by Alan Gordon
“Done. I’ve never seen a Varangian unshelled before.”
“It’s an ugly sight, but seeing it en masse should dampen the blow. I’ll show you the rest of my scars. Well, Simon, time for the real soldiers to depart. We’re up at dawn guarding the Emperor’s ravines. But we’ll be back now that we know you have some real entertainment.”
“My conversation was not good enough for you before?” protested the tapster in mock indignation. “My apologies, my lords and masters, for the ignorant level of discourse to which you have been subjected. I only thought to instruct you with the tales of my life.”
“Yes, tell us again how you fought Saladin blade to blade,” laughed Henry.
“He did?” exclaimed Cnut, and the older soldiers cuffed him affectionately until he managed to get his helmet back on. They exited, all save Stanislaus who sat staring morosely at the pitcher.
“I cannot believe they left some undrunk,” he said. “I’ll need your help finishing it.”
I live for invitations like that. Claudius and I joined him at the table and commenced pouring.
“Long live the Emperor,” I said, raising my cup.
“Long live both of them,” he replied, raising his a little unsteadily. “To the most unholy pair of brothers since . . . since . . ..” He drank. “I can’t think of a good example. No family like the Angeli for treachery, even in this part of the world. God, I wish I was home again.”
“Where’s home?”
He sighed. “A small town near Mainz. Took the Cross and followed Frederick Barbarossa on the last Crusade. You were on that one, weren’t you, Simon?”
“Sure. I have many memories. I remember . . ..”
“We’re not discussing your memories,” interrupted Stanislaus. “We’re discussing mine. We’ve heard your memories more times than I can remember. What a long walk that was! Men dropping right and left. Even Frederick didn’t make it all the way.”
“But you did,” I said. “And then you ended up here?”
“Like I said, it was a long walk, and I didn’t feel like walking all the way back.”
“And there was this girl . . ..” prompted Simon.
“Shut up. Yes, there was a girl, thank Christ. But then she left me. So, now I’m here, marching around, opening gates, propping up the Emperor when he’s too drunk to stand, clearing crowds, quelling the occasional riot when it gets too close to Blachernae Palace, and watching the throne change hands suddenly. It’s all very entertaining. It’s not a bad life, being a mercenary. The pay is good, and I have a nice farm picked out for when I retire. And none of that silly fighting-for-honor stuff anymore. That’s a farce. Look at my Varangian friends.”
“What about them?”
“Do you realize that the last three emperors have come to the throne by violence against their predecessors, and the Varangians have not lifted a finger to prevent it? God knows that Isaakios was no paragon, but he was all right. Now he’s a blind man resting in comfort at the Double Column, until our current ruler panics at some omen and has him strangled.”
“Have there been any such omens lately?”
He laughed. “Everything’s an omen here, and for every occurrence there are a dozen explanations from a dozen competing soothsayers. This from the heart of Christendom. Give me the Latin church any day. At least it’s consistent. And give me a mercenary over a man of honor. Honor may be bent in any direction, but with a mercenary, you get what you pay for.”
He upended his cup, then poured some more.
“How about you? Where are you from?” he asked.
“Originally? Or lately?”
“Lately.”
“I was working up north, traveling from town to town, until they got bored with me. So, I came here.”
“Someone will probably make an omen out of you,” he remarked. “There used to be some other fools around. Used to see a couple at the games every now and then. Haven’t seen them lately. And the Emperor used to keep a pair of dwarves. Twins. Funniest damn creatures you ever saw.”
“I’ve heard about them,” I said. “They’re not still around?”
“No,” he said. “They took off. Had enough, I suppose, and they were well off. Alexios is very generous when he wants to be. I tell you, my friend, if you could get in there, you could do quite well for yourself, if you’re any good.”
“That would suit me royally,” I said. “How do I go about doing that?”
“Good question,” he said. “There’s no actual Master of Revelry like there used to be, at least not at the moment. There’s this eunuch, Constantine Philoxenites. He’s the Imperial Treasurer, which means he’s the warden of the Emperor’s greed and profligacy. He’s probably the man to know, but he’s a hard one to reach, there are so many layers of bureaucracy surrounding him. I see him every now and then. If you like, I’ll put in a good word.”
“I would be most grateful,” I said.
We finished the wine. He lurched to his feet and looked out the window.
“Dark already,” he said. “Your wine is too good, Simon. Point me home.”
“I’ll walk you,” said Simon, grabbing a cloak. “Good night, Fool. Good night, Claudius.”
He put his arm around the mercenary’s shoulder and guided him through the door.
“I enjoyed that,” said Viola, when we settled down in our room. “They were very pleasant for soldiers. And to think, on Saturday I get to see several hundred of them naked. I do so enjoy this life.”
“Yes, they were pleasant,” I said yawning. “I wonder if any of them was checking up on us.”
She stretched the twine across the doorway and settled into her corner.
Nothing happened this night. I let her sleep late, the sunbeams crossing her bearded face. I had known an actual bearded woman once, during a short stint with a traveling circus. She had her own little tent, and her boy would stand in front and charge a penny a peek. She’d let the observer tug on her beard to ascertain its veracity, then would sit and chat with her visitor. It was the chat that kept bringing them back, for she had a jolly disposition and a wealth of stories. I think she could have lived off the stories alone, but she welcomed her oddity as it brought her an audience.
