The Deadliest Sin

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘I have heard it said that the Genoan’s masters are worried about the lack of progress on negotiating a new set of concessions with Trebizond. Messer Finati is no doubt under pressure to conclude an agreement before the Venetians or the Florentines step in. He could very well be so worried that he resorted to such wild tactics as the letter suggests.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  What Philip said could well be the truth. Finati could have gone too far in his anxiety.

  ‘But what of Ricci, the Venetian, then? Is he too under orders to come to a quick resolution?’

  ‘I haven’t heard anything about that, sir. But I do know the Florentine trader is ready to pick up the pieces if it comes to a fight between the other two.’

  Where was my young monk getting all this information from? When I enquired, it turned out that he simply listened to the gossip when he was shopping for food. We kept a simple house in the lower part of Trebizond, and Philip both shopped and cooked for both of us. We did not indulge in feasts such as Panaretos did, and therefore had less flesh on our bones than he. The young monk elucidated further.

  ‘There is a square to the east of the town walls where many old men gather, and they speculate on what is happening at the Emperor’s court, and with the rival traders. I can take you there, if you wish.’

  ‘Why, do you think me already an old man, who will fit in well with the others?’

  I could almost hear the blush creeping over Philip’s face.

  ‘I didn’t mean that exactly, master. I just thought . . .’

  I laughed at his embarrassment, while thinking it was so easy to tease him that it was hardly any fun.

  ‘It’s a good idea, Philip. We can go there today, and you can leave me with my fellow old fogies, whilst you go shopping.’

  So it was that I found myself in the shade of an oleander in the Meidan, a flat area outside the walls, where at special times festivals were held. But it was also useful for markets, and was laid out with storehouses and stalls providing all sorts of fresh produce. I could smell the mingled aromas of herbs, spices, and cooking meats. In the distance, I could hear a curious set of sounds that mingled horses’ hooves with men’s cries and the cracking of hammers on something wooden. I leaned across to a man who sat to my left, proffering my best guess at what was going on.

  ‘Tell me, what is that game being played?’

  The voice that replied was cracked and old, but still retained much of the man’s vigour from another time.

  ‘It is called tzykanion, and originates in Persia, they say. Some call it pulu. The players on horseback have to drive the ball with those long mallets from one end of the pitch to the other.’ He snorted. ‘Like all games, it is pointless.’

  I nodded my head in agreement, though I could hazard a guess that cavalry warriors would find it useful training for real battles. I didn’t say so, though, for I wanted my companion to respond to my next question.

  ‘Games for boys, played by men who should be more concerned with making money.’

  I could tell the old man was nodding his head. So I had got him right, and he was a former local trader with opinions to air. I stared in his direction in a way that suggested I was deeply impressed by him and his opinions. He was not to know I could not see a thing.

  ‘And who is making the most money in Trebizond now? Apart from the Emperor, of course.’

  A dry rattle emanated from his throat, which I took for a laugh.

  ‘Well, the Genoans are always the most avaricious, but the Emperor is trying to rein them in. Recently, I think the favoured ones have become the Venetians. Though there is not much to choose between any of them. They do say there are four kinds of people in the west. First, there are the Genoans, who keep the Sabbath . . .’ He paused for effect. ‘And everything else they can lay their hands on. Then, there are the Venetians, who pray on their knees . . . and on their neighbours. Thirdly, there are the Florentines who never know what they want, but are willing to fight for it anyway.’

  Another death rattle suggested he liked his own joke. And knowing he had not finished, I gave him the lead-in to the punch line.

  ‘You said there were four kinds of traders.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Lastly, there are the English, who consider themselves self-made men, thus relieving the Almighty of a terrible responsibility.’

  I laughed politely, and refrained from telling him I was, at least in part, English. I continued to draw him out about the trade delegations in Trebizond.

  ‘So tell me . . . Who do you think has most to lose, if the Emperor changes his mind about allocating trade concessions?’

