by Alan Gordon
“Didn’t your mother teach you to wash your face before bed?” I asked him.
He muttered something that reflected upon my mother. I chose to ignore it, and knelt down by his head, my knife resting on his neck. He became still.
“You’re a poor excuse for a burglar,” I said.
“Can’t blame a fellow for trying,” he replied.
“Oh, yes, I can. Now, my first inclination is to slit your throat and be done with it, but I’d hate to be thrown out of a place when I’ve already paid for two weeks in advance. I suppose I could turn you over to the authorities.”
“But I have the feeling that you’d rather have no contact with the guard if you can help it,” said Asan hurriedly.
“I wasn’t talking about them,” I said sharply. “Father Esaias might be interested in this little incident. The Rooster is off-limits, isn’t it?”
“How did you know that?” he whispered.
I cuffed him. “You’re a puppy,” I said. “I was picking pockets when your mother’s milk was still wet on your lips. You think I don’t know this city? Maybe I’ll just give you to Esaias and be done with you.”
“Please, sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” he babbled.
I cuffed him again, and he shut up.
“What say you, Claudius?” I asked. “Shall we let him live?”
“I don’t see what use he could be to us,” said Claudius slowly. “He bungled this job.”
“No, no, I’m no good at nightwork, but I can pick pockets, and I’m a good lookout, and I can find you anything you want here.”
I raised my hand, and he quieted. I lowered it.
“As it happens, I am looking for someone,” I said. “A fool like myself. His name is Tiberius.”
“I know him!” he said excitedly. “You see? I’m useful!”
“I’d like to know where he is,” I continued. “Find him, and there may even be a little something in it for you. Although continued existence seems ample profit under the circumstances, don’t you think?”
“Yes, yes. I’ll have word for you by sundown tomorrow.”
“Search him, then let him go,” I commanded.
She rummaged through his clothing, found no weapons, and then let him stand, her sword constantly at his chest.
“Until tomorrow, my friend,” I said. “Go get some sleep. And wash that face. Our landlord may not appreciate the mess on his fine linens.”
He slunk into the hallway. I leaned outside the doorway and watched him until he entered his room.
“Well done,” I said to Viola. “Only use your knife next time. Swords are a liability when there’s no room to swing them.”
“All right. Shall we assume that’s it for the evening?”
“Not at all. Get some sleep. It’s my turn to keep watch.”
We left the Rooster at midmorning, a jester’s normal working time. I took only my working bag with me, leaving most of my gear behind. I left my sword as well. We could afford to appear less belligerent now that we had made it inside the city walls. Viola kept her sword. It was the day’s plan that I would do the performing, and she would keep an eye on the crowd.
“Is that our entire plan?” she asked.
“No,” I replied. “But I have to establish myself immediately. A fool who does not care about entertaining is clearly a spy. At some point, we’ll go search out where my colleagues dwelled.”
The road from our immediate neighborhood carried us south, following the gentle rise of the Xerolophon toward the southwest branch of the Mese. Bakeries on both sides of the road scented the air until we could stand it no longer and bought enough bread for two meals. Although the road was more or less straight, the side streets twisted and turned in a labyrinth of passages, houses of stone and brick crammed together, the upper floors projecting over the streets, greedily seizing every possible square foot while blocking the sun from reaching the pedestrians.
People swarmed everywhere. Constantinople is the crossroads of the world, and every nation sent its representatives to seek their fortunes, or to seek someone else’s fortune. Franks, Vlachs, Pechenegs, Turks, Russians, Alans, and Latins all scurried about, speaking Greek with varying proficiencies and in a profusion of accents.
Our road met the Mese in the Forum of Arkadios. The pillar erected to the memory of that emperor overlooked us, a pile of immense, squared stones stacked to over a hundred feet. They say there had once been a statue of Arkadios himself on top, but an earthquake had sent it plummeting long ago.
There were pillars all over the city, as various emperors and their wives competed for posterity. Many in this superstitious time would observe which personage’s representation was struck down by one calamity or another and try to interpret what it portended. Some of the more cynical would merely place elaborate wagers on which statue would be the next to topple.
A small squad of soldiers marched by, their body armor almost cylindrical in shape, enormous single-edged axes carried casually over their shoulders. Their standard was a dragon, spewing flames on a blue field. A few of them were chattering as we passed.
“They were speaking English,” exclaimed Viola in astonishment.
“The Varangian Guard,” I explained. “A lot of them are English. They first came after the Norman Conquest. More have come since then, especially after the Crusades stranded a few. Very devoted to the emperor, at least until he’s been overthrown. Then they’re very devoted to the next emperor.”
Another squad passed us, consisting of extremely tall, fair-haired men, similarly attired.
“Those are also Varangians?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“But they weren’t speaking English. I don’t recognize that language.”
“Danish,” I said. “Those who aren’t English are usually from the north. They send them down here for experience.”
“You speak Danish?” she asked.
“Fluently.”
“Strange,” she said. “Why would you need that language? I thought you spent most of your career around the Mediterranean.”
