balbinus returning home. To his wife. To Lucretia.

  Anatolius wiped his suddenly watering eyes and looked again.

  No, he had been mistaken. The pedestrian was someone he did not know. Strangely, the thought made him happier.

  ***

  Later—he could not have said how much time had passed but darkness had long since fallen—Anatolius found himself unexpectedly approaching the barracks across from John’s house. He had been lost in thought. Thoughts of Calyce, of Lucretia, of events he wished he could change. He had no recollection of his walk down the crowded Mese nor of entering the palace grounds. His feet had followed the familiar route as automatically as one of his uncle’s odd mechanical devices went through its movements. He was fortunate he hadn’t been run over by a cart.

  Lamplight shone brightly through the diamond-shaped panes of John’s second story window, the window of the study in which the Lord Chamberlain was usually to be found when he was at home. It was puzzling, since at present John was supposed to be some stadia away.

  Anatolius crossed the cobbled square, acknowledging the greeting of the excubitor guarding the barracks. On reaching John’s door he raised his fist to rap sharply, the action reminding him of Hypatia’s distress about her recent strange visitor.

  Perhaps, he mused, that was why his feet had carried him here at this late hour. Perhaps they had more commonsense than his head.

  He pounded on the door for a long while before it was opened. Hypatia greeted him warmly enough although she looked haggard. The flaring torches in the entrance hall and atrium, more torches than seemed necessary in a house currently occupied by a single servant, accentuated the shadowed hollows around her eyes. He had barely stepped inside before she had the door securely bolted.