by Alan Gordon
“A secret entrance?” I guessed. “A tunnel prepared beforehand?”
“Our good Father Esaias had the place ripped apart,” he said. “There was none.”
“I am puzzled that the thief thought he might actually get away with the betrayal,” I said. “It seems futile, given Father Esaias’s capacity for vengeance.”
“Yet the treasure has vanished,” said Julian. “Maybe the escape was the part of the plan that failed.”
“Or the thief was prepared to die,” I said.
“Why would he?” asked Julian with interest.
“Because he wanted to enrich someone he cared for, even if it cost him his own life.”
“Then that lets me off,” he said, clasping his hands on his chest. “I care for no one but myself.”
“Then I pity you,” I said.
“Go away, Fool,” he said. “I’ve had a wearying night. I want to get some rest before I sleep forever.”
I left him there and closed the door.
“Well?” asked Father Theodore.
“A tough nut to crack,” I said. “Do you know if he had anyone so close that he would sacrifice himself to help them?”
“We checked all three,” said Father Theodore. “They were each alone in the world.”
“Let’s go see the others.”
Lontios was a Syrian, a burly, burnished, bearded bear of a man. His cell was in the cellar of a bakery off the Forum of Arkadios. He was up and pacing when I was let into what could be his last room on earth.
“Get out,” he growled. “I want no fool.”
“If I don’t work, I don’t get paid,” I said.
“What does that matter to me?” he asked.
“You’ve pried some loot out of Father Esaias already,” I said. “Let me entertain you, and you’ll pry a little more. A fitting epitaph for a master thief, don’t you think?”
“Is that what they’re saying?” he barked. “That I am the one who stole it?”
“That’s just the gossip,” I said, strumming my lute softly. “I wasn’t paying that much attention, to tell you the truth. Would you like me to sing something? I know a few Syrian songs.”
He rushed forward, grabbed me by my motley tunic, and slammed me against the wall so hard that my lute changed keys.
“What are they saying about me?” he shouted.
“That there is no honor among thieves, but especially among Syrian thieves,” I said quickly.
He released me and stormed about.
“Damn those Greeks!” he shouted. “I’ve worked for them since I escaped from my first prison, and that’s the respect I get.”
“Oh, they respect you,” I said. “They admire someone wily enough to pull this one off. They’ll be talking of it long after your death.”
“If I was smart enough to pull this off, I would have been smart enough to get away,” he said, his voice shaking, but he shot me a sidelong glance as he said it.
“If it wasn’t you, who do you think it was?” I asked.
“Julian’s the smartest, but Tarasios is the sneakiest,” he said. “I suspect Tarasios.”
“How did he do it?” I asked. “One of you would have had to keep an eye on him at all times.”
He looked down.
“I confess to nodding off for a few moments while he and I were standing watch together,” he said, again giving me that sidelong look. “But I swear that wouldn’t have given him enough time to spirit the goods out of that cellar.”
“Could he have drugged you?” I asked.
“If I had felt the effects of some drug, I would have snapped his neck in a trice,” he said.
“I believe that, certainly,” I said, rubbing my still aching head.
“You had better sing me that song,” he said abruptly, sitting on his pallet. “I don’t want you to be out anything.”
I sang to him, and he rested his head on his knees.
“Thank you for that, Fool,” he said softly when I finished.
“Shall I see to the epitaph?”
“You can’t carve anything on an unmarked grave,” he said. “Leave me to my doom.”
I left him, and went outside.
“Where is Tarasios?” I asked Father Theodore.
“This way,” he said.
We walked along the southern seawall until we reached the Boukoleon Harbor. The fishing boat he led me to was decrepit, but the fishermen casually lolling about its deck were anything but. I descended a ladder into the hold.
Tarasios was a wiry, jittery fellow whose eyes darted every which way. When he espied my motley, he groaned.
“All I need, all I need,” he said.
“Just part of the entertainment,” I said.
“Could I get another woman instead?” he asked.
“Sorry, only one to a customer,” I said. “What would you like to hear?”
“What would you like to hear?” he said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“I heard that you were an astute man.”
“Well?”
“I want to hear the truth,” I said.
He gave a short, bitter bark of laughter.
“Truth,” he said. “Would you know it if you heard it? You don’t even know me. I could tell you sixteen different stories in the next minute, all of them plausible. Would you be able to find the true one?”
“They would all be variations on the only two stories that could be told,” I said. “Either you are the one who took the loot, or you aren’t.”
He practically climbed the hull in frustration.
“I’ve told them, I’ve told the girl, I am telling you,” he said. “I didn’t take it, I didn’t take it, I didn’t take it.”
He was almost in spasms, his indignation was so strong.
“Did you arrange for it to be taken?”
“Ha! Now that’s an excellent question,” he said. Then he leaned his face up to mine and shouted, “No!”
“Then who do you suspect of the others?” I asked.
“Julian,” he said. “Don’t know how, don’t know when, but that’s Julian for you. Lontios isn’t subtle enough for this job. I could see him trying to take us both on at once, then break down the door and run, but not this, not this. Julian’s my pick.”