Viola woke and looked at me reproachfully as she realized the time of day.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” she asked.
I motioned to a low stool by the bed where I had placed a washbasin.
“All of the honest folk have gone to work,” I said. “The dishonest folk as well. I thought you might enjoy washing your face before we began our day.”
She removed the wig and beard, sighing happily, then plunged her face full into the basin. I had procured a bit of soap and a cloth. She scrubbed herself thoroughly, then looked up at me.
“I must look a horror,” she said.
“Absolutely beautiful,” I said.
She snorted. “You’re an expert husband for one who’s been out of practice for so long.” She attached the beard, replaited her hair, and stuffed it under the wig. Then she looked at me. “When do I get to be a woman again? I survived the journey.”
“I’ve been thinking it would be useful to keep that identity a secret. It’s like having another person in reserve. Carry women’s clothes and makeup in your kit for a quick change.”
“And when do I perform again?”
“Soon, Apprentice. I need you watching the crowd again. And then we’ll check out Thalia’s quarters.”
I set up at the Forum Amastrianum, Claudius wandering among the horses. She kept her purse tucked safely away. This was an area known for attracting the worst elements, and that wasn’t even counting the horse traders. There was a statue of an honest scale and measure in the center of the square, a stern advisory to the local merchants. A sterner one was the use of the square for public executions. One of the less scrupulous local merchants was dangling from a gibbet nearby, swaying gently with the breeze.
It was a decidedly more masculine crowd
than I had previously seen. Horse-trading was traditionally a man’s profession in these parts. So was horse-thieving. The beasts varied in quality and breed, some showing Arabian heritage, others the short but study mixes of the north. Some had battle scars equal to any I’d seen on a soldier, and it was these who drew the attention of a number of military types.
I performed for a few hours, and did moderately well. Several in my ever-changing audience inquired about my lodgings, I hoped for the purpose of retaining my services rather than slitting my throat while I slept.
As I was packing my gear, an emaciated, ratlike man of some fifty years sidled up to me, clutching his threadbare cloak about his body.
“You look like a man who could use a little luck,” he said out of the side of his mouth.
“What man couldn’t?” I replied.
He nodded rapidly several times. “Sure, sure, what man couldn’t? But luck doesn’t just happen, you know. It needs encouragement.”
“Does it?”
“Yeah. Sure it does. How do you think people get rich?”
“Inheritance? Light fingers amongst the gentry?”
He shook his head. “You don’t know anything. There’s luck. And it doesn’t . . .”
“. . .just happen. You mentioned that before.”
He smiled, showing blackened gums and nothing else.
“I know how to get luck,” he said. “I can help you.”
I looked at him. He was bald, scrofulous, and missing part of his right ear.
“Do you practice what you preach, friend?” I asked.
“No, no, you can’t get luck for yourself. But if you give the right talismans to someone, they can get lucky.”
“You are proposing a gift, then.”
He shook his head.
“It’s an exchange of luck,” he said. “You give something to me, I give something to you.”
“You look like someone already gave you something, and feel free to warn me away from her.”
He opened his cloak slightly. Sewn into the lining was an astonishing array of odd trinkets: bits of bone, locks of hair, shriveled frogs, lizards, pieces of other animals, small vials, boxes, rings, and all manner of talismans.
He launched into a well-rehearsed patter. “Troubles in the marriage bed, place these under it and all is well.” He pointed to what appeared to be a decaying pair of bull’s testicles. “Wax from the tomb of Saint Stephen, rub it on your doorstep and no evil will dare enter. The thumb of Saint Simon, the Canaanite. Menstrual blood from a black witch, no need to tell you its powers. The actual ring that Saint Edward the Confessor gave to a beggar. The beggar, on his deathbed, passed it on to me. It cures all manner of fits. A toadstone, place it by your drink, it will detect any poison; place it in someone else’s drink, and if they be sinners, they will not live out the night.”
“And if they are not sinners?”
He showed me his gums again. “We are all stained with original sin. The stone does not discriminate.”
“Well, my friend, I’ll pass for now, but if you’ll tell me your name, I may seek you out when the occasion demands.”
He backed away from me hurriedly, wrapping his cloak around his spindly, body.
“No name, no name,” he muttered. “My enemies would pay highly to learn my whereabouts, and would gladly murder me for these treasures. When you need luck, I will find you.”
He hobbled away, glancing over his shoulder several times. I signaled to Claudius. She ambled by, not looking at me.
“That relic seller who approached me?” I said under my breath. “Follow him.”
She nodded slightly, and walked in the direction he had taken.
I quickly packed my gear and waited until she was just at the edge of the forum. Then I threw my cloak over my motley and began trailing her.
It’s an old test in the Guild: direct the apprentice to follow a designated fool through a crowded city. The first part of the test is to successfully follow the target without being spotted. The second part is for the apprentice to figure out that he or she is also being followed.