  Another voice broke into our conversation. It was another old man, who must have been sitting at the further side of my joke teller. His was a fruitier voice with a more solemn tone than the first man’s.

  ‘It’s no good asking him that, friend. George has lost his marbles, and couldn’t tell a Genoan from an Englishman, if they were pissing on him.’

  I heard George mumbling a protest, and spitting on the ground. At least, I assumed it was on the packed earth of the square and not in the face of his detractor. I moved my unseeing gaze to the new man.

  ‘And how would you know the difference, sir?’

  The man laughed. ‘I know it well enough to make you out for an Englishman. Though your clothes suggest a more exotic origin. The other end of the Silk Road, perhaps?’

  He was obviously a very observant person, and his identifying me as an Englishman brought a fit of coughing from my first conversationalist, whose joke had been at the expense of my fellow men.

  ‘Damn it, you might have warned me, Theodore.’

  So, my new acquaintance had a name as splendid as his cultured tones. I acknowledged his observations.

  ‘I have recently come from that part of the world, it is true. But you are only partly right about my Englishness. My grandmother was Welsh.’

  This splitting of hairs, important only to the inhabitants of Britain, silenced both old men for a while. Then Theodore answered my original question for me.

  ‘As for who will suffer most from a reversal of trading rights, then it has to be said it would be the Genoans. But it is not the Emperor who will bother himself with such tedious business, but his courtiers and advisors.’

  ‘Men such as Johannes Panaretos?’

  I threw the name into the conversation, hoping to see what it would bring out. And I was not disappointed. The harsh laughter of the first man broke in.

  ‘Panaretos will advise the Emperor to do whatever he has been bribed to say. And he will choose to do it in the afternoon, when the court is in a state of torpor brought on by slave girls, hashish and opium. If he has time, that is, from stuffing his mouth with the richest food that Circassian beauty of his can provide.’

  A sound of admonition came from Theodore, advising his friend to keep his voice down. I guessed it was not wise to jest out loud concerning the behaviour of the Emperor and Autocrat of the Entire East. There could be spies everywhere. I did have another question for my new-found friends, though.

  ‘Is bribery the only way of bringing court officials to a particular point of view?’

  Theodore grunted, and seemed reluctant to reply. But his friend George had no such inhibitions.

  ‘You mean would a Genoan trader threaten Panaretos with violence to keep the concessions?’

  I nodded. ‘That is indeed what I am asking.’

  Before George could reply, Theodore broke in on our conversation. From the rustling of cloth, I guessed he had put a cautionary hand on his friend’s arm. His question to me came in a strained tone of voice.

  ‘Do you know something we don’t, sir? For if you do, and it affects a servant of the Emperor, I suggest you raise it with the authorities.’

  The moment for confidences had passed, and I imagined I was not going to get much more gossip in the circumstances. A strained silence hung in the air, and I stretched the stiffness out of my legs. I was glad that it
was not long before Philip returned, and I rose, thanking my interlocutors for their time. Their mumbled replies were in stark contrast to their former pleasure in meeting me. As I walked away with my hand on Philip’s arm – I was not certain of the path in this new part of Trebizond – I reminded him of his task concerning the palimpsest.

  ‘Have you examined the parchment with the threat on it more closely yet?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I did, master. I took the opportunity of the bright sunlight this morning to hold it up against the sun.’

  ‘And what did you see?’

  ‘There was some writing underneath the words of the threat that were impossible to make out. But as the message was quite short, there was enough blank space to decipher what had been scraped away.’

  Either Philip was drawing out the conclusion in sheer delight at his cleverness, or was too stupid to know when he was annoying me. I stopped him, and turned my most fierce gaze on him. I know that it perturbed him, as he was never sure if I was truly blind or not.

  ‘Come to the point, Philip.’

  He stumbled to correct his error.

