Five for Silver

Chapter Seventeen

“I’m off to visit Scipio, my bookseller. His shop’s just across the Augustaion,” Crinagoras told Thomas, as he led his newly hired bodyguard through the huge, bronze gate of the Great Palace and across the square beyond.

“What do you intend to buy?”

“I don’t purchase literary works, Thomas, I write them. Scipio handles the occasional copying job for me. He also sells my poems.”

“Does he? You mean to say you can make a living in this city by scribbling poems? What a strange place!”

“Yes, well, I have been known to turn my golden verse into silver now and again. Tell me, Thomas, what do you do for a living?”

Thomas slapped the hilt of the sword hanging from his belt. “My blade’s my livelihood.”

“You’ve killed many men?”

“Do I look like a butcher?”

Crinagoras scowled at his red-headed companion, uncertain whether he’d been given an answer or not. “So you have spent a lot of time employed as a bodyguard?”

“Not that much.”

“Well, where is it you’ve been when doing this work of yours?”

“Is your bookseller more than a day’s march from here? If not, you don’t have enough time to hear all the places I’ve traveled, so ask me instead where I haven’t been.”

“Anatolius said you were from Bretania. Have you returned to that gray and misty island recently?”

“No. That’s one of the few places I haven’t been. Another is Armenia.”

“You haven’t been back to your homeland, despite all these wanderings to and fro you mention? Why not?”

Thomas simply grunted.

They crossed the great square of the Augustaion. The gulls had most of its cobbles to themselves today. Across the way, a donkey cart stood in front of the Great Church. Two men came out, carrying a limp form between them. Another plague victim. The sight was so common, it had become almost homely, as one with grubby street vendors hawking their wares or malformed beggars with outstretched palms.

Crinagoras was disappointed. He had rather hoped he and his impressive bodyguard might run into one of his acquaintances. “It’s a fine adventure to sail the seas and travel in distant lands, I suppose.” He sighed. “Frankly, I prefer to explore my imagination. Sometimes I think it is vaster than the whole world. I might appear to be sitting in my room, day after day, but in reality, my friend, I am braving the unruly waves, visiting foreign shores, walking with mythological beings.”

Thomas observed that he had not met any of the latter, but quite understood the attractions of sea travel carried out under one’s own roof.

“You grasp it exactly, except the sea…ah, well…for some it signifies excitement or adventure. For me it held tragedy. I can never look upon its sparkling water without remembering my lost beloved. Poor Eudoxia. In the lonely silence of my room, I shed rivers of tears for her.”

“Men do not speak of such private matters,” growled Thomas.

“A pity, isn’t it? We don’t mind at all, nor think it unmanly, to bare our bodies to one another in the baths, but to bare our souls-”

Thomas cleared his throat loudly. “As to what I do for a living. As I mentioned, I live chiefly by my blade. You see, for years now I have sought the Holy Grail.”

“The Christian relic? But I don’t understand how you can make a living seeking something if you never actually find it.”

“You make a living seeking truth and beauty, do you not?”

Crinagoras smiled. This barbaric fellow was apparently not so dull-witted as he appeared. “Now that you mention it…”

“In my case,” Thomas continued, “I have not yet found what I seek. However, when an adventurer from Bretania, who’s been to the ends of the earth searching for the Holy Grail, arrives in a new town on his quest, word gets around quickly. And there’s always someone who has a job just waiting for a bold fellow like that.”

“I should think so! Do you know, a few months ago I misplaced my best ink pot. I spent days searching for it. I penned a most amusing poem about the experience. Humorous, yet poignant. Losing that ink pot reminded me of losing-”

“Here’s a better idea,” Thomas interrupted. “Why not write about my search for the Grail? The stories I could tell you would sound like invented and quite fantastic tales! I won’t charge you much for them. Buy me a few cups of wine, and that will suffice.”

Crinagoras clucked with disapproval. “No, no. I fear you are not an authority on literature, Thomas. Whoever would want to read about a fellow from barbaric climes running about looking hither and yon for a musty old relic? As if we need any more relics in this city when it’s already full of them!”

He gestured at a shop doorway. “This is where today’s quest ends. We have reached Scipio’s emporium.”

Crinagoras and Thomas stepped from the street straight into what might have been the library of a wealthy household, except that few rich men owned the number of codexes and scrolls arrayed on shelves or laid out on tables, some opened as if the master had just been perusing them. Latin and Greek texts occupied opposite sides of the shop, whose painted walls depicted Romans from all walks of life in the common act of reading. Emperor Augustus and an anonymous young pupil of Socrates appeared to be held equally in thrall by the scrolls they perused.

Thomas chuckled and when Crinagoras glanced at him nodded at the wall painting beside the entrance. The scene depicted several octopii hovering over a burst crate of codexes, part of the cargo of a sunken ship.

Scipio’s emporium did not smell of ink and parchment, but rather of the huge bunches of freshly cut flowers filling a multitude of glass vases set on every side. Ink was, however, very much in evidence on the tunic of the proprietor, not to mention under his fingernails, and along the side of his nose. There were even traces not quite concealed by the cropped furze covering the short man’s scalp.

“Ah, Crinagoras, how nice…um…yes…why, it seems just yesterday you were here.” Scipio’s smile looked forced. “And who is your friend?”

“Thomas isn’t a friend, Scipio. I have hired myself a bodyguard!”

“Why, are you afraid someone’s reading your poetry?”

“What do you mean? Have you sold any of my work? Any more since yesterday, I mean?”

Scipio scratched nervously at his head. “Let me see, I don’t believe I have. Business isn’t what it used to be. Mind you, with the plague, people are buying a fair number of saints’ lives, and I’m doing a brisk trade with the Institutes. They always sell. Can’t copy them fast enough, and that’s the truth. But my customers just don’t seem to be in the mood for poetry. I’m having a hard time making ends meet.”