“Very well,” I said. “Fancy a song before I go?”
“I don’t sing,” he said, with a wry grin.
I laughed in spite of myself.
“Thank you for the entertainment,” I said as I climbed the ladder. The last thing I saw of him was his twitchy face looking up at the small bit of sky visible to him before the hatch door was slammed shut.
“Well?” said Father Theodore, looking quite sleepy in the noonday sun.
“Take me to Father Esaias,” I said.
He smiled, looking much less sleepy.
Father Esaias had just gotten up when we returned. Fortunately, he had already donned his cassock and cowl, saving me the appetite ruination of his visage. He rubbed his bony hands before the fire.
“Wine?” he asked.
“Please,” I said, and he poured me a generous helping.
“You have made a choice,” he said.
“I have,” I said. “Let me tell you what they told me.”
He sat on a cushioned chair that an emperor would have coveted and listened intently until I finished.
“But there is nothing there,” he said.
“There are two things,” I said. “They both point to the same man.”
“Which one?”
“Julian,” I said. “Condemned on the demeanor of all three. Each told me that they did not take the strongbox. Each is an accomplished liar, yet both Lontios and Tarasios were nervous as cats on burning coals when they proclaimed their innocence. If they were lying, they would have denied their guilt as smoothly as Julian did.”
“Suggestive,” he said. “And the second thing?”
“The pride of a master thief,” I said. “Both Lontios and Ta
rasios were willing to tell me that they thought someone else was a better thief. Lontios named Tarasios, and Tarasios named Julian. But Julian could not bring himself to place his ability below one of the others, even if it meant shifting attention away from him.”
“Hmm,” he said, pondering. “Any ideas how he spirited the strongbox from the cellar under the watchful eyes of the others?”
“I don’t think he did,” I said. “I think the theft occurred before the strongbox was placed in the cellar. A switch made on the way, perhaps.”
“You’ve missed your calling,” he mused. “You could become rich working for me.”
“I like what I do now, thanks.”
“Then you shall do it tonight,” he declared. “We shall have a dinner at midnight, with three guests of honor. You and your wife will be part of the entertainment.”
“And the other part?” I asked.
He laughed softly in response.
“Here’s my question,” said Aglaia as we walked to the church that night. “Are we going on before the throat-slitting, or after? It would be a difficult act to follow.”
“Look, I’m not happy about this, either,” I said.
“Or will it be a poisoning?” she continued. “What is the penalty for thievery among thieves? Will Father Theodore draw his mighty sword and behead him? Will Father Melchior strangle him? Or will Father Esaias do the deed himself, just to recapture his youth?”
“Let’s just make sure we eat beforehand,” I said.
“The first rule of the Fools’ Guild,” she muttered in disgust.
“Second rule,” I corrected her. “The first involves drink.”
Esaias’s chambers had been transformed into a banquet hall, with tables set for fifty of his most favored minions. Aglaia and I set up near the foot of the table and began playing as the various thieves, grave robbers, murderers, and prostitutes slipped into the room and took their places. Father Esaias greeted each of them cordially, embracing some of them. Then there was an expectant murmur, and the three prisoners were led into the room and seated at the center table, directly across from the priest.
“Welcome, my friends,” he said. “It’s good of you to join us. Please, partake of my humble offerings.”
Three plates were placed in front of them. They looked down at them in apprehension.
“I’m not especially hungry, thank you,” said Tarasios.
“Would you prefer me to taste it for you?” asked Father Esaias solicitously.
“For God’s sake, let’s get it over with,” growled Lontios, and he shoveled a spoonful into his mouth.
Julian followed his example. “Delicious,” he said to Tarasios. “You should try it.”
“Well, I won’t stand on ceremony,” said Father Esaias, standing to address the room. “These three men successfully executed an audacious and cunning plan, for which they have earned our admiration. They would have earned our gratitude as well, but one of them then executed an even more audacious and cunning plan. It is now time for him to receive his reward.”
The other members of the organization leaned forward on their benches as Father Theodore stood quietly behind Julian, his hand slipping inside his cassock.
“Julian,” said the priest, and the thief looked at him cooly. “For the crime of stealing the contents of the strongbox from under the very noses of two of the best thieves in Constantinople, I now sentence you to—a promotion!”
There were gasps and chuckles among the others in the room.
“You shall sit on the inner council and take part in the planning of all such thefts,” continued Father Esaias. “You will, of course, return to us what you have taken, less the share that you have earned. Congratulations, my friend.”
The other minions applauded wildly as Father Theodore removed a folded cassock and cowl from inside his own and presented it to Julian.
“Lontios,” said Father Esaias. “For falling asleep while guarding an empty strongbox in a locked room, you shall forfeit your share of the proceeds and spend one year as a common thief before we let you back into the fold.”
“Fair enough,” said Lontios. “I shall not disappoint you again, Father.”
Tarasios,” said Father Esaias, and the little man twitched. “On the one hand, you allowed Julian to hoodwink you. On the other hand, you guessed it was him. The two cancel each other out. You shall remain as you are.”