“I don’t need it. It was thrust upon me by accident of birth.”
“You’re Danish?”
“Originally.”
“But how did you end up . . .?”
“Second anniversary, Duchess. Here’s a likely spot. Let’s get to work.”
The market was in full haggle as farmers in from the outlying regions vended their produce, huntsmen sold freshly killed venison from their bloodied carts, and woodsmen stood before stacks of, well, wood. The smaller children ran screaming around the forum, dashing fearlessly around and occasionally under the hooves of the passing horses, while the older ones watched their parents’ goods. A clump of them saw me and scampered over expectantly. I arranged them in a largish circle with as much pomp as I could muster, then shook my head in mock dissatisfaction and rearranged them several more times. Then, I pulled out five balls and sent them flying, occasionally sending a ball at one of the children and catching the return toss.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Claudius drift over to a nut seller and engage in some spirited negotiation, which conveniently provided her with a good view of my performance and the crowd that gathered.
I continued for an hour, working knives and torches into the juggling, pulling out my tabor and flute and playing both simultaneously, singing a number of silly songs, and finishing with a lengthy encomium to their glorious city, thanking the crowd for their most gracious and heartfelt welcome. Then I picked up the scattered coins thrown in my direction. All bronze—this was not the wealthiest of forums, but when one is new in town, one should start at the bottom.
“Thank you, good people,” I shouted. “Should you desire further entertainment, leave word at the Rooster for Feste, the Fool.”
I picked up my gear and walked out of the market. I ventured a few hundred feet down the Mese, then turned onto a side street where I saw a likely tavern. A few minutes later, Claudius sat by me a
nd silently held out a cloth bag filled with nuts. I took some.
“You weren’t followed,” she said. “I didn’t see anyone in the crowd who looked unduly interested.”
“I wouldn’t have expected it the first day,” I said.
“What shall we do after lunch?”
“Let’s go look at Demetrios’s room. It’s time to revert to our other function.”
“So, in this case function follows forum.”
I winced. “I don’t think you’re quite ready to go solo, Apprentice, but keep trying.”
We walked together down the Mese. Claudius glanced wistfully back at the Pillar of Arkadios.
“Will we have a chance to go to the top?” she asked.
“Sometime,” I said. “There’s much to do first.”
“And the holy relics. They say they have most of the True Cross here.”
“That’s what they think. There’s a big chunk of wood at the Church of the Theotakos at Blachernae, supposedly excavated by Helen, Constantine’s mother. She was sainted basically for being conned by some Palestinian tricksters. They also sold her the crosses of the two thieves, the crown of thorns, Mary Magdalene’s jar, the baskets that held the miraculous loaves, the slab on which the dead Christ lay, and that’s just the Jesus stuff. They have all sorts of relics of the saints as well.”
“I hear they have the head of John the Baptist.”
“They do. In fact, they have two. We’ll see them both.”
She looked at me quizzically.
“I thought you were a believer,” she said.
“I am. I just don’t believe in worshiping pieces of dead people.”
We walked on toward the Forum Bovis. Demetrios had lived in an inn near it. As the Mese opened into the great rectangle, we came up against the great Brazen Bull, in which the tyrant Emperor Phocas had, according to legend, been roasted to death. The area was now, appropriately, the main meat market for the city. The beast glowered at us, but did not charge. Claudius looked happily around at the throngs of people streaming through the forum, swirling around one bronze masterpiece after another.
“I do want to see this city,” she said.
“We will,” I promised. “If we live long enough.”
FIVE
Behold: I have played the fool, and have erred exceedingly.
I SAMUEL 26:21
Demetrios lived in a small hostel south of the Forum Bovis. Lived, past tense. His landlady, a large, slovenly woman with wine-stained clothing, snored on a bench in front. When we roused her from her nap, she took one look at my makeup and shouted, “Go away! We’ll have no more of you people.”
“My apologies for disturbing you, Madame,” I said, sweeping my cap and bells off my head and bowing low. “I was merely seeking an old friend who lived here. I had hopes that he might find me some employment. His name is Demetrios.”
“I know who your friend is,” she snapped.
“Then perhaps you could tell me where he is.”
“Perhaps I can’t,” she said, and sat in her chair. I waited for her to speak again. “Vanished,” she said finally.
I waited for her to elaborate. After some minutes of looking at each other, I decided to prompt her.
“Vanished, you said?”
“Yes.”
“When was this?”
“What’s it to you?”
“As I said, I was hoping he could find me some employment. We used to work together.”
“Then you can pay me what he owes me,” she said hopefully.
“We weren’t that close. When did he vanish?”
“Beginning of November. One day he’s here, the next he isn’t, without so much as a by-your-leave. Ten years he’d been living here, and didn’t even say good-bye. Leaving me to sort out his things.”
I had a brief moment of hope. “Do you still have them here?”
She laughed. “Sold them after a month. That’s what we do around here. Got pitifully little for the lot, mostly some hideous costumes of his.”
“You have nothing left?” I said. “What about in his room?”
“Let it in December. Can’t have it going to waste. Now, get on with you.”