“That’s a very good reason to put more of my poems on display, don’t you think?”

“Of course, of course! Except, as I just explained, business is not going too well right now. Writing materials are expensive, and my copyists won’t work for nothing. However, I have had a wonderful idea. I’ve been keeping track of the doings of the holy fool. That’s something people are bound to be interested in reading about. I could tell you what I’ve learned and you could write it down. We could call it The Chronicle of the Fool, that has a learned air to it.”

Crinagoras sighed. “I might as well be young again and working away at my tutor’s lessons. Everyone has a copying assignment for me today. I’m sorry, Scipio, but you know I only write from the heart. I do have some very deep and sincere feelings about the plague.”

“You could fit those into such a chronicle easily, couldn’t you?”

“The fool’s an actor, a fraud. I write about real life, my friend. Real people. My subject is always truth, never lies or made-up stories.”

Crinagoras strolled around the emporium, his gaze flickering over the shelves. “Now, about those poems of mine. I’ll give you a share of my profits, Scipio. I see since yesterday you’ve sold all my collected epigrams. Why don’t you keep the proceeds from those for now and use them to pay your scriveners to produce a few more copies for sale? I always like to assist a friend if I can.”

“That’s very generous of you, Crinagoras. I’ll see what I can do.”

Thomas made a circuit of the shop and examined the wall paintings. He paused near the back of the room, plucked a codex out of a crate, and ran a finger over its ivory cover.

Scipio looked alarmed. “Be careful! That’s not supposed to be out here…it’s a very valuable item.” He took a step in Thomas’ direction, but Crinagoras was already looking over the burly Briton’s shoulder.

“What’s the title?” Crinagoras asked.

Thomas held the codex up so the poet could read it.

“‘A Bouquet of Crocuses.’ By Erinna of Rhodes.” How very remarkable. I thought only a few of her verses were known.” Crinagoras opened the codex. The ancient, stained parchment pages crinkled noisily as he thumbed through them. He stopped and began to open his mouth, as if to read aloud.

Scipio plucked the codex away. “One of my assistants must have left this here by mistake. It’s a special order. Fragments from an old scroll, which I was asked to bind into a codex, as you see.”

“I was certain almost all of Erinna’s poetry was lost to the ages, Scipio. Who could this gem possibly belong to? The emperor?”

“No. It belongs to a dealer in…such things. He brought it to me. The bits of the old scroll, that is.”

“How fascinating.” Crinagoras peered at his thumb. “Yet, I seem to have picked up some fresh ink from handling it…”

“Yes, well, being of great age some of the verses were exceedingly faint, you understand, so I was asked if I would highlight the writing a little here and there, to make it more legible. You cannot appreciate beauty if you cannot see it, can you?”

“A very poetic comment, Scipio,” Crinagoras observed with approval.

“You never know what’s going to happen next in this city,” Thomas grinned. “There’s no end to wonders here!”

“Quite so.” Crinagoras rubbed his smudged fingertips together. “Now what about my offer, Scipio?”

Scipio rubbed his scalp. It seemed less a nervous gesture than a sign of an incipient headache. “Parchment has gone up in price, you know,” he replied doubtfully.

“And why would that be, if people aren’t reading very much?”

“Perhaps it’s due to all those wills being made,” remarked Thomas.

“That may well be so,” replied Scipio. “How about this, Crinagoras? Jot some of your poetry down. Any old scrap of parchment will do. Then I’ll keep them on hand, and if anyone wants to purchase one it can be copied out nicely. I’ll be happy to keep a selection of your work on hand for my customers’ perusal. I’ll only charge you a nomisma.”

“What? You want a nomisma, even though you won’t have a proper copy on sale?”

“But you see, when anyone does ask for a copy I’ll split the profit with you.”

“I don’t know, Scipio. I’d have to think about it.”

Looking unhappy, Crinagoras walked from table to table, eyeing their offerings. He plucked a ragged piece of parchment from an enameled box full of similar sheets and scowled at the sign propped up nearby. “What does this mean, Scipio? Your sign says ‘Pre-inspired writing materials.’ What’s that?” He held the sheet up and squinted at it.

“Oh, it’s just something I offer at a reduced price. For poor poets. That’s to say poets with more inspiration than means.”

“I’ve heard poor poets tend to be poor poets,” put in Thomas.

Crinagoras suddenly reddened. “But…but…this was one of my epigrams! I can still see the words. You’ve scrubbed the parchment, Scipio! You’re selling my work as cheap writing material!”

“Pre-inspired parchment, my friend,” Scipio corrected him. “It helps to get the imagination going. The poet doesn’t have to supply the whole of the inspiration himself, because the parchment has already been imbued with previous genius. Think of it as a collaboration between you and some lesser writer, if you will.”

He snatched the scrap from Crinagoras’ trembling hand. “Besides, this particular parchment being in the box was a mistake,” he went on. “I shall have to rid myself of that bumbling assistant, I can see. This was never intended to be sold as writing material. It was…that is to say…I merely felt the verse was so strong, its emotions so overpowering, that, well, I thought it best to lighten the writing a little, to protect the reader’s sensibilities. Now, about that offer we were discussing…”

Crinagoras sniffed, then sneezed. He wiped his suddenly streaming eyes and sneezed again. “Yes, yes. I’ll bring you some poetry to keep on hand for copying, Scipio, but I’m only paying you half a nomisma. How much extra work can it be to keep a sheet or two of parchment sitting about on a shelf? Now I must leave. The scent of these flowers is overpowering. Where did you get the notion to fill the place with such heavily perfumed blooms? I much prefer the smell of ink and dust.”