I walked quickly to the south end of the forum in time to catch sight of Viola as she disappeared into a warren of covered stalls. I skirted the local Scyllae and Charybdises, stopped my ears to the Sirens of the oaken casks, and otherwise avoided or rejected every invitation to purchase, haggle, fondle, gamble, or imbibe, never losing track of that short, bearded, beloved wife of mine.
Then, on a particularly narrow, winding street, shielded completely from any memory of sunlight, she disappeared. I poked my head cautiously around the corner, slipping my dagger surreptitiously into my hand, waiting to see if an ambush had been laid. No one accosted me, so I made so bold as to enter the street itself.
The noise of the sellers from the stalls faded. The gloom increased the further I ventured. The passage finally opened between two buildings onto a view of the Kontoskalion Harbor, where the Imperial Navy had its dockyard.
I heard a throat clear behind me. I whirled, dagger ready to be thrown, to see Claudius, hands on her hips, glaring fiercely.
“There I was, thinking that you actually trusted me to accomplish something on my own,” she said. “Then I noticed a cloaked fool following me. I suppose this was some kind of test.”
“Indeed, Apprentice,” I replied, wondering, not for the first time, whether a teacher/apprentice relationship was practical for a marriage. “And if you can tell me where that walking pustule went, you pass.”
“He’s in that shack by the dock,” she said.
“Good. Let’s go pay him a visit.”
“You mean he actually matters to us? I thought you just wanted me to practice following someone.”
“He matters. I recognized a ring that he had among his collection. It’s a Guild ring. I think it belonged to Demetrios.”
I took a step. She grabbed my arm and pulled me into a doorway.
“Since you’re such an expert,” she whispered, “then you know, of course, that someone has been following you.”
SIX
[T]ime, the transformer and perpetual engenderer of dissimilarities . . .
O CITY OF BYZANTIUM, ANNALS OF NIKETAS CHONIATES,
P. 291
I gaped at her stupidly, then looked back into the passage from which I had emerged.
“He’s gone,” she said. “Whoever he was, he elected not to follow you into a dark alley. He must have thought you were cleverer than you are. Or maybe someone was following him. I’m beginning to think that everyone in this city is following someone else. No wonder it’s so crowded.”
“Full marks and extra credit, Apprentice,” I said. “What manner of man was he?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I saw a cowl and no face.”
“Interesting. Father Esaias, perhaps?”
“The cowl was different,” she said. “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t him. Do you think someone from the Church was on your tail?”
“If it was a cowl, then it would be anybody except someone from the Church. They would most likely disguise themselves as something else. In any case, the cowled stranger’s not a problem at the moment. Let’s go visit our shack-dwelling friend.”
I decided not to knock, choosing instead to barge in, knife drawn. I caught the fellow attempting to light a small metal bowl of incense. I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and held my knife close to his eye.
“Well, here’s luck,” I said. “I changed my mind. I’m interested in your wares.”
“Sure, sure,” he gasped. “Anything you want, just don’t hurt me.”
Claudius closed the door behind us and kept watch. I let the relic seller go, keeping an eye on his hands. He fumbled at the cord holding his cloak closed, then opened it. I pointed my knife at the item I had marked before, a pewter ring with a Death’s-head set in black enamel.
“A good choice,” he babbled. “That will ward off enemies, bring . . .” He stopped as I brought my knife back to his thro
at.
“Look here,” I said, holding up my other hand.
He drew in his breath sharply as he saw a similar ring on my finger.
“It wards off no one,” I said. “It may even attract enemies. I took it from the finger of a dead fool, along with his clothes and gear. I’ve been a jester ever since. Sometimes I tickle people’s humor. Sometimes I tickle them with this.”
I touched him lightly with the blade, and he started crying.
“Now, that ring belonged to a fool named Demetrios,” I continued. “I’ve been looking for him. He has something that belongs to me, and I want it. I don’t care what I have to do or who I have to kill to get it.” I flicked my knife at the thread holding the ring to the cloak, and it fell. Before it hit the ground, I caught it with the end of my knife and flipped it into the air. It fell onto my waiting pinkie, beside its mate. The relic seller watched the whole routine in terror. I pointed the knife back at him.
“Talk,” I said.
“I took it from a dead fool as well,” he said. “Demetrios.”
“When? Where?”
“Early November, out in the forest.”
“Who brought him there? Tell me everything you know.”
“They were dressed like monks, but they weren’t,” he said. “I was out gathering herbs and trapping rabbits. I like a stewed rabbit every now and then. The Emperor’s forests are untouchable. No one’s allowed in, not even the woodsmen or the shipbuilders or anyone. So, when I heard the noise, I hid.”
“How many were there?”
“Three, lugging the body. I recognized him right away. I’ve seen him work for years; I knew the pattern of his motley. And that’s the only way I would have known him. His face was beaten to a pulp.
“They had shovels. They dug a grave, put him in, covered him up.”
“Did they say anything?”
He thought. “One of them said, ‘No fool like a dead fool,’ and they laughed.”
“Would you recognize the voice if you heard it again?”
“No, no,” he whimpered, shaking his head emphatically.
“But he spoke in Greek?”