  ‘Sorry, Master Falconer. The original parchment was a letter from someone whose name I could not make out, but the recipient’s name was clear. It was definitely addressed to Messer Finati, the Genoan trade delegate.’

  I smiled at having cornered the sender of the threat so easily. In fact, it had been so easy that I was a little suspicious. What if one of the other delegates had laid their hands on a perfectly innocent message addressed to Finati, and concocted the anonymous message in order to cast opprobrium on the Genoan? Philip’s thinking was not so convoluted, and he was eager to act on his discovery.

  ‘Shall we tell Master Panaretos?’

  I wasn’t in such a hurry, and recommended caution.

  ‘No. Let us observe all three for a while longer. It is not as if Panaretos’ life is really under threat.’

  How wrong my casual statement proved to be.

  In another few days, spring eased into summer and the blossom drifted off the cherry and pear trees, scattering on the ground. The Imperial court made its annual pilgrimage from the citadel to the monastery of Panagia Khrysokephalos and thence to the St Sofia monastery beyond the western ravine. We witnessed the passage of the Emperor, and Philip described his appearance in detail to me, right down to the strings of pearls that depended from his golden crown.

  On taking another trip to the Meidan, my young companion encountered Panaretos’ Circassian wife, who was also out shopping for tempting foodstuffs.

  ‘Look who I have found, master.’

  His speech took no account of my infirmity, but on this occasion I needed no eyes to tell to whom he was referring. The scent of patchouli oil was enough. I rose from the bench on which I was sitting, and bowed low.

  ‘Mistress Baia, I am honoured by your presence.’

  I heard the swish of her silken robe, which I knew she wore in the Trapezuntine style – narrow and close-fitting. The slight hesitation in her speech suggested that she was a little embarrassed at Philip’s apparent insistence that she speak to me. Therefore I filled the gap with mindless chatter for a while.

  ‘Tell me what you are preparing for your husband today. What delicacies have you purchased at the market?’

  I heard the rustling of produce in her basket, which must have been held by a female servant, for I could detect another scent in the air. But this one was a sort of scrubbed, plain aroma proper to a slave. Besides, I knew that a lady of Baia’s status would not venture out alone. When she spoke, her voice was low and sonorous.

  ‘I have dates and figs and raisins. And the makings of jellies, for my husband has a sweet tooth and likes red and yellow ones. So I have sandalwood for the first, and saffron for the second sort. Of course, I start every meal with subtleties made of sugar. Johannes would be angry if I didn’t.’

  She hesitated again, knowing she had said something about their relationship that should not have been revealed.

  ‘But tell me, sir, have you discovered who sent the message that so troubled him?’

  Wishing, I think, to impress the Circassian beauty, Philip started to blurt out the truth of the matter, but I interrupted quickly.

  ‘We have made some progress, but there is a long way to go yet. Perhaps we could call in on Panaretos and discuss the matter further with him.’

  ‘Oh, indeed, sir. You are welcome at any time.’ I sensed a little smile in her voice. ‘And I can always accommodate your appetite, for my husband is fond of his food and always has a plentiful supply. In fact, when he is anxious – as he is now – he is inclined to eat even more than usual. It is my pleasure to see that he is not displeased in such circumstances.’

  ‘Good. Then, if we may, we will come this evening and inform Panaretos what we have discovered so far.’

  Baia mumbled her shy acquiescence, and the scent of patchouli oil drifted away from me across the square.

  The meal that evening was a simpler affair than the banquet we had been provided with the last time we were in Panaretos’ house. But it was delicious nevertheless. It was clear that his wife had made a great effort to present us with Circassian delicacies, beginning with a delicious round of Circassian cheese, which was moist and tasty. I complimented Baia on her selection, but Panaretos merely grunted and demanded something more substantial. Philip spoke little, and I wondered if he was tongue-tied in the presence of Baia’s obvious beauty. The next course was made up of two stews of chicken and turkey in a mouth-watering sauce made of garlic and red peppers. With the appearance of meats, Panaretos was mollified, if not silenced, for the sound of his slurping became quite disconcerting. Though both I and Philip demurred at the next dish – apparently some sort of Italian pasta parcels filled with beef – Panaretos continued his gourmandising. Inevitably, the jellies that Baia had planned followed before we retired to Panaretos’ private domain. Through a barrage of not-so-discreet burps, he enquired finally if we had found out who had threatened him.