“Thank you,” sputtered Tarasios. He looked down at his meal, then started eating.
“My friends,” said Father Esaias. “Eat up, for who knows what tomorrow will bring us?”
The party began in earnest, and the priest walked over to Aglaia and me.
“Relieved, Fool?” he asked.
“Surprised, in fact,” I said.
“As I said, I abhor waste,” he said. “I have been looking for some talented blood to join us.”
“So, this was a test for them,” said Aglaia.
“Of course,” said the priest.
“But how can you trust Julian now?” she asked.
“I don’t,” said Father Esaias. “And I never will.”
“But the death sentence is rescinded, isn’t it?” I asked.
In the shadows of his cowl, I thought I saw the faintest hint of a smile.
“No,” he said. “Merely postponed. He will work for me knowing that he lives under a sentence of death.”
He turned as if to leave, then paused and turned back to us.
“But don’t we all?” he said, and then he left us, chuckling softly to himself.
“Do we owe him any more favors?” asked Aglaia.
“Probably,” I said. “You take the next one, all right?”
HISTORICAL NOTE
History is more or less bunk.
—HENRY FORD
It is hoped that with the addition of these chronicles of Theophilos the Fool more light has been shed upon the origins of the Fourth Crusade. A debate has been raging for decades among literally dozens of scholars worldwide over whether the Crusade had been subverted from the start by the Venetians toward the elimination of their trading rival (the Byzantinist view), or whether this change in course came about later, during the winter after the conquest of Zara, at the instigation of the Germans who used the boy Alexios as their tool (the Venetianist view). The French historian Achille Luchaire wrote in 1907 that the issue was not settled, nor was it likely ever to be, while another medievalist scholar writes of a conference in the 1980s where the two camps divided so bitterly that they nearly came to blows.
I, for one, would gladly have paid to see this last. In my fantasy, the Venetianists and the Byzantinists are at opposite ends of a large field. Each side is given a disassembled mangonel, operating instructions in the appropriate thirteenth-century manuscript, and a pile of stones. The last historian standing gets to write the definitive work.
My own timid forays into the field have convinced me that what historians prefer above everything else is to denounce other historians, usually through the use of spectacularly catty footnotes (“What Professor So-and-so fails to take into account …” “Unaccountably, Ms. Such-and-such has relied upon a simple misinterpretation …” “Herr Something merely parrots the long disproved observation that …” and so on). However, a reasonable book on the subject may be found in The Fourth Crusade: The Conquest of Constantinople, second edition, by Donald E. Queller and Thomas F. Madden. While unabashedly apologists for the Venetianist view, they at least discuss opposing ideas before demolishing them in the aforementioned footnotes, and their bibliography is extensive.
I would, however, take issue with their conclusion that the diversion came later. The two, citing the argument of John Pryor, suggest that the vast amount of time spent by the Venetians constructing horse transports with ramps for easy beach access could only mean that they meant to attack a target with an easily accessible beach, such as Egypt. Let me point out that the Venetians also built the giant transports with the extended bowsprits, w
hich remained the only machines of war used successfully against the walls of Constantinople from their inception until the Turkish cannons finally blew them apart nine centuries later. Further, the design of the Eagle, with its massive metal plates coming to an edge at the bow, was perfectly suited to breaking the great chain guarding the Golden Horn. These huge vessels had to have been designed and built for these purposes from the start. Given the great familiarity of the Venetians in the quarter with the layout of the seawalls by the Golden Horn, all of this smacks of something resembling a plan—one that had been set in place from long before the fleet even left Venice. And the horse transports worked just fine when they landed and attacked Galata.
One small mystery is cleared up by the translation of Theophilos’s report of the first siege, and that is how a Venetian banner came to be displayed from a Byzantine tower at the seawall. This was mentioned in passing by Geoffroy de Villehardouin, who “affirms that more than forty people solemnly assured him that they had seen the banner of Saint Mark flying from the top of one of the towers, but not one of them knew who had planted it there.” Even with flying bridges, taking a forty-foot wall from the water is no simple feat. It is not surprising that the Crusaders had help from the Venetians within the city.
What is impressive about this particular battle is how many contemporaneous accounts have survived it. I have mentioned the Chronicle of Geoffroy de Villehardouin. The translation by M. R. B. Shaw is available from Viking Press. Villehardouin gives much of the higher negotiations as well as the military take on the whole event, all while tilting the moral balance to the Crusaders in general, the French in particular, and Geoffrey de Villehardouin most of all.
A rare and fascinating grunt’s eye view of the war may be found in the memoir of Robert de Clari, which was translated by Edgar Holmes McNeal and published by the University of Toronto Press. This ordinary soldier was in the thick of several battles, including the final taking of the seawall in the second siege of 1204. He also gives the reader the tour of the city, albeit with enough misinformation to suggest that Plossus may have been his mischievous guide. De Clari passes along gossip, fact, myth, and hearsay in equal measure but provides a slightly more cynical counterpoint to the self-serving justifications of Villehardouin.