I turned to leave.
“Wait,” she called after me. She got up from her chair for the first time and scurried into the building. She returned with a long, thin parcel, wrapped in rags, bulging at one end.
“He left this,” she said. “I couldn’t sell it. It has a cursed look to it. Do you want it?”
“Yes,” I said, my heart sinking as I recognized the shape. I took it from her, and we left as the sun started setting.
We reached the Rooster before dark and went straight to our room. I unwrapped the cloth and held up a scepter with a small figure of a skull at the end of it, decked out in cap and bells.
“Demetrios’s marotte,” I said. “Look at the makeup. That was his style, with the red triangles ringing the eyes. He never would have left this behind.”
“Does it shoot poisoned needles like yours?” Viola asked, edging away from it.
I turned it upside down. Nothing fell out. I located the hidden trigger and pressed it. There was a faint click.
“There’s nothing in it, and it hasn’t been used,” I said. “Whoever killed him took him unawares.”
“What did they do with the body?”
“Who knows? The landlady looks like she could sleep through Judgment Day given a decent wineskin, so it wouldn’t have been hard to carry him out. Let’s go see if our new employee found out anything.”
Asan was at a table, digging into some gray slop like it was his last meal. He started as he looked up to see us seated on either side of him.
“Greetings and well met, my little burglar,” I said.
“Hush,” he said, looking around nervously, but the general din of the room drowned us out.
“Any news of Tiberius?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“He’s gone,” he said. “Been gone for months. Must have owed someone badly, because he left in a hurry. His things were still there.”
“Who was he running from?”
He snorted. “Could have been half a dozen men tired of waiting for him to pay up.”
“Any of them likely to kill him rather than take his money?”
“Most of them would want to do both. If he had anything belonging to you, it’s long gone.”
“Any friends? Did he keep a mistress?”
“A mistress?” he laughed. “He was a fool. He was a debtor with aspirations to poverty. What woman would want such a creature?”
“One never knows,” commented Claudius.
“Any friends, then?” I asked.
“That other fool, Demetrios. They used to work together, entertaining the troops at the Great Palace garrisons, sometimes working the Hippodrome. But no one’s seen him in ages, either. Maybe they left together.”
“Maybe. That’s most likely the case. Well, young thief, you are quit of your debt to me. Go and sin no more. Or as little as you can without going hungry.”
We shifted to another table, taking some of the glop with us, washing it down with some brown ale. I craved more colors in my food.
There was a table of soldiers in the inn, and one of them threw me a coin and bade me sing. All in a day’s work. I unslung my lute and launched into something appropriately martial, then segued into something more bawdy. The latter was apparently what they were looking for, so I continued in that vein, Claudius joining in, beating on my tabor. The wine and ale flowed freely, and when I came to the end, several of them clapped me heartily on the shoulders, some taking the time to pummel poor Claudius as well.
Simon was quite happy to have the free entertainment in his place, and even happier that it led to such free-spending inebriation. He came out from behind the bar with a pitcher of ale and plunked down in front of me.
“I should introduce you to these fine fellows,” he said. “This one’s Henry of Esse
x. He’s a captain with the Varangians.”
I saluted him. He was a flaxen-haired fellow of medium build, with a livid scar crossing from the bridge of his nose down to the bottom of his left cheek. He noticed me marking it, and bellowed, “You should see the other fellow!” I saw his axe leaning against the table, the lamplight bouncing off it.
“Just give me a shovel and show me where to dig,” I replied, and he guffawed.
“This one’s Cnut,” continued Simon, throwing a massive arm around the shoulders of a tall lad of eighteen. A pale down clung to the boy’s cheeks. “He’s also a Varangian, from that Danish city I can’t pronounce.”
“Kjoebenhavn?” I guessed.
Cnut’s jaw dropped. “How did you know?”
“It’s the only city in Denmark I’ve been to. Let me guess. You’re the third son of a merchant. The diet in Denmark is too bland, so they sent you to Constantinople for seasoning.”
The other Danes at the table laughed and nudged the youth.
“And this is Stanislaus,” said Simon, pointing to the only man at the table not wearing the Varangian armor. “He’s a captain with the Hetairia. He gets to open the Great Gates of Blachernae Palace every morning.”
“And then you’re done for the day?” I exclaimed. “That’s it. I’ve been working too hard. I’m going to join the Hetairia. You’re up at the Anemas garrison?”
“Correct, Fool,” replied Stanislaus, a dark-haired man with a weathered face. Also a foreigner, with an accent similar to Simon’s. “Unfortunately, our commander permits no entertainment at the garrison, otherwise I’d invite you to perform there.”
“We could use some jesting,” said Henry. “It’s been bloody dull around here. Come down to our garrison one of these days.”
“It would be my pleasure. Which one are you at?”
“Hodegon, near the Arsenal, Do you know it?”
“I can find it. What would be a good time?”
He thought, then snapped his fingers. “Saturday afternoon, when my brigade takes its bath. We usually have music there, but if you don’t mind performing for several hundred naked men, we could make it a profitable day for you.”