  ‘There is no simple answer to that, I am afraid to say. I could tell you through whose hands the parchment has passed, but that is no guarantee that it was written by those same hands.’

  Panaretos was not satisfied by my response, and insisted I name the source of the parchment.

  ‘The original document must have passed through the warehouse of the Genoans, though I still have my suspicions that either Belzoni or Ricci may have made use of the palimpsest to cause Finati trouble. More investigation is required. Tell me, have you had any more death threats?’

  Panaretos ignored my last enquiry, brushing it aside with a desultory wave of his hand. Instead, he chose to pick on the name of the man he had suspected all along.

  ‘Finati! I knew it. The Genoans think they can gain further concessions at the click of their fingers. They think me a dog who will sit up and beg if I am beaten hard enough. Well, they have a lesson to learn, and I will teach it them. They have already refused the Emperor’s customs officials the right to inspect their stocks, and keep their warehouse locked and barred against us. Now they threaten a high official of the Emperor with death. I must report this to—’

  His angry diatribe was suddenly cut short by an alarming gurgling sound from his gut, and deep groan that turned into a belch on his lips. He shifted in his seat, and called out for Baia.

  ‘Wife. For God’s sake, bring me the rhubarb powder at once.’

  He winced as he turned in his seat towards me. I knew this, for his foetid breath was suddenly in my ear, and he spoke in low tones. I could hear that his voice was strained.

  ‘You must not say anything of this to anyone, especially not to that old gossip Theokrastos, Falconer. And now I must ask you to leave, as I am unwell.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But you should not act until I have checked on the activities of the Florentines and Venetians first.’

  Panaretos was in no mood to argue.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes. Do as you see fit.’
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  He turned away, and I was no longer drowning in his bad breath. He called out for Baia again.

  ‘Woman, where are you?’

  Baia hurried into the room in a cloud of scent. She clearly had the medicinal preparation with her, for she explained why she was delayed.

  ‘I have mixed the rhubarb root with some dried figs in order to make it more palatable. Here, let me help you.’

  Panaretos was obviously by now in agony, but was not prepared to accept the embarrassment of being ill in the presence of guests, and of having to be assisted to eat.

  ‘Damn you, woman. Just give the bowl here.’

  Philip and I hurried discreetly from Panaretos’ inner sanctum, leaving Baia with her thankless task. As we walked home, arm in arm, I spoke to Philip.

  ‘It is a shame we did not get a chance to talk to Mistress Panaretos.’

  ‘Why is that, master?’ Philip sounded puzzled.

  ‘I should like to have known if there had been any other threats against her husband’s life, or unusual occurrences in the last few weeks. I think Panaretos is reticent about telling me anything more, and even regrets recruiting me to find out about the written threat.’

  ‘But why should he do so?’

  ‘Because he is becoming sensitive about his position in Trebizond, and how he appears to foreigners. Perhaps if he appears weak to the Emperor, his position will be in jeopardy. His present malady was also an embarrassment to him.’

  Philip’s next comment was censorious in the extreme, coming no doubt from his austere upbringing as a monk.

  ‘Then he should pay more attention to how much he eats. Even in the few months we have known him, I can assure you he has got fatter and fatter. Now he reaps the reward of his gluttony.’

  Thinking of the mistress of the house, and her desire to please her glutton of a husband, I had an idea about how I might gather information about any possible further threats on Panaretos’ life.

  ‘Philip.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Do you think that, when you shop tomorrow, that Mistress Baia might be shopping